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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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I Never Missed You 1/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)

Word count: 3.5 k

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Romance, eventual smut, fluff, light angst, banter, pining, flirting, minor injuries, major character death, HFN ending. Lady/Knight dynamic. Unequal pairing trope. Bodyguard AU. Reader is a rich bitch (how else could she afford a PPO?)

Summary: 1/3 You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.

A/N: A three part fic based on this request. The first chapter features banter and pining. If you're here for smut, stay tuned. There is an entire chapter of it coming right up.

Your lawyer says it would be a good idea. He even dares to look at you from under his brow like you're a child who doesn't know what's good for her.

And you don't.

Because that's exactly how you feel like: a grown woman who's stunted to a kid, now being supervised by adults.

The bodyguard they assigned you - the one you accepted because he was your lawyer's first choice - is exactly the broad, brooding type you have always imagined bodyguards to be like.

But he's not wearing sunglasses, and he's not wearing a suit. He says the point of a bodyguard is that they don't look like a bodyguard.

The first thing you actually pay attention to is the milky-white eyelashes. Only days after you hear that this man rarely shows his face. You were given a file on him, but you never peeked inside it because you were pissed that such drastic measures had to be taken in the first place. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now you pry it from the pile of papers you buried it into, open it, and the first - and only - photo you see is a perfect portrayal of what Death looks like.

He's the Reaper himself when adorned with that human skull. Keen but emotionless eyes stare from the pits of the sockets to somewhere in the distance, but that look is a stare into the past. The photo raises thousands of questions, and not only the need to know why this man prefers to wear human bones when he's shooting people.

Because apparently, that’s what he used to do before he became a bodyguard. He's buff, that you already know. But in that picture, he looks even more packed, with what you suppose is a bullet vest beneath that blouse. He’s holding an ugly-looking gun – not a pistol, but a rifle of some sort. The gear on him no doubt weighs something close to 60 pounds. His sleeves are rolled up and expose the crisscross veins on his forearms along with war-ugly, crude tattoos, and you swallow.

Were you really looking at a picture of a barbaric soldier like it was some peculiar soft porn now?

You flip the file closed and toss it on the table, rather disgusted with yourself.

The next time you see him, you look into those brown eyes a moment longer. That stoic stare is the only thing you recognize as that of the man in the picture. That, along with his size, although photos really can't convey how this brooding grunt makes you feel: small and insignificant. Nor do they illustrate how the man looks like he’s the most graceful bull in a china shop when moving inside your house.

You suppose he grew up poor, the way he looks at your furniture, your half-a-mile bookshelf, and the latest art piece you got last month in your living room. He's judging you.

You're posh. And clueless. And a child.

And this brute lives with you, for now. He's placed downstairs until the target is neutralized. And he's not just a bodyguard: he's hunting the hunter while you're the bait.

It should give you a thrill; your friend giggles when you two gossip about him over a lunch while he's standing only a few feet away. But this situation does not give you a thrill. It just makes you pissed.

And it's not just the situation, it's this... Simon Riley who makes you pissed.

Couldn't they teach manners, some conversation skills at the bodyguard school or wherever the hell this pale, emotionless Hulk came from?

You recheck his file and snoop some more details about his past. He didn't go to bodyguard school (of course he didn't); he used to work for some PMC. The brute's a cold-blooded, cold-hearted mercenary. To put it more eloquently, he's an elite soldier of some tactical unit. But all of that is classified, as is almost every other detail about him. The only thing you are left with is that he's British through and through, but you can already tell that by his accent - the thick Mancunian that makes your stomach and heart flip.

It's gruff – of course it's gruff – and sometimes chafes your ears like they were being grated with the softest grater. You find yourself thinking about him while you're in the shower, when your fingers start to drift and wander.

And for the love of god, you are not thinking about that accent and those eyes while you're masturbating. You're not going to mourn the fact that he never rolls his sleeves when he's with you. When he's at work.

"I saw your file," you start to chitchat over breakfast one day.

"I reckon."

He won't even touch the coffee you poured him but proceeds to drink almost all the tea. The delicate china looks miniature in his hands as he pours the Earl Grey into his cup. The cups are dainty, too – this savage would prefer a large, black mug, perhaps, from which to gulp his tea.

"So. What made you become a soldier?"

"Joined the SAS when I was 17."

And another thing he won't do is look at you when you speak. No manners at all in this man, only rough, sharp edges. He sits as far from you as he can, at the other end of the table, as if you were in a meeting. Or a war council.

"That's not what I asked."

"I know."

You roll your eyes. Conversation skills, god. Just give this man at least some charm…

"I'm going to do some shopping," you declare. "You can stay here."

Finally, he raises his stare. It's full of tired distaste.

"Nah. That's not how this works."

You rise from the table, gracefully and with a neutral face, indicating that you are an adult and won't be needing a babysitter at a store.

"Lady."

The command is dark and stops you before you have taken one step from the table. It's a slur, almost.

He rises from the table too, and you almost feel sorry, noticing he hasn't yet finished his toast.

"You hired me. And I'm gonna do my job."

He looks big and broad, like a beautiful storm, with that piercing stare and the most alluring lashes you have ever seen on a man. Your voice turns into a meek, pitched attempt to reason with a giant.

"...I'm just going shopping."

His head tilts with a mock: you're only a child in his eyes.

"Then let's go shopping."

…......…......

Sitting next to this giant in a taxi must be a hilarious-looking scene. A charming, vibrant lady and a sullen, intimidating Theseus – what a pair.

You've also never been this close to him. The man always sits with a wide spread. One heavy thigh almost touches your knees, which you have turned towards him for some unfathomable reason. You were taught to sit with knees closely set together, and that’s what you’re trying to do now: make yourself as small and feminine as possible. It only accentuates this man's size compared to yours. There's a pile of shopping bags between you two, and your gaze is directed outside the window, but you can feel his presence like there's a thrumming monolith beside you.

And he's always dressed in black. You kind of enjoyed how you two looked at the store: you in your heels and a pearl white suit, he in black, tactical ripstop and boots. You wouldn't define the man well-dressed… but he is sharply dressed in his own field, that's for sure. Even a commoner like you could see that.

He had complained about your clothes. White draws too much attention and makes for a bigger target. You had brushed him off with a scoff. You’re not going to change the way you dress because of this.

"You're from Manchester, right?"

You're only trying to make the journey home more enjoyable, but feel like you're snooping again, this time from the man himself. The less you know about Simon Riley, the more you want to learn who he is. It is only natural to get a little curious when his file barely had two paragraphs and a photo. You suppose even that single picture was taken and given forward with reluctance.

And the only thing you learn is that small talk is a completely foreign concept to this man.

"You're quite the Sherlock," he mutters with that fat accent that gave him away the minute you two shook hands. You Sherlock about some more, look at the left hand that rests on his thigh.

There's no ring. Not even a tan line. He must be lonely: no relationship could stand working hours like these.

"Do you still live there?"

"...No."

"Do you miss the place?"

"No."

The short answers are guttural and spoken from the back of his throat. You don't know if he's doing it on purpose, or if this Simon is like this with everyone. He's not annoyed, though, not the way you're beginning to be.

"Aren't you a chatty one…" you mumble while watching cloudy London pass by. You figured he might hear it, and perhaps that was your purpose, even if your voice was barely a whisper.

"I'm not here to talk. Ma'am."

…......…......

You are told to stay away from the windows. The dinner table is moved so no one can aim at your head through a glass. And even then, most curtains must be closed at all times.

He goes through doors first, and advises against going out at all. You get a list of things you should take into consideration if you do go out.

And you’re not going to give in to fear.

You simply take different routes to your friends and family, have lunches at different restaurants than usual. He says you should get an armored car, but you don’t have a license. Of course your brooding bodyguard could drive, but what will you do with some armored tank after you're finally through this thing?

What's far more interesting is that it turns out this Simon Riley is a smoker.

Disgusting, you think at first, then think about him all sweaty and grimy after some gunfight, reaching for a cig, curling those thick fingers around a pure-white coffin nail. No, wait – he had gloves in that picture; he wouldn't bother to take them off before he smoked, he would just lean on his gun and on some crumbling wall and sigh from the joy of being alive, of being bloodied and dirty and victorious before taking a long drag from his cigarette.

Ugh.

Reluctantly you agree that perhaps there is an odd charm to this man after all. Either that, or then you are in need of some serious therapy.

Breakfasts are torturingly quiet with Simon, and you can hear the slow roll of eyes every time you make plans to go to a party or an art gallery.

Once, a zipper gets stuck and you have to ask him for help. It’s mortifying, and he doesn’t say a word, only mocks you with his eyes as you turn around for him to place a warm hand on your hip and another on your back to pull up the zipper you had fought to reach and drag up by yourself for at least 10 minutes.

A week passes, and he’s buried in work, not only because he’s guarding your body 24/7, but because he’s trying to locate the hitman. The fact that Simon Riley is technically speaking a hitman too - to think that you have hired a killer - is something you don’t have the mental strength to delve into right now.

"Found the one who's hunting you."

Another file is dropped before you at the end of the week. The man marches into your office like there's no door there at all. Doesn't even bother to knock.

This isn't what you meant when you politely told him to make himself home…

You roll the glass of water on your temple and sigh. The file reveals another photo, this time of a man who looks like an executioner.

"Goes by the name König," he says and clasps his hands over his crotch while taking a wide stance in front of your desk. "Austrian war criminal. Skilled with knives… Likes to torture people first."

Nice. More brutes.

"Why are you telling me this?"

You're tired, there's a headache approaching, and you really don't care to go over some details about a professional lunatic killer right now. But Simon Riley - codenamed Ghost, you’ve lately learned - looks down at you like a storm cloud over a carefree meadow.

"Because you clearly don't understand the danger you're in."

He adds "Ma'am" as a footnote. Purposely forgotten...

And you wish he would forget that silly, overly courteous term.

"Well–" you sigh your frustration in the air between you two, then realize that perhaps you're being treated like a child because you behave like one. "What are you going to do about this man...?"

"Gonna kill him," he simply shrugs, the eternal, distant look in those eyes gaining a smug tone to them.

He enjoys this. Enjoys killing, but what's even worse, enjoys seeing how his ruthlessness makes you shift uncomfortably in your chair. Or perhaps he just likes shocking you with that file with an image of a lyncher in it. You know perfectly well that you're in trouble and under threat. That's what you've tried to forget, but no one lets you forget.

Simon takes a deep breath before placing his humble petition before you.

"Ma’am. I'm gonna need your help."

And nothing in this man is humble. Even though he rarely speaks and never shows his talents, not to talk of showing off, he reeks of pride and testosterone.

You set the glass on the table and straighten the file to align with the leather pad on your desk. Your fingers are not trembling. Yet.

"What do you mean?"

He gives a hoarse laugh. The sound drills straight to your core and starts to bloom there. You realize you have never seen him smile before. And he's not smiling now: the short laugh is just a dark chuckle that mainly stays inside his chest; it only makes those stocky shoulders rise and fall.

"Not like that," he looks down at you with a tad of mercy. "You're gonna serve as bait."

"Isn't… that what I've been the whole time?"

"Yeah. But this time, we're gonna lure him in."

The way he talks makes your thighs rub together without your consent. You wonder what it would feel like if you were trapped between that solid chest and a wall, what it would be like if those hands woke you up with a calloused caress of a thigh.

You don't quite understand the difference between bait and a lure but find yourself willing to do whatever you can to help him. Help Simon…

"Sure... I'll help you," you say as if this man wasn't on your payroll.

"That's the least you could do."

That barely hidden bite in his dry retort doesn't escape you. This man's audacity buries whatever odd want you have started to feel for him and replaces it with searing, womanly fury.

He could be a little more sensitive.

You're the one who has a target on their back. You're the one who fears going to sleep at night and feels lucky they're alive come dawn. If he wasn't so crude and uncaring, you would've asked him to sleep in the same room with you from the start. But he has to be a brute, has to follow and mock you with those ink blot eyes at every turn.

You rise from the chair when he turns and walks toward the door. It's almost a snappy jump, an attempt to reclaim your power. You're sore and thoroughly peeved.

"I never wanted this," you tell him with an annoying timbre in your tone. He stops right before the door but doesn't turn.

"Neither did I."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Could be somewhere warmer with no damsels giving me their cheek."

The BDU blouse you saw in that picture was yellow, burnt yellow. Desert wear… He wants to be in a hot desert with a cold gun in his hand. Dropped straight from some plane, working alone, in a place where damsels aren't giving him their cheek. Where there are no damsels at all.

You're relatively sure there is no Mrs. Riley. No woman could stand this man.

"Then go somewhere warmer," you snap, almost stomp your heel on the soft carpet. This man is simply intolerable. The way he never reacts to anything makes you want to throw things at him.

He must be trained to be so calm, but you're not. You're used to making men a little stupid and flustered. You're used to men eating out of your hand. He's not behaving at all like he's supposed to. Simon Riley is just a mountain without emotion.

He turns with that eternal, downgrading look in his eyes. There's a flash of amusement there, too.

Soddy bastard…

"Nah. Not until I've done my job."

His voice is warm now; the gruff and gravel make way to a smoothness that goes directly to your knees. Your lips part, and his eyes fall on your mouth just before he lifts his chin a hair of an inch.

"Your job…" you breathe, too furious to even rage or shout.

Your fucking job.

Why did you even want this job if it's so–

"Yeah. My job. Some people got one."

You have to take support from the table with your fingertips.

"Excuse me?"

There's the tiniest curve at the corner of his mouth before he takes his leave.

"Good night, ma'am."

…......…......

The next day, you start the breakfast by apologizing.

You barely slept that night, first because of this man's utter nerve, then because your wrath eventually cooled down into a bleeding consciousness of how you must look in his eyes.

He has accepted this job, something different from what he usually does, for reasons unknown to you. He might not be on some faraway battlefield where bullets fly past, but this is no less risky. The picture he showed you, the file on König, haunted your restless sleep last night – when you finally did get some sleep.

You have been running around like everything’s normal when it’s not. The man’s just trying to do his job.

And you're the one who hired him. Not your lawyer.

"I want to make peace," you coo while spreading some jam on toast. You expect Simon to finally melt a little. You might even get a smile. You secretly hope your reward is that this brute turns into a tamed lap dog you can feed some treats every now and then.

The situation is thrilling: the beefiest man you have ever seen is going to kill someone for you. Even if he's being paid to do so, he is prepared to die for you. There's something incredibly sexy about that.

But there is silence at the other end of the table. Only the crunchy sounds of toast getting sugar on top can be heard.

"That so?"

He doesn't sound like he's melting. He doesn't sound at all domesticated. He only sounds more and more amused.

"Yes. I'm happy that you're here," you put the toast down and turn to look at him with angel eyes.

He laughs. When he stops, he looks you up and down, then laughs some more, a silent, shoulder-shaking chuckle.

"I'm… I'm serious," you hurry to add. "I mean it. I haven't been treating you the way I should–"

"That's for sure."

