#they don't have a first/last name it's just riley

[daemonbrain]

1.8k, cw: ghosts a pervert, smut, readers husband is piece of work, not proofread.

Simon Riley who first saw you at the butcher's shop on the phone. 

You were a pretty thing. Wearing a pink little yoga set, one arm holding your mat and the other holding your phone to your ear as you wait for the butcher to bring out your cut of meat.

Which was taking a long time

Simon would’ve had it chopped and packed to go by now. Though, he can’t complain with the view he has of your ass- you. The man was touch starved. He hadn’t been back home in a while, back-to-back deployments keeping him occupied. His only company being his calloused and scraped hands roughly jerking himself until he came, bordering on unpleasurable. Not what some could consider enjoyable, but try being in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere for weeks on end and see if you care so much about gentle.

The borderline perverted look you were blissfully unaware of was tracking down your form. He stared at the way the material tightly clung on to every bit of you in a welcoming way, a second skin. The sweat on you from your little session.

Just how flexible does yoga make a bird like you?

It was only when he heard a grating sound come from your phone that he snapped out of his trance. Even with his bad ears from all the bullets whizzing past him, bombs going off within meters of him, and the usual shit show he did for a living he could hear the voice which bled through your phone's speaker.

"Get me a steak this time. Nonna that nasty shit from last time!"

You hurriedly turned your volume down as it blasted in your ear, startled by the voice. Chewing on your lip you pivoted towards the counter to see if your order had been brought out; the motion to no avail as the employee continued chopping away in the back room.

It was only when your other hand came into full view from the motion he noticed the absolute rock on your finger.

"Honey, I thought the salmon was pretty good." That prick clearly firing something back as you winced away from your phone once again. Gritting your teeth as if biting back your arguments, looking around to occupy your time as the man on the phone continues to speak. "I know... I'm sorry. Don't worry, it'll be ready by 7." You placatingly cooed.

"Listen, I have to go. I love y-" You began, but the moment the words tumbled from your lips you pulled the phone fully from your cheek to see a blank screen with the time staring back on you. The asshole hung up!

What a fuckin tosser.

Simon hears the butcher finally call your name with familiarity and with a sigh you step towards the counter. 

He leaned on to the wall further as he had been the entire time. Silent. Unsettling. A stark contrast to your bright appearance in the shop, the larger man brooded in his corner waiting his turn.

“See ya’ next Friday!” You still managed a bright smile at the butcher who handed you your meat.

A mild thing like you really shouldn’t be talked to so thoughtlessly, some guys are fuckwits though. He never liked the type. Why lock a bird down with a ring if you were gonna be mean to her?

“S’cuse me sir, i’m just gonna push past you here” You asked. With widened eyes, Simon gruffly mumbled a “Yeah,” out before creating a stupidly small space.

Maybe he really did want you to push past him. Or just push up on him but oh well.

Sweeping past him, you give him a toothy smile as you had so sweetly done to the butcher, as if you hadn’t got yelled at less than five minutes ago. God you really have no common sense, beaming up at the lurker in the corner at least twice your size. A girl as pretty as you should really stick to herself.

From that interaction on, Simon found himself being guided by the memory of you back to the butcher shop the next Friday.

And the next…

And the next.

Every week progressively standing closer and closer to you as you picked up your usual order. One day you had taken the liberty of starting small talk with him after recognizing his unmistakable stature. After all, there were only so many people you had seen in this shop and none so… large.

You could not deny you found this mystery man disquieting. Always dressed in dark colours, not so much as a word coming from him. Like clockwork you would come in after hot yoga, greet the butcher, he would come in, silence would ensue as you both waited for your meat, and you would leave with a quick smile.

It was rude. He had never even said a simple hello to you! Though, you suppose that it could be due to your own curt exits. The thought of the unkindness you might’ve exhibited subconsciously sent your mind into a spiral, leading to your abrupt introduction.

After all, who were you to judge! Kindness is and should always be the response in your books.

At this kindness, Simon swore he had to take a breath in as you politely outstretched your hand and spoke your name casually. Tilting his head down to your face he raises a brow skeptically, and then firmly shakes your head.

He failed to hide the shudder which wracked his body. The way your hand effortlessly slipped into his. Soft and manicured engulfed in his.

“Simon.”

“Well it’s good to meet you Simon” With the twinkly little smile you would grace him as you hauled it out of the shop. He felt the shiver go down his spine a second time when you spoke his name for the first time.

And then- it happened.

You giggled. A soft thing, no doubt intended to be small. It wasn’t to Simon though. It reverberated throughout the room, rang so prettily in his ears. Fuck. He would remember that sound later on tonight.

“Are you cold? You keep shivering. It’s pretty harsh out there right now.”

“Nah. Not really.” His accent thick as he shrugged.

Letting out a little “mhm” you nod and look back to the counter.

“I was freezing outside! Usually I walk home-” Simon already knew that “-but today I called my husband to come grab me! Way too cold!”

That visibly made him stiffen. Of course. Perfectly normal that guy is coming to get you, he’d be an idiot to leave you walking home alone in the cold.

If you were his girl, Simon wouldn’t have let you out of his sight. Fuck sakes you practically had “come mess with me” written all over you. There were creeps all over the place nowadays, (thought the creep).

He would’ve carried everything for you, scarfed down whatever the hell you had taken the time to prepare him. That husband of yours doesn’t like your salmon? Simon would. Hell if he didn’t, he’d cram it down his throat with gratitude anyways. He doubted anything could be worse than some of the rations he’s eaten on duty. 

That train of thought is pretty redundant when he takes note of how you wouldn’t be able to leave the bed to make anything.

Maybe you’d cram something of his down your throat in gratitude.

Shaking his head subtly, he hears the bells of the store door opening. He watched your face fall as you step away from him and it’s when he sees your husband's look of complete irritation he understands why.

You had grabbed your order swiftly and with a quick wave goodbye you were on your way back to your husband. Simon could only register your husband's whisper-yell as he disapprovingly glared his way. “The fuck are you doin talking to him?”. And with that you were hurriedly ushered out.

You deigned it necessary to continue greeting Simon, have little chats about the weather, any plans he had for the weekend. Tossing in your stupid jokes that he would laugh at. You interpreted it as something closer to a breathy snort-hopefully positive- and it went on as such for weeks

And every time he returned home Friday night, he came home with only one thought after. You.

As he laid in bed the same thought persisted as he slipped his cock out of his boxers, red and weeping for some sort of stimulation. He took to his usual harsh pace. You’d be so much softer.

You’d be so nice to him wouldn’t you? Coo some compliment as he lets you tug at him. Fuck he wouldn’t know what to take first.

Would you give him a blowie or a hand job? 

No. You wouldn’t be on your knees- not yet. If you’d let him have you, you’d be on your back in an instant. He’d rip the stitches of those leggings right down the middle, your panties next.

“Fuuuuuck” he moaned into the quiet of his room. He’d stick it in slow, he’d try. It would be torture not to ram himself right up to the hilt, but he’d do it for such a good girl.

That’s what you were, weren’t you? Always a nice word for someone? What would you say to him when he began to rut into you like a madman. When you would feel the pummeling intrusion, his head knocking into the deepest parts of you.

He’d be able bend you into so many different positions that you’d better hope that yoga has taught you well. Split your legs open to accommodate his imposing body size as he’d take purchase between them. Then you better hope your cunny can accommodate his other size when he spears you open on his cock.

Would you take it smiling? Would your tears roll down your cheeks, the prodding bordering too much? You’d take it either way, he knew you could. He’d rub at your clit with such tenderness he never afforded himself (as gentle as he could anyway). He’d make sure you begged to stay on his cock forever, fuck himself so deep you would be too stupid to pull away unknowing of where he ended and you started. Not that you’d have to care.

He’d flip you on to all fours and rip away your clothes entirely, pounding you from the back and instead of just his own labored breaths, the sound of skin slapping together would ring out.

In silent stoicism, he feels his balls tighten up at the thought of your perfect face stuffed into the pillows screaming your thank you’s. You probably were just as nice with someone stuffing themselves into your pussy.

