#simon ghost riley fic

[daydreamsareallineed]

Casual intimacy 🥺😔

Casual intimacy with Simon "Ghost" Riley.

He loves to shower with you.

Hopping into a steamy shower together and washing each other's skin clean after you both get home from a tiring day at work. The feeling of you scrubbing shampoo through his freshly cut hair fingers softly grasping at the strands even after he tells you it's not necessary. Sometimes, he'll wrap his arms around your waist and squeeze as you wash your face. He'll kiss gently at your skin as droplets of water drip from your body to his lips and let his nose dig into the crook of your shoulder to inhale your clean scent.

He loves grocery shopping with you.

Getting to keep his large palm against the small of your back rubbing up and down every once in a while to show that he's with you. He likes to listen to your voice as you read down the list of things the two of you need and the way you point your finger and bossily tell him to fetch a certain item. He pushes the cart for you when it starts getting heavy with items even after you complain and tell him "You could do it yourself." He enjoys being strong for you, finds pride in being able to carry and hold all of the bags when the two of you get home from the shops.

Simon Riley really loves these seemingly little moments of intimacy with you.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: fluff

Word Count: 553

A/N: Epilogue of Ink & Needle

Simon reflects on the life before him, and the future is bright.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

One Year Later

Simon runs his gloved hand over the transfer paper. It adheres to your skin, the temporary stencil bleeding through the flimsy film as it sits.

“Ready?” he asks, glancing up.

Anticipation is a tightly wrapped coil. It weaves around the bones in his chest, twisting until it’s all he understands. It’s not anxiety or fear or a sense of impending doom. This anticipation is steeped in joy—of a bright future.

Your answer is a smile, one so full of affection that Simon temporarily loses himself in your beauty. Finally. Finally. He’s inking your skin in more than just his kisses and touches.

“Ready,” you affirm.

Slowly, Simon begins to peel back the paper, leaving a temporary stencil behind. “Have a look.”

Shifting in the tattooing chair, you slip off and approach the full-length mirror. You turn several times, admiring it from all angles. While he’s trying to remain professional, he’s far too distracted by how you’re beaming. Elation and excitement are clear in the way you carry yourself.

“Can I show them?” you ask.

As if Simon would deny you anything.

“Course, love,” he chuckles.

With a gleeful giggle, you rush over to Evie. “What do you think?”

Evie, engaged in conversation with Johnny, turns. Eyes widening slightly, she leans in as you show off the stencil. “I love it.”

“What about the placement?” you ask. “Should it go somewhere else?”

Evie shakes her head. “I think it’s lovely.” She glances at Johnny. “What do you think?”

And Soap blushes—actually blushes under Evie’s attention. “Looks good.”

Lillian sits on the floor at their feet, lightly tugging on Bravo’s ears. The German Shepherd remains passive, allowing her to crawl all over him.

“Dog,” she says. “Dog.”

Bravo gives her little fist a lick, sending her into a giggle fit.

Simon observers this small group of people. The family is not complete, and yet there is wholeness in Simon’s heart—a sense of relief. Contentment.

As you return to him, Simon cannot help but offer up his hand, the need to touch you—even for a moment—is far too precious a thing to ignore. When your hand slides into his, Simon’s thumb lightly brushes over your ring finger. It’s empty. For now, at least. One day soon, he’ll ink your skin there, and you will do the same for him.

“Happy with this?” asks Simon as you slide back into the tattoo chair.

“Very,” you beam.

All that work, hours of sketching, of not knowing what you might like. To drafts, references, and back to drafting again. But you’ve selected one, made a decision, following through on that offer you made all that time ago when you first arrived back into his life.

How grateful Simon is.

A treasure.

All his.

Tugging the rolling cart closer, Simon flips on the tattoo gun, the subtle buzzing filling the air. He dips it into the ink, ready to bring it to skin.

“Ready Mrs. Riley?”

Simon’s voice is a gentle tease, a soft thing that’s only meant for you. It’s a snapshot. A flash of a moment. Everything he hopes for, and the future the two of you will share together all wrapped up in a few words and a name.

You soften then upon hearing your new last name.

“Ready.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @lialacleaf @creamwhxre @theshrikeandcanary

@knight4xmas @jupiternighties @corvusmorte @darling006 @carma-fanficaddict

@emmylous-world @i-feel-violated @mileyraes @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@ferns-fics @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @waves-against-a-cliff

@eternallyvenus @cinnabeanz @beebeechaos @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk

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@yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim @voids-universe @iloveslasher

@talooolaaloolla @sadlonelybagel @haven-1307 @itsberrydreemurstuff @kylies-love-letter

[itsoutrageouss]

It’s the first time Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley sees you cry that something in him changes profoundly. You had always had your different skill sets out on the field, it was what made you such a powerful duo for the task force. You were sly, agile, a killer in the dark and he was a brute show of force and strength, able to kill with his bare hands. You argued a lot, though. Your differences that made you work so well also made you clash time and time again. He found you annoying. You found him arrogant.

But after a mission, Ghost finds you collapsed on the floor in an empty building— Crying. He’d never seen you do that before, but he knew you were a softer more sensitive soul, you were just good at hiding it.

He was moving before he realised it, crouching down in front of you, eyes narrowed as he tried to find your gaze that was lost in a heap of warm tears. His hands got clammy and his throat dry because how could he make it stop? It was like the sight had reached in and seized a part of him long gone, maybe one he’d never found before now.

“Stop crying.” He said foolishly, but his tone had lost its usual edge, and the very rare lilt of pleading had laced into his voice. Why did he suddenly grab your shoulders and press your trembling body into his? He had no clue but he wanted to shield you from whatever had made you look so vulnerable before him.

A part of him didn’t like seeing this, didn’t recognise the garbled sound of soft sobs, the way your body’s strength seemed to evaporate into a fragile, soft one that he wanted to pick up and put back together. Another part of him was sucking in this moment, afraid it would get lost and maybe feeling a bit guilty about it. But this feeling of… was it protection? Protection, yes. He’d never had it like this before. Usually, protecting means killing and hurting. Right now it meant nurturing as your small hands reached around his neck and you curled into him. He reacted immediately, sitting down and scooping you into his lap.

He closed his eyes, his chin resting on your head with a sigh. He had no idea what came next. This had to change your dynamic in some way because he couldn’t ever look at you the same. He saw your softness and maybe he fell in love with it right there, and wanted to be the one you showed it to. Only him.

“Im sorry” You whispered into his chest. His hands flexed around you, fighting the urge to smother you even more against him.

“Dont say that. Just keep holding onto me.” His voice was more hoarse than usual as his fingers unconsciously combed through your hair.

Whatever had happened, he was sure you felt it too, or you would’ve never let him this close. And he wished for everything you would let him again one day.

pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4

[amaranthinespirit]

size difference with Ghost 😈

size difference with simon riley

simon riley is massive, not just in terms of height, but muscle and dick too. this man is a wall of muscle, impenetrable and daunting the way he looms over a crowd with his plain, black balaclava. yet you find yourself with your arm looped around this brute of a man, his smitten gaze peering down at you, his arm twice the size of yours, and his hand too.

you hadn't thought about how difficult it'd be to take him until your nervous eyes gazed on his thick, engorged cock oozing with gooey arousal. fuck, you couldn't even think. you swallowed thickly, barely managing a whisper, "'s not gonna fit, si."

he chuckled at your whispered words, the way your eyes seem to stay stuck between his legs, large, veiny cock throbbing and aching to be inside you.

"mmm, it'll fit, baby, j's trus'me, hm?" he cocked his head to the side, a wicked smirk on his face, "such'a pre'ty lit'l cunt's made f'me, y'can take it, sweet girl."

he consoled you, but promised first to ease up your tight cunt on his thick fingers and sloppy tongue, eliciting pretty noises, and it wasn't until multiple orgasms later that he deemed you okay. your walls stretched around his digits, each new fingers added causing a whine to spill from your swollen lips and your walls to further constrict around him.

three orgasms in and your legs are jelly, trembling around his waist as pearly slick drools from your slit, puffy clit overstimulated and sensitive. sweat beads drip down your skin, creating a sheen across your even flesh.

you can barely register the low, gruff chuckle as he hauls you closer by your legs, underside of your knees resting now on his forearms, his large cock grazing through your slick folds.

a whimper strained from your throat, and all he did was shush you, "shh, lovie, you'll b'fine," he cooed, teasing his angry tip over your entrance, watching your hips buck up from the pillow under your hips, "nice and gentle, yeah?"

he waits for the nod of confirmation, the small hum that barely leaves your closed, swollen lips as you look up at him sweetly, your eyes hazed over and hair tousled.