You see more warmth in those eyes. But it's not because of your humble apology.

His eyes are trekking down the neckline of your blouse, and to your horror, you notice – feel – how one of the top buttons has opened, revealing much more than just some skin. You're pretty sure he gets an ample view of the fuchsia bra you're wearing underneath.

If you reach for that button now, you underline that he's not supposed to look, even if it's your mistake that you're so obscenely exposed. If you close it now, you tell him he's not allowed to look. And that's not entirely true.

"Will you forgive me?"

You feel like you're offering peace, or at least a truce, with more than just that peepy question. Because your breasts swell inside that blouse. They rise and fall with your breaths, your nipples grow hard from that look that stays down a bit longer before drifting back up.

"There's nothing to forgive," he says, voice dropping a note or two.

"Good," you swallow. The following sentence comes out so weakly that it's almost a whisper. "After all, I hired you."

"Ain't that the truth."

The dim glint in those eyes still holds you as a prisoner, and his tea is growing cold.

"Are we going shopping today?"

"No," you utter, dreading the next inevitable question.

"What then?"

"I… I have a yoga class."

"Of course you do."

…......…......

Taglist: @cumikering

#ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley imagine #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod fanfic #mw2 fanfic #simon riley fanfic #simon riley x female reader #ghost x female reader #bodyguard au #bodyguard!Ghost

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angel5ofp0rn · 4 months ago

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Bodyguard!Ghost who begrudgingly takes you to another nail appointment, knowing he’ll just have to stand there with his arms crossed while the nail techs and other customers all gawk and whisper about him, how big he is, how scary he looks.

Bodyguard!Ghost who nearly chokes on air when he notices you got a little ‘S’ painted onto your ring finger during your appointment.

Bodyguard!Ghost who holds your hand the whole drive home, glancing down at his initial on your pretty, manicured finger every chance he gets.

You, who has to think of what else ‘S’ could stand for in case your boyfriend asks.

#ughhhh #bodyguard!ghost #bodyguard ghost #simon ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost headcanons #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #cod headcanons

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yawnderu · 1 year ago

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Shooting Star — Bodyguard!Simon ''Ghost'' Riley x Popstar!Reader

Being a bodyguard for a 20-something year old pop star was the last thing Simon had in mind. Simon, the same man who had an uniform adorned by chest candy, the same man who was known as a Ghost, the same man who was a highly accomplished SAS soldier, forced to sit on your pink bed while you did your makeup on the floor.

The image was almost comical, the man in a black suit for the first time in forever, a bulletproof vest concealed underneath his white dressing shirt. It felt uncomfortable despite everything being the right size, tailored specifically for him upon your very extra request.

''Are you done? Bloody hell.'' You've been getting ready extremely slow just to spite him for making you wake up at 5am sharp, claiming it was protocol. Protocol my ass.

''I liked you better when you were quiet.'' You try to control the way the corners of your lips lift up when you hear the overdramatic sigh muffled by his black balaclava.

''Too bad.'' He gets up from bed, warm hands sneaking under your armpits.

''Up.'' He doesn't even give you the chance to stand up, simply pulling you up and smoothing out your skirt, hands treating the fabric delicately until the wrinkles you caused by sitting on the floor are gone.

''Don't manhandle me.'' There's something especially fun about annoying him, seeing him resist the urge to roll his eyes or take a sharp breath to calm down his witty tongue.

''I didn't manhandle you, brat. I lifted you up.'' He corrects, gently pushing you towards the door.

''Put this on and always make sure I can see you, yeah?'' He hands you a black surgical mask, meant to conceal your identity as much as possible to avoid being recognized by fans on your day off.

''Yup-yup.'' You put the mask on, adjusting the straps before leaving the house, Ghost following close behind, eyes quickly scanning the area before getting in the car, driving you to the fair you begged him to let you go to. It took 3 full days of begging before he relented, purely out of annoyance.

''Don't talk to anyone, don't look at anyone— don't even breathe at anyone. I'm not dealing with your bloody fans.'' He warns.

''Yes, dad.'' You roll your eyes, head leaning against the car window, the vibrations making a slushy out of your brain— probably.

''And don't take any pictures. If anyone recognizes you... punch them dead in the windpipe.'' You stifle a laugh as you hear him, knowing that no matter how blunt he is, he was joking... maybe.

''Go to jail forever if someone asks for a picture, got it.'' You jokingly plant your hand on his thigh and he slaps it away, side-eyeing you before he keeps driving, hoping you ignore the red lights he's speeding through.

#cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley #ghost cod #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #simon x reader #ghost simon riley #bodyguard!simon #bodyguard!ghost #popstar!reader

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midnightarcheress · 8 months ago

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Simon has a new assignment.

pairing: bodyguard!ghost x actress!reader 1 | gold rush masterlist.

after years exhausting his body in the military and too many losses to count, Simon decided to retire. goodbye extensive deployments, food and sleep deprivation, constant adrenaline pump in his veins, hours spent washing the blood off of his fingernails. except he didn’t truly retire. life as a civilian again was too strange, too boring. he thrives in following orders and being the best at it. he missed having a purpose, even if it’s far from saving the world.

so, because of that, he agreed on joining a private military company as a contractor. never takes the dirty, mercenary-like jobs though – despite being rusted, his moral compass is still there, so he usually sticks with the security, training, bodyguarding type of work. easy enough to not take a toll on his body, and to not strain his conscience with the worry of ending innocent lives to cover up some bastard’s filth, but demanding enough to keep his mind out of his own life for a while.

the guy on the other side of the line doesn’t tell him much about the new task. bodyguard for an actress, indefinite time, details via e-mail. a few minutes later, the computer screen lights up with the case information and his eyes skim through the text; famous actress, has been receiving threatening letters and who ultimately has a stalker. a seemingly uncapturable one, as the police have not been able to trace them for months. incompetent wankers. in his prime he would locate terrorists with ease; nothing he couldn’t do right now, but his contract was strict – keep her safe and keep to yourself.

he doesn’t recognize the name, but the small picture attached to the message is slightly familiar, maybe from one of the times he spent hours flicking through the channels on the telly while battling a crippling insomnia. his brows knit together when he peers at the set of rules that accompanies the e-mail. no talking, no touching unless extremely necessary, must keep distance at all times.

in the months he’s been working in the company, he never had a job with an actual celebrity – mostly politicians and businesspeople, extremely straightforward and simple to execute, usually for a short period of time. he’s convinced that it will be the longest mission of his life, probably dealing with an entitled rich woman who’s used to having everybody begging at her feet.

dread fills his mind as he watches the trees quickly passing by his window on the car. the drive to the meeting is short enough to contain the rate of the antipathy brewing on his chest, but long enough to make him question accepting the assignment.

he pulls up on the driveway and walks towards a tall, modern building, filled with frantic people walking from side to side. glancing at his phone, he re-reads the details of the reunion; second door on the 23th floor, her manager will be expecting you. his fingers tap on the side of his thigh as the lift raises to the office level, eyes glaring at the mirror in the back of the platform. the image on the glass differs from the one on his past – military buzzcut and skull-printed balaclava replaced by messy blond locks and a neck gaiter, still covering a bit of his face even after all this time. old habits die hard.

the doors pry open right after the number appears on the screen and he walks down the hallway to the office, stopping on his tracks as he notices a feminine voice coming from inside the room. “i’m scared just as much as you, but is this really necessary?” she’s in there too? wasn’t the meeting only with the guy?

“yes, princess, it is necessary. do you want to make the front-page news as a corpse?” another voice can be heard responding, this time, male. must be the manager. “in case you've forgotten, i’m also your friend, and i’m merely concerned about your safety. we cannot let that stunt from last week happen again.” stunt. he recalls part of the information on the file, depicting how she was almost assaulted by a weirdo that followed her on the street; however, the creepy prick was cleared from being the stalker and left the station on bail. great justice system.

“we’ve already increased the security on your house, he was just hired to keep you safe on the outside.” he decides to stop eavesdropping and knocks sharply on the door. “must be him.” the man says, and he listens as footsteps approach the entryway.

“well, hello there. please, come in,” he steps aside, allowing Simon to enter the room. the office is fairly average, leather couch on one corner, portraits on the wall of what he assumes are the man’s clients, but all of the attention goes to the large windows showing a perfect view of the city. “so, i’m Daniel, the great manager as you may know," he smugly speaks, "and of course you already know her.” he gestures to the woman on the armchair.

the woman from the picture. the woman from the late night movie he was absentmindedly watching on a late night. you. you look the same as he'd seen before, but somehow entirely different. the warm sunlight coming through the glass shines on your skin when you stand on your feet, golden flecks twinkling in your irises as you offer him your name and extend a hand to greet him, sweetly mouthing “and you are?”

he shakes your hand with a firm grasp, stirring away the sudden void in his brain and swallowing the lump on his throat that hindered his words. “Ghost.” easy detachment. his gruff voice reverberates in the space as he repeats the orders in his head, the sense of doubt starting to cloud his judgement. keep to yourself. maybe the job won’t be as bad as he thought.

been a bit obsessed with this idea so i decided to write it and see how it goes.

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audisive · 7 months ago

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♪ MILLION DOLLAR MAN. (💌)

౨ৎ simon 'ghost' riley | reader

synopsis: you need a bodyguard, and simon's the only one you can trust. for now.

tags: fluff, angst (ish), hurt/comfort, romance, soft!simon, bodyguard!ghost, model!reader, trust issues, hints to a panic attack, you have a bad dad (and family)

There's an ugly yellow folder on your vanity, sticking out like a sore thumb.

That's the first thing you see.

There's a hitch in your breath before you speak. "Vel," you walk over to your desk and call out to the lovely girl with your coat over her arm, your favorite maid. "What's this?" With manicured nails, you pick up the folder cautiously with the feeling of familiarity and déjà vu.

Veliana tilts her head to the side, the clueless little bird she is. "A folder, miss." You huff a smile out at her simple response, the pretty little thing never knowing better. "Please give Noah a call." You tell her and she nods her head automatically, still smiling at you.

When she carefully places your coat on the rack, she scurries off to who knows where. You're left in the comforts of your too-large room, a delicate piece of work that you'd paid thousands of dollars for after your face had snatched the interests of magazines, reporters, and such. You find that there are even uglier men inside when you open the flimsy thing in your hand.

Veliana is breathless when she comes back to you like the obedient girl she is, handing over the phone with your manager's name on it.

"What's wrong, darling girl?" Noah asks, annoyance seeping into his tone despite the usual pet name. "What's with the profiles?" you question right back, flipping through the folders, carefully scanning each gruesome man with horrifying detail. You already know the answer, but you dread it.

"About time you actually considered my suggestion," he voices out. "You need a new bodyguard."

You find that your new bodyguard is just as noticeable as the folder you threw away without much thought. There's people staring at him when they would be gawking at you.

Simon Riley is a trusted man; at least that's what you try to tell your manager. A remarkable 6'4 military man who should be off in a bar with beer – he drinks whiskey, imbecile – or resting in a broke-down apartment, not babysitting his model of a friend. Honestly, you wouldn't have minded it if he acted just a little annoyed at you, but he doesn't even spare you so much as a glare. You're not sure if you should be glad or not.

You have to admit that you do feel a little smug when your manager avoids yelling at you with Simon glaring daggers at him. Then again, there's this anxious feeling pooling at your stomach when he gets a little too close. He's certainly scarier than the last one.

His large hand calms you down when it lands on your lower back and sneaks his warmth through your thin clothing. You let out a breath, as if he'd just commanded you to do so without a word.

Simon should be in his awfully empty apartment, sleeping the day off or making a small trip to the groceries for necessities fresh out of deployment. But when he opened the door to you, who's clearly so troubled and almost begging to help you out with.. whatever it was you asked, how could he say no?

"It's just temporary, I swear. I just need some time to do a proper background check on the other bodyguards."

Given that your shitty father's in jail with unfinished as well as illegal business, it wouldn't be proper of him to let a civilian walk around with danger right at her back. That's what he says to himself, anyway.

He's just not so sure he signed up for the right job as a bodyguard. Truth be told, he would've preferred to be your boyfriend.. but as long as he has rights to protect you, then he won't complain.

He's well aware of the men coming for your neck for a variety of reasons. Some out of jealousy – Simon thinks that the fashion industry might as well be a warzone. Maybe that's why he accepted this in the first place – and some because of your problematic family.

He's also heard about your past cowardly bodyguards, if you can even call them that after they'd left you in the face of death. It's a wonder how you're still alive, but he wouldn't dare question it.

It doesn't help, not really, when there's an ear-deafeaning explosion and a panicked angel in his arms, clutching onto him for dear life. "Simon," you all but whimper, labored breaths and uncontrollable tears slipping out of you.

He hushes you, coos at you as sweet as he possibly can. He soothes you and cradles you against his chest as he shoots back at death and carries you to safety when the storm of chaos calms. And he never leaves. Not once.

Not even when you're well and sitting on the cold bed of an even colder hospital room. You'd begged him to stay and lay with you, and when he does, you insist that you owe him your life, and he tells you he's just doing his job.

Still, you can't help that you push yourself closer to him. "Thank you," you whisper, "for staying."

"'M yours to keep." Simon gruffs out, "my loyalty and life belongs to you. All of it." And so does his heart.

(bodyguard!ghost is just modern knight!ghost to me :3c)

divider by @cafekitsune !

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xo-codbby · 2 months ago

Text

bodyguard!simon x popstar!reader

was very adamant when price had offered the job at first, scoffing and frowning at the thought of it

"i ain't playing no glorified babysitter for a spoilt little rich girl" "you'll get paid 6 figures* ".... when do i start?"

this wasn't his scene, he was used to explosions and helicopters flying and weapons firing. fans screaming and cheering is where he absolutely drew the line

too many times have his fight or flight instincts have been triggered when someone wanted a signature or a picture

you've had to tell him to put the gun away on more than several occasions while the other person is staring up at him with pure shock and fear

you hadn't exactly been so pleased with the arrangements, any questions you asked had resulted in a grunt or a shrug

he practically pulled you along if you walked too slow/in the wrong direction

he was an impenetrable wall, broad and muscular with no emotions. you both tolerated each other and that was that

he barely acknowledged you unless he had to, wearing a black suit paired with his balaclava and sunglasses

you didn't even know how he looked like until several months in

though you don't know when the lines started to blur between the two of you, he couldn't tell you when he started to care

calling you a variety of nicknames, mostly to piss you off

"what's the matter popstar? music's too damn loud for you?"

but he'd 100% unironically be calling you it instead of your name, a name that just stuck

"attagirl, you give 'em a show to remember popstar"

just so completely entranced the few times he watches you perform when he's not working in the back

eyes completely glued to your body, watching you sing so effortlessly and move your body accordingly

it takes him everything not to rip your backup dancers from your body, why should they be touching you like that??

when he catches you ill from performing too much, he's very adamant you put your health first

"careful, don't blow those pretty lungs too hard" his thumb grazes the column of your neck so tenderly, you can practically hear your heartbeat

it takes you everything to mutter a soft reply, looking away

soap and gaz are in shock when they find out you're the woman ghost is babysitting guarding

the same person that knew their favourite bands/singers and spoke to them too? sign them up too

you give them the inside scoop and suddenly they're your new best friends

you've got three bodyguards instead of the single one you signed for but you don't mind so much

though ghost reminds you that it's him first and then the other two, you're all he needs sweetheart

he makes sure to remind you every so often

cue soap and gaz screeching when pics were leaked and you and ghost looked a little too handsy

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #cod 141 #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader fluff #bodyguard!ghost #bodyguard!simon

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betweenstorms · 8 days ago

Text

Alright, hear me out, Simon Riley working for Sleep Token as their head of security.