At both his ruthless ministrations and boundless imagination, his release spurted all over his hand with a breathy sigh. When you were here he’d make sure to slam his hips to yours and keep them flush against you, coat your insides in hot cum better than your limp-dick husband ever could. That man wouldn’t be able to fuck you the way Simon knew he could. You deserve someone who could make you go stupid on his dick, not cry of frustration like you probably did everytime that knob who thinks himself a man rolled over after finishing himself off.

Not that you’ll have to worry about that soon

…

He wouldn’t be around for much longer anyways.

[koling2345]

Grumpy

fem!reader X Simon Riley

Summary: You're always grumpy in the morning, and Simon always 'fix' it.

Tw:Smut, unprotected sex.

A/n: First time posting here, just because this man doesn't leave my mind😭 This masked man😣 Sorry for any mistakes, English is not my first language

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫

By then Simon knew that you were far from being a morning person, on the contrary, you hated waking up early with all your soul.

But over time he learned to get used to you, waking you up with a session of kisses and hugs, pampering you until you improved your mood a little.

But nothing worked better than having his cock deep inside you, sliding in and out of your pussy, moving in a tantalizing way.

‘Fucking spoiled brat’.” Simon growls in your ear, his tattooed arm wrapped around you, balancing you as he fucks you from behind.

He wasn't angry with you, far from it, after all, how could he be angry when you moaned so sweetly for him? Your head buried in the pillow as you whimpered, calling his name again and again.

It was obvious that you couldn't form any coherent sentences given that he was pounding into you like crazy, but he knew you were loving it, since you were squeezing him almost painfully hard.

“You just need a cock to start the day, don't you?” He teased as he gave you a particularly sharp thrust, eliciting a loud whimper from you.

You were already a mess, you'd cum once while he was massaging your clit, now you were approaching the second time while he was fucking you hard.

He was all honeyed with your fluids, his cock base had a ring of liquids formed on it, all your sweet juices staining it.As if that wasn't enough, you also couldn't deny that the weight of him on top of you turned you on in a frightening way, just feeling his huge, muscular body covering yours, you felt your cunt clench around his dick.

By this point Simon had stopped trying to understand whatever strange language was coming out of your mouth, because you weren't making any sense.

The only coherent thing coming out of you were moans and whimpers, nothing else.Your mind only became an even bigger mess when Simon started kissing and nibbling your neck, one arm supporting you, while his free hand went down to your breasts and held on tight, squeezing and softening the flesh.

“Fucking nice tits.” He murmurs in a deep voice, making you dizzy with the sensation of his balls slapping against you.

“Si- si- I'm gonna-” you stuttered, rolling your eyes and tucking your head back into the pillow once more.

He grinned in response, knowing that you needed a little push to get there, just a little. So he did.

Simon came out of you in one swift movement, making you moan at the ache the emptiness brought you.

Which didn't last long.

The next thing you felt was his cock entering you all at once, barely giving you time to get used to his huge size and thickness. And fuck if he didn't love feeling the way your cunt stretched to accommodate him, how your walls tightened around him like a vice.

When he did it, it was over for you, you just came, just like that.

You squeezed him and gushed out your orgasm, making a mess of him once again.Simon didn't take long after that, he always waited for you to come first, and then he'd get frantic.It was no longer about getting you there, but about him reaching the peak of his pleasure.

Then he would slam into you in a sloppy, abrupt way, driving his hips into you with force.You could have sworn you were going to faint from how good it felt.

But the best feeling was yet to come.

“ Stay still. You'll take it, yeah? I don't want a drop out.” He hissed in your ear, holding your hips and preventing you from moving.

With one last hard thrust, he spurts his seed into you, grunting as he does so. Something that never failed to turn you on was the noises he made in bed, especially when he came like that.

His hot cum flooded into you and filled you up, and he didn't take his cock out of you until he was sure he had cum all the way inside you.

When you'd both recovered from the high, he lay down next to you and pulled you into a hug, pulling the covers over you both.

“Mood better?” He asked, running his hands through your hair.

“Mhm.” You mumble, hiding your face from him.

“Use words.” He retorts, lifting your chin, just to see the satisfied expression on your face.

“Yeah, a little.” You whisper.

He was satisfied, not that it bothered him, because he wouldn't have minded giving you a second round if necessary. Simon wasn't one to reject sex with you, so waking up every morning like this was nice.

And he'd be lying if he didn't say he was already daydreaming about the next morning.

He could certainly have you in a mating press the next morning.

[kitkatscabinet]

Don't feed him he'll come back

simon riley x neighbour! reader

summary: The ghost that lives in your apartment is a solitary man, people tend to stay out of his way, giving him a wide berth. You can't help but think he seems a little bit lonely, cue pestering him with bad jokes and food.

word count: 1.6k

part 2 here

There’s a ghost that lives in your apartment block. Though it feels more accurate to say he’s an occasional visitor. He comes and goes, like a lost spirit, unsure and aimlessly wandering. He slinks silently through the hallways like a wraith in the few instances when he is there. 

The first time you see him is just a glimpse from the corner of your eye, a large hulking shadow standing at the door next to your apartment as you step out from yours. 

Your feet stutter to a stop, the landlord had mentioned a neighbour but in the 3 months you’d lived there you’d never seen him. As if sensing your eyes lingering curiously on his form, deep brown eyes turn to meet yours. You can make out no other details of his face, the black material of his balaclava obscuring most of his features. 

A century could have passed in those few seconds and you doubt you’d have noticed. Despite the weariness in his gaze, you found yourself pulled into the deep pools of those stunning eyes. Like a predator, his gaze never moves from your body, even as you offer him a friendly smile and wave before walking down the hall to continue your day. 

You’d heard the uneasily whispered tales of the Ghost that haunted the apartment next to yours from some of the older tenants, though you’d never put much stock into the idle gossip. His burning gaze bores into your back and follows until the doors of the elevator close and you suppose you should feel intimidated. 

It’s hard to conjure up any such feelings, even with the knowledge of the wariness he elicits in others. It’s hard to fear the hulking figure of the Ghost when he had such sad eyes. 

He hid it well but you recognised the loneliness that lined his shoulders, the bone-deep exhaustion for life that managed to slip through tiny cracks in his self-imposed shield. 

You suppose at that moment that even Ghosts can be haunted. 

Maybe that’s why you found yourself knocking on his door later that evening with the tray of pasta bake. Initially, you’d made a large batch to have a few days left over for yourself. Yet just as you opened your fridge you’d hesitated, mind flashing to the man next door. Did he have any food for himself? There was likely nothing fresh, and he’d seemed too exhausted to pull himself to the grocery store during the brief encounter earlier. 

Donning your Crocs, you’d marched over and knocked on his door before it properly registered that you were in pyjamas. The door swings open and your eyes trail up, the balaclava is gone, replaced with a simple black face mask letting you glimpse blond hair. 

“Sorry if this is a bit intrusive, but I figured you probably didn’t have any food so…” you trailed off, pushing the tray towards him, expectantly waiting for him to grab it. It took a few seconds before he robotically took the tray, probably out of sheer confusion more than anything else. Stepping back before he could return the food you offered one last smile before fleeing to the sanctuary of your apartment. 

Two days later you exit your apartment to an empty and cleaned tray, a small note with a simple ‘thank you’ placed within. 

His name’s Simon, and apart from an introduction and the occasional dish left at his door, you don’t actually interact with him again until nearly a month later. And that had simply been a case of forced proximity a la broken elevator style. 

Simon remained unflappable as ever, and it’s at that moment you decide to try and get a reaction that isn’t stoic silence. 

“A bear walks into a bar and says give me a whiskey and …cola” Brown eyes turned to look at you curiously, brow raised to let you know he was listening. “Why the big pause? Asks the bartender. The bear shrugged. I’m not sure, I was born with them.” 

The joke doesn’t land, silence is the only reward for your comedy genius. “Ok, playing hardball. Alright then… Why did Susan fall off the swings?” Again, there is no answer, but a glance at his relaxed posture indicates he’s listening. “Because she had no arms.” 

No laugh but you blaze ahead. 