"good girl," he praises, holding you firmly as he forces his fat cock past your folds, groaning at the way you seem to swallow him, walls constricting so tightly around him, he worries you might force him out, "fuckkk, s'tight, are ya, love? gettin' messy b'fore didn't 'elp, eh?"

he merely chuckles, watching the way your face contorts, jaw dropping as throaty noises slip past, your body writhing under him as you struggle to handle his meaty cock penetrating you, practically tearing you in two.

"not even halfway, swee'eart, c'mon, y'can take more, surely?" he teases, his eyes glancing down to where your bodies meet, entranced in the way you suck him in, lewd, flithy squelches as your pussy swallows him further.

you can only whine, tears brimming your eyes as you stare up at him with pleading eyes, "s'full," you can only manage.

"already? tha's n'good, baby..." he tsk's, shaking his head as he rocks his hips, thick, engorged cock slowly punching against your velvety, gooey walls, watching the way your tummy bulges with every small rut of wide hips, "can handle more, yeah? tha's m'girl."

he doesn't wait for an answer, using his leverage of your knees over his forearms to pull you down on his meaty cock, grunting lowly as he bottoms out. his full balls lightly slap against your plush rear, your skin already reddening as he fucks you down into the mattress, hips plowing into your warmth.

you can no longer register his words, his voice becoming another blur in your cock-drunk haze, your eyes rolled back as he continues to utter praises as his hips continue their relentless abuse to your sweet cunt, drooling around him and swallowing him whole.

see, he told you you can handle it, yeah? listen to him, he knows best.

[luxcuriousao3]

The first time Ghost sees you, you're tending to a mangy, feral mutt that haunts the base, snapping and snarling at anyone that gets too close. The other soldiers joke about it being Ghost's spirit animal often. It bites you, even though all you're trying to do is help. But you don't lash out defensively, or turn your back on it. You see through its angry mask for what it really is--a scared, hurt creature that just needs someone to love it enough to make it feel safe again. And you do. You sit with that flea-bitten, ill tempered dog, feeding it treats and talking to it softly, until it finally calms enough to let you help it. You're patient, and kind, and gentle. Everything the dumb beast has been missing for so long.

Christ, but he wishes he was the bloody dog.

[rileyslibrary]

After suffering a gunshot wound, you wake up in a hospital bed with Ghost sitting by your side. Unfortunately, the effects of anaesthesia leave you unable to recognise him and, worse, confuse him with someone else.

A/N: Fluff. Based on a request I received a while ago. Hope you like it, anon!

———————————————————————

A machine on your left beeps rhythmically. The taste of something metallic lingers in your mouth, and the iodine smell stinks your nostrils. Your eyes open slowly, but the bright ceiling light forces them shut again. You lick your lips and attempt to swallow a couple of times. Dry. Your mouth is dry. You need water. Your hand moves towards your face, but a low, raspy voice advises you against it.

“Careful now,” it says, and a hand gently grabs your wrist. “Don’t pull the IV off.”

You turn your head towards the figure beside you and squint. It’s a man, but your blurry vision doesn’t help you identify him. Your eyes travel to your wrist and focus on the closest part of him: a skeleton’s hand.

You try to shake your hand off his grip, but it turns out futile. Frustrated, you give up and raise your middle finger at him.

“Not my time yet,” you declare. “Fuck off.”

“Pardon?” he asks.

“Not ready to go yet,” you reply, tucking your middle finger in your palm and lifting it back up again. “And also, fuck off.”

The man releases your wrist, placing your hand gently beside you. He clears his throat and leans forward. Though your vision remains blurry, you spot what looks like a human skull with a hood over it.

“How are you feeling, love?” he asks, his tone softer.

“How am I feeling, love?” you repeat. “Did Hell improve their customer service?”

“I’m not-” The man begins but pauses. He sighs, shakes his head and rests his elbows on his thighs. “Never mind.”

“Where am I?” You ask.

“Hospital.” He replies. “You took a bullet.”

Directing your attention to your body, you feel a dull throb in your chest. You wince as your fingers brush against the bandages.

“You are joking.” You reply and slap your hand on the bed. “Why? How?”

“Well,” He says and tilts his head to the side. “You exchanged a few shots with the enemy, your gun ran out of bullets, his didn’t, and here we are.”

“My gun?” You ask, shocked. “I have a gun?”

“Several.” He nods.

“SEVERAL?” You shout. “Why would I possibly need several guns?”

“It’s your job, love.” He replies.

“My job is to have several guns?” you ask. “And shooting at people?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he explains, “but it’s mainly for defence.”

“Well,” you shrug and wince at the pain. “Doesn’t look like I’m that good at defence—especially for having several guns.”

“I was really worr—”

“Water,” you interrupt and gesture at your mouth. “I need water.”

“Doctor said it’s not the time for water yet,” he replies.

“Why?” you ask, pretending to check a non-existent wristwatch. “What time is it?”

“No, love,” he replies and muffles a chuckle. “Doctor said you need to wait until you have some water.”

“You throw the ‘love’ thing a little too freely,” you mumble, licking your lips and lifting your index finger. “I’d be really careful if I were you.”

“Really?” he asks, leaning back into the chair and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Why?”

“I,” you say and point at yourself, “got a boyfriend, thank you very much.”

“Oh,” he exclaims and tilts his head. “Is that so.”

“Yup,” you nod. “And he can kill you.”

“Can he?”

“Can?” You say, and a smug smile forms on your dry lips. “He will absolutely, one hundred and a thousand per cent kill you.”

“Is he that good?” He asks.

“I mean,” you shrug, motioning at the bandages on your chest. “He’s much better than I am.”

“Oh wow,” he exclaims and leans forward. “Is he as good of a boyfriend as he is a shooter?”

“Far from it,” you reply, letting your hand fall to your side.

The man doesn’t speak. He doesn’t seem that comfortable all of a sudden. He shuffles in his chair, trying to find a better position, and when he does, he clasps his hands together.

“Go on,” he finally says. “Spill it.”

“Ok, so,” you begin, “first things first, he doesn’t listen to me when I want to vent, and whenever he does, all he says is nonsense.”

“The lad gives you solutions,” he snaps, “and you call them nonsense?”

“I don’t want solutions, man,” you reply, shaking your head. “I want him to just listen to me.”

“Even if the solutions he provides are literally the answers to your suffering?”

“Even then.” You confirm.

“Gotcha,” he nods. “What else?”

“Oof,” you sigh, “how much time do you have?”

“I’m immortal,” he reminds you, “plus the next reaping is in five hours.”

“Oh boy,” you reply. “Business not going that well lately, huh?”

“Not many deaths to take care of,” he spits. “I guess some people could use some serious training when it comes to their aim.”

“Speaking of training,” you say, “he’s always at work and never spends much time with me.”

“The guy’s trying to spend as much time with you as he can, for fucks sake!” he shouts, throwing his hands up. “He even lied to get you on his team!”

“How do you know he put me on his team?” You ask.

“I keep a close eye on him.” He replies.

“What did he lie about?”

“Your precision in aiming,” he jokes and motions for you to continue. “Next one.”

“I can’t think of anything else,” you reply. “Other than he doesn’t say how much he loves me.”

“You’re having a laugh now, aren’t you?” He says, and his tone feels almost threatening. “He’s showing it to you daily; offering advice, keeping you close to him, even risking the possibility of being accused of nepotism for crying out loud! He doesn’t need to say it as well for you to know it!”

“It’s just nice to hear it sometimes,” you sigh and twist a thread from the bed sheet. You turn your head slightly toward him, and he lowers his head to the ground.

“How about you?” You ask. “You have a girlfriend?”

“I do,” he confirms.

“Shut up!” You shout, widening your eyes and immediately closing them back again. “Where did you guys meet?”

“Hell,” he replies. “Right in the pits of it.”

“How is she?” You ask.

“Perfect.” He states.

“Bullshit,” you murmur. “No one’s perfect.”

“She is to me.” He says, shrugging.

“Do you love her?” You ask.