Let me explain.

His life had always been defined by precision and control, by the kind of discipline that didn’t falter in the face of chaos. But retirement had come swiftly and unceremoniously, a necessity more than a choice. The regimented life of the SAS had ended, leaving him adrift in the civilian world, and that felt far more alien than any hostile territory he’d ever set foot in.

Somehow he found himself in the chaotic underbelly of the entertainment industry, a space filled with the metallic clatter of stagehands, the distant roar of soundchecks, and the pulse of a metal band steadily climbing the ladder to global fucking acclaim. And hell, the stage lights, the screaming crowds, the thrum of bass reverberating through his chest, none of it had ever factored into the life he’d imagined for himself.

But life had a funny way of taking plans and shredding them into something unrecognisable.

Simon still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here.

When he left the military he thought he’d bury himself in some quiet corner of anonymity, far from the public eye. Civvy life was cruel to men like him, and for months, he drifted between meaningless gigs, his skill set too sharp for ordinary work, too lethal for the mundane.

Then came the call.

Sleep Token’s manager had been a contact of a contact, someone who knew someone who’d served with him, someone who’d heard about him through the strange network of ex-military types finding unconventional second careers. The irony hadn’t been lost on Simon when he was first approached. A band draped in anonymity, each member masked and named only by cryptic titles, needed security. And who better to protect them than a man who’d spent his life hiding behind his own mask?

Fucking unbelievable.

Somehow Simon had ticked every box without realising it, and before he knew it, he was standing in a smoky room, hands tucked into the pockets of his faded jeans as he sized up the bloody Muppet Show who would earn his salary.

He’d scoffed at the absurdity of it back then.

It wasn’t his scene. Far from it.

And yet, something in him, a combination of pragmatism and the faint flicker of intrigue, told him to give it a shot. He was financially screwed anyway. And the pay was good, much better than what he earned as a high-ranking officer, the anonymity suited him just fine, and the job, strangely enough, kind of aligned with his skill set. Therefore, after a few days of mulling it over, he said yes.

Simon had learned to adapt quickly. This job—head of security, an overqualified bodyguard as he liked to call it—had its own rhythm, distinct but no less intense than the one he’d lived before.

Venues became his battlefields, and he mapped them with a soldier’s precision. Potential threats were assessed the way he’d once scoped out enemy positions. His vigilance rarely wavered, whether he was walking the perimeter of a festival or standing stoic in a dim corridor as Vessel rehearsed another one of his verses. To Simon, these kinds of threats were laughable compared to the ones he’d faced during his service, however, it wasn’t without its challenges. Crowds could be unpredictable, and fame had a way of drawing out the unhinged.

He took to his duties with the same precision and discipline he’d honed in the SAS. The members trusted him implicitly, and that trust was something Simon didn’t take lightly. They called him Riley and treated him like a constant, the way you’d treat the sun rising or the tide coming in.

Reliable, steady, unshakable.

At first, the job was simple enough. The usual security gig, albeit with a touch of bloody theatricality. However, fame has a way of turning everything upside down, even for someone like Simon.

It started subtly.

Fans started to notice him too. At first, it was just a handful of comments on social media, like “Who’s the guy in the black balaclava?”, but it grew from there. They were fascinated by him, by the idea of a masked man guarding a masked band. He was an enigma within an enigma, and the internet just loved enigmas. It wasn’t until Lynsey Ward, one of the backup vocalists, shoved her phone in his face one day that he realised how far it had gone.

The backstage in Paris hummed with a peculiar kind of energy and anticipation that Simon had grown accustomed to since taking the job. It was a strange but one of a kind lifestyle, this one, filled with hurried footsteps, clinking equipment, and the muffled roar of soundchecks vibrating through walls. Simon lingered near the members as they cycled through their usual pre-show rituals.

IV sat in a corner, his mask tilted upward as if in contemplation, while Vessel sprawled on a battered sofa, his makeup halfway done, face a patchwork of metallic hues. II drummed his fingers idly on his thighs, the rhythmic taps almost lost beneath the din, while III sat near the makeup station, enjoying the rare moment of downtime between soundcheck, preparations and the main show, reading something on his phone.

Simon leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his black balaclava masking his expression but not the faint lines of tension in his shoulders.

His sharp eyes swept over the room, mentally running through his usual checklist again that concerned necessary security measures. Entry points, exits, personnel movements, everything was accounted for, everything secure. The monotony of the job had become second nature to him, though he still approached each night like it might unravel at any moment.

Lynsey sat nearby, waiting for her turn in the makeup chair. She was scrolling on her phone, just like almost everyone in the room, one leg crossed over the other, her posture relaxed but her smile mischievous. Simon didn’t notice her at first, he had his priorities, but her voice cut through the quiet hum of activity like a knife.

“Riley,” she called out, her tone playful. “You’ve got to see this.”

Simon didn’t move.

“Busy,” he muttered, his voice low and even.

Lynsey ignored him entirely, already rising from her seat and crossing the room with her phone in hand. “Come on, just watch,” she insisted, shoving the screen toward him. The glow of the phone illuminated her face, her grin widening as she anticipated his reaction.

Simon sighed, an irritated, tired sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

“What now?”

Reluctantly, Simon uncrossed his toned arms and stepped forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. The screen showed a video, a quick montage of him, no less. Snippets of him walking through crowds, standing by the stage, his balaclava catching the light just so as if he were a character in some fucking noir film. The background music swelled dramatically, and captions popped up over the footage, saying “If I ever get kicked out of a venue, it better be by HIM. Imagine getting manhandled by those arms.”

Simon blinked, his frown deepening beneath the mask.

“The hell’s this?” he asked, his tone flat but tinged with suspicion.

“It’s a thirst trap,” Lynsey said, as if that explained everything, her laughter barely contained.

Simon stared at her blankly. “The fuck's a thirst trap?”

Lynsey cackled, delighted. “Oh, you’re a relic, aren’t you? It’s a thing on TikTok. People post these little edits when they fancy someone. And let me tell you, mate, there are loads of these floating about. Like, ‘look at this mysterious bloke, isn’t he fit?’ That sort of thing.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “TikTok?”

From across the room, III chimed in, his grin wicked as he leaned back in his seat. “Nowhere to hide, Riley,” he said, his tone teasing. “You’re a proper celebrity now.”

Simon huffed through his nose, a sound that carried more weight than words. He glanced at the phone again, now firmly lodged in Lynsey’s outstretched hand, the screen flashing more of his edited movements cut and spliced into dramatic slow-motion. He stepped back slightly, folding his arms across his broad chest once more, muttering something about “kids and their bollocks” under his breath as he did.

Lynsey quipped, her grin only widening. “Face it, the internet’s gone mad for you. They’ve even got a hashtag—‘#SecurityDaddy.’”

Simon flinched, his head snapping back toward her like she’d just admitted to committing a war crime.

This made IV join the fray, a water bottle in hand as he ambled over. “Oi, show us the goods. I wanna see what’s got good ol’ Riley in a strop.”

Lynsey eagerly turned her phone to IV, who leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the screen with a wide grin already forming on his painted face. The video played again, the dramatic slow-motion edits of Simon walking through a crowd, his balaclava catching the stage lights as though he’d been directed by a Hollywood cinematographer.

IV let out a sharp laugh, nearly choking on his water.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of black paint on them. “‘Security Daddy,’ they’re callin’ you? That’s golden.”

Lynsey snorted and held up another video. “Oh, you’ve got no idea. Look at this one, ‘If he told me to leave the venue, I’d say thank you.’ And here’s another, ‘Is it weird to want to be tackled by him?’ You’ve got your own bloody fanbase, Riley.”

Simon’s gloved hand scrubbed down his masked face as if he could physically push away the madness unfolding around him. “You lot are takin’ the piss.”

“This one’s my favourite,” Lynsey said, clicking on yet another video. The screen lit up with a heavily edited montage of Simon in action—his eyes scanning a crowd, his broad shoulders cutting through a sea of fans, the flash of his gloved hand directing someone to stand back. The video was captioned with “I don’t know his name, but he can ruin my life anytime.”

Vessel, who’d been silent for most of the exchange, finally sat up, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded their head of security with an amused expression. “It’s the mask, mate,” he stated. “It's like catnip. People project onto what they can’t see. You could lean into it, y’know. Like us. Give the people what they want. Maybe throw in a wink next time you’re standin’ by the stage.”

Simon sent Vessel a look so sharp it could have peeled paint off the walls.

II, who had been leaning casually against the wall next to them, joined in with a huge grin. “Yeah, might as well embrace it. You’re part of the act now.”

Simon’s glare intensified. “You wanna end up wearin’ your fuckin’ drumsticks where the sun don’t shine?”

II raised his hands in mock surrender, though the grin never left his face. “Don’t tempt me.”

The banter escalated quickly after that.

The room practically buzzed with the gleeful chaos that Simon’s presence had unwittingly unleashed. IV was now scrolling through the comments on one of the fan edits, reading them aloud to the room with unbridled glee, each of them taking the piss out of him in the way only people comfortable with each other could.

Strangely enough, it reminded him of Johnny, a familiar mix of camaraderie and mischief that tugged at a memory he hadn’t expected to surface. It stirred an unexpected pang of nostalgia in Simon, a faint echo of Johnny’s effortless knack for turning every moment into a laugh at someone else’s expense—usually his.

“He could snap me like a glow stick and I’d thank him for the privilege,’” II read out loud, barely containing his laughter. “Oh, this one’s pure gold—‘Not to be dramatic, but I would sell my soul just to hear him say ‘move along’ in person.’”

That did it.

Simon unfolded from the wall with a deliberate grace, his imposing presence rippling through the room like a cold wind sweeping across still water. The breadth of his shoulders, the unyielding lines of his form clad in black, cast him less as a mere bodyguard and more as some silent, vengeful sentinel. His shadow stretched across the room, swallowing the laughter as it reached II and IV, Lynsey’s phone still clutched between them.

“You’ve had your fun,” he rumbled, his voice steeped in the kind of authority honed through years of barking orders in the SAS. “Now knock it off, before I confiscate that phone.”

“Go on, Riley,” IV shot back with a grin, entirely unafraid. “Confiscate me next.”

Simon didn’t dignify that with a response.

He turned away from them, a quiet dismissal, and walked toward the door. His hand reached for the handle, his gloved fingers brushing against the cool metal. But just as he was about to leave, a voice cut through the air again, the familiar, teasing tone of III echoing in the now-muted chaos of the room.

“Don’t forget to give us a little twirl on your way out, Security Daddy.”

Bloody hell.

If this gig didn’t kill him, these muppets just might.

betweenstorms (next) (masterlist)

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im-poltergeist · 5 months ago

Text

Towers and Thorns (Fanfic vers)

tags: bodyguard!Ghost x royal!reader, older Ghost, first fic, might be crappy idk, multiple parts, might be nsfw down the line, english is not my first language so feel free to correct me. 🌻

Part 1 🌻 Part 2 🌻 Part 3

"Do you have to keep bending the rules", he asks from the doorway to your room. You scoff at the question.

"This is hardly bending the rules. The skirt is just above knee length", you answer, glaring at the balaclava clad man stood before you.

"Not sure I agree with that, your highness", his cold eyes scanning your figure. You groan and shove him out the door. Whats the matter with him anyway.

You walk over to your closet and stare at the skirts. Apparently the light blue one you had on was "inappropriate". You pick out a white, patterned one instead and hope that it is acceptable. You roll your eyes. The bodyguard you had before him, before Ghost, wouldn't have batted an eye at that skirt. But at the same time he was off fucking a maid in some linnen closet while Marshall ambushed you in that corridor and kissed you. The memory makes you shudder.

Marshall seems to think that he is entitled to you. Just because your parents didn't say an outright no when his parents talked about marriage, he's disgusting.

You tried to tell your father that you didn't want the kiss and that Marshall kissed you without your consent but he wouldn't have it. "Think about how this could reflect on your mother reputation. Sneaking off, kissing boys." That's what he had to say about the matter. Speaking about you as if you were a young, rebellious teenager. You are, in fact, an adult. You had been for a good while now. You had gone through your teen years without any major scandals. The same couldn't be said for your cousins.

You open the door and are faced with arms crossed over a broad chest clad by a black t-shirt, tight enough to reveal strong shoulders and muscular arms, and cold eyes staring down at you from the gap in his balaclava.

"Better", you ask, eyes narrowing.

"Much", he replies and steps aside.

Ghost opens the door to the dining hall for you and you nod a thank you to him. Your father is sat near the end of the table,, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. He looks up as you enter.

"Good morning Dad. Good morning Gaz", you say to the dark-skinned man stood behind him.

"Important day today", your father replies, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Im aware", you sit down at the chair opposite his. You scoop a spoonful of scrambled eggs and another of bacon down on to your plate.

"Make sure to behave. We don't need the President or the American press to get the wrong impression", he reminds you for what feels like the hundredth time this week.

"I know", you acknowledge, eyes fixed on your plate. Fork moving the eggs around aimlessly.

"Good. We can't afford a scandal", your father adds and rises from his chair. Hand nudging your shoulder as he walks past you and out of the door. Gaz a few steps behind him. The door shuts with a dull thud. You drop your fork on to your plate with a clink and put your head in your hands. Why does he always always talk about you like you're an accident waiting to happen. You feel Ghosts eyes burning in to your back.

"You don't have to just stand there, you know. You can sit down", you turn your head to look at him. His brown eyes meeting yours before walking slowly over towards the chair next to yours. Pulling it out and turning it so that he faces you. He sits down. Arms crossed over his chest and one of his leggs resting on his knee. You pour some water in to your glass and do the same to his. Ghosts eyes still boring in to yours. You sigh.

"Whats the matter", you ask him. Something clearly occupying his mind.

"Do you have a drinking problem or something, your highness", he questions you.

"What? No", you shriek. How could he think such a thing.

"A guy just kissed me at the last event and my dad thinks Im going to go into a late teenage rebellion. Besides, you would have notised if I had a drinking problem by now", you continue shaking your head.

"Guess you're right", he replies. His voice having and unreadable tone. Your eyes move towards the grandfather clock at the other end of the room. It reads half past ten. Shit. You stand up and the chair almost tips behind you. Ghost rises, eyes darting around the room to find the source of your sudden move.