“Knock knock.” It takes a few seconds but with a playful glare, he responds quietly and with a tinge of amusement. 

“Who’s there?” It’s not the first time you’ve heard his voice, but it still births a serious case of butterflies in your gut that takes more than a few seconds to fight down and regain your composure. 

“Not Susan.” You can’t stop the peal of your giggles at that one, and while you swear you see the corner of his cheek curve upwards a little it’s not enough for you to be satisfied. 

“I can’t believe it’s come to this, but I guess it’s time for the big guns. You better prepare yourself Riley 'cause I’m done holding back.” You pause for a few seconds to let the anticipation settle. 

“What is… Whitney Houston’s favourite type of coordination?” You take a deep breath before positively belting out, “HAAAAAAAND-EEEEEYE.” Whether it’s the shock from the sudden musical number or the joke itself you’re finally rewarded with a faint chuckle. 

“Aha!” you shout in triumph, a smug grin splitting your face, “I heard that laugh, you can do more scowl!”

The doors suddenly open with a ding and Simon pushes off the wall, but not before rolling his eyes playfully your way. Silence once again descends during the walk to your respective apartments, yet it’s not uncomfortable. Swiping your key card it’s just as you step through the threshold that you hear it, 

“Why did the chicken go the seance? To get to the other side.” Whipping your head around, you are met with the sight of his door closing behind his large frame, but a win is a win and you celebrate mentally over the exchange. 

The next time you leave a dish at his door it comes with a written joke. Sure enough, a few days later you received one back. The months start to blur, and your Ghost comes and goes, but the jokes remain. 

Month three sees you snagging his number, a daily joke sent his way even when he can’t respond. Because as much as Simon Riley tried to hide his hurts from the world, he couldn’t hide them from you. 

You’ve loved a soldier before in your brother, can see the signs and smell the gunsmoke and blood from miles away. Apart from his team, it becomes obvious the man has nobody left, and believes he doesn’t deserve to be cared for.

You’re not foolish enough to think you can be that for him, but you are understanding enough to give him the choice. So you continue to send him jokes, puns, pictures of your cat Bingbong and anything that you think will get him to at least smile.  

Three months turns to six turns to eight. He’s not physically there most of the time but you take every opportunity he is to coax him from the loneliness of his apartment like a stray kitten.

Once-a-week dinners at least. Freely sharing your life’s story without expecting anything in return. One evening you’d plopped your chunky tuxedo cat down on his lap and watched him freeze, hands hovering with wide eyes as he considered the ball of fur making biscuits on his thigh. 

It was cute. He was cute. Even when he whipped around to glare when you took a photo, the corners of his lips downturned and tugged at the scars on his face. His bare face wasn’t necessarily a new sight but it causes your breath to hitch nonetheless. 

Something you think he notices given the way his lips quirked up suddenly in a smirk. Rolling your eyes you huffed before plonking yourself down next to him on the couch. Bingbong doesn’t scramble onto your lap like you expect, instead deciding to remain on his new favourite human, traitor. 

You pay very little attention to the movie even though you’d chosen it, too acutely focused on the large bulk of Simon next to you. Your shoulder rests against his arm, his body heat emanating from beneath his hoodie and absorbing into your skin. 

You’ve never been one to fall asleep during movies, but there’s something about Simon’s presence that soothes you, lulling you into a restful slumber as you slump against his chest. Bingbong meows his discontent as you accidentally squish him, jumping away with a huff, none of which you notice. 

It’s the sun shining straight onto your face through the open blinds that wakes you the next morning, a groan of confusion leaving your lips as you stretch and look around to orient yourself. 

Sitting up, the blanket that you just now realised covered your form fell down to your waist. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes your phone falls to the floor when you stand, the screen flicking on to display the time. 

It’s not until you sleepily stumble into your bedroom, plugging your nearly dead phone in and face-planting onto your pillow that you realise Simon must have tucked you in. The smile that covers your face is so wide it is painful and you fall asleep once more, dreaming of the phantom sensation of his arms wrapped around you.

[gloomwitchwrites]

(I'm not sure if I'm doing this right, but here goes nothing)

For Imagines and What Ifs, how do you think the 141 men would react to you wanting to keep your last name after you got married?

Would be they be chill about having separate names? Would they be hurt that you don't want their last name? Would they suggest a hyphenated last name as a compromise? Or (my personal fave) would they change their last name instead?

Greetings, anon! You absolutely submitted a request correctly! I adore this idea. I love thinking about any of these men as married men and what they're like in that regard. I can easily see this prompt having angst and fluff. What I would like to do is answer the last half of the prompt. Those are four distinct questions, and four distinct ideas, and I think each of them matches to one of the 141 guys in turn. That is how I would like to tackle this request (if you don't mind).

I'm sure my selections might not match up with everyone's opinion but that's why fanfiction is so wonderful. We can all have different ideas and HCs and they are all valid in their own way.

Enjoy!! I had so much fun with this one!! Presented in four drabbles.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader

Content & Warnings: established relationship, fluff, light angst, married life

Word Count: 400

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John "Soap" MacTavish

“You don’t want to take my last name?” He sounds hurt, and that breaks your heart.

“It’s not personal, Johnny. I’ve earned my title.”

“I know,” he says softly. “You worked hard. But—” Johnny sighs and rubs his chin. He glances away, clearly growing agitated.

“I love you,” you murmur, kissing his cheek.

Johnny melts a bit, kissing you back. “I’d like to call you Mrs. MacTavish.”

“And you can,” you reply softly. “Sometimes.”

“Like when?”

You need to turn his mood around. Leaning in, you playfully nip at his bottom lip. “When we’re alone. In the bedroom.”

Johnny grins.

John Price

“We need to talk about this, John. I feel like you’re avoiding the conversation.”

John’s tea mug pauses just before reaching his lips. “Avoiding what conversation?”

“About me keeping my last name,” you reply, crossing your arms

John sighs and places the mug on the counter. “You can do what you want.”

“Does it not upset you?” you ask cautiously.

“Not upset, love,” he says softly. “You’re a grown woman. I’ll respect what you want.”

You step up to him, one hand pressed to his waist. “Sure about that?”

John leans forward, stealing a kiss. “I’m more than sure, love.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“I don’t want to change my last name, Simon. It’s…special to me.”

Simon stands stoic and calm. He understands. Names are important. They carry memory. Sometimes good ones. Sometimes bad.

“That’s your choice,” replies Simon slowly.

“You’re not upset?”

“I’ll respect whatever you decide.”

Your sigh of relief is soft and calming. This has been a burden for you.

“What if I take your last name?”

You frown. “What?”

Simon repeats the question.

“You want that?”

“I do,” answers Simon firmly.

Names are important. Names carry memory.

Riley is Simon’s father's name. It would be a relief to shed it.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“How do you feel about a compromise?” Kyle asks softly. “Instead of us keeping our last names.”

It’s a conversation the two of you have had repeatedly after saying “I do.” You want to keep your last name, and while Kyle respects it, you sense he’s not entirely happy about it.

“A compromise? What are you thinking?”

“Hyphenate them.”

“Really?” you laugh.

“Yeah,” he grins. “My name first or yours. Doesn’t matter. A bit of both of us.”

You rest your head against his shoulder. “I can see it.”

“Be the same for our kids.”

“I like it,” you reply.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@sapphichotmess @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@haven-1307 @voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000

@littlemisscriesherselftosleep @statixx-x @umno-yeah @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @kadeeesworld @iloveslasher @sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky

@suhmie @jaggersinclair @jackrabbitem @lxblm @beebeechaos

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@pearljamislife @ash-tarte @eternallyvenus @spookyscaryspoon @vrb8im

[tacticaldiary]

A Fighting Chance

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

Part 2, Masterlist,

"What're those?"

"Papers."

Ghost pauses halfway through opening the document, glancing up at the curtness of her voice. "Papers? She doesn't meet his eyes, gaze fixed on the table of the little booth they're sitting in.

The ice in her drink is long gone, watering down her coffee into something that tastes as bitter as her heart.

It had taken months for her to finally make this decision. Days of talking with her lawyer, crying alone at night and coming to the gruelling acceptance that this was for the best. It was best for both of them.