“Absolutely,” he replies, nodding slowly. “One hundred and a thousand per cent I do.”

———————————————————————

[dmitriene]

cw: age gap (legal but not specified), mentions of readers virginity, just two people in love.

simon ghost riley doesn't think he's ugly outside, but he does think he is inside, too rotting comparing to you, so much more sweeter when you flutter your eyelashes at him and brush your fingers against his biceps in fleeting touches, trying so sweetly to gain the attention he doesn't let himself give you.

you're younger, it's visible in the lines on your face and cheerful smiles you flash him, in polite behavior that you keep up when you talk with elders, not yet on the same line of age with them, in how you call him sir and make his whole body shudder as it slips from your plump lips, and it's shouldn't make his cock chub up.

simon knows you're not a baby, you're a capable young woman, and even his friends date girls looking like you, but he feels like his hand are too dirty, bloodstained and calloused from the years of military service, his face is rugged and he can't even keep his stubble shaved properly, a mess of a man.

but you gaze at him with heart shaped pupils and trail around him like affectionate kitten, rubbing yourself all over him for at least one bit of attention, and the way you erupt in giddy smiles and sincere giggles when he garners you these bits.

pats at your head or accepts some baked treats you made, and there's something acidic behind his ribs, little sparks that instead of smoking erupts in licking flames, burning scorching hot across his whole body, and he's so addicted it's embarrassing to voice out, forbidden fruit is always sweet.

you were throwing yourself willingly at simon, and when he accepts your shy invitation to keep you an evening company in some town pub, where you sit under dim light on plush leather couch, body adorned with tight fitting dress that is too revealing for your usual attires, simon let's himself snap.

he knows it's all for him, the fabric ridding up all the way your plush thighs, pressed together when you squirm and tug it down, just so you won't sit with you ass bare on the leather, simon fists his hands until they whiten on his thighs as he tugs at his jeans, suddenly too tight.

all for him, the way you lean against the table, as if to hear him better, teasing your teeth at the plump flesh of your lips, warm breath mingling with his, smoky, made to make you push away, but your eyes grow heavy, swallowed dark by dilating pupils, and simon is fucked up badly.

he barely makes it to the front door of his apartment, you're feisty, nipping little teeth's at his stubbled jaw, rubbing sloppy kisses against his skin that grows hot and itchy from want, from the feeling of your body pressed against his tightly, legs wrapped around his hips, for him, all for him, his.

your body is soft, welcoming his touch with small goosebumps and small shudders, supple under his fingers that he traces too carefully across your curves, shedding every piece of clothing off you, like a kid with christmas present, hands trembling when he tugs your panties to find them sodden.

you're wet, wanting, squirming on the cold sheets that soothe your burning flesh as you spread your thighs to trail your hand down beneath your navel, simon feels like a virgin, breath hitching loudly when you spread your glistening folds with obscene squelch, chanting that it's all his fault.

for neglecting your affection, making you fuck your pussy on your own fingers every night, dreaming of being stretched around his cock, of granting simon your virginity, your flesh and bones, everything he'll please, you'll give him, just as you show him your dripping hole that clenches in need.

simon is a fool for making you wait so long, for depraving himself from you, because you feel heavenly, thin skin stretching around his fat, veiny girth, dribbling precum that mixes with your cloying slick, easing the glide, letting him stuff you, inch by inch, plugged with fat cock that throbs inside.

you clench with each drag, with each shallow thrust simon gives you because he can't make it faster, not because you'll be hurt, but because he shudders at the feel of your gummy walls latching around his meaty shaft, because he wants to enjoy every second of this encounter.

to hear your punched mewls, to watch the way you knead at the sheets below you like a docile kitten, meeting his languid movements with careful rolls of your hips, chest to chest with him, his breath burning against your ear as he showers you with sloppy kisses.

you're sopping wet between your legs, supple flesh coated with saccharine slick, splayed on his bed with simon's scent so heady around you, with his tongue toying with yours, his palms pawing at your hips and tugging, making you bounce towards his pounding hips, rumbling when it makes you arch.

simon loses himself in you, he listens to your pitched, garbled chants of want to be filled up with his seed, and he grits his teeth until veins pop on his jaw, increasing his movements to jab his tip against your sweet spot, make your walls clutch and pulse rapidly with bubbling magma in your belly.

you purr in delight when he fills you, coating your velvety walls with spurts of warm, thick cum, leaking past your clenching muscles, with simon's cock drived impossibly deep, enough to feel full despite how it dribbles down in creamy mess to stain the sheets.

pleased enough to let your body drift into drowsy state, sated to the point of your eyes slipping shut from minute to minute, enough time for simon to ease himself from you and go fetch a warm cloth to clean you both, just a bit to be comfortable while curled in each other during night.

simon ain't sure to which point this sex had drove you both, but he doesn't want to push you away, he enjoys the feeling of your naked body pressed against his, cradled against his brawny chest, soft breath tickling his skin and your eyelashes quivering in peaceful slumber, and he wants to remain there.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[ervotica]

// simon riley x reader, stalking, forced entry, possible series

There’s a man in your flat.

A one night stand from a few months back, the type of man you should’ve never entertained in the first place.

The type of man that oozes obsession, that keeps you tucked obediently under his arm like a good pet from the minute you meet – sitting between his legs on a barstool, seeping his warmth into your back, taking lazy sips of his pint over your shoulder.

When Simon Riley wants something, he gets it.

Even if it means memorising your route home and cutting himself a key for your front door, mysteriously walking in one day like he’s always been there, traipsing mud through your hallway with his combat boots and eating all the crisps out of your cupboard.

He’s asleep on your sofa when you push through the front door, snoring like a chainsaw, still clad in that heavy military uniform.

You sway from side to side on the balls of your feet, lip worried between your front teeth as the man stirs and cants his body towards you. Damn military hearing, you don't even have time to run the way you came in.

He opens his arms and beckons you closer. You shuffle over to the settee, unimpressed, and squeal when he tugs you down and into his arms.

“Alright, love?” he rumbles. “You’re late home from work.”

You cock a brow. How does he know that?

He tucks a hand between your legs and uses the flat of his palm to hike you further up his body. You brace yourself against his chest before he’s tutting, peeling your arms off of him and nuzzling his face against yours, the scratchy fabric of the mask wetting your lips when he slips his tongue out to taste you, a hand at the scruff of your neck.

You suppose you’d better get used to this. He doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere.

[kittywhimsical]

biker!simon headcanons!

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

♡ your guys' dynamic is insanely different but you compliment each other so well! (i was thinkin batman 'nd hello kitty cause c'mon.. simon is not a spiderman guy)

♡ he is absolutely jacked. i mean jacked. which makes it harder for you to wrap your arms around him but he always has one hand reaching for you, and touching the back of your thigh so you almost always don't have to worry.

♡ he does those little helmet kisses whenever you guys are about to go on a ride or stop for gas.

♡ he's got his own little insta account (that you forced him to make) and posts videos and pics of mostly you and his bike. no profile picture, no bio, just posts.

♡ surprisingly he's got a good following, but he only follows you (ofc) and the 141.

♡ you both love late night rides, especially if the two of you had a long day and just need to cool off.

♡ your helmets are pretty plain. black, tinted. but when you started riding him with him more, he got them customised so you could have a pink fluffy one with those little ears and his had his classic skullface with your name engraved on it <3

♡ he always makes sure you're okay, looking back at you at red lights and talking to you, even if he knows you can't hear him sometimes.

♡ he lets you wear whatever you want like skirts and dresses, he's gonna pull it down anyway.

♡ he makes sure you both are always wearing some sort of gear, just in case.

♡ whenever you guys go on rides with the 141 or go to a bike meet, he makes sure you are with him every second, he can't have anything bad happen to you. he'd go ballistic if anything did

♡ he adores whenever you lay your head on him, its his favourite thing ever.

♡ drops you off everywhere, no matter how far and picks you up right on time. maybe he even stays and waits where you are, until you finish.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

part 2? maybe nsfw ;)

[springtyme]

hii!! i saw ur inbox open and was wondering if i could request this; so, imagine dad!simon (or konig idm!!) having his son / daughter see his face for the first time since they were born and theyre just kinda sitting there like :000?? hes so pretty?? while yn is just screaming in the back?? <33 have a great day n thnaks for reading x

𝐔𝐧𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 ♡

Thank you for the request, I had such a good time writing this! I love writing dad!Simon so much! ♡ but also, ngl, the image of this big bloke wearing a mask in front of his baby seems borderline comical to me.