"Im gonna be late", You clarify and hurry out the door. Ghost a few steps behind you.

You make it to the front door with less than a minute to spare. Your parents are stood talking and turn around when you approach with quick steps. You come to a halt behind them. Smiling at your mother. She smiles back and turns towards the men beside the door. Gaz and Price are on either side of the door. Ready to follow their queens order. Your mother nods to them and the doors open. You face the light erupting from the gap and put on a smile that you hope looks natural. The forgotten breakfast on your plate makes itself reminded as your stomach churns. You feel Ghosts eyes burn into the back of your head and you step outside into the light.

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xo-cod · 1 year ago

Note

how would bodyguard!simon be in bed with the reader if they hate one another 👀

"look at you, suckin my cock so fuckin greedily. so bloody desperate f'me, eh?"

it's easy to be harsh, to talk dirty so you don't see the tenderness lingering between his words. when you agreed to the one night stands purely for relief after a stressful day, he was convinced it would be so easy to shoot his load and be done with it. but he quickly realised how wrong he was. simon can't look at you, he can't promise how he'd react. taking a look at your sweet face crumpled with pleasure, eyes half lidded, his name a burning prayer on your tongue, it'd be too much.

so his go to position was doggy until one night, it was all too much for him. and he doesn't have it in him to be his usual rational self. he doesn't think anything through when he grabs you, walking straight to your room in the hotel ignoring everyone else. he locked your hotel room and placed the do not disturb sign clear on the door.

then he focused back on you, placing you delicately on the huge bed. he had you laying on your back this time, pillow under your hips while his cock strokes against your entrance, pushing forwards. his body trembles alongside yours, soft sharp hisses leaving his lips. his eyes are constantly on yours, balaclava pushed up to the middle of his nose while his lips brush up against your skin. he pushed your legs up over his shoulders, revelling in your moans and whimpers. the more rational part of him was screaming to get out, to leave and never look back. to quit this job and focus on being the cold hearted lieutenant, to summon ghost

ghost was cold, calculating and logical.

yet despite that, his thrusts were getting deeper hitting the bundle of nerves deep inside. his fingers dip deeper into the flesh of your hips no doubt leaving bruises under the compression, titling his hips to hit a more intimate angle. his hands covering the bulge he was creating in your stomach, a pant leaving his lips as he touched it. god he was so inside you and it still never felt close enough. perhaps because he knew that your heart wasn't his to have, that your heart could never love a shattered soul like his.

his fingers rub tender circles on your clit, bending down to press soft warm kisses against your skin. each one more desperate than the last as if he was trying to commit them to memory, trying to steal your breath and hold it hostage with his lips. he doesn't stop until you fall apart with pleasure, crying out his name when your climax hits you over and over. washing over you as you bathe in the afterglow.

still, his hips lazily rut in and out of your wet cunt, not yet ready to leave the tight wetness. trying to cling onto the last shreds of pleasure, caging you warmly between his huge arms. his face gently nuzzling against yours, secretly hoping that you were too blissed out on pleasure to notice his affections.

"that's it, sweetheart. did so fuckin' good f'me"

#asks #bodyguard!simon riley #bodyguard!ghost

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

Text

I Never Missed You 3/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)

Word count: 6.4 k

Summary: You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.

A/N: A three part fic based on this request. Angst and smut and fluff (the holy trinity!) in this last part.

Part 1 Part 2

Juice spills all over the table from the oranges you press, but you don't mind. There has been a soft smile on your face all morning.

Simon's still sleeping, and you want to surprise him with a special breakfast today: scrambled eggs, freshly pressed orange juice, berries, and…

"You took my shirt."

You flinch when you hear his familiar rumble not a few feet away. The staircase wailed like a widow last night, but obviously, this man has learned to avoid the creaky spots when he wants. A goddamn heavyweight ninja...

"I'm sorry." You lick your fingers from the juice and try to feign innocence. The sleeves of his black tee reach your elbows, but you're not sorry. Nor do you feel bad about seeing him in your kitchen without a shirt.

"It was not an accusation," he says, the corner of his mouth curving a little, the dark eyes that made love to you last night giving you an approving once-over.

You approach him with a glass full of sun, but it's you he grabs in his hold. Your fingers find the scars on his back as you two embrace, and you feel an odd churn in your stomach.

"What's this…?"

Your hand floats across the embossed, white ridges that crisscross his back. The collection forms an entire mountain range, and it's chilling because you've only brushed the space between his shoulder blades.

"A reminder. To trust no one."

"No one…?"

"No one."

You remain a coward and refrain from asking for more details. You doubt he would even share them.

"I made you breakfast," you lower your gaze to the colorful palette you've gathered on the plates. Is it some sort of an instinct to want to feed a man after they've fucked you so good?

"So I see," he says, ever more approvingly. Then you're lifted on the table, next to the plates, like you're the breakfast.

Soon you're only wearing his shirt and your tiny socks, which Simon decides to leave on, too busy with getting his face between your legs.

No one has done anything like that before… No one has chosen you over breakfast; an entire abundance of delicacies laid out.

He licks you until your legs are trembling on that tortured back. You're pure, you're untouched by evil, and he carries your naivety on his shoulders like it weighs nothing. He flattens his tongue on you, sucks your flesh, tortures you on that table and doesn't even mind his teeth all too much. The peak stubble he hasn't yet shaved stings and burns as he moves across your folds.

Saying that the coarse chin on your silk feels good would be an understatement. You come undone next to the breakfast, clad in golden light shining through the small window left uncovered.

You feel alive, and raw, and stellar. A shooting star, a comet high above the sky, although the space through which you ignite consists of golden rays of sunlight and the scent of orange juice.

He takes the shirt back after he's done. After you're done and try your best to return back to earth with shaking legs. The only thing you're wearing is your socks, but you feel completely naked before him, dopey and dumb before the day has even started. Simon only licks his lips, throws that shirt on, and grabs his plate.

He dares to comment that there's no hot water. You put the kettle on with a wobble, feeling hotness on your cheeks while he sits down to eat his second breakfast like it's the most natural thing in the world: to wreck you first thing in the morning.

…............................

Simon.

He fixes the door on your fridge. He helps you clean your garage and fucks you on the table. Oily, dusty, filthy table. You go to shower after, together. You're giggling; he's smiling. Fully, now.

You want to ask him, Is this free of charge too…? Not just his cock... But his smiles. His assistance and support. The looks he grants you when you come out of the shower, ready to be licked to ruin.

He calls you his Princess to tease you just right. To get you in a state where your eyes flash with half-rage, half-lust, just before he slips inside you. He knows exactly which strings to pull – and then calls you love just when you're about to give him a piece of your mind.

You end up on the table, on the counter, on the floor. He takes you while your jaw slowly falls open from his audacity and his cock, splitting you apart with slow love. The first time he takes you in a missionary, you squirt. It's like his cock was made for you. And he dares to tease you about that, too.

"Did ya just squirt all over my cock?"

You have tears in your eyes, shame on your cheeks, and he's wetter than a wet dog down there… then he makes you squirt again, high on the lewd, obscene praise you just gave him with your pussy.

Your cunt can't lie; he knows it by now. So it's futile to keep your lips sealed either.

Kiss me.

That's what you would've usually ordered. But after an exceptionally quiet and passionate and desperate fuck that leaves you both catching your breath, leaves him hovering only inches from your sweaty upper lip, you whisper…

"I want to kiss you."

You expect him to laugh or mock you, at least crack a stupid joke or two. But he doesn't. Instead, his eyes drop to your lips, and he swallows with a heavy roll, then closes the gap between you two. Covers your mouth with his, uses that strong jaw to open you for devouring.

The kiss lasts long enough for you to begin breathing through your nose. Your inner walls grip him, still buried deep inside, and the gusts of exhales passing through his nostrils hit your face with pure bliss. He’s a little breathless when he parts – withdraws just enough to look into your eyes.

“Will that do...?”

There is a drunken vigor in his eyes of crushed amber, but to your shock, you hear your own question laid out before you. The one you asked when you were going to that party.

Will I do…?

Your hands find his jaw and cup his face from both sides, drawing him back to your lips.

“Yes."

You will more than just do.

And then you say…

"I want more.”

He chuckles a soft scoff on your face.

"Greedy little thing."

Then he swallows you again. You kiss for a good few minutes while he grows half-hard inside you. It's the most romantic kiss you have shared with anyone, ever. He tells you how spoiled you are between the breaths you both catch, then spoils you some more with his mouth and tongue and cock.

You start to curl together in the evening. Just to watch a comedy. He massages your feet and smiles more every day. It's kind of domestic, how he wrinkles his nose at your fine white wine and asks what it is in that decanter you have in your study. When you say it's just some old bourbon, he goes and gets himself a glass like he's finally made himself at home.

It makes your heart grow thick from love. You almost forget why he's here in the first place.

When you ask him about the plan, he explains it to you in detail while kissing his way down your ribs and navel. He takes his sweet time while doing it, kissing the inside of your thigh, the hollow place below the knee, the tender skin under the knee. He kisses your calf and the ankle bone while holding your leg up for his lips with just one hand. Then he does the same to your other leg, but this time, kisses his way from ankle to thigh until he reaches…

You.

You've forgotten half the plan by then because you realize Simon hasn't looked at you like you're a steak or garbage in a long, long time.

He looks at you like you're a queen. You could say he worships you, but the thought alone makes your heart flutter with the anxiety of a fragile hummingbird.

Simon gets you your groceries and gets himself only a beer as a reward. You would happily offer him a case if you knew it would make him happy.

But you don't really know what would make him happy. You don't know anything about this man. You know he likes it when you're dolled up and angry. He likes you when you're sleepy, without makeup, wearing only his shirt. He likes to fuck you from behind and hold you close after. He likes to give you a wash, likes it when you wash him. He likes to watch the two tall trees outside the window sway when there's a strong wind.

"What makes you happy?" You ask one night after you've had him in your mouth.

"Blowjobs," he answers with a straight face, and you shove him in the shoulder. Nicely. Softly.

"No, for real."

"I dunno." He sighs and turns to stare at your ceiling with a bothered look. It's a tricky question, perhaps. Or weapons, not willingly gifted.

"Dogs," he shrugs after a while. "A day of silence. Good whiskey."

He doesn't grant you weapons. You get some rope, but not enough to choke him with it. He trusts no one.

"Why don't you like missionary…?" You continue roasting him while curling your fingers around the pale hair on his chest.

"I never said I didn't like it."

"Don't avoid the question, Mr. Doggystyle."

You prop yourself up on your elbow and place your palm flat over his heart. His stare slowly drifts from the ceiling back to you.

"Simon. Why do you always fuck me from behind?"

He raises his eyebrows like he's innocent of the crime he's being accused of. "Not always."

"Seriously, Simon."

The smug look returns; it gives his eyes a delightful little spark and tugs at the corner of that kissable mouth.

"I like your ass."

"But not my eyes?"

The smile dies, and he gulps down a short surprise, caught between truth and dare. But then his eyes settle like the calming sea under a full moon. Stern, but not remorseless. Bold, but not heartless. If anything, he's naked and bare.

"Darlin'. Love your eyes the most."

Your heart does a backflip. You've been a fool because what else has he done but search for your eyes first thing in the morning? Given you flashes of mischief over breakfast, made love to you with those eyes as you cum around his cock? That liquid fire and smoke hasn't left you since he stepped inside this house.

You breathe together; you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest. There was a time when you thought this man was incapable of love, but now you fear he has never been allowed to love enough.

"We never talked, you know," you whisper. His heart swells underneath your palm like a sail.

"What'ya wanna talk about?"

"Us."

"So talk."

Walls are raised so quickly you feel them knocking the warmth out of your body. It's cold, it's Antarctic, the technique he uses to withdraw. Your room turns into a kingdom of ice from the cruel, emotionless indifference he emits.

You've been a fool, yes... And a child.

"You're making it hard," you say, noticing how the man starts to tense up under your fingertips. This is not the way, but you're not smart enough to stop your rampage.

"What happens when you've done your job?"

He doesn't sigh. He doesn't even think twice before giving his answer.

"I go back to the base."

You know now why he's called a ghost. You wonder if he was ever even here. Simon becomes a reminder for you, a reminder to trust no one.

"...Right." You pull your hand away slowly. As if it somehow helps with the pain to pretend you haven't just touched a hot stove and ended up getting your fingers burned.

He notices how you tense up far more than he. The arm around your waist goes tight, and you wonder if you've always been a bloodied steak to this brute, a stupid little princess with your wines, sighs, and wet eyes. He just doesn't want to let go of the last bites of his fine, delicious meat.

"I never thought you wanted a relationship," he says with a hollow voice, and the red rage nearly blinds your sight. You're too riled up to even yell at him.

"Love…" he tries for the last time.

"Get out of my bed."

…............................

His musk still clings to you as you descend the stairs the next morning.

He's sitting at the end of the steps with hunched shoulders and a tense back, exiled into the man he was the first day you met him. Your heart bleeds from the sight, wondering whether Simon has waited there the whole night after you kicked him out of your bedroom. But the boiling bile in your stomach forces you to lift your chin and draw your shoulders back as you walk down those steps with an audible clatter as your heels clack across the parquet.

He must've heard you before you make a racket fitting for an angered queen, but rises only after you've made it halfway through the staircase. You won't allow yourself to even look his way as he draws a deep breath.

"Love. Sweetheart."

But with that, you flash the man a stare full of despise as you walk past him.

"Don't."

"Let me–"

"Don't say a word," you take a sharp turn and raise a hand to shield you from whatever brutality he would like to stain you with. "You don't talk to me. You just do your job. Ok?"

His chest swells with another deep breath, but otherwise, this man is still as a statue again.

"Ma'am."

It takes you a while to notice he has regressed back to that term again, and you tilt your head. The movement is that of a warrior who swings her sword to a guard before a fight. He crosses his hands over his crotch as if to shield the most vulnerable parts from a low blow, but his eyes are full of hateful hurt as he gives you his most pretentious, mocking tone.

"Miss."

Your heart skips a beat – Simon becomes the thing you miss.

A hit and run.

You have to resist the urge to grimace at the pure venom in his voice - it doesn't matter what he calls you because that tone seeps straight through your skin like lye. It hurts; it burns to see him even more withdrawn to his shell than when you first met. He retreats far beyond the front line, he goes further than the rear, and it's a bitter defeat for both of you.

This man has rubbed your feet while you've laughed at a stupid joke in a sitcom. The same man has been inside you – night after night after night. It rips your heart to see a distant, perfectly blank expression on his face after you've seen him give you a plentitude of relaxed and wicked little smiles.

You share the breakfast in funeral-like silence. You wish you could pay him to stay home so that you can go through your day filled with terror and longing without Simon Riley following you around.