There's not many things that unsettle Simon. He's had blood stain his hands; his own, his comrades, and his enemies. Had almost any injury you could think of marring his skin, been prodded and ripped into, been the one on the opposite end of the knife.

But as he slides out the documents, turns them over, Simon's never felt more apprehensive.

He stills, reading the first few lines, clenching his jaw. "What is this?"

"I want a divorce."

And something in him crumbles at her defeated tone. Like she's already decided. Like he doesn't even have a chance to ask why or talk it through.

"No." He says tightly, putting them down and crossing his arms.

Her gaze shoots to his. "You can't just say that."

"I did. I won't sign them."

"I want this." She argues, and Simon swallows back the lump in his throat at how utterly tired she looks.

"I don't."

She's the light of his life, the one good, untouched piece of joy he gets to see. Something other than the bloodshed and violence he lives in.

"Simon," She says, shoulders sagging forward. "I can't do this anymore."

"This isn't the solution, love." He feels like his skin is crawling, the beginnings of unfamiliar panic clawing at his chest when she doesn't react to the pet name.

Doesn't smile, doesn't flush that beautiful red, doesn't squirm.

When she doesn't respond again, tight-lipped and clammed up and so determined to not look at him, he asks the question burning a hole through his tongue.

"Why?"

Deep down he knows. Knew this was coming but that part of him is buried under the thudding of his heart, and the rush of blood in his ears. Everything feels deathly still and moving too fast at the same time.

"Why?" She repeats, something in her stirring at the question. Her brow furrows and she switches from a cautious indifference to disbelief and frustration quicker than Simon can process. "Are you serious?" She huffs out an incredulous laugh. "You're away for months at a time and I'm supposed to what? Wait for you at our doorstep and wag my tail all happy when you finally come back to me?" Her grip tightens on her drink.

"Even when you are home, it's never about us. Never about me and you. You lock yourself in your study with your work, don't talk to me unless you come out for dinner or lunch. When was the last time we went out?" She demands. "When was the last time we went on a date? The last time we slept at the same time in the same bed?"

Simon clenches his jaw but says nothing, at a loss for words. It only encourages her to keep going, spewing thoughts that have been boiling over for the past few years.

"You barely look at me when we're home, I had to drag you out of the house to get here! You left halfway through our anniversary dinner last year because work called you in. Sometimes...sometimes I feel like you're only with me because it's easier than leaving and starting over, and that fucking hurts. It hurts when you can't bear to spend five minutes with me away from work. I've been telling you this for ages but you just...you don't listen to me." She leans forward, drink completely forgotten and hits the final nail in the coffin.

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

"I never even know if you're coming home to me." Her voice cracks, and she hugs her middle, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "So yes, Simon, I want to separate. I'm not happy, not like I was when I met you." A sheen of tears she refuses to let fall.

"You can focus on work like you love to, and I can...I can move on."

It was so good when they started out. She found him endearing, dry humour and brooding and all. It was special, those first few years, and she'll always care about him but this...this waiting, this hurting, laying in bed at night alone and cold and crying...it wasn't right. It wasn't what she wanted and she wouldn't force Simon to want it when he clearly didn't want to.

"Fucking hell, I love you." Simon says quickly, stumbling over what to say. He reaches out for her hand on the table, but she pulls it away before he can grab it. It stings more than he can convey, makes the reality crashes down onto him.

He's about to lose her.

Because he couldn't fucking bear to pull himself out of being 'Ghost'.

It was always a rough couple of weeks during his leave. The adjustment to civilian life was a slow one for him, but that's not really an excuse at all.

"I don't think you do."

Simon blinks at her like she's slapped him. "You...you don't think so?" He repeats, running a hand through his hair. She nods, one nod, quick and so sure that it makes his chest ache.

Fuck. He's absolutely messed up.

"Everything's finalised on my end." She says. "You just need to sign them." Her voice is soft, almost like she's coaxing him.

If there's one thing he knows, it's that he's not touching those fucking papers. He's not losing someone he loves again.

"I'll take time off." He says, the intensity of his gaze makes a shiver run down her spine. "We can work through it, yeah? You can't spring this on me and not give me a chance to protest."

She shakes her head, "You're only taking time off because I'm upset." She tries to explain. "What do you think is going to happen? We spend a month together doing what we used to, and when everything's a little more stable you leave again. Distance yourself. Shut me out. Then we're back to square one."

"Won't happen." He says like he hasn't been doing it for the past few years already. "You...I can't lose you, darling." He leans forward. "Let me make it better. Give me a few months-"

"Simon-"

"A week."

"A week?" Her eyes widen. "A week to...what, prove that you'll change?"

"One week."

She worries her lip between her teeth, considering. One week wasn't a long time, but hope was dangerous in a situation like this.

"I'm not letting you go over something like this." Simon says. "I can't."

"This isn't about you." She crosses her arms. "You really think you can turn just...reverse the past few years in a week?" Maybe it's foolish of her to want him to say yes, to fight for her and realise that she's been hurting, but goddamn doesn't a small part of her scream at him to do it anyway.

"Not trying to reverse it." He folds his arms, and she can see the tense line of his shoulders as he takes in the situation, gears turning in his head as he plans how he's going to work his way out of a situation so precious and daunting as this.

Part of him didn't think it would ever come to this. Yes, he can be cold and aloof but Simon thought she knew that he loved her through it all. No matter what.

When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?

Fuck if that doesn't tear through his chest more painfully than any caliber bullet ever could.

He takes her in quietly for a moment.

The woman he fell in love with. The person that gave him a reason to keep going, a motive to feel anything other than the cold efficientness of loading a gun and firing. Soft touches and warm smiles, something so at odds with the rough life he's used to.

Sitting there in front of him, she looks more beautiful than he remembers, and it only proves to make his stomach sink like a stone at the notion of seeding any doubt about his feelings in her heart.

A right fucking bastard he was for it.

"I'm sorry." He breathes out, much softer than the gruff voice he's been using with her. "I'll do better. Just give me a chance, yeah?"

For one horrible moment, Simon thinks she'll decline. That she'll slide over the papers again and demand he sign them.

But she considers his words for a moment before nodding once.

And it's all he needs.

A fighting chance.

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Part 2

(11/10/2023)

[shotmrmiller]

Multiverse part 3

You sat in a small room on a padded chair, with equipment set up around your arm, chest, and fingertips. A polygraph test. That's what you were being forced to take. And to your chagrin, Ghost is in the room with you and Captain Price.

"Try to relax, yeah?" Price commented. He must've noticed your restless leg.

"I'll do that, shall I? I've done nothing wrong, other than exist and I'm being interrogated. Because that's what this is— an interrogation." You finally turn your attention from Ghost to look at Price, who's sitting at the desk by your side. "Tell me, Captain. Did you get this same treatment when you came back after spending all that time locked up in the gulag?"

His dark eyebrows furrow in confusion. A sigh escapes your bitten lips. That's only in your...world, for lack of a better term. Dimension? Universe?

"I haven't been to the gulag here." Yeah, obviously.

With an impatient wave of the hand that doesn't have cables strapped to it, you mutter, "Let's get on with this circus act, then. Ask your questions."

Ghost steps forward, his arms unfolding as if he's about to speak to you, but Price swiftly intervenes, halting him with a raised hand.

"Alright then. Baseline questions first. Name." Ghost gives away nothing when you say your last name is Riley.

It goes like this for a few, then he switches to the control questions, until finally moving on to the relevant ones.

"How did you get here?" I don't know.

"Do you know why you're here?" No.

He pulls up a photograph. "Recognize him?" Captain MacTavish.

Another photo. "Him?" I don't know.

"What do you mean by that?" If that's Roach, I've never seen his face unmasked.

"You're sure you don't know him?" Unless that man's name is Gary Sanderson, no. I do not know him.

Price acknowledges your response with a nod, then shifts his gaze towards Ghost, whose head slightly tilts forward. Returning his attention to you, he retrieves a final photograph. "What about him?"

As you look at the picture, your eyes begin to well with tears, lip trembling violently. A new fracture reverberated through your tender heart, intensifying the ache in your chest. Yes.