Simon Riley x afab!reader || Masterlist || Ghost playlist

summary: Your daughter finally sees her father's face for the first time.

word count: 2.2k

warning/tag: Mostly just dad!Simon fluff with a little hint of angst. No gendering terms are directly used for the reader, but they are pretty fem coded. It's mentioned that they were pregnant. No use of y/n.

As the soft morning light filters through the curtains of your bedroom, you slowly begin stretching your limbs and blinking away the remnants of sleep. As you slowly settle into wakefulness, you hear the screeching sound of the baby monitor on your nightstand coming to life and you feel how your heart flutters happily in your chest as a familiar sound comes through. The sweet sound of your daughter’s happy coos, accompanied by Simon’s deep, gentle voice, fill the room with sweetness. 

“Morning, sweet pea,” Simon’s voice crackles through the monitor followed by the sound of your baby happily gurgling at her father and then exclaiming a little more whiny sound. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re hungry, but we have to get you changed before we can make breakfast, lovie.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you lie there, basking in the warmth and comfort of your bed. The love and joy that echo through the monitor remind you of just how much love fills your home. It’s moments like these that make your heart swell with an indescribable sense of happiness.

Your mind wanders, and you find yourself reminiscing about the journey that brought you here. 

From the moment you and Simon first met, there was an undeniable connection, a spark that ignited and grew into a love that was both fierce and tender. However, it hadn’t been that easy to convince him that he in fact was deserving of such love. He had been scared that he would mess it up, mess you up, convinced himself that he wasn’t able to make anyone happy and that he was broken beyond repair. But you had been rather insisting, and he had finally let his walls crumble and let you into his heart. 

And as you had expected, all his worries had been unfounded. He is the best, most loving partner you could ever have dreamt of. 

The love you share with him is a love that feels like home.

And then, the arrival of your daughter added a new dimension to your love story. From the first time you had held her tiny hand, you knew that your family was complete. Watching Simon transform into the most loving and doting father has only deepened your admiration and affection for him.

And as you lie here,  reminiscing on your life, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of gratitude for the love that surrounds you. 

With a content sigh, you finally pull yourself out of bed, ready to start the weekend with your little family. 

As you make your way down the stairs you can hear the sound of your daughter’s laughter from the kitchen, filling your heart with warmth and you can’t help but smile and make your way towards the source of the joyful commotion. As you enter the room, the morning sun gently illuminates the kitchen, casting a soft glow over the room, and you are greeted by a heartwarming sight. Simon is standing at the stove, stirring a pot of millet porridge, your daughter’s favourite, while she is sitting in her highchair, which has been moved away from the kitchen table and closer to the counter, so she can see what Simon is doing, clapping her hands in delight.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, mingling with the comforting scent of the porridge. You can’t help but feel a surge of immense love and gratitude for the man who stands before you, effortlessly balancing the roles of partner and father.

Simon turns towards you. “Good morning, love,” he greets you, his eyes twinkling with warmth, the bottom half of his face covered by a black mask. He had started to wear it around the house again after your daughter had been born.  

“Good morning,” you reply, your voice filled with a mix of amusement and adoration. “I see you two are having quite the breakfast party.”

Simon laughs softly and nods. “We thought we’d surprise you with breakfast in bed, but it seems that someone couldn’t wait,” he says, glancing at your daughter, who just giggles in response.

You walk over to them, planting a soft kiss on Simon’s masked cheek before planting another on your daughter’s, much chubbier, one. “Well, I can’t say I’m disappointed. This is the best way to wake up,” you say, gazing at your little family with a heart full of love.

Together you finish cooking breakfast, porridge for the baby and scrambled eggs and turkey bacon for you and Simon.

You begin to set the table as Simon picks up your daughter, supporting her with one arm as he settles her on his hip, so he can move her chair back to the table, but before he can grab the chair he stops dead in his tracks.

Your little girl has grabbed a fistful of his mask in her tiny hand. She doesn’t seem to be pulling on it, or otherwise trying to take it off him, but she also doesn’t seem to want to let go of it when Simon gently takes her hand to get her to release her grip.  

“Sweetheart, please…” Simon says softly, but he trails off, a wave of emotions flickering over his eyes, but they end up having a sort of determinant look to them as they lock with his daughter’s.

You feel how your heart skips a beat as Simon lets go of her little hand to instead grip the place his mask is fastened.  

With a deep breath, Simon removes the mask, revealing his face to your daughter for the very first time in her young life. You feel goosebumps rise along your arms as Simon’s features come to light. The room falls silent, and time seems to stand still.

Your daughter’s gaze is fixed on Simon, you can see a whirlwind of emotions flickering across her little face. 

It’s a pivotal moment that holds the power to change everything. You can see how Simon, too, feels a mix of emotions coursing through him. 

He has once mentioned to you that he was afraid that his scars would scare her, but you have had a suspicion that something else might be the reason he has kept the mask on in front of her for. 

He does have a few scars from his work, but they are nowhere near severe enough to scare anyone. You do have another theory to why he has kept it on, one he hasn’t directly confirmed, but a conversation from your pregnancy has stuck with you. 

He had voiced his concern that something would happen to him on the battlefield. not because he was that concerned for his own wellbeing, he knew what the risks of his job was, but because he was afraid of something happening to him, leaving you and your little one alone in the world. He had, on the whole, had many worries about becoming a father. 

He had been worried that his past had broken him so severely that he couldn’t be the dad your daughter needed him to be. Like the fear he also had about you and your relationship in the beginning of it, the fear that he couldn’t be the man you deserved. 

He has, in all the time you’ve known him, done everything to disprove that concern, he is the best partner you could ask for and now the most lovable dad to your little girl, but you know that he still has his concerns and that his feelings about them are valid. 

You think the mask has served as a sort of safety blanket for him. Like he thought that it would be easier for you and your daughter to lose him if your little girl couldn’t remember his face, or something like that. You find that thought heart rending.               

You know that his job comes with a risk, you had known it when you got together and you had known it when you married him and you had known it when you got your daughter. Losing him on the battlefield would be your worst nightmare come true. You know that he is smart, strong and capable, but you also know that there are no guarantees in war, which, to you, is just all the more reason for  your daughter to know her father’s face, but you have let Simon choose for himself when he was ready for that.  

But you don’t want to think about any of that right now, so you push those thoughts away, and instead let yourself be completely mesmerised by the sight before you   

Your little girl focuses on his, now revealed, face, taking in every detail. Her eyes widening in surprise, curiosity, and perhaps even a hint of fear, her little mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ of surprise as she absorbs every detail of her father’s face. 

“It’s just me, princess,” Simon tells her, his voice filled with a mix of amusement, nerves and an overwhelming love for his little girl. His eyes, once guarded, now shine with warmth and affection. 

The confirmation of his voice is what convinces her. A wide smile spread across her little face, revealing the adorable dimples she has inherited from Simon, on her sweet, chubby cheeks. She lets out a happy squeal, as she realises that it really is her father who’s now smiling down at her, a set of dimples matching hers on his cheeks.    

She giggles happily, which, to you, is the most beautiful sound in the entire world. Her little hands starting to explore Simon’s face, her tiny fingers tracing the lines and contours of it. It’s a gentle and tender gesture that speaks volumes. You watch in awe as the beautiful moment between your daughter and her father unfolds in front of you. It’s a moment you will cherish forever. 

When she finally seems satisfied with her mapping of his face with her small hand, she turns her head to look over at you with an excited expression on her little face, one that conveys something along the lines of ‘you seeing this too?’ Her eyes lighting up, reflecting the genuine joy that fills her little heart.

“Yeah, baby, that’s your daddy,” you smile at her, and she lets out another happy shriek before looking back at Simon again, happily nuzzling her little face into his neck. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?” You continue as you step forward, placing a hand on her back, rubbing gentle circles over the dusty rose bodystocking that she is wearing, one that Simon picked out when he got her ready and you still laid in bed.   

You look up at Simon, a soft smile on his lips as your eyes lock. 

“He never wants to believe me when I tell him, but he is actually the most handsome man I know,” you say, with a playful glint in your eyes. “He’s probably the most handsome man in the whole world, actually.”           