"I've been meaning to update you on new intel about the target," he breaks the silence, and your heart feels like it's being put through a wringer. Simon hasn't even touched his breakfast. "Turns out he received training in a sniper unit."

"So?"

"There's a high chance he might prefer to use long-range weapons."

He's professional, curt, clinical. Even more so than when you first shook hands with him. And all the while, those eyes burn you; they examine you like you're the most challenging puzzle he's ever tried to solve. He's cold as ice with his words and hot as hell with that stare. Those eyes seem to pierce your clothes, they even reach under your skin.

"Right," you say without giving him a single look back.

"We have to update our protocol asap."

Our…

We.

"The protocol…" you whisper and finally look up at him. His lips draw into a thin line as he sees how your walls crumble; they didn't last even half a day.

"Simon, I can't do this," you say, your voice breaking. The tears are only seconds away. They blur your sight, but as he rises from the table slowly and takes a hesitant step towards you, you turn your head back to your toast with a snap.

"I want to change bodyguards."

From the corner of your blurred vision, you see how he raises a hand. If you didn't know any better, you could say that he's at his weakest. But the hand falls straight back and gives a twitch by his side. You wonder why he even bothers to disguise the spasm so lousily as a stretch. It's as if he wants you to see that he's in tumult too.

"I'll stay until–"

"No. Get out."

"Miss. I'll just get my things," he says, and you nod briefly. No exchange of gazes is probably the best policy after informing him you no longer need his services. It's better to rip the band-aid off with one yank than try to pretend that this relationship was something more than sexual.

You know he came to your house with minimal belongings, a duffel bag full of spare clothes and a large case which you supposed was a container for different weapons. That is why you notice he takes a surprisingly long time to get those things and leave your house.

When he finally emerges from his room – no, not his room, but the guest room, you remind yourself – he places the luggage in the hallway and comes back to you, probably to say his polite farewells.

"You won't let me speak to you, so I wrote you a fuckin' letter."

You turn to solid stone as he places an envelope between your water glass and cup of coffee. You sit with your heart thumping in your chest as he picks up his things, walks to the door, walks out of it and out of your life.

It's one of those moments you wish you could freeze and rewind. Do everything differently so that it wouldn't have to come to this. Instead, you listen how the front door clunks shut.

Then you send your trembling fingers up from your lap and onto the pure white thing that holds his secrets. You pry it open and find yourself reading the lines, scribbled with surprisingly sophisticated handwriting, through a round of hot tears.

They cloud your vision, but they don't cloud his words.

You skim through the letter in a frenzied hurry once, then again with more control, and try to remember how to breathe.

He shares shrivels from his past, ugly, horrid things which make your breakfast nearly push up your throat. He tells you he stopped dating eleven years ago for a reason. He writes that he would rather be tortured again than make you suffer from his past and incapacities.

There are certain lines that enter your heart like a thief with the most delicate crowbar. Lines like I'm not good with words and You must know by now that I'm a broken man.

Lines like I'm not a fucking poet but I'll miss your warmth even under the desert sun.

Some lines make you want to tear the letter to pieces. Lines such as Don't throw your diamonds in the dust and I can't give you what you deserve.

He thinks you can't take his darkness, so he shelters you from it. He says he would come back to you if he could. You don't know what the hell he means by that.

If he could?

What the fuck prevents him?

You sit inside your empty, lonely house, confident of the fact that it is not you who prevents it. It was not you who just sent him out that door. Who commanded him to leave because you didn't need his services anymore.

The letter makes you cry, and then it makes you boil.

Such sweet words, and so many empty sentences. If only, if I wasn't, if I could.

You get the feeling that he's mocking you again. If only you weren't a princess and a spoiled brat, then perhaps he could reconsider this relationship.

You leave the letter there; you leave your coffee and your breakfast. You almost wish someone would shoot you and put you out of your misery as you call a taxi and go to the heart of the city.

You're completely numb as your fingertips brush silk and linen and all the newest designs. They curl around tiny bottles of bright nail polish and touch the perfumes made from the last free wildflowers of a burning world, but you feel nothing stir inside.

You're emptier than the echo that rings through the malls and corridors of stone; you feel poorer than all the beggars on the street. Shopping always makes you feel better. But now you want to burn all your money, throw your jewels out the window, torch all the fucking stores like some bloody anarchist. You leave every store without buying a thing and try to remember what it was to have lunch without drowning in tears that can't be cried in public.

"I can't give you what you deserve."

That's the line that scalds you most. You know what he meant when he wrote those words, seemingly humble. But your bleeding heart twists that sentence until his words are a testimony of pure rejection.

You have money, so you don't deserve love, is that it?

You want to find him and shake him. It's not about what you deserve or what he deserves. It's not about what anyone deserves. And if the bloody man thinks he doesn't deserve love only because he's made his home in suffering, then he's the last person who should be allowed to decide who deserves what.

You walk through the crowds and streets like a small whirlwind, on the verge of yelling your heart and loneliness out in the air until your vocal cords are raw. You're so riled your mind doesn't even register the gunshot.

The only thing you hear is a glass shattering next to you just before an entire boulder hits you.

His scent envelops you like a safe, warm blanket, even if that blanket weighs a ton and causes your jeans to grate and tear as you two hit the asphalt. Simon gives you bruises, scrapes and burns all across your left side as your body grinds through the dirt.

Another shot is fired; this time, a car's glass is shattered above you, and the body surrounding you tenses until you worry your bodyguard has been hit. The bodyguard you fired this morning, who's still doing his job, who never even left you…

People are screaming and running in different directions all around and above you, but time comes to a halt as Simon rises only an inch or two.

"Stay down," he gruffs in your ear. "Don't move. Don't you fucking move, ok?"

The whole world could've gone silent from the way you only hear his voice. His words. His distress. You remain still as a stone and look up at him – your lips part because he's looking at you with impatience that's not just pressing; it's demanding.

"Yes," you stutter, "yes, of course."

Someone's pissed because a third shot sends him right back over you, and only then do you notice you're clinging to him, to his jacket and his shirt, like he's a human shield. Then the human shield speaks again, and the words that come out only make you grip him tighter.

"He has to change the magazine soon. You stay right here, ok? I'm going in."

"No, don't," your fingers curl around his clothes and try to keep him on top of you. "Don't go. I'm afraid."

I'll get you a dog.

A day of silence.

I'll buy you some good whiskey. I promise…

"I'll be right back," he murmurs, more softly now. "I promise."

Then he rips himself off you. Your body misses his heat like the desert sand must miss the sun, and you realize you've ruined everything as you finally get to watch him in his element. He's agile and beautiful as he reaches for his gun, takes it out, and prepares it in a few seconds to fire death upon your faceless enemy. You've ruined everything because if Simon goes in, he might get killed – he's a human, not a shield, he's not even a weapon – and all the things you never said will haunt you for the rest of your life.

"Don't leave me," you want to reach for him, but don't dare disobey his orders. It should send you laughing: that you're finally doing precisely as he says. You finally trust your life with him, just before he leaves you, leaves you, leaves you.

"Simon–"

"Sweetheart. I never left you."

He looks straight into your eyes. You gulp the tears now.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, and someone is screaming; everythings a buzz, cars whir by as you tell him all the things you meant to say weeks ago. "I never wanted you to go. I always liked you. I– I think I love–"

"Shh. Don't you do this to me now."

The words are so soft you have to struggle to hear what he's saying under his breath. It's like he's talking to himself, and you realize you're an asshole, saying things like that to him when he's trying to concentrate on his mission and his job. But you just can't help yourself sometimes. No one in your life compares to him. No one has caused such a ruckus, such turmoil, such devastation and such love.

"Do what?" you whimper there, motionless on the ground as he gives you a last, painful look before his stare fixes on the piece of glass still unshattered, the dim, transient mirror of a store window he uses to locate movement in one of the buildings.

Then he takes a peek over the car, and you hold your breath – he's the bait now, and ducks his head immediately as two more shots are fired. You don't even have the strength to scream; your whole body simply shudders from the echoing sound of pure fear – how can he play tag with death like that?

And then he leaves.

He rounds the car and darts for the building and the sniper; he disappears from your vision so quickly you wonder if these past weeks have been but a dream.

A hit and run.

"Do what…" you repeat on the ground and curl into yourself even though he said you shouldn't move. You figure it's not that big of a crime to go into a fetal position when you don't know if he's ever coming back to scold you for breaking the rules.

You want to close your ears from the sounds that follow – you fear you'll jinx something if you listen too closely to what happens in that building. You try to concentrate on your breaths, slowly bringing you back to your body. You haven't even noticed that there's blood running down your arm.

It's funny how you only notice the pain after seeing the flowing crimson that makes small rivers around your fingers. You don't want to look at your burning shoulder because the shock is already here.

The searing pulse gets worse as you hear another shot, then another shot. Those sounds pound inside your shoulder and send more fire down your arm. Minutes or hours pass and you think how strange it is that everything's completely still, how bizarre it is that there are no sirens, no cars, no screaming. They've finally closed off the roads.

You only start to cry when you see that he's alive.

You try to rise from the ground to meet him – a bleeding princess, waking from her beauty sleep and realizing everything's just been a bad dream, greeting her knight in a black pair of fitted tactical pants and a pistol on his waist. Diamonds and darkness…

He rushes to you in what seems like desperation. You find it oddly beautiful that he's not only relieved to see his client is still alive and well, he's also relieved to know you're still there. That his princess has waited for him.

He falls on his knees and prevents you from rising. You're quickly wrapped in his arms, feeling so happy and safe that you don't even bother to tell him you're injured. It's just a scratch anyway. Even if your leg was blown off, you wouldn't complain about being picked up in his lap like this.

"Shh. I got you. I got you."

He's cradling you like a child while tears stream down your face, but there's no audible sounds of crying. You weep a whole river of tears and your nose is clogged, forcing you to breathe through your mouth, but there's no wailing, no screaming, no bawling. The first words that roll off your tongue are a child's moody complaint.

"You left me," you mope as he caresses your head.

"Only for a little while."

"You came back."

"I said I would."

More tears flow, and this time you sniffle and sob. He rocks you gently back and forth as you cry in his embrace. Simon would make a good father.

"Is he…?" You whisper, then look up at him. He just nods and gives you a quick scan, drawing a sharp breath when he notices the wound on your arm.

You're placed back on the ground as he inspects your shoulder and tells you the bullet managed to scrape some skin but has mostly just ruined your jacket. You're almost sorry that the wound is not as severe as it feels. You thought the burning sensation meant shattered bones and scarred flesh, but the scratch is no deeper than if you had accidentally cut yourself with a kitchen knife.

"No, I don't want… No hospital," you beg as he offers to take you to ER. You're not spending the rest of the day in a frigid treatment room where tired medical personnel only clean the wound and put a big plaster on it.

"Just take me home," you plead like you're his daughter who doesn't want to go to school today. "Please?"

"Sure. Whatever ya want."

He makes a few phone calls, arranges things with the local police or something. You don't want to know anything about it. You don't want to know who got shot in that building and how.

It's not a taxi that drives you back this time. You don't know where he got a car and a driver, but the vehicle is big and black, and your head is in Simon's lap when you lie in the backseat. There's a panel between the driver's seat and the rear, so you don't even know who's driving, but you're only grateful for the privacy after the crazy morning followed by a murder attempt. You look up at Simon, who looks back at you for the first time while you're in a car together.

"Why did you become a soldier?" You ask, not knowing why you're whispering. He's holding your hand – a simple, wholesome thing to do, but his grip on you is solid and warm and feels equally as intimate as the times this man has been inside you.

"I wanted to help people."

"By killing them?"

"By saving those I can."

He keeps a hand on your cheek too. Simon has spoken softly ever since you were fired at, has been humane and caring and tender, and you realize… This man is naked before you; he's stripped bare from all pretenses.

And he's not darkness. He's not a skeleton or a dead man or even a soldier.

He's a beacon in the night.

"You did a good job," you squeeze his hand softly.

The last glass-like veil in his eyes shatters, but far more softly than those windows shot at with a rifle.

"I live to serve, Ma'am...–Miss."

"Don’t… Simon, please don’t call me a–"

He descends. He doesn't need that hand to lift your chin up to meet him in a kiss. It's not a hungry devouring this time, but a soft promise, a lover's seal. You feel the rest of the shock leave your body in his embrace. There's no more coldness, only a fragile burning.

"You never look me in the eyes," you whisper as a tear escapes from the corner of your eye. It's a silly thing to say when he looks at you with all the love in the world.

"Yes I do," he gives you a soft brush of a thumb across your cheek. His lips are right there, an inch away from yours. "How could you have missed that?"

He's right, as always. The dark love almost swallows the brown of his eyes as he looks at you, shining light on you as he has shined for days, for weeks now. How could you have missed that, indeed? You raise a hand to cup his cheek, not caring about the pain, not even mourning that your blood stains his chin. He doesn't seem to mind at all, so why would you?

When you arrive at your house, he drives away the loneliness, sorrow, everything a rich girl can fear by carrying you in his arms, stepping over the threshold with you like you two are married now.

He peels your jacket off with affection and tenderness, tends to your wound and wipes away the blood that has caked dry all over your arm. The gash has bled a lot for such a small wound, and you purse your lips from how accurately it reflects your feelings for him.

He ties the wound, checks at least two times he's not tying it too tight. His care breaks your heart, because you don't know whether he will leave you after this. There's nothing that keeps him here anymore – there's no way you can keep Simon Riley to yourself. So you abandon him first for the second time, ascend the stairs to your lonely domain while he cleans up the small mess in the bathroom.

It's a small miracle that he follows you. He opens the door to your room without knocking – not because he's entitled to your privacy, but because there are no more barriers between you two. You're gathered in a stout embrace for the second time this afternoon, and you wrap your arms around him to hold him closer.

"You'll leave me soon," you speak to the wall before you, to the man behind you, holding you so gently against his chest. "I'll miss you."

"Love," he murmurs behind you, you feel the words against your back as a warm rumble. "I'll come back. If you want me, I'll come back to you."

"You will…?"

"I promise."

You have no more tears to cry, so you settle for examining the stab inside your heart, the wound that will bleed you dry if no one ties it tightly enough.

"I don't believe you."

"It's not a matter of whether you believe me."

He turns you around and lets you bathe in his warmth again, the same golden light that came through the window when he placed his mouth on you in the kitchen. It's almost frightening to know that there's nothing that can keep him from you. Nothing, except you. The only thing that has stood between you was only and ever pride.

"Simon," you breathe, a soft attempt to introduce him to mercy. "It's not a matter of what we deserve."

He blinks a few times, the chest against your side collapses a little. It's a hard reset. The corner of his mouth tugs, a beautiful betrayal of his surrender, a sign of being hit by a boulder – your boulder, finally bringing the rest of those walls down.

"You think so...?"

"Yes. I think so."

He brushes his knuckles across your sternum – a familiar motion that always manages to lift your heart. You used to think it was foreplay when it was in truth, an attempt to touch the organ said to be the house of love.