"Who is he?" Price softly asks.

"That's my Simon," your voice broke on the last syllable. It was hard to not use a possessive adjective when the face of your husband was in that picture.

Blinking the tears away, you clear your throat. "Anything else, Captain?"

Price purses his lips under his hefty facial hair and responds, "Just a few more questions."

Once finished, you sat unabashedly staring at Ghost in the tiny room. "I wear Roach's tags alongside yours, in honor. He was with you until the very end, and for that, I couldn't be more grateful."

Ghost is completely silent, but you continue talking anyway. "I've been married to you since a bit after you came home on leave that one time. You know the one."

His eyes are emotionless, blank, as he stares at you. But you know him like the back of your hand. You've got his full attention.

"I accompanied you to your brother's wedding. He married a woman, Beth. She was good for him. They had a baby, your nephew, named Joseph. The love you had for him was one of a kind. I had told you later that evening that I dreamed of the day you'd look at our children like that."

With a shuddery breath, you tell him how none of those matters. Because your husband is dead, and you're stuck here. With his counterpart that hates you.

With a hushed click, the door closes shut behind him as he leaves, yet its resounding noise fills the compact room you're in.

You begin to fidget with the sizeable ring that hangs on a thin necklace beneath your shirt— the metal is warm under your touch as if it had never gone cold in the first place.

As if Simon had never taken it off his finger to go find Makarov.

ah theyre short but hurt. much pain.

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[thebeesatemyknees]

141 as ex-husbands

Some ex-husband (ooc) Simon Ghost Riley, John Price, Kyle Gaz Garrick and Johnny Soap MacTavish x reader headcanons.

Word count: 860 || No warnings (let me know if any). || Reader: gender neutral. Pronouns: "you"

Note: In all four scenarios, you got divorced for fairly harmless reasons. You were getting along, you loved each other, there was no fighting. But perhaps you realised that you both have different hopes for the future. Maybe you got sick of waiting for him, missing him, of worrying if he's gonna come home alive and in one piece. Maybe he didn't realise how lonely you felt beside him.

Ex-husband Simon Riley, who still thinks of you as "his", but not in a possessive way. You're still his person, his family. He still would do anything for you and wouldn't even give it a second thought. 

You need help assembling new furniture? He can come by after work. Need a ride to the doctor's appointment? He needed to run some errands anyway, it's not a big deal. Anything happens while he's deployed? You can call his base and he'll contact you as soon as possible.

And he doesn't expect anything back. How could he? He's gonna do anything for you because that's what you're supposed to do for your people. And he'll give you your space, keep it clean between you. You wanted a divorce and he respects that, doing his best not to overstep any boundaries. He's mindful of the things he says, keeps his hands away from you. A respectful distance.

But God, does he miss you. If you showed the slightest interest in getting back together, he would agree immediately, going back to what you two had, as if the divorce never happened. 

Ex-husband John Price, who kinda forgets that you're not married anymore. Similar to Simon, John still thinks of you as his and would do anything for you without expecting anything back. 

But you often have to remind him that he's overstepping. "Darling" or "love" casually added to his sentences. Hands gently holding your shoulders or hips while he directs you to move to a different spot. He doesn't do it on purpose. The last thing he'd want is to disrespect your boundaries or make you uncomfortable. But keeping you close just comes so naturally to him.

He apologises quietly when you reprimand him, pulling his hands away and restating what he said without the pet name this time.

He wouldn't beg you to give him another chance. He's got enough respect, towards you and himself, to not be dramatic, to not make it messy. But he has a hard time accepting this new reality.

Ex-husband Kyle Garrick, who subconsciously goes back to courting you, as if your marriage never happened and all of it was still ahead of you. 

He's more distant, doesn't initiate touches, doesn't use pet names anymore. And at first you think it's because that's just how break-ups work, because he'd moved on. But it all seems to be caused by him suddenly becoming almost shy around you. 

He sends you messages from time to time, checking if you're doing alright. He asks you out for coffee, just to catch up. You ended things on good terms, so there's no harm in it, right? And you can see him trying to act casually about it. He brings you one singular flower he picked on his way to the café. Cuz you like them, don't you? It's not a big deal, he saw it and put it in the pocket of his jacket. So casual. Then, your conversation stays on a purely platonic path. Well, except for a few compliments and pick up lines he throws your way. But that's what friends do! And if you don't let him drive you home, he asks you to at least text him to let him know you got back safely.

If you confront him about his behaviour, he gets quiet. His jaw twitches, a shameful look fills his eyes as he looks away, unable to fully face you. He doesn't feel like he's in the position to defend himself, to argue. He's guilty. He wants you back for himself. And he so badly regrets letting you go without trying harder to fix things.

Ex-husband Johnny MacTavish, who becomes bitter towards the whole world. He's not happy about losing you and he's straightforward about it. He's hurt, filled with regrets, he's angry - but not directly at you. He understands and respects your wishes, but he's just so angry with himself. Angry that he didn't notice where your marriage was going, that he didn't change his ways, that he assumed that you're his and therefore he's got a lot of time to slowly fix things. Angry that he didn't do enough. 

He wouldn't hide his emotions. He wouldn't get shy,  wouldn't just quietly yearn for you. 

He keeps his hands to himself, making sure he doesn't make you uncomfortable and that you still feel safe around him. But he continuously asks you for another chance. He knows better now. He can be better. Just give him a chance. Or at least let him do this or that for you. And don't act as if him helping you is weird! He's yours, nothing will change that. He promised he'd be there in sickness and in health, and he meant it. No matter how much your life-paths split. So stop pushing him away and just let him help. He'll stop asking you for a second chance, but at least let him be there for you.

He aggressively offers himself to you. Getting upset and moody if you act as if he was more akin to a stranger rather than someone who belonged, body and soul, to you.

[codnasties]

bull rider!ghost 👻

having an uni bestie that's from a small rural town as someone who was born and raised in a city has it's perks, like getting to experience things you had never experienced before. and i'm talking about going to a rodeo.

crowd roaring as a new rider sat on an angry bull and got tossed into the air as the animal bucked fiercely. the first few wild dudes that you had seen were interesting. you know, the attraction of something new that you had never really seen before. but after a handful of them it started getting a bit boring, but your friend was cheering on so loudly and seemingly enjoying that so much it would probably be rude to tell them that you weren't having so much fun.

trying to find some kind of entertainment, you told your friend you were going to go and get a drink, because at this moment a beer looked like it would bring you some semblance of entertainment.

but you were wrong, because as you make your way back to the rodeo grounds, your eye caught a rider that was different. he had a commanding and charming aura to him, something that impelled you to look at him. well, maybe it was more that just the way he carried himself.

it was the way those jeans seemed to hug those thick thighs of his, how, with the help of the chaps he was wearing, they left little to imagination, giving you a perfect view of his ass. and oh what an ass! and his shirt... the way his strong and built muscle seemed to flex and ripple with each movement that he made.

when you finally made it back to where your friend was sitting - which took you longer than the way to the bar because of adoring such a man -, this mysterious dude was now on the chute, lowering himself onto one hell of an angry bull.

while the rest of the riders had caught your eye, there was nothing but anticipation inside of you to see him try to tame that ton and a half bull. and he did not disappoint, the beast beneath him bucking trying to get him of.

it wasn't just the way he has holding on or how long those eight seconds seemed to last when it was him on the arena. it was the way his hips swayed trying to follow the bulls movements, the way the bicep of the arm he was using to hold on became impossibly bigger with the tension, the veins that were proptinding on the hand he had up in the air, the glimpse of tattoos on his forearm as the sleeve of his shirt got pulled by his muscles.

before you ever realised, the buzzer had sounded, indicating that the time necessary was over and that he could now get off the bull. and when he did, you became even more intrigued by him and how fucking tall he looked and how he, amazingly, had managed to keep the hat he was wearing on his head the whole time.

seeing how entranced you were by this one specific rider, your friend immediately gave you that information that you were unknowingly desperate to know. "his name is simon riley, but they call him ghost"

"ghost?", you asked them back.