Simon chuckles, his cheeks turning slightly pink. “Oh, come on now,” he replies, his voice a mix of embarrassment and amusement.“I think you might be a bit biassed there, love.”

You shake your head, a warm smile spreading across your face. “Nah, I don’t think I am,” you state, wrapping your arms around both Simon and your little girl in his arms. “Just stating facts. I actually got the most handsome husband and the most beautiful daughter in the whole wide world.” you say with a content sigh, hugging your little family tightly.  

It’s a hug that speaks volumes, conveying love, affection and acceptance. In this embrace, you know that you truly have the most beautiful family in the world.  

As you finally let go of them you place a sweet kiss on your daughter’s little nose. She giggles joyfully, and you can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratefulness over what a happy little girl you have. Simon seems to be thinking the same as he smiles down at her.  

But your adorable little troublemaker doesn’t seem to be done with causing havoc yet.   

She reaches out her tiny hand and grabs for the mask again. Simon hesitates for a moment, looking down at the fabric in his hand, the symbol of his past, before letting her have it. The mask, once a symbol of his doubts and fears, now becomes a simple toy for your daughter as she happily shakes it up and down, a cheeky grin on her little face. 

You and Simon lock eyes, and then the two of you burst out in laughter.  

As your laughter fills the room, a sense of pure joy washes over you. You look at Simon, his eyes sparkling with happiness, and you know in this moment, that the love and bond the three of you share is unbreakable, and it fills your heart with an indescribable warmth.

With a deep sense of gratitude and contentment, you take a mental snapshot of this beautiful moment. It’s a memory that will forever be etched in your mind, a testament to the strength of your love and the joy that radiates from your little girl.

As the laughter subsides, you gather your family close again, embracing the love and happiness that surrounds you. In this embrace, you know that you have everything you could ever need.

Your daughter’s laughter and Simon’s unwavering love fill your life with immeasurable happiness, and you couldn’t be more grateful for the beautiful family you have created.

[secretlovezz]

----------♡

Simon "Ghost" Riley is not an affectionate person by any means... or at least that's what he wants people to believe.

When Simon comes home to you he's almost always immediately suffocated by love, a love so intense it's almost overwhelming to someone like him. You hug- more like squeeze- him and let your lips kiss every part of his face. He melts every time, his hands fall to your lower back and pull you close, his head falls and his nose presses against your scalp breathing in the smell of your shampoo- something he didn't know he could miss about someone.

A handful of minutes pass with you pressed up against Simon and though you try to free yourself he's far too strong for you to truly believe you can escape his snake-like hold. He kisses the top of your head, then your temple, and bends a little to kiss your cheek- you giggle at that one.

Simon "Ghost" Riley is an affectionate person by every means... but that's something only you know. <3

----------♡

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, military themes, suggestive themes

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Part Twenty-Nine of Ink & Needle

Simon and Price have a discussion next to your hospital bed after rescuing you from Walsh. Simon brings you back to the MacTavish farm and proposes a promising future.

Chapter Twenty-Eight // Epilogue

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Then

“You’ll pull a muscle in your neck sleeping like that.”

Like a dog on a chain, Simon is yanked from sleep. The world tilts, and then becomes laser-focused. Inhaling deep, Simon silently tells his nerves to fucking knock it off. The danger has passed. You are safe, and this is a friend.

Captain John Price lingers at the end of your hospital bed, hat off and tucked under his arm. There is a sympathetic quality to his expression that Simon can only describe as pity. If he weren’t so concerned about you, Simon might consider it a blow to his ego.

“I’ve slept on worse,” replies Simon.

Price nods. “I know.”

And it’s true. He does. They’ve been through hell together, seen and done so much awful shit that their present, past, and future are forever tangled.

A monitor beeps, and Simon’s attention shifts to you slumbering in your hospital bed.

“I’m not waking her up,” says Simon, not taking his gaze away from you.

“Didn’t ask,” murmurs Price. “Not why I’m here.”

This time, Simon glances away, curiosity pulling at the folds of his brain, wanting to absorb whatever it is Price has come here to say.

“Can I sit?” asks Price.

With a nod, Simon indicates an unoccupied chair near the window. Price goes to it, bringing it within distance of Simon. Setting it down silently, Price eases onto the cushion, sighing as he relaxes. While Price lounges, he remains quiet, observing you in your slumbering state.

“Captain,” prompts Simon as a gnarling fist of tension grips his stomach.

Price shifts slightly, clasping his hands together, and resting them over his stomach. “We did a sweep of the house. Nothing.”

Simon grunts. “Hardly expected more.”

“But we’re not empty handed.”

“You found something?”

Price nods. “Walsh didn’t come alone.”

Simon sits up slightly. “There was someone else in the house?”

“Not when you were there. But he had help. Moving…” Price’s gaze shifts away from Simon and lands on you.

There is no further explanation needed.

“You found that fucker, didn’t you?”

“Traffic stop of all things,” says Price. “Damn lucky.”

Simon’s voice is cold with violent intent. “I want to talk to him. Just a few minutes alone. That’s all I need.”

Price is silent for a few beats, understanding that Simon isn’t interested in talking at all. “You’ll have it.”

The confirmation siphons the tension away, leaving only a pleased sense of fulfillment. Simon has always followed Price’s orders, made sure to execute each mission with extreme precision. Rarely does he deal out vengeance or justice in the way he sees fit. But Price will allow it here, and Simon is grateful.

This is not what Simon imagined for himself in retirement. Though he felt wronged in the way that SAS forced him out, he found new purpose with 141 Ink. Even when you first appeared before him like a phantom, Simon never expected this.

“But that’s not what I came to talk to you about, Simon.”

“You came to talk about Walsh.” Price inclines his head and Simon shrugs. “What about?”

“How it’s all connected. Walsh’s intentions. What he was after.”

Simon’s hand forms a fist, some of that tension returning. He quietly counts to ten and releases the fist. “Walsh was after me.”

“Yes,” agrees Price. “But I’m talking about Archibald Williams. Why Walsh put a hit on him.”

Simon frowns. “It’s politics. Nothing more to be said.”

Price smirks, but there’s little humor in it. “Partially. Goes deeper than that. Worse than you think.”

“He’s dead, Price. What more is there to say about him?”

“It’s a family matter,” says Price.

Simon goes cold, his veins freezing over. “What about the family?” he asks, because Simon might not know much, but he knows enough. The argument Simon had with you after the pub, how he had seen you with another man thinking you weren’t interested in him, but you were only trying to protect your friend.

Price inhales and then leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, lowering his voice to a mere whisper. “Remember the man you got into it with at the pub?”

“Adam,” growls Simon.

How could he forget? The man had groped your thigh without invitation and then called you a whore after. In the moment, Simon only saw blood. If Price, Kyle, and Johnny hadn’t been there, Simon might have mauled the man.

“Archie’s brother,” adds Price.

“He’s involved?”

Price’s mouth forms a thin line. “He ordered the hit.”

“You’re lying,” says Simon, almost laughing at the idea. That man was nothing more than dirt under Simon’s shoe. A wanker. A loser. “Walsh takes orders from no one but himself.”

“Unless they’re a generous donor.”

Simon shakes his head. “Walsh doesn’t do charity.”

“It’s not charity,” says Price. “It’s a business deal.” The man sighs and sits back. “Do you know what Adam Williams does for a living? What industry he works in?”

Simon snorts. “Thinking you’re about to tell me.”

Price inclines his head. “Weapons manufacturing. Private and public sector. Government contracts across multiple nations. And…others. More discreet dealings.”

“And the war machine keeps turning,” mutters Simon.

“Always,” agrees Price. “War means profit for people like Adam Williams. Like Kit Walsh.”

“Power,” adds Simon. “Advantage.” Behind the balaclava, Simon’s jaw clenches. “So why the hit on his own brother?”

Price’s face falls, his gaze turning to you for a moment before returning to Simon. “Archie met with a few members of Parliament. They planned on meeting privately with the Defense Secretary. Have him testify at a committee hearing. He knew what his brother was up to with Walsh. Had damning evidence.”

“And Adam found out.”

“He did. Told Walsh. And Walsh took Archie out.”

“What about the evidence?” asks Simon. “Why didn’t Parliament continue with the committee?”

“They only had copies of what was exchanged between Archie and those few members of Parliament. Archie planned on bringing the rest during the meeting with the Defense Secretary.”