You think about the times his harsh breaths have hit you just before he cums, the urgent praise he's peppered you with merely seconds before you've cried from pleasure. Can't get enough of you pet, you’re fucking perfect, 'm gonna make you cum, sing for me, just like that...

You always thought it was a catalogue of shallow lust when it was an offering of naked devotion.

He was as vulnerable as you when you drifted through space together, when you drowned in his stunning midnight sea. He was catching fire and burning too, again and again until you were both satisfied and sweaty. He always held you close after, panted desperate love on your skin, planted kisses on your collarbones and neck before resting his head on your heart. Settling there, over your pulse, like he had finally found his way home…

The hand glides between your breasts and molds itself over your waist. It fits there like a second skin. You're relatively sure his hands were made for holding you.

"You asked what makes me happy," he says, completely naked and bare. The heavy love surrounds you with warm safety; your breath flows freely as you await his confession, the last secret revealed. "I think you know, love."

You know. It has finally dawned on you. What you didn't know was that tears of hope could feel like fire too. You've never been more eager to burn.

"Now keep those pretty eyes on me."

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mystinkylefttoe26 · 8 months ago

Text

Night at the club-Ghost/Simon Riley

cw: bodyguard!simon, dub con, mention of alcohol consumption, p in v unprotected, drunk sex, fingering, squirting, car sex, slight dumbification

summary : you drag your bodyguard Simon to the club and end up having to suffer the consequences…

It was currently midnight and you were quickly making you way downstairs with the hope off not waking your bodyguard.

Your right in front of the door and so far nobody has caught you yet ,ok pff I got this‘ you think to yourself.

Just as your about to reach for the doorknob, a dark husky voice sounds behind you „what do you think your doing ?“

You turn around and of course there’s your mountain of a bodyguard ghost standing with an eyebrow raised in a questioning manner.

„I uhm…I’m just going for an…evening walk“ you respond, internally slapping yourself for the stupid excuse.

„Uh huh and your doing that dressed like a fucking hooker ?“ Ghost asks sarcastically.

„Come on quit the lyin‘ what were you really planning“

„Wanna go to the club…“ you say smiling sheepishly.

„You know your not allowed to do that.“ Ghost say’s sternly.

„But I’m going with my friends I’ll be fine, come on pleaseee just this once“ you plead.

„Nuh uh“ Ghost says shaking his head „sorry doll“

„Ok, fine“ you reply grumpily, but quickly get an idea that could save your night and mood „what about you come with me ?“ you ask

„No that’s not part of my job“ -„come on please with you there I’d be safe and have a fun night“ you whine giving him the cutest puppy dog eyes you can muster.

„Ok, you know what fine“ ghost says seemingly affected by your cute expression.

„Omg thank you, thank you, thank you“ you cheer running up to him and giving him a quick hug.

20 minutes later and you have arrived at the club.

You walk in and immediately spot your group of friends quickly rushing over to them …ghost following behind you.

“Hi guys sorry I’m late” your friends quickly greet you before quietly asking who the giant of a man behind you is.

“Oh no he’s not my boyfriend, just my bodyguard” you explain.

You get involved in a conversation with your friends, while ghost just stands beside you clearly not interested in the conversation or your friends.

In the corner of your eye you spot a cute guy seemingly without a companion or a girl clinging to his arms.

Your friends follow your eye line and immediately hype you up saying you should go to talk to him and that you desperately needed some ,dick’.

you turn to ghost „hey im gonna go to that guy over there” you say.

ghost nods and immediately stands up wanting to follow you.

"no can you like stay here” you ask. Ghost grumbles out a quiet “fine”.

you walk over to the guy and tap him on the shoulder.

he turns around hungrily eyeing you up and down. “ what’s up pretty girl ?”

the whole time you were talking to him you felt like someone was watching you the entire time.

15 minutes later of talking and flirting things were getting more…heated.

you currently making out with the boy,until suddenly someone completely rips you off him.

„i uh what” you shriek looking up at simon confused.

“were going home.”he says sternly not leaving room for the discussion, before hes already lifted you up over his shoulder and was carrying you out of the club.

"what what are you doing” you ask still kind off confused, the frew drinks you’ve had definitely not helping your comprehension.

“what you want or need…” ghost grumbles.

He quickly opens his car’s door and shoving you to the backseat,before climbing in himself.

The way he’s looking at you makes you feel way smaller than you already are compared to him.

he’s looking like a predator catching it’s prey…

he quickly pulls you toward him and onto his lap holding you secure with his big hands on your hips.

“hmm baby this what you wanted ?” he asks rhetorically. While his eager hands are already squishing and groping at your butt.

your so confused this is all happening to fast and your earlier alcohol consumption was not helpful.

“said ya needed some dick” ghost says while already punching up your dress at your hips.

“don’t worry baby i’ll give ya som’” ghost looks down at your body with hooded eyes “no panties baby, damn you want it bad…”

ghost makes quick work off undoing his belt and pushing down his pants and boxers.

you look down and to say you were shocked was an understatement…

“si, no th-thats never going to fit..” you shriek out.

“dont worry baby i’ll make it fit” ghost says while giving his cock a few strokes “mhmm fill ya up nice wont it ?”

ghost quickly takes two off his fingers before spitting on them and rubbing them trough your folds and tapping them at your entrance.

“fuck baby, your so wet” ghost chuckles.

to be fair you had always found ghost attractive so you weren’t surprised.

ghost pushes his fingers inside while you let out an almost pornograpic moan.

“fuck so t-tight-wonder how you gonna react to my cock” ghost mutters

ghost presses his thumb to your clit rubbing it in circles.

“g-ghost mmm gonna c-cum” you say through whimpers

“yeah baby ya close ?”

a loud moan is your only response before your climax is already coming.

ghost slowly pulls out his fingers while you whimper softly and lean your head on his shoulder.

“think ya ready for my cock now ?” “mhm” you mumble softly.

ghost quickly flips you onto ur back “press ur knees to ur shoulders” he commands

you quickly obey and are now laying in a mating press.

ghost teasingly rubs his tip up and down ur folds.

before slowly pushing his needy tip inside ur little hole.

“fuck baby gripping me like a fucking vice” he grunts.

you just mewl and stir under him already overstimulated at the feeling of his fat tip dragging against your walls.

“gonna go futher now,ok ?”

a simple nod is all that comes from you but thats enough conformation simon needs to push his dick fully in.

“god baby so tight” “not gonna last long this way” he groans while making quick work with his fingers at your clit hoping to get your more relaxed and open for him.

fuck, you feel so full and the occasional twitching of his cock inside you just makes it all better.

“mhm gonna move now kay ?”

“mhmm please si” you moan out wanting him to hurry up and finally start fucking you.

and Simon does exactly that pulling out till only his tip is left inside you and then snapping his hips back against you.

your both moaning now trough ghosts thrusting but ghost makes a quick work at shutting you up by capturing your lips in a sloppy kiss.

“fuck baby was so jealous earlier” ghost grunts “that frat dude didnt deserve ya need a real man”

ghost gives his words more meaning by accentuating each of them with a hard thrust deep inside you.

“f-faster si-i” you moan out.

“yea you want it faster” ghost ask teasingly while increasing his pace almost machine like

you cant even think anymore all you feel his..so,so deep inside you.

“fuck baby cant even think no more can ya” ghost chuckles

all you can do is weakly nod drool running out your mouth and everything while you helplessly moan and whine.

“look baby” ghost says pointing at your stomach.

you tiredly look down and there right under your belly button is a little bump that moves with each of ghosts thrusts.

simon presses on the pump and thats it for you.

with a long high pitch moan your squirting, wetting the car seats and also simons torso.

“oh god baby” simon groans seemingly also close himself

with a few more thrusts ghost empties himself coating your insides in his sticky white sperm.

ghost collapses on top of you “did so good princess” “so proud of ya took it like a champ”

“mhm” you mumble still exhausted lazily dragging your nails across his back in a comforting manor.

“should flirt with random boys more often” you giggle

“don’t ya think bout it baby” ghost mumbles softly in your ear before pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

Banner from @benkeibear

#Bodyguard!ghost #Bodyguard!simon Riley #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost cod #ghost x you #tw dubcon #dumbification

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yawnderu · 10 months ago

Text

“My dad makes boring rules.” Simon has to hold back the urge to roll his eyes, his patience wearing thin by the second.

“Those rules are in place to protect you.” He scolds, his voice calm, but laced with sternness typical for a man who built his entire life on discipline and control.

“To make sure you stay out of trouble, to stop you from making dumb decisions.” Like trying to flirt with me when you know I can't and won't respond.

“Yeah, but still...” You dragged out, unsure of what to protest about next— but feeling the need to do it either way. Your eyes roam his gear for something to latch onto, trying to disguise it by looking back into his eyes. If he noticed your lingering gaze, he did a great job of not showing it.

“Still what?” Babysitting a grown woman who's stubborn as a mule and twice as bratty wasn't in Simon's plans, but his career keeps testing him.

“Well, the rules are annoying and dumb.” It's as much as you can argue, sneakily hooking your finger on his belt loop, subtly pulling him closer as he stands above you, arms crossed across his bulletproof vest. His eyes flicker to your finger, narrowing for a second before he tries to relax, his feet firmly planted on the floor.

“I can see why he has to keep those rules.” He comments dryly. “Otherwise you'd get in trouble, and I'd be the lucky one who gets to clean up the mess.” He takes a single step forward as you pull on his belt loop harder, your free hand going up and down his heavily armored body, feeling his gear before reaching your target— his hand.

“I got a different mess you can clean up.” He knows you're not truly trying to seduce him, yet the way you hold his wrist and guide his gloved hand down your body to help him cup your tit is testing his self-control.

“Fuckin' hell.” He mutters under his breath, trying to resist your advances even when he can feel the desire seeping through your teasing. His gloved fingers tense up slightly, kneading at the softness under his hand before he finally lets go, trailing up gently until he reaches your neck, applying enough pressure to get your full attention.

“I have a duty to protect you.” He reminds you in a whisper, his head tilting down to look directly into your half-lidded eyes, hoping you won't mention just how dilated his pupils are.

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midnightarcheress · 7 months ago

Text

you panic.

pairing: bodyguard!ghost x actress!reader cw: reader's pov. panic attack, simon in protective mode, hurt/comfort ig? 6 | gold rush masterlist.

you couldn’t breathe. the room seemed small, walls closing in and trapping your limp figure inside of an endless nightmare, compressing your lungs until no air reached your alveolus. the mirror reflected the terror stamped on your face, bloodshot eyes staring at the terrifying warning that froze your blood flow and the trembling hands clutching to your arms, wrapping your torso like a straightjacket, desperately trying to pressure your body into disappearing from that reality.

up to this point, you’ve managed to control your fear. shove your worries aside, trust that nothing would trespass your walls and infinite security measures, promise yourself that it would never infest your brain, but that was the last straw. it was your home. you weren’t safe anywhere and it was just a matter of time until you’d be ripped to shreds in your own garden, crimson painting the destroyed flower beds and a golden crown placed on your head like a perfect corpse-bride.

your knees dropped to the frigid floor with a thud, dreadful mist clouding your vision as tears rolled down your cheeks. you couldn’t think, you couldn’t speak, and the alcohol in your veins only managed to heighten the panic. your soul was floating out of your form, knocking on the bars of the prison, looking for a way out of the ordeal and hoping that it was just a hallucination. the loud thumps of your heart ringed in your ears, muffling Ghost’s attempts to get your attention.

the knot in your throat kept tightening, constricting your vocal cords until the only sounds that could be heard were your strained sobs. being in your own skin was overwhelming and you’d give it all to escape the well you were stranded in, but the water was rising quickly, covering your head and drowning any attempt at tranquillity.

“hey, i’m here,” Ghost said, trying to coax you back to the present, “just focus on my voice, can you take a deep breath for me?”

your dilated pupils take the sight of him crouched on the floor and follow the movement of his chest, letting his low timbre pierce your eardrum and soothe your heartbeat. you mimic him, feeling the crisp air cursing through your nostrils, down your trachea and bronchi, finally having enough oxygen in your system.

“can i touch you?” he asks, and you notice the concern behind his hazel irises. you can’t ignore the shame that came with your panicked state, breaking down in front of someone you barely know and who must’ve endured so much worse in his life. you hate feeling weak, frail, like you’d crumble by just one look, but you need comfort. need it so badly that you nod, allowing him to take your quivering hand in his.

his grip is firm, and despite the roughness of his palm, the touch is delicate, tender, enveloping you in gentle heat. you melt in his arms, pitiful sobs leaving your lips when you turn in nothing more than putty in that moment. “shh, i got you, everything will be alright,” he coos, doing his best to calm you, but you couldn’t believe him.

how could everything be alright? the last ounce of safety you had was just taken from you. “it’s my– it’s my home, Ghost,” you stutter, lifting your head to look at him, “i’m not safe in my own home anymore, i can’t–” another wave of tears flood your waterline, and you stop before finishing your sentence. the anxiety was still bubbling in your stomach, it was still too much to handle at once.

“i know, love, i’ll get you out of here, trust me. nothing will harm you. now just breathe, okay? slow and steady.” his tone is light, almost ethereal, but unmistakably determined. it sounded more than just a phrase to pacify you. it was a promise. a vow. one made with his whole heart and he wouldn’t die before making sure you’re safe.

it takes a while before your brain settles back, slipping out of the hysteria. Ghost lifts you to your feet, taking a step back to give you some space. you sense him studying your expressions, wanting a hint of how to proceed. “what do you need?” he questions softly.

what do i need? the query lingers on your mind while he gazes at you. you're not sure. you never had an attack like this, never had an emotional collapse, never needed so much comfort. “i... don't know,” you gulp, glancing around the room and viewing the bathroom door, “i guess i could go for, uhm, a bath? it might help, right?”

he nods, pacing past you and walking through the door. you faintly hear the running water filling the bathtub and you strip off your heels, your clothes, let your hair fall down and your skin feel the cool air of the room. you shiver, but the tingling of the cold reminds you that you’re still alive, so there’s still a flimsy hope of peace in your future.

you put on a robe and head to the bathroom, tip-toeing on the chilling tiles. Ghost moves to the exit, allowing you privacy in your vulnerable state, but your meek request makes him freeze on the spot. “can you... stay?” you sigh, “i’m scared of being alone right now.”

he pauses, not knowing how to answer, and you shift your weight from one leg to another, fingers fidgeting with the fluffy belt that holds your covering in place, regretting even asking for such a thing. “sure.” he clears his throat, taking a seat in the tiny wooden ottoman in the corner. the image is quite comical, the bulky man slowly leaning down to the stool as if one glance from him would crack the material, and a timid chuckle escapes your mouth.

his face turns to the side when you undo the knot of your robe and you feel the heat coming to your cheeks when you come to your senses. what the fuck did i ask? you’re bare, slipping into the warm water that was supposed to relieve your anxious mood, but that mainly swells your chest with embarrassment.

you don’t know if you should be grateful that he’s not making a big deal of it, or sink in the tub due to the quiet – too quiet – atmosphere. Ghost is nothing but a gentleman at that moment, maintaining his head down and eyes away from your blurred naked body, so different from every man you’ve been near. they all seem to think that because you’re known, famous, whatever, you’re merely a doll on display for public use. it’s nice to not feel like an object.

after a long hour of letting the water purge your anguishes, you find yourself draped on a blanket on the sofa, sipping on a cup of chamomile tea that he, so heartily, prepared. he’s on the phone in the next room, and you don’t want to pry, but your ears unconsciously perk up to catch some of his words. he’s talking to someone named Price? something about a safe house?

a few minutes later, he’s back, sitting on the coffee table in front of you. “so, we’re gonna move,” your brows raised, confused by his statement, “talked to an old friend and i got you a safe place, you can stay there as long as you need, the bastard won’t find you. and i’ll be there with you all the time, okay?” he’s gonna stay with me?

rationally, you know it’s a good idea. you don’t feel protected in your house anymore, and having him constantly by your side would probably give your heart a rest and unburden your shoulders. but moving is a big thing for a life so regulated. “Dan–”

“i’ll talk to him tomorrow, don’t worry,” he assures, putting a hand on your knee and giving you a small smile. your vision was so hazy before that you didn’t even notice that he had his mask down, and you find yourself musing on the curve of his lips.