"yup, because of the way he rides, breaks records and then fucking vanishes. the public doesn't really know much about him or his personal life. and it's also a know fact that is hard to even get to meet him and talk to him" they explained. "oh, an also he ghost every single person that he fucks'

"hmm interesting", you hummed, starting to get into your head that as much as this 'ghost' seemed attractive and got you horny just from looking at him, he was quite unreachable and maybe a bit of an asshole.

"yeah, the man's a beast at what he does", they exclaimed, cutting your thought process.

"i can see, you don't need me to tell me twice", you uttered back.

"and he's actually a cousin of mine! let me introduce you to him'" they gave you further explanation.

you couldn't help the immediate 'oh' that left you. because you actually had a chance to talk to this man an maybe, maybe try to cham your way into those tight jeans of his. because an asshole has his charm, you know?

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

hope y'all enjoyed that, i just pulled this out of my pussy.

no smut just pure hornyness. anyways, save a horse ride a cowboy or sum

[shmalk]

141 is filled with alphas, not a single omega in sight. there are a few betas, but they're either low-ranking or transfers that were never going to last.

like you! (beta!reader) who works at reception and takes calls, scans badges and is the first point of contact for the task force.

none of them know your name, none of them even speak to you - maybe price, when you transfer a call to him, he'll mumble a thank you. or even laswell, when you bring her a coffee.

it's nothing, really, you don't mind.

only, one day, a totally normal friday, you've done the exact same style in your hair you always have, and you're wearing more clothes than you were yesterday.

price wants a coffee, sure- you make it, just the way he likes, and head towards his office. you knock, and wait a few seconds until you hear 'come in.'

the office is silent, it usually is - but this time there's more than just price inside.

they're finishing up just as you enter, soap and gaz sitting in front of the desk whilst ghost leant against the back wall.

"my apologies, captain." your voice isn't exactly quiet - why should it be, you've done nothing wrong, but its still respectful. price just nods as you place the cup down on his desk.

"thanks, that's all." he dismisses everyone in the room, and you wait for the boys to file out before you do, soap and gaz both giving you a cheeky smile.

ghost is the one to hold open the door, standing just adjacent to the doorway with his arm sprawled against it. its a heavy door, and you swallow as you pass him.

"thank you," you all but mumble out as you rush past him - straight into the break room.

you can't help but rant about the situation to your roommate whilst you're packing up your things, your phone tucked between your jaw and shoulder.

"i mean- he held the door open for me and i couldn't even look him in the eye to say thank you!" you stress, throwing your bag into your passenger seat before leaning back against your car. "god, all i wan't right now is a plate of sushi and some boba."

"too bad its pizza night, dweeb."

"thats not fair! i could loose my job, i should be allowed to eat my comfort food when im stressed out."

you stress about it over the whole weekend, and when you return back to work on monday you try to act as casual as possible. of course, you don't see ghost - price doesn't order a coffee, and youre break time comes around quicker than you expected.

you had brought- oh, theres- your favourite sushi, and a boba drink sitting where your food was supposed to be. in somewhat messy hand writing, on a small piece of paper, theres your name.

signed ' s. riley. '

i am a sucker for sweet lil moments like this !!

in my head i think that simon would like a beta, or an alpha, but in this lil snippet (which is CERTAINLY getting turned into a fic) he's big and broad and gets worried when he's with alphas because they can't think straight, he tells them what to do and he does it.

but you? you dont react to his scent or chase him down to get him to court you - so, of fource, he courts you. <3

[mrsparrasblog]

I just listened to "My Tears Ricochet" and had an idea.

TW: Angst *laughs in free therapy*

So, imagine the boys need to fake their deaths. How macabre it is that they attend their own funerals, wanting to watch their loved ones. (These are standalone scenarios they don't fake their death together)

Price: You were his wife for all these years, always waiting for him to return. The funny thing was you could clearly remember the last argument before he left.

"Love, just one more tour, and I'm coming back to you. Then we can start a family and all that, but the boys need me."

"It's always the last tour with you. When is it really the last?"

"This time, I promise."

To some extent, he was right. You thought it was his last tour, but it wasn’t fair. You knew it was over when you got the call from General Shepard. Your husband was dead. You lost the love of your life, and all you got were his dog tags and a check large enough to end world hunger. You slapped your friend after she said at least you were financially secure now.

Price watched you from behind a tree. He saw how you clung to his grave, hugging it tightly and lying on it as you always used to with him. Your dress was dirty, and the tears wouldn’t come anymore.

When Laswell and Nik approached you, you screamed at them, blaming them for not protecting your husband. You trusted them, and now you couldn't bear to let anyone else near his grave. John wished he could comfort you, tell you he would come back to protect you, but he couldn’t. Instead, he sent Simon, who endured all your insults, screams, and even a punch to his crooked nose until you were ready to move on.

Kyle: You and Kyle were born on the same day, in the same room, in the same hospital. It was like a movie; he was your best friend since forever, your first everything, and you were his. It was a love like in all those movies. The only thing separating you was the military, but you stayed home waiting for him. Not even war could separate you. Last year, he brought you that ring. You remember lying in bed, cuddling him as he promised you that you were allowed to die first. He knew you wouldn’t survive his death. So he made the silly promise that you would die first. He thought it was the first promise he ever broke to you.

Kyle had to be held back when he saw you crying at his grave. “Guess I’ll find you in the next one, love. Sleep well.”

Ghost: He was never good at love, and he was sure no one would come to his funeral. No one knew "Ghost," and Simon Riley had been buried since 2009. But then he saw you, the cute medic he always tried to push away. He was afraid of hurting you or corrupting you. How could he have known that pushing you away wouldn’t stop you from loving a dead man?

All the conversations came flooding back:

"Here, Lt. I made you red velvet cookies, your favorite."

"You're going to sit down and let me fix that, idiot."

"You're beautiful, Ghost."

"You're enough."

"It's kind of silly to be in love with someone whose name you didn’t even know. I hope you find your peace, big boy." You placed lilies on his grave and left. In that moment, Simon Riley realized he was loved, and he would burn the world down to come back from the dead just to return to you.

Johnny: Contrary to popular belief among the team, Johnny wasn’t a whore. He was a loving husband and father. That was written above "Sergeant" on his grave, at least.

His funeral was crowded with people who wanted to pay their last respects. Most of them were blue-eyed MacTavishes. Then there was you, holding your three-year-old in your arms. He didn’t understand why everyone was crying or why Dad wasn’t there anymore.

Johnny watched you sit at his grave, sighing as you talked to your husband. "James doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he misses you. He wanted me to give him a mohawk. It looks ridiculous, just like you. I know you’re rocking it in heaven. Just please wait for me, okay? Don’t want you to hoe around in heaven," you chuckled, holding back the tears. "You watch us from there, right? Can’t miss the birth of your princess, can you?"

[the-raindeer-king]

You're well aware that your status as the only woman amongst the 141 gets you lots of stares. Plenty of people jeering with jealousy over one thing or another. You've learned to live with it. You've got bigger things to worry about.

But this was definitely a first.

You had been working on some documents, putting together some last minute intel, when your concentration was broken by giggling. Two of the recruits, whose names currently evade your mind, approach where you're sitting, giggling amongst themselves.

“Sargent, we were wondering if you could help us,” one of them, blonde, pipes up.

The other, brunette, giggles again, her cheeks flushed pink. “It's just a quick question, ma'am.”

You stare blankly at them. Don't they have better shit to do than bother you? You let out a loud sigh, annoyed. You certainly have better shit to do than entertain them. But you offer them a tight lipped smile anyway, and reply, “Sure, ask away.”

“How do you get any work done with Sargent MacTavish and Lieutenant Riley around?”

Another blank stare. How do you get work done around Ghost and Soap? You raise an eyebrow, waiting for them to elaborate.

“I mean, MacTavish is so charming -”

“And funny!”

“- and he's so handsome. And the Lieutenant is so mysterious under that mask. And his voice is so…” she trails off, her cheeks darker than before.

All you can think of is this morning, at breakfast, when Ghost forgot to take his mask off and tried to drink his tea, nearly waterboarding himself. And how, in response, Johnny laughed so hard he shot milk from his nose. So, at the moment, charming and mysterious are not words you would use to describe them.