“So it’s lost?” asks Simon.

“Partially. As far as I’m aware, it’s being recovered as we speak.”

“Fucking hell,” sighs Simon, shaking his head.

“It gets worse, Simon. It gets personal.”

A sinking feeling develops in Simon’s stomach, weighing him down.

“There’s Adam and Walsh’s business agreement which is why Archie attempted to expose his brother in the first place.”

“I don’t need the details,” growls Simon.

“But you’ll want to listen to what I say next.” Price runs his hand over his face as if he hasn’t slept in ages. “Adam Williams is the one who set Walsh on your tail.”

“Price—”

He holds up a hand. “Not directly. He wanted Walsh to go after the wife, Evelyn. Take her out too in case she knew anything. But Walsh didn’t. Never touched her. Why is that?”

The revelation is like a punch to the face. “Me,” says Simon. “Walsh must have seen me.”

Price nods. “I think so, too. Saw you. Decided to stalk instead of kill.”

“To get revenge for what I did to him.”

Price’s expression is grim but leans in the affirmative. “When we came to seek your help about Walsh, the information I was given was because of Archie. Didn’t know it at the time. But he saved us from a massive national security threat.”

“And where is Williams?” asks Simon. “In custody?”

This time, Price smiles. “Just waiting on the judge drafting the warrants.”

Simon leans forward. “You fucking get him. You hear me? You do this for me, Price.” He glances at you asleep in your hospital bed. “And for her.”

“That I can promise.”

Now

It’s Christmas in April.

Simon has one arm draped over the back of your chair, watching with an amused expression as Johnny’s mother putters about, fussing over him.

“You’ve put on weight,” she mutters, frowning over her glasses.

“I’ve put on muscle,” corrects Johnny.

She gives him a quick once over, and then squeezes his bicep. “Could use you on the farm. It would be a huge help to your father.”

Johnny’s cheeks go pink. The woman’s been trying to get him to leave SAS for years, insisting that Soap return to run the family farm.

Simon brings his glass up to his lips, smiling around the rim. Johnny’s shoots him a look for help that Simon blatantly ignores. Shifting in his chair, Simon leans toward you, lowering his head.

“All good, love?”

You nod. “Just a little overwhelmed.”

“Need to leave?”

“No,” you reply softly, placing your hand on Simon’s thigh. “I’m excited to be here. It’s just…a lot.”

Simon presses his lips to your forehead, lingering there just so he can inhale your scent and savor your nearness.

Four months.

Four months and still, part of Simon thinks you’ll disappear, that Walsh will somehow manage to return, and drag you off again just to spite him. But Walsh is dead. Simon knows this. Not because he was told but because Price showed him the corpse. At least that version of Walsh wasn’t burnt up and unrecognizable.

And it’s Christmas. In April.

Simon planned on inviting you here in December, to meet the only family he has, but Walsh got to you first. He never had the chance. Yet this gathering isn’t Simon’s idea at all. Johnny’s mother insisted because she was so eager to meet you, to make you part of the family.

Inside, it’s set up the exact way it is when Simon comes to visit for Christmas. The tree is lit up in the corner, a real one grown and felled on MacTavish land. The dining table is packed with so much food that Simon can hardly see the dark wood beneath, and music plays from an old record player.

This is how it’s supposed to be. What Simon has always wanted with you.

Plates are filled. Conversation is had. And for a while, Simon forgets about everything, living only in the moment, reaching out to you on occasion to make sure you’re still there—that you’re real.

After, you and Simon cuddle on the sofa by the fire. Johnny’s father snores in his recliner as the muted television shows the weather. Johnny is in the kitchen with his mother, cleaning dishes and putting them away for her as she badgers him about still being single. Your eyes are closed, cheek resting on Simon’s shoulder, but you’re not asleep.

Simon whispers your name, and you snuggle closer, sighing softly before opening your eyes.

“You never answered by question,” murmurs Simon.

“What question?”

“About you staying here. Permanently. With me.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and then you’re smiling, an illumination of love that Simon wants to wrap himself up in.

“Are you proposing to me?” you giggle.

“No,” answers Simon, and it only makes you laugh harder.

“You are,” you reply, stifling your giggles by turning into his shoulder.

Simon shrugs. “Maybe.”

In a small gesture, you offer your hand, palm upward. Simon instinctually reaches for you, entwining your fingers with his. Lifting your clasped hands, Simon places kisses across your knuckles and then the back of your palm.

The two of you enjoy the silence, nestled together until you yawn. Simon offers up goodbyes, whisking you away to that little cottage on the edge of the property for the night.

“I can see myself staying here,” you murmur as Simon removes his coat and yours. “With you.”

“In England?”

“Yes.”

“In London?”

“Yes, Simon.”

He hangs the coats on the hooks by the door and takes a step toward you. “In my flat, or with Evie and Amelia?”

You pause a moment. Lick your lips. “Your flat.”

Simon’s stomach flips. His heart lurches. This time you match his forward movement, meeting him equally until the two of you are staring into each other’s eyes.

“You want to be with me? Only me? Forever?”

Your hand comes up to rest against his stomach. It slides upward over his chest only to come to a stop at his neck. With a gentle tug, Simon surrenders to you, closing the distance. The contact is electric and warm, and Simon cannot help wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against him as he takes what he desires.

“Do you remember this place?” he asks. You nod, lips puffy from his attention. Simon goes in for one more kiss. “What we did here.” Another kiss. “In that bed.” Another. “On the table.”

“Simon,” you whimper as his hands descend to grasp and squeeze.

“Do you remember?” Again, you nod. “Say it.”

“I do.”

His lips brush over yours. “I want to recreate it. To have you like that again.”

The offer is open, and all you need to do is take. Simon desperately wants you to take it.

“I’m yours, Simon.”

This time, Simon gives in to his urges, to feed that hunger, to settle in and finally make a home with the one person he cares for the most. Cradling your face in his hands, Simon shows you his passion, reveals it openly and without barriers. He wants you to see all of him, to know his desperation, his fears, and how much he craves you. You answer in kind, and that is enough for him.

It is everything.

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[itsoutrageouss]

pt. 1

more on the dynamic after Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley saw you cry for the first time…

Things were in fact different from now on. Not in an obvious way but you both noticed it. You had been embarrassed the next day, scared he saw you as weak for crying in his arms like that.

And now his eyes softened a little more every time he looked at you. He remembered how precious and frail you had felt in his hold. He longed for it in a way that made him practice his punching until late in the night, grunting and groaning as the dummy got the best of his strength. His knuckles were bruised, a manifestation of the foreign feelings he tried to let out in the only way he knew- violence.

You were up, snuggly sitting with a mug of tea when Simon comes in, doors swinging open. It was late. Late enough for the owls to hoot and the moon to be at its highest.

He was panting, sweat glistening on the strained muscles of his arms. He stopped dead in his tracks as he spotted you in the corner of the recreational area. You blinked at him, studying his demeanour with intrigue.

It made him shy. He got fucking shy from the way you stared so shamelessly and intensely. He hadn’t noticed it before. The way your eyes lingered on his arms. Maybe it was new thing, or maybe he hadn’t taken the time you really look before now.

“You’re up late.” You whispered, voice small in the silence. His chest heaved as he stretched his fingers, rolled his neck.

“So are you.” He countered. There was a question in both of your statements but none of you decided to answer. Maybe you were awake for the same reasons, he thought. The mere thought was enough for his legs to move towards you, the couch dipping and creaking as it took his weight. You lodt your balance where you sat with your knees tucked to your chest as the seat tilted under you, making you thud into his side, shoulder to shoulder. He snickered under his breath, grabbing you like you were a porcelain doll to help you sit upright. Your mouth dried.

“Do you think I’m weak?” You asked him then, the words bubbling your throat before you could stop them. They had simmered for a whole week now, just under your skin. He frowned, brows set deep on his face as he looked you over.

“Quite the opposite” came his gruff reply like it was obvious. It took him a second to realise what you were referring to. Seeing you cry had made him think so much more of you than before. He saw the insecurity flash in your eyes before you looked away and he tucked a finger under your chin, slowly pulling your gaze back to his.

“Haven’t stopped thinking about it, in fact” he said, confessed it like secret into the night. He tried to keep his voice steady. At least steadier than his heart. Was he sick? Was it weird for him to be so obsessed with that one moment of you… crying?