“thank you, Ghost.”

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danibee33 · 11 months ago

Text

Ending 2023 with thoughts of bodyguard!Simon x Reader

🩶🩶🩶

*4k+ words

+++

“Absolutely not.”

Dark eyes bore into yours through the mirror’s reflection, followed by a dismissive roll when you poke your bottom lip out, doing your very best to give the horribly broody man a believable pout,

”Pleeease?” You beg, turning to face him, “For one hour, just to see the ball drop- come on, I’ve never seen new year’s in Times Square!”

“No.”

Your pout turns downright petulant at his immutable tone, his eyes still fixed away from you- which, for whatever reason, makes you all the more upset. But the better question is, are you really still surprised?

Simon Riley had been your bodyguard for two years now, at the behest of your father, no matter how many times you tried to refuse or how many you fired, another one would just show up the next day. And never once had he been soft on you, never once had he actually entertained your spoiled demands-

But, in his defense, none of your previous bodyguards lasted for long, none of them had balls enough to actually handle you, but that was until you met Simon.

From your first meeting with him, you knew he wasn’t going to be an easy target. For the first few days he had been more like a shadow than anything, silently following you, only ever communicating through gruff, monosyllabic commands even when you goaded him relentlessly. He never took the bait, not once. That was almost reason enough to fire him in your mind, if you had to live with the man, he might as well be somewhat entertaining.

But again, maybe two months into your arrangement, he managed to surprise you-

Ok, you’ll admit, you were being particularly insufferable that day. You had to be moved again, taken to some off the grid, stupid safe house again, because there had been chatter of an attempt on your father’s life, and yours. Again.

”This is ridiculous.” You grumble, throwing your duffle bag on the ground, “The last thing I want on New Year’s fucking Eve, is to be playing Little House on the Prairie with you-” – you huff out a sigh when he breezes past you and your incessant complaining– “Does this shithole even have electricity?”

You’re promptly cut off by the kitchen light flickering to life, illuminating the cozy space around you- not that you would ever admit you think it’s cozy-

“Shocking.”

Again, he steps around you, not close enough to touch you - no, never - but close enough so that the air fills with his scent. It’s not necessarily a warm smell, you think it’s more spicy– wait, what are you saying? Ew, stop. –

He’s annoying and frustrating and the way he towers over you is also mildly a nuisance in its own right, because he just takes up so much fucking space you feel like you can’t breathe.

“Phone.” He grunts, looking down at you, only proving your point.

“Excuse me?”

“I know you have a second one. Hand it over.”

Oh.. the audacity. You cross your arms, squaring up to him- it didn’t matter that he could probably, definitely, break you in half, you really weren’t scared of him. Why would you be when you’ve seen way worse than some overgrown goth guy in a skull print balaclava? Real mature..

“Ya know..” You give him a dazzling smile, stepping just a bit closer, “If you say ‘please’, I might give it to you.”

Simon says your name, curt and gruff as always, a low warning in voice you’ve never heard before-

“Don’t.. Call me that.”

You didn’t like your name, because it reminded you of your deadbeat mother. What kind of asshole names her daughter after herself and then leaves anyway?

You’ve reiterated this time and time again, and still, time and time again, he uses it- almost like a little jab of his own, payback for all the silly names you’ve tried to get him to answer to.

“Phone.” He says again, his eyes flicking up to study the wall behind your head.

Reaching into your coat pocket, you pull out your burner, waiting for him to reach for it before jerking it away, “Ask nicely..”

This time he steps forward, his body crowding yours- he’s unnaturally warm, the expanse of his chest stretching the black long-sleeve with every calculated breath. And when he leans down, craning his neck to be at eye level, you no longer see the dismissive, unwavering indifference in his eyes as before. They’re burning, dark and bright at the same time, copper flecks glinting back at you,

“You think this is a game, Gemini?”

“I think it’s a paycheck for you, Ghost.”

You spit his old callsign with the same dripping disdain as he had said your longtime nickname, though, it’s hard to deny that you like the way it sounds in his brassy accent- Mancunian through and through.

But more than that, you think at this moment you’ve never seen so much emotion be conveyed just through another person’s eyes. They widen, his pupils constricting harshly before dilating again, a soft puff of air tickling across your face as his calm, cool facade momentarily cracks. You clench your jaw, unwilling to break eye contact first, instead watching as he collects himself, his eyelids settling lazily and the bright amber of his irises dulling-

“Yes, you are a paycheck. Is that what you want to hear?”, he’s still so close to you, his warmth becoming unbearable the longer his words burn into you, branding themselves on your skin, “You’re an entitled goddamned brat that’s gotten everything served to her on a silver platter, did you want to hear that, too? Or are you the only who gets to run your-”

Before your brain can catch up to what your body is doing, he’s already caught your wrist mid swing.

Fucking christ, were you actually going to slap him?! What’s wrong with you?

Simon’s giant hand wraps all the way around your arm, entirely unfazed by your lame attempt to retaliate. The man didn’t even flinch, didn’t have to look away from you- and for a fleeting moment, you swear you see amusement shining through his eyes,

“Careful, Gem..”, he’s almost whispering now, reaching down to pull the phone from between your fingers with his free hand, “Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish.”

You come back to the present with a smirk on your lips, thinking about how your relationship with Simon changed after the safe house. He challenged you in a way no one had dared to before, and there was something about him putting you in your place that also changed the way you saw him.

He wasn’t so much your skulking shadow now as he was an extension of you- you stopped ignoring him, stopped arguing against everything he said (ok, maybe not everything, you couldn’t make his life too easy..)

Instead, you started wanting to include him in your life, and with every firm decline from him, it drove you all the more to do exactly that. His presence comforted you, and as time went on, you noticed the imperceptible shifts in his own demeanor towards you. Now he walked closer, opting to guide you through a crowd with his hand hovering at your lower back, or if he deemed someone too close, he would gently maneuver you to his side with a wide palm on your waist-

Eventually, he even got comfortable enough to exchange in your banter, more than willing to give as good as he got.

And you know it’s silly, god, it's outrageous and horrifically cliche, but you found yourself thinking about him more and more; more often you would just watch him. Sometimes sparing a glance to see his eyes already on you, notice how they always only linger long enough to make you wonder before moving on, turning his attention to something else.

It drives you mad. But, that’s just Simon.. You might be more than a few years younger than him, but you weren’t naive. You couldn’t fool yourself into thinking he might see you romantically. That’s actually absurd-

You storm into the oversized hotel closet, pulling the doors closed with a huff when he doesn’t even blink in your direction- always so focused.

Hm.. Fine. You’ve pushed him before, might as well try your luck again.

A smile pulls at your lips at the thought. So maybe you weren’t naive, and you didn’t hate your bodyguard anymore, but you never claimed or promised to have changed your bratty ways-

—---

When you step back out into the room, you don’t see Simon right away, but you hear his voice from the next room in the suite- probably on the phone. But, that’s good, gives you time to apply your favorite lip stain, a rich wine color that compliments your skin tone beautifully, before you see him round the corner.

And for the second time in your tenure with him, you watch his eyes widen at the sight of you. Your body hugged in soft velvet, the all black mini-dress fitting more like a second skin, accentuating every single dip and curve, and the way you left it unzipped in the back gives him the most tantalizing view of your figure underneath,

“Would you mind helping me?” You ask, giving him a wide-eyed look in the mirror, “Please?”

“I told ya, we’re not goin’.”

You shrug your shoulders, straightening the diamond-studded choker that decorates your neck so prettily, “Are you going to stop me, Simon?”

He moves with steady, slow strides and you have a hard time not gawking as he closes the distance, his frame dwarfing yours in the reflection, “‘M not doin’ this with you again, Gem.”

A quiet gasp parts your lips when you feel his fingertips on your lower back, the calloused skin causing a ripple effect of hot chills to rush through you as he pulls at the zipper, “I don’t know what you’re talking about..”

The intensity behind his gaze feels tangible, the way you watch him follow the line of the dress, eyes dancing over your bare shoulder and neck, “Don’t be daft, sweetheart.. It doesn’t suit you.”

Another, breathier, sound escapes you when you feel those same fingers higher now, grazing over the smooth skin there to pull your hair out of the way. And maybe, you could convince yourself he’s just being thorough, maybe even believe that he doesn’t enjoy the goosebumps that breakout under his touch, or how the way he watches you so intently is only because you look ridiculous, staring back at him with an embarrassing mix of shock and lust and confusion-

He finishes the task, but when he doesn’t move away, and doesn’t take his eyes off you, you’re reminded so much of that night in the safe house. Locked in another agonizingly silent tug of war, both of you pushing and pulling to see who would back down first. Testing all the limits, every boundary.

“Thank you.” You hum, smoothing your hands over the rich fabric, needing to do something to break the tension without outright losing, “What do you think?”

“Wear whatever you want, Gem..” Simon shakes his head, stepping away from you like he only just realized how close he still was, “Still not goin’.”

Without missing a beat, you fluff your hair one more time, refusing to let him see the way your eyes slip shut at the lingering smell of his cologne before sauntering to the next room where your coat is hung.

“Gem.”

There it is.. You smile at the unquestionable authority in his voice, your name spoken as a warning. Maybe you should tell him how much you like it when he gets like this- no, right now, you just need to focus on grabbing your clutch and room key. Stealing glances here and there to see him holding the newest paperback novel in his hands. But, you also know he’s not reading.

So, he wants to play, too.. How perfect.

Without a word, you head straight for the door, only just getting it cracked open before it’s slammed shut, Simon’s hand splayed out over the dark wood,

“I’m not in the mood.” He grits out, refusing to meet your eyes.

“Get out of my way.”

A sinful chuckle tumbles from behind his mask, a sound that simultaneously has you clenching your thighs and seething with anger in one fell swoop,

“Or what?”

You turn to look up at him, the height difference between you still overwhelming, no matter how high your heels are-

“Or you can find another paycheck. You’re my bodyguard, Simon, you’re not in charge here and I want to go out. So, you can either do your job and keep me safe, or leave.”

His arm is still propped against the door over your head, the very corners of his eyes crinkling and the black fabric over his mouth twitching. HE’S SMILING? All right, maybe you do still hate him, or at least you can hate him right now. With both hands on his chest, you attempt to shove him back, to move him, to do something, anything. But you might as well be trying to move a brick wall for all the results your struggling gets you.

“Let. ME. OUT.”

On the last word, he moves with frightening speed to hold both of your wrists in one hand, the other wrapping around the nape of your neck, “Enough.”

Suddenly, you’re looking up at him, his fingers firmly cradling the back of your head, your chest pressed tight against his. It causes you to blank, every ounce of fight draining out of you as you grow docile in his hold,

“Why do you have to make this so fuckin’ difficult, Gemini?”

—-

Simon’s practically panting above you, his self-control teetering on the very precipice, your proximity doing absolutely nothing to quell the insatiable feelings he’s had for you.

He’s done so well, never once letting himself slip after the safe house. He always, always maintained the self-imposed professional boundaries, if anything, he’s prided himself on his unfailing dedication.

Be it in the military, or now in his retired life, where he had the most unfortunate fate of being hired by your father. He remained unshakable.

Until you.

You had tested every single limit he ever knew he had, and then some. And when he pushed back, you relented, though you never truly gave him a moment of peace. No, of course not, why on earth would you possibly make his job easy?

But then, months turned into a year, and that turned into two, and slowly, everyday, he felt parts of himself he hadn’t thought existed anymore coming back to life. Parts that he thought died with every person he loved and lost, and it scared him to experience those feelings again. And as if that weren’t bad enough, he had somehow fucked around and fallen for the one fucking person he most definitely should not have.

But, in longer than he can remember, he’s smiled again, and laughed, and the world didn’t look so gray anymore with you in it. You were a pain in his arse, you complained and griped so fucking much, and yet, he’s never met another person apart from Johnny who actively chooses to see the best in humanity. And he’s loathed himself for hoping to introduce the two of you one day-

You’re still looking up at him, with those same eyes he’s dreamed of a thousand times, and those lips so sweetly parted, fuck.. You would look so beautiful underneath him-

“Simon..”

His eyes flutter closed at the sound of his name, tongue darting out to wet his lip, the tip greeted with the thin fabric of his mask instead. He forces himself to breathe, inhale - exhale - inhale -

Fuck it.

In one smooth sequence, he releases your wrists, using the now free hand to tug the balaclava off his head entirely. And as much as you would like to fully study every feature of his face, a face you’d never seen- it’s hard to think of anything when he sweeps you into a kiss so hot and bright it steals the breath from your lungs. Your heart races, but you think you feel his doing the same- his arm circling your waist, pulling you closer, your bodies molding together like they were always meant to be that way.

“Does this mean we still can’t go?” You smile against his lips, teeth clacking when you feel him do the same, only his laugh is full of reverence and exasperation,

“Fuckin’ hell, Gem.. shut up.”

Simon leans down, wrapping his big hands under your thighs and hoists you up without so much as a heavy sigh- it’s enthralling, and something you’ve never experienced; to have a man willing and able to lift you like it’s nothing. But he does it without ever breaking your kiss, walking you blindly toward the main bedroom and savoring every moment he gets in between.

Finally, you’re forced apart when he lays you on the fluffy, white comforter- getting his wish of seeing you lying beneath him, your hair fanned out around your head, your lips kiss-swollen and your cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of pink. It’s better than his dreams and wishes and fantasies, so much more perfect than anything his broken mind could possibly conjure up.

“You’re so bloody beautiful..”

The admission seems to shock him as much as it does you, looking up at him from this angle. And for the briefest moment, it sends a wave of insecurity washing through- having him studying you so intently. But just as quick as it comes, it’s gone.