Charming is a word strictly used to describe another member of your team. One with pretty brown eyes that shine like amber in the sunlight. One with a honeyed voice that makes you a little weak in the knees. One that these Privates are not asking about.

You blink, breaking yourself out of your thoughts. There must be a look on your face, because the rookies giggle like they've caught you red handed.

“You'll learn that all men are dogs,” you reply sternly. “No amount of pretty words is worth dying for.”

Hypocrite, you think. You'd throw yourself in the line of fire, if it meant hearing Gaz laugh. You'd dragged yourself out of the pits of hell, just for a chance to see him smile once more. Just to hear him call your name, always so fond when he does.

“Oh my god!” One of the girls squeals. “You've got a crush!”

“Is it MacTavish? Because he's so dreamy!” The other giggles.

Just your luck. These recruits think you've got a crush on the wrong guy, and knowing rookies, the rumor will be halfway through the base before dinner.

“Don't you ladies have better shit to do than bother my Sargent?” Ghost's voice cuts through their incessant questions.

Both girls squeak out a “Yes, Lieutenant,” before they're scrambling away. But you know the damage is done. Everyone's going to think you have a crush on Soap, of all people.

You glance up at Ghost, who's still watching the recruits run off. “So… how much of that did you hear?”

He snorts, something like amusement in his voice as he replies. “Enough, but I know you don't like Johnny. Have'ta be stupid not to see the way you look at Gaz.”

You feel your face immediately heat up. “Hey! It's not that obvious!” You argue, playfully punching Ghost's shoulder.

His eyes crinkle at the sides, your sign that he's smiling under the mask. His shoulders shake with silent laughter. “S’ that what you tell yourself? We've all seen the way you soften up around ‘im.”

You let out a sigh of defeat, knowing damn well there's no point arguing with him. But it's the next thing Ghost says, that makes your eyes widen and your jaw drop.

“He just needs to man up and ask you out. Tired o’ watching you two pine like school kids.”

[thediaryofaghost]

; NOT MY MAN

© gif credits to @daniel-bruehl.

Simon Riley aka GHOST x READER | masterlist.

Summary. the team is back in town after a mission but seems like you would have preferred to stay there than having to face the kind of feelings you're discovering now.

word count: 1.2k.

warnings/tags: none. maybe a little bit of jealousy, but nothing serious.

author notes: my stories don't contain reader’s body descriptions to be inclusive.

pd: hi, y'all! first time writing for Ghost, no judging, please. i hope you like it.

The mission couldn’t have gone more successful, and the whole team was back in town before expected. That’s why Soap has had the great idea of throwing a small party for you all, more like a teammates’ barbecue. But now that you’re there, staring at the scene happening right in front of your eyes and holding a beer almost empty, you’re starting to figure out how to leave the place without looking like an asshole.

All your friends are having fun, while you’re about to break the glass container between your fingers just by the burning angriness emerging inside your guts. Why? Simple question, simple answer. Ghost is there, of course, keeping his face covered by the balaclava he never takes off, not even while sleeping; standing arms crossed next to the new acquisition for the team. Rhaia. A former soldier who is brand new to your world. Flirting with him. Or better said, trying to flirt with him. But even if Ghost isn’t moving an inch of his body, he’s letting her touch his bicep, play with the badges sewed in his jacket, and grab his dog tags to read the information written down in them.

Who does she think she is?

And who do you think you are?

Clicking your tongue, as you turn around, you give the beer one last sip before placing it on the table next to you. Silent and keeping your gesture deadpanned, your feet take you to the inside. You’ve had enough shit to deal with for today and you’re pretty tired to pretend you aren't… jealous? Ghost and you are nothing but teammates. On-duty. Off-duty is hard to explain. He’s your guardian during the nights in town like a protector, that’s how you like to see the situation. For a cop, he’s a stalker, and probably a psychopath too. But he has some power over you that you can’t even explain or run away from.

And now, everything you’ve thought you’ve had till this moment looks like it’s been reduced to ashes since Rhaia is part of the equation.

“ Party is downstairs. ”

A shiver runs down your spine. It doesn't matter the amount of time you two spend together, accompanied or alone, you never hear him coming. But you can't help but ignore his words, looking for the keys to your bike inside the pockets of your leather jacket, about to wear the piece of clothing and leave the house.

“ You going mute scares me more than death. ”

His voice is neutral. There’s no confusion, or angriness, or surprise in it. Those emotions fill you up at the exact moment you turn around, ready to go, by finding him closer than expected. 

“ Oh, for fuck sake! ”  You grumble, moving a palm onto your chest and closing your eyes for a second.

“ Where are ya’ heading at, hm? ”

“ You all are occupied with your own business and I’m tired, I just want to sleep, Ghost. ”

Raising his eyebrows as an incredulous gesture, the man tilts his head slightly, trying to figure out what’s going on inside that mind of yours. It’s not the explanation, but the fact that you have called him by his undercover name, and not just by his name like whenever the two of you are alone.

“ I'll take you home, little bird. C’mon. ”

“ You’re not coming. ” The sentence slips through your mouth before you can even think about it, watching him turn back to face you as he is ready to accompany you.

“ I am your man, of course I’m leaving with you. ” He’s now aware of what’s going on, and can’t help but drag every single word by his tongue. Demanding. With that possessive tone of voice that, in another kind of situation, would take you to your more desired fantasies later that night.

“ If my man can be touched by any woman, then… he’s not my man. ”

Oh, there it is; the attitude that rarely comes out from you, taking a step closer at the point you're breathing in the air he spells — besides the height difference. You’re challenging him with no fear, with no doubt. Looking straight into his eyes, contemplating how they darken themselves. That man is angry for real, making a huge effort to not lose his mind, the control over his body. Not with you. Maybe with a poor devil that crosses paths with him tonight. But you’re hurt. And so it’s your ego. Gho— Simon is yours. Nobody else can't touch him with that kind of intention but you, even when you don’t touch him like that; because the two of you have a non-verbal arrangement that he’s your guard dog and you don’t make any complaints.

Your heart races at the moment he takes a step back, away from you, not uttering a single word, making you feel frustrated for preventing you from seeing his face at this moment. How much would you love to burn down the balaclava he’s wearing (...).  But, at least, it seems like he has understood that you need some time alone to put down the feelings and emotions blurring your head like stormy clouds covering the sun from nowhere.

( A few hours later. )

“ What… What are you doing here? ”

Even if it was quite a surprise to find your lieutenant, fully equipped, sitting in front of your bed in the middle of the night, you didn't feel like he was a menace, nor like you were in danger. You didn't even care to ask how he had sneaked inside your house outwitting the alarm.

“ Go back to sleep, little bird. ” The murmur left his covered lips as he bent over just a little, enough to rest his arms onto his lap, getting a better view of you obeying without complaining and laying down between the sheets.

For a reason you can’t understand, you wake up with your heart racing and a thin layer of sweat covering your whole body. The survivor mode has been turned on. It wasn’t a nightmare, but a memory haunting you. The room is submerged in darkness, only illuminated by a lamppost outside, but what leaves you with no words is the empty chair in front of your eyes. Ghost is not there. And he should be.

Turning on the light, you look for your phone. No calls. No texts. Nothing. Cleaning the sweat from your forehead with a tissue, you toss away the wet sheets and walk barefoot outside of your room, touring the small flat.

“ Simon…? ”

Maybe he has gone for a glass of water or something, but you don’t receive a word back, nor a hint that he’s there. It’s only you and the silence of the night.

A sharp pinch stabs your heart. But what is that? Pain, sorrow, regret? Sadness? For a moment, you think that calling him is a good idea, disappearing as you remember what you told him earlier this evening. Has he taken that really seriously? No. That’s not typical of him. He would fight. And, for you, he would go to hell and be back before the blink of an eye, after turning off the flames that consume the place.

But then, why is the first night in almost two years he is not there, watching over you while you sleep?