You exhaled sharply, like his words had squeezed your lungs. Gaze narrowed, head tilted, you tried to figure him out. There was nothing but honesty and a little wariness in his eyes. Had he said too much?

“Me neither.” You replied slowly. It was enough. Enough to know. A cold blow of relief washed over him, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He only now realised he still had a finger under your chin, thumb stroking along your jaw absentmindedly. He withdrew his hand, regretfully.

If he was sick, then so were you.

“You’re hurt” you whispered, staring down at his knuckles. They were bleeding. Your eyes snapped to his, slightly wider than before as his jaw ticked, gaze otherwise unreadable. Was it because of you? The thought made your stomach twist in.. several ways.

“It’s fine.” He insisted, brushing it off and hiding his hands in his pockets. But you were already up, disappearing somewhere. He sighed, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. This wasn’t calming down his breathing one bit.

Warm fingers gently pulled on his wrist, and you felt how heavy his hand was as you pulled it into you lap, sitting cross legged next to him. He had to focus hard to remain indifferent when his hand rested high on you’re plush thigh. His fingers flexed slightly around it, gripping it with a bit more purpose than necessary. It made you struggle to open the sanitising wipes.

He hissed as you cleaned the wounds, but the care you put into it had his heart stuttering. You looked down at his knuckles, immersed in being meticulous as you wiped the valleys of his knuckles clean. He wasn’t looking down, though. He was looking at you.

“Take this as a thank you” you said just to break the silence before you slowly lifted one hand, almost like you were holding. Fuck it made it easy for him to imagine that you actually were.

“You don’t need to thank me. I’d do it again.” I want to do it again, he should’ve said. He wanted to hold you, and be the one you curled into when you needed it. Needed him.

Carefully you wrapped his knuckles. Your hand lingered around his afterwards. It looked like you were considering something. Slowly you led his hand higher until you lowered your chin and left a barely there kiss on the white bandage. He swore he died. Such a simple gesture and he felt like a madman.

You wrapped the other one. Did the same. He felt paralysed. It seemed you had understood him quite well.

“You can.” You said then, after placing both his hands down onto his own lap, now bandaged and cleaned.

“Can what?” He asked, voice hoarse and weaker than he would’ve liked as he curled his fingers. He swore it was tingling where your lips had touched.

“Hold me. Skin to skin contact can be calming. Mutually beneficial…” you said to try and reason the action, which there was no point in because the minute you had started your sentence he had wrapped his arm around you and tucked you closely into his side, using his other hand to swing your legs over his lap. Your mumbling became nothing as you nuzzled into him. He was scorching hot and you nuzzled into it, shivering.

He had never felt this good in his life. You seemed to fit perfectly into his side, your legs anchoring him down and your head resting over his rapidly beating heart- which was vulnerable as hell to him. But he allowed it when he heard you hum in satisfaction and saw your lashes flutter, eyes closing.

Just mutually beneficial cuddling, right?

pt. 3 pt.4

[kiryoutann]

𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍’𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃, 𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑˚ ༘ [SIMON “GHOST” RILEY X FEM! READER]

MINORS do NOT interact.

Warning(s): self-deprecating thoughts, reader is very unhinged, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, SELF-HARM, bad coping mechanism, MENTAL HEALTH PROBLEMS, mental breakdown, ANGST, SMUT, loss of virginity, injuries, mentions of blood, alcohol consumption, situationship, jealousy, stalking, attempted baby trapping, MANIPULATION, OBSESSION, really bad daddy issues, unprotected sex, reader is a love and touch-starved naive virgin, reader is very unhinged, ghost is a bit of an asshole, use of (Y/N), CHILD-NEGLECT, family issues, mother-daughter issues, heavily inspired by the "Black Swan" (2010), BIASED OMNISCIENT NARRATOR, things about ballet that are (probably) inaccurate, hints of past physical abuse (not from Simon), attempts of physical abuse (also not from Simon), SUICIDE ATTEMPT, title inspired by A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini.

For each chapter of the work that I will post, I will not add any warnings except trigger warnings. So if you are not old enough, THIS IS A FINAL WARNING NOT TO CONTINUE READING MY STORIES.

Genre: romance, ANGST, slow-burn. ballerina! reader.

Blurb:

“No more tears f’me, ye ‘ear?” He meets your eyes before lowering it to the tantalizing view of your glistening body, causing another twitch of his impatient cock. “I ain’t worth it.” The tip of his cock brushes against your folds when he thrusts his hips once more. A small mewl escapes your moist lips, vertebrae drawn like a curve of a bow as his length slowly enters your hole. “No—no, don’t say that. You’re—mmh!” You stumble over your words, voice shaking both from emotion and physical overwhelm. “You’re always worth it, Simon.” Sweet thing, unaware of the effect her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheek have on a man as corrupt as him. Struggling to find words while he fills her up, trying to convince him that he's worth something.

"A man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing," as your mother once said. And yet, you, a soulless ballerina, happen to cross paths with a mysterious man under the rainy sky of London. A meeting that binds you to a self-destructive dance in the hope that he loves you as much as you love him.

However, Simon Riley is still Simon Riley; and his rotten heart left no room for someone like you.

Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | Epilogue

AO3 | talk | HEADCANONS

[luxcuriousao3]

I've been messing around lately, writing Ghost in different ways to see which rings most true to his character (in my opinion). I wouldn't say that it does ring true for me in this one (then again this one did spawn from my stalker!Ghost thots, tho this fic isn't part of that universe), but I decided to post it anyway. So this little ficlet, despite being xReader, is more of a Ghost character study than anything else. This characterization is definitely experimental, and leans into the "Ghost and Simon are separate personalities" headcanon. No smut, but still NSFW.

Ghost x general's daughter!Reader

You were the daughter of some aging General, a balding, pot-bellied man on his way out, an honorable discharge in his near future. You’d come to visit him on the base, a tray of gooey brownies held firmly in your hands, two hot cocoas balanced on top, and a visitor’s badge pinned to your chest.

Initially, Ghost hadn’t taken much notice of you. Pretty thing, would be easy to kill, was his first impression. A casual, fleeting thought that he paid no attention to but made Simon shudder. There had been a time that when Ghost was in control, Simon was entirely unaware. He would come to and hours could have passed, sometimes days, or, on one particularly grueling campaign, even weeks. It was how he knew there was something evil lurking inside him. But in the desert, all was revealed, and Simon and Ghost were irrevocably tangled up in one another, the same but not, like two different sides of a single coin.

It wasn’t until you walked straight into his firm, broad chest and spilled the scaldingly hot drinks on him that he really noticed you.

Clumsy fuckin’ bird, Ghost thought angrily as he grunted in pain. Should break your bloody wings.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry!” You chirped, looking up at him with wide, apologetic eyes. He waited for you to flinch and look away when you saw his mask, but you didn’t. You just shifted your tray of brownies to one hand, the other fluttering uselessly over his soaking wet chest for a few seconds, before you grabbed the hem of your dress in a panic and lifted it up to try and dry him off with it.

Your dress was long, long enough to keep you from flashing him entirely, but he still caught an eyeful of your legs, even a glimpse of your plush thighs. At least until you realized what you were doing and dropped your dress again with a squeak of embarrassment, cheeks reddening.

“I’m so sorry,” you repeated earnestly, as Ghost stared down at you in bemusement. It wasn’t often he was shocked by someone’s behavior, but you were just so odd. It was, admittedly, amusing. Watching you squawk and try to smooth your ruffled feathers was like watching someone who’d tried to kill him choke on their own blood. Entertaining. Satisfying. Vaguely erotic.

“Are you okay?” You finally remembered to ask, reaching out to touch him again, as if to check him over. Ghost’s hands shot up, one wrapping around your wrist in a firm grip, the other moving to stop your dessert tray—which was tilting dangerously—from falling. He could feel your pulse thrumming beneath his finger tips, and the warmth of your skin seeped through his glove.

“M’fine,” he said shortly, voice deep and grumbly but not as hostile as usual. Simon’s influence, no doubt. Ghost almost rolled his eyes. His other half always banged on and on about treating ladies with proper respect. Ghost wasn’t particularly interested in sex with other people, preferring to fuck his own fist if the urge grew too great to ignore, but he thought about bending you over right here in this hallway and bullying Simon’s big cock into you, just to spite him.