How could you ever doubt yourself when he’s looking at you like that, deep brown eyes raking over you slowly, thoroughly, the angular jaw you’ve only seen in glimpses clenching and relaxing over and over-

You sit up, scooting to the edge of the bed so you could let your hands roam languidly up the breadth of his torso, eyes following the path until they meet his again, “Please kiss me..”

That’s all he needed to push you back down into the mattress, this time nestling his hips right between your legs, his cock straining against the dark dress pants, his body desperate for stimulation, desperate to feel you-

“I’ve thought about you like this..” He coos, planting kisses over the corner of your lips, moving down your jaw and neck, “Thought about how fuckin’ gorgeous you would look under me.”

His words alone cause you to whine, biting your lip the lower he goes, “But.. you never said anything-”

You gasp when he bites the fleshy swell of your breast, laving at the tender spot until there’s an angry purple mark left behind,

“Couldn’t.”, he lifts up again, hiking the thick material of your dress up to sit around your waist, “You were just s’posed to be a job, a paycheck,” the sound of your tights ripping fills your ears, his voice growing huskier at seeing the dark spot already soaking through your underwear, “Fuck-”

A lewd moan is ripped out of you as he too quickly repositions himself, kneeling beside the bed in order to pull you right to edge, burying his nose and mouth against your cunt- tonguing at the growing wet spot like it might be the last thing he ever does.

“Mm..” He growls, looking up at you, “Can I take these off, love?”

Could you actually be dreaming? Because it sure as fuck feels too good to be true, having a gorgeous man’s face settled so perfectly between your thighs, so close to getting exactly what he wants, but he’s looking at you with those stormy, pleading eyes,

“Please?”

Your head lolls back into the blanket, “Yes! Holy fuck, Simon- yes- ah-”

Needing no more prompting from you, he has your underwear off and his mouth on your pussy with terrifying efficiency, lapping at you with deep, resonating groans- fingers digging into the fatty parts of your thighs just hard enough to feel good, just painful enough to elicit more shrill moans and whimpers from you.

“You taste like heaven, babygirl..”, he croons, slipping two thick fingers inside you with ease, “Already so wet f’me, hm? Thought about me like this a time or two, have ya?”

You nod, your hips bucking as he slowly thrusts his digits a bit deeper every time, the tip of his tongue working your clit,

“C’mon. Use your words, Gem.”

And you really want to use your words, because you have so many, very choice, words for him, though you don’t imagine any of them are what a respectable young woman should be saying- but you also never claimed to be ‘respectable’ exactly. So instead, you tangle your fingers through his honey blonde waves, tugging and pushing to get him back to that sweet spot,

“Yes.. God- yes..”

He adds a third finger, and the sting of him stretching you makes your eyes water, but the pleasure it brings afterward has the unbearable coil deep in your belly ready to snap, “Simon..”

Fucking hell. He could come for you just like this if he’s not careful..

He’s better than that though, pushing his own feverish desire aside so he could have the privilege of you coming on his face- “That’s it, baby..”, he suckles at your bundle of nerves, eyes trained on your heaving chest, lost in the way you sound, in the way you taste, the way you smell-

When you finally fall over the edge, it’s violent and drawn out, your jaw falling slack and your muscles contracting- thighs struggling to clench shut around his head until they fall limply to the side, your brain lost in a beautiful, blissful haze. Only forced back to the moment when he flattens his tongue, cleaning you up with one slow, long stripe.

He raises up, crawling over you once again, his stubbled cheeks glistening, the sight of his dimpled smile etching itself into your memory- and you can’t help it, you reach up to cup his cheek, grinning back at him,

“You’re so pretty, Si..”

The half slurred compliment makes him laugh, but it’s not a mean or condescending sound, no, it’s sweet and wonderful, and you think you’ll always crave the sound of it; crave his touch, crave him looking at you like this.

“That right?” He asks, eyebrows knitting together as he lifts you so gently, unzipping your dress so he can pull it off completely.

You tug at his belt, your senses coming back to you and your body already begging for more, “Mhmm..”, you hum, watching him unbutton his shirt to reveal a sight worthy of being put on display at a museum. He’s impeccably built, just as you always imagined, bulging muscles defined by soft lines and mouth watering swells and dips, his body carved by years of hard work, littered with scars, silvered and puffy- each one telling a different story.

And for a moment, he allows you to trace your fingers over them, over all the parts of himself he’s deemed ugly and unfit long ago- but seeing the adoration in your eyes could almost make him believe otherwise. Make him believe he wasn’t this Frankenstein’s monster of sorts, torn apart and put back together with pieces that just never seem to look quite right.

He stands only long enough to push his pants and boxer briefs down, but when he settles over you again, you see the hesitation in his eyes, see an uncertainty behind them that seems so out of place for him. Because you’ve never seen your bodyguard hesitate even for a second, his every move, every decision, has always been without question - exuding confidence and prowess unlike anything you’ve ever witnessed.

But for you, in this moment.. He waits. For you, he’s cautious and tender, allowing you full control-

“Simon..” You frame his face in your hands, pulling him down for a long, languid kiss, “I want you.. Please.”

—---

You watch Simon’s fingers intertwine with yours, moving slowly above you as you stay nestled against his side. It’s an idle movement, just him studying the way his hand moves with yours, comparing the size of them, his heart beat solid and strong in your ear-

“Shit-” He exclaims, leaning over to grab his phone from the nightstand, “Come on.”

Too suddenly, you lose his immense warmth- watching in confusion as he clambers out of bed, tugging on his pants,

“What?” You look around the room like you’ve maybe missed something, his hand grabbing yours again, “Simon- what’s going on?”

“Get dressed-”

“Why?!”

He leans down, capturing your lips with a smirk, “You wanted to go out, right?”

——

A small, very shallow, part of you is only slightly angry at the fact that your gorgeous dress is still laid in a heap on the hotel room floor as Simon guides you through the crowd- but, it’s quickly swept away by the feel of his arm around you, the warmth of his jacket draped over your shoulders shielding you from the chilly New York air.

You watch the towering digital clock countdown as you go, your eyes bright and your smile wide, New Year’s Eve in Times Square-

It’s just as otherworldly as you imagined, the energy of the crowd infectious, the lights and sounds, the music, the people, it’s spectacular.

Simon stops, pulling you to stand right in front of him, his arms caging you in protectively, lovingly, holding you against him as the faceted ball begins to drop. And for a split second, it’s like the world goes silent, and all there is the feel of his embrace, his scent, his voice. Him.

And you won’t know this, he won’t tell you for years to come, but he doesn’t watch the ball for a second- he doesn’t notice the people, or the lights, the music, all of it fades away when he looks down at you. No, there would never be a more glorious sight than you, your smile, your skin flushed and glowing- nothing could feel as good as your hands holding him, nothing could possibly be better than the way you look up at him as the clock strikes midnight.

Nothing will ever compare to the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of your smile, the deafening roar of the crowd, the confetti and snowflakes that catch in your hair-

“Happy New Year, Simon..”

#bodyguard!ghost #cod fandom #simon ghost riley #reader #new years eve #smut smut smut #also on ao3 #sorry but I love them #call of duty #Simon Riley is a giver #you can’t change my mind #bee writes #happy new year

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ebodebo · 12 days ago

Text

The Girl Can't Help It

-thinking about bodyguard!simon with princess!reader... MDNI

An unfamiliar knot twisted in your stomach at the sight. It was preposterous. Unbeknownst. A damn eye sore. A throng of women, all betrothed, all but ripping Simon, your bodyguard's, clothes off his body.

How unbecoming.

You did not heed what the Prince of Prussia said, perhaps something about his recent diplomatic mission in Tahiti. All you could think about was Simon and the slew of women around him, boasting as if he would care about the wealth and jewels the women possessed or the innuendos they slipped into conversation.

Granted, he only replied with a bland array of 'mhm' or 'how insightful.' His disinterested tone did nothing to nudge the woman away.

"Your mind appears elsewhere, Princess," The Prince of Prussia remarked, absolving you of your thoughts. You flick your eyes to his, sucking in a breath.

"My apologies," you say. "I am feeling rather ill. Pardon me." You quickly issue. You are sure your mother and father would reevaluate your informalities, but you would deal with that when it came.

You find yourself turning swiftly to approach Simon. He's as poised as always, his hands neatly in front of him, resting on the other, despite the conversation around him.

Your eyes shifted between the women. You are sure one scowled at you for 'interrupting.' "I am feeling quite daft. I shall like to leave," you proclaim to Simon. His eyes flick to you, but his head stays stationary.

"Your father has asked that you say the entire time," He says casually. "For prospects." You tilt your head a bit, releasing an irritated sigh.

"I believe you should have more regard for what I am asking of you," you exasperated. He tilts his head slightly, merely squinting his eyes, clearly aware of some underlying factor in your sudden mood change.

"I'm afraid the king's orders are final, Princess," he says, fixating his eyes back on the crowd. You swear you see one of the women smirk, and suddenly, you get an urge to drag her through the mud in the pig's pen, and maybe that will wipe that smirk off her face.

If not, the sheep's pen shall do the job.

"The princess has finally felt the sting of rejection," one of the women whispers under her breath to another, loud enough so she knows you hear her. "Oh, I do wonder what that will do to her psyche," the woman snickers sarcastically looking directly into your eyes.

You suck in a breath. "You should be wary of your words," you begin; the woman's brow lifts up slightly, a conceding expression taking over her face, "I shall be the next sovereign, commanding a whole country, and you shall stay just as you are, in a loveless marriage, betrothed to a man who initiates more moves on your milkmaid than you," you enunciate.

The woman scoffs, her face blushing, as she tries to discredit your words. She dishes out every excuse for her husband's endeavors, but it is hard to discredit fact, which is what it was. She instead calls you foul-mouthed and haphazardly turns to go towards the drinks.

The other woman hurriedly followed her out of fear.

You turned towards Simon, who couldn't help how the corner of his lips quipped. "Big words for a princess," he remarks.

"Well—I would not have to use such...vocabulary if she would have minded her own business," you defend, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Whatever you say," he smirked a little before returning to the crowd, returning to a serious expression. You eye him, feeling slightly intimidated by his stature.

"I shall still like to leave, Simon," you press. He turns to you, his eyebrow raising impatiently.

"I told you—" He begins, his tone dry.

"I am aware of what you told me all of two minutes ago, Simon," you roll your eyes. "I still want to leave. There are no men to consider for the prospectus. And I am growing quite weary of you not listening to me," you conclude, eyes narrowing at him.

He lets out a dry laugh. "Alright, Your Highness. Let's get your poor, weary body out of here." You find yourself rolling your eyes yet again at his sarcastic tone. Though, you don't speak on it. You turn to walk out of the grand doorway, carefully moving through the sea of other patrons, many attempting to stop your stride to converse. You keep moving, with Simon following close behind.

Once you step into the hallway, you quickly scan the area, checking for loose guests. You smile when you realize everyone is occupied in the stateroom, swiftly gripping Simon's hand and moving the two of you into the small closet adjacent to your father's music room.

Simon locks the door to the quaint closet, his eyes burning into yours as he tightly grips your waist. "A closet?" He props as you delicately untie his tie, tossing it to the side.

"We cannot simply go into the music room. Did you forget what happened last time?" You raise a brow. He leans his face down, pressing deep kisses to your temple while slipping the short sleeve of your dress down your shoulder.

"I have no idea what you're talkin' about," he mutters into your collarbone, lips dragging to kiss your sternum. You release a small, breathy moan, bringing your hands to thread through his light hair.

"You broke my father's piano," you meant for it to come out assertive, but it came out more breathless. He snakes his hand around your back, carefully dragging the zipper down, making your dress pool at your feet.

"I seem to remember you were the one on the keys," he gruffs into your lips before engulfing them with his own.

It had only been a few days since the last time you and Simon had...connected. However, with how both of your bodies react to a simple kiss, you would have guessed it has been months.

"Because you put me on the keys," you choke out as Simon's tongue drags across your sensitive skin, starting at your neck all the way until he's sunk down on his knees in front of you.

"Since you have a better memory than me, what did we do after I put you on the keys?" He murmured into the flesh of your thigh, teeth grazing the fabric of the waistband of your panties. You grip his head, pushing more into you, desperate for more friction. "Huh?" He tuts against your skin.

"I—you, well, we had intercourse," you say earnestly, gripping the shelf behind you to gain more stability. His gruff laugh traveled up your leg all the way up to your mouth, eliciting a moan from you.

"Intercourse?" He jibed. "No. Gimme all the gruesome details, baby. None of that proper shit." He moved his face from your thigh to press a deep kiss to your clothed cunt.

"I do not know—ah—what you speak of," you choke out, attempting to push yourself into his face more with your hands gripping either side of his cheeks.

"Come on," he urged, his nose rubbing against your clit in the process. "Don't play dumb with me, sweetheart." He grips your thighs, tugging himself closer to you. He substituted his nose in favor of his mouth, hurriedly pressing his hot, wet lips to your aching clit.

You whine as you feel the friction increase. "Tell me, or I won't let you come," he groans into you. You reply with a pathetic whimper, body shamelessly grinding against his face.

"You used—you used your fingers," You grit out, throwing your head back as his teeth pierced through the thin fabric. He slips his tongue through the new tear, lapsing at your throbbing clit.

"That all?" His brisque voice vibrated against you.

"No. You, you fucked me," you voice. You receive a low groan in response. Got him. "I was so wet you just, you just slipped in," you continue, moaning as you see one of his hands slip from one of your thighs to massage his clothed cock.

"My, my. Sure got a tongue on you for a princess," he jests, a strain in his voice as he massages himself with much pace. His mouth picks up the pace on your cunt, tongue continuing to lapse around your sensitive bud.

"I could say the same for you, Simon. " Your voice is hoarse. You feel the corners of his mouth lift at your innuendo, which makes you form a smirk of your own.

"Keep talkin' to me," he almost begs. His hand and mouth are moving briskly; you're grinding against his face, hands gripping the back of his head.

"Fuck, you, you feel so good," you whine out. You swear you hear him moan, but you can't be too sure as his face is currently suffocating against your skin. You would ask him if he could breathe, but you knew he wouldn't move until you came.

"You always feel so fucking good," you wail as your orgasm hits you like a train, Simon's following shortly behind. He's gripping you tight so as not to fall over, leaning his forehead into your stomach as his orgasm settles.

Once both of your post-orgasmic haze dissipates, Simon stands to straighten out your dress. You bend slightly to pick up his tie strung on the ground, carefully tying it around his neck neatly.

"You have soiled your trousers," you observe, looking down at the wet spot on the front rise of his slacks. He lets out a quiet laugh at your inspection, leaning his head down to kiss the shell of your ear, muttering a gruff, 'And whose fault is that?'

Shit, maybe this whole bodyguard thing wasn't so bad.

a/n: boomshakalaka yesss gawdddd

reblogs & comments encouraged!

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