Where are you, Ghost…?

feedback is appreciated and needed. please, if you have read this shot, leave a comment and / or reblog. don’t forget we do it for free to contribute to your entertainment and interactions are what make us keep writing every day.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Super Soft!Simon Riley x reader - You're terrified that Simon's not making safe choices when he's on deployment, so he comforts you. (fluff, allusion to future smut (barely), drunk johnny, cod inaccuracies)

Johnny recounts the tale of their hard-earned achievement—a victory, as they have deemed it—with a number of beers in his system that you’ve long stopped counting. As he sits at your kitchen table, he is looser, giddier, freer with his words, and spares no detail of your boyfriend’s selfless acts of bravery during their last deployment. Acts that got him shot at; one of those bullets finding their home.

You’d be proud of him, if not for the fear that built up over months from recurring nightmares and an overactive imagination—all of which had you losing the love of your life. But that’s not out of character. You think about yourself, you think about your boyfriend, before you think about the lives he saves when he’s away from you. Maybe it’s wrong, or unfair, but you can’t help it.

While Simon’s work is not something he ever kept secret, you don’t need the reminder that the preservation of his life is not always his priority. It can't be. There are other factors that dictate his future. He has a team, people who depend on him. He has responsibilities and orders to follow. Control is often snatched from his fingertips. And so, what does that mean for the two of you? 

You don’t care to think about it. Not tonight. Not at midnight from a friend who should have passed out on your couch hours ago. So you stretch, yawn, and excuse yourself for bed before your brain implodes from any more of Johnny’s ramblings.

Simon knows. He spent the night squeezing your hip each time you tensed in his lap at Johnny’s words, and now, as you stand to head to the bedroom, he holds onto your hand until your fingers slip from his. Deep brown eyes are filled with guilt and apology and all you can offer in return is a slight upturn of the lips that barely qualifies as a smile.

Away from the men, you cry in your and Simon’s shared bed, waiting for him to encourage Johnny to the couch. There's a few more loud laughs, a whine when Simon cuts off his friend's alcohol supply, and then a final groan of acceptance as you hear the springs of your couch squeak under the weight of a muscled body. It’s only when the animated snores of your drunk friend reach your ears that the door to your room creaks on its hinges.

Simon’s footsteps are thumps muffled by carpeting. From your peripherals you see him shed his clothes as he moves to you. Shoes, then t-shirt, then jeans, until he's in his underwear and settling onto the mattress behind you. 

His arm slips under yours around your waist and he tugs your back to his chest, into the cocoon of warmth. 

“Do you know what I thought when I first saw you?” he asks, gruff and thick. His voice rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your spine as his breath brushes your ear. “That my life is over.

“Everything I want, everything I need��none of it matters anymore. All because of one look at a woman who was too busy with her friends to notice me,” he says. “I thought, I'm ruined now. If you leave this bar right this second, I won't be able to forget you. And if you don't leave, I can't ever let you go. I didn't know your name and you had me ready to change my whole world for you.”

You sniffle but don't bother to wipe away the tear that escapes. “That's insane, Si,” you whisper.

“It is,” he agrees, pressing a kiss just under your ear. “But it happened. I let you in and you latched on to my entire existence like this beautiful, little parasite. Just like I wanted you to. My life ended and it became our life. 

“I don't take a single step without considering you. Not here and not there. So if you think I don't try to be careful when I'm gone, you're wrong,” he tells you. “I try for you. I try for us.”

Yet, ‘trying’ means he still gets injured; he gets another circular scar to add to the healed knife slashes and the burned patch on his upper arm. ‘Trying’ is not always about picking the safer of two options, but about optimizing luck, which is rare enough as it is. And that terrifies you.

“What if you step wrong not knowing that it's wrong?” you ask. “What if you think it's right and then you're gone? You can't tell me that will never happen.”

Simon sighs. “No, I can't. But you trust me, don't you?”

Turning in his arms—your nose nearly nudging his—you place your hand on his cheek and run your thumb along his cheekbone. “Of course I do.”

“Then don't mourn me while I'm still here, love,” he breathes against your lips. “Can you do that for me?”

You nod, because you’d do anything for him. 

“Good girl.” Simon smiles lightly and slides his palm from your back down the length of your arm. He squeezes your fingers, then moves further, tucking his hand into the front of your underwear. “My girl,” he whispers and presses his lips to yours.

A/N: i dont usually write different stuff but i felt like it so i did

[disgustingtwitches]

MDNI

"I want you to destroy me so I'll feel better"

Convincing Simon "Ghost" Riley to try something new. Well...not new for either of you, but a first for your relationship.

CW: name calling, degradation, violent choking (all consensual)

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT

"You like what?"

Simon stands in front of you, hands in his hoodie pocket.

"I like being choked...until I pass out."

You repeat slowly. You know it was fucked up. You know it was bad. Everytime you did it you could feel your braincells dying. You sit on your hands at the edge of the bed. There's a moment of silence as he stares down at you.

"No."

He gives you that signature cold look of his: reserved for when you're in an argument you can't win. Or one he doesn't want you to win. 'You know this is useless. Give up. Quit while you're ahead.' It's like his voice was in your head.

"Are you afraid you're gonna hurt me?"

You always get your way at the end of the day. You knew it. He knew it.

"It's a stupid idea. Best to get that out of your head. Now."

He adjusts his mask before walking off.

"Please?"

You hug him from behind while he cooks eggs.

"No."

"Please?"

You wrap your arms his neck and lie on top of him while watching TV.

"No. Stop asking."

"Please?"

You're in bed when he goes to turn off the lights.

"..."

He resorts to ignoring you. You're getting closer to cracking him.

It goes on like this for two weeks. Usually he gives in by now, but you're making progress. Instead of engaging, he just leaves the room now.

"How did you even find out you liked that?"

He doesn't look at you while he spoons cereal into his mouth, mask rolled up just enough.

"I think it's something about an abusive ex choking me."

You take a bite of your cereal.

"Something about 'reclaiming your power after past traumas'. At least that's what my therapist said. Not sure if I believe that, but I can't think of any other reason I like it."

You shrug as you chew.

"Hm."

He keeps eating.

Breakfast is silent after that. You always get your way at the end of the day. You knew it. He knew it.

"Can't believe I'm doing this..."

He mumbles, kneeling over you while you lie on the floor.

"C'mon you've done this dozens of times."

You smile up at him.

"That's different and you know that."

He looks down at you, slightly disappointed.

"Sorry."

"It's fine..."

It's quiet. He shifts and the floorboards creak.

"So just until I pass out, then you can stop. I'll wake right up after."

You rub your hands on his knees.

"Mhm. Tap out whenever you want."

His gaze is intense, like he was fighting with himself. He places a hand on your neck gently.

"Can you be a little mean?"

Your heart races.

"Fucks sake, choking ain't enough for you?"

He wraps the other hand around your throat lightly.

"Would it be fucked up if I fought back?"

You flash a cheeky smirk.

"Don't do that."

He rubs his thumbs against your skin.

"Ok. Ready."

You take a deep breath and relax. He clears his throat and puts some pressure on your neck. You nod, looking up at him.

"Hm."

He applies more pressure until you can barely breathe. You take shallow breaths and close your eyes. His grip gets tighter. You can't inhale. You shift your hips under his.

"Don't. Move."

His words send a chill up your spine. He never used this tone with you before. It was terrifying. You try to swallow nervously. The last few exhales you have leave your lungs.

"Look at me."

You keep your eyes closed, a few rough taps to your face snap them open. His eyes are glossed over and dark, a frenzied shark. You find it in your chest to whimper.

"Shut the fuck up."

His hands wrap around you harder. It's starting to hurt. You lift your hands to grab his wrists. He gives a solid shake, banging your head on the floor and making you see stars. He leans down, pressing his masked mouth to your ear.

"Told you. Don't. Move."

Your lips opened and closed like a fish out of water. Swallowing became impossible. Your eyes watered, you could feel Simon's hands shaking. Then, darkness. It's quiet, peaceful, only lasts less than a second. And just like that, you're conscious. A delicious head rush and breath of fresh air leaves a goofy smile on your face.

"Unbelievable..."

Simon shakes his head, leans back on his knees, and huffs. You stare at