“Oh! Thank you,” you said with a charming smile, entirely ignorant to the image he’d conjured up of you. One he found himself enjoying more than he’d thought he would. “I really am sorry,” you said for the third time, like a parrot echoing itself. Little bird indeed. “I’m such a klutz. Except for when I’m dancing. Then I’ve got at least a modicum of grace.”

Beneath his mask, Ghost raised a brow. Had he mistakenly given off the impression that he cared?

His silence was pointed, and you flushed deeper. You pushed the tray of brownies towards him, seemingly unphased by the grip he still had on it and your wrist. He let go.

“Go ahead, take it,” you said encouragingly, holding out the treat insistently. “It’s the least I can do to make up for ruining your shirt… I can always make more for Daddy another day.”

Simon’s cock twitched, and this time the dirty thoughts in their head were entirely his. Though Ghost could admit the thought of you calling him Daddy in that sweet little voice of yours, all innocent and sincere, was appealing. Perhaps there was something attractive about fucking another person after all.

“Don’t want any,” Ghost answered after a moment, and your face fell. But instead of taking his words for the dismissal they were, you perked back up and continued talking.

“Do you not like brownies? I can make you something else and come back tomorrow,” you offered, for some unknowable reason. Both Simon and Ghost were astounded the conversation had lasted this long, and worse yet, showed no signs of ending. “I can make lemon bars, white chocolate truffles, pudding, anything you’d like.. But nothing too fancy.” You giggled. No one had ever giggled in Ghost’s presence before. “I’m no professional baker. I just do it when the mood strikes, or when Daddy is craving something sugary. He’s the one who taught me to bake. Oh! Do you have any allergies? Nuts, gluten, anything? I don’t want to poison you…”

And on and on you went, rambling like Ghost was actually listening to you. Except that he was. Perhaps it was cruel curiosity, wanting to see how long you’d carry on making a fool of yourself. Or maybe it was Simon pitying you for the nerves in your voice, not wanting to interrupt you and make you more anxious. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that you were showing Ghost more kindness than he had ever received in his life.

Simon had experienced the joys of living, of companionship and love. Ghost had not, though he’d seen it all through their eyes. He hadn’t really thought that he was missing out on anything.

But now, with a lovely little dove like you offering to bake for him—not Simon, but Ghost—he thought he maybe he was, if just a tad. Especially if your pussy tasted as sweet as your baked goods smelled.

[rileyslibrary]

You burst into the office and slam the door behind you. Ghost jumps from his seat and looks up from the paperwork he’s been filling out. His eyes widen as you sprint towards him.

“What the f-”

“Just play along,” you interject, dragging a chair and plopping down. You grab two sheets of paper from the pile next to him and snatch the first pen within reach.

He keeps staring at you dumbfounded before managing to utter something.

“Can you at least-”

“Nope,” you cut him off while focusing on the papers and nibbling on the pen. “No, can’t do. You need to trust me on this one.”

“Define what ‘this one’ is.” He demands.

“Shhhh,” you hush him, waving your hand dismissively and glancing over your shoulder at the door. “He’s coming.”

“Who’s com-”

The door swings open, and footsteps approach. They settle beside you, and a hand slams on the desk. Ghost looks at the hand, then upward.

“Captain,” he says. “What brings you in-”

“For the love of everything you hold dear, Simon, you better not be involved in any of this,” Price warns. He slams his hand on the desk again and looks at you. “Why were you running away from me?” He asks.

You stare at him with furrowed eyebrows before removing the pen from your mouth.

“I wasn’t running away from you, sir,” you reply, pointing the pen at Ghost. “I was late for my meeting with the lieutenant.”

Price turns towards Ghost, seeking for an appropriate answer. The lieutenant sits up straight on his chair, clasps his hands together and motions with his head towards you.

“Very punctual, this one.” He says.

“Cut the crap, Simon,” Price orders and turns to you. “What were you doing inside Bravo Unit’s barracks last night?”

“Bravo Unit has barracks?” You ask Ghost. He shoots you a side-eye and raises one eyebrow.

“Stop playing dump and answer the question,” Price warns and points at Ghost. “And don’t look at him—he’s not covering for you this time.”

“How about you start from the beginning, boss,” Ghost interjects. “What happened?”

“Someone broke into Bravo Unit’s barracks last night and stole every inch of toilet paper they had,” Price says, looking at you, then turning to Ghost. “And not just toilet paper, mind you! Kitchen rolls and tissues are gone as well.”

“Tsk tsk tsk,” Ghost murmurs, shaking his head. “Such an inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience, Simon?” Price whispers, leaning on the desk. “The entirety of Bravo Unit had to wipe their ass with parchment paper this morning.”

Ghost brings his hand to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. He lowers his head and takes deep, laboured breaths. Price is already fuming, so you decide to intervene.

“I was never inside Bravo Unit’s barracks, sir,” You state. “I just happened to walk through it once.”

“Oh, I see, I see—you walked through it once,” Price repeats, nodding. He removes something from his pocket and slams it on the desk.

“The instigator left this behind,” he states, looking back and forth between the two of you.

You and Ghost look at the garment on the desk—it’s a skull balaclava that once belonged to the lieutenant. He gave it to you last Winter since your ears and nose tend to get cold during patrol.

“Now,” Price states, “would you care to brief me on who this belongs to?”

“Hm,” you murmur, setting the pen and papers on the desk. You pick up the mask and start examining it. You look at Ghost, who stares at the mask with his eyeballs threatening to pop out of his face. He shoots you a deathly stare, and you redirect your attention to Price.

“That looks like it must be the lieutenant’s,” you reply, lifting the balaclava next to Ghost’s masked face. “With the skull and all—it’s a perfect match, actually.”

You both turn to Ghost, whose expression has transformed from utter disbelief to an inexplicable calmness.

“Indeed, that looks exactly like the one I lost,” Ghost confirms, taking the mask from you.

“Is it now?” Price asks in a high-pitched voice, tilting his head to the side. “Do me a favour and smell it for me, Riley.”

Ghost does exactly as he’s told. He brings the mask close to his nose, sniffs it, and nods. “Yup,” he confirms. “Smells exactly like me, too.”

Price sighs, takes a bottle from the pocket of his cargo pants and slams it on the desk. “So you want me to believe you use ‘Magnolia Blossom with Moroccan oil’ as a shampoo?” he asks.

“I’ve got dry hair.” Ghost shrugs.

“You should try coconut oil instead,” you suggest to Ghost, “it’s cheaper.”

Price kicks the chair next to you, and you both turn to look at him. He presses his lips together, and a red flush creeps on his neck, threatening to reach his head. He opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him.

“Why did you go through peoples’ stuff without their permission, sir?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going through anyone’s stuff,” Price explains. “You just were dumb enough to ditch the balaclava right behind the barracks. The detection dog picked up on the smell and led us to your stuff—it was a perfect match, just like you said.”

“You had sniffer dogs involved in this?” Ghost asks.

“I had to.” Price replies. “Pair the parchment paper with a day full of training, and Bravo Unit developed the worst rash they had since wearing diapers.”

A chuckle escapes Ghost, and he tries to silence it with his hand. He takes quick gasps of air, and you try to retain your laughter, too.

“Please tell me you’re not laughing!” Price shouts.

“No, boss,” Ghost says and wipes his tears, “It’s just so-”

“-sad,” you say and wipe your eyes as well. “It’s so sad.”

Price looks at you, then at the lieutenant. Now defeated, he sighs and throws his head back, shutting his eyes.

“I’m done with both of you.” He says, lifting his arms and dropping them to his sides. “I expect all toilet papers to be returned today. And as for you, you are responsible for cleaning Bravo’s toilets for the entire month.”

“For the whole month?!” You shout and wince at the idea.

“Be glad I didn’t make you wipe their asses as well.” He shouts as he walks to the door and slams it behind him.

Ghost recovers from the laugh and directs his attention to you. He tries to be serious but his teary eyes betray him.

“That was a hazardous operation you did back there,” he says.

“I didn’t do anything.” You reply, still vouching for your innocence. “But whoever did it taught Bravo Unit not to mess with our thermostats again.”

Ghost shakes his head. “I just happened to walk through the barracks once,” he says, repeating your earlier statement. “What were you thinking? Who walks through barracks?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, shrugging. “Ghosts would be my guess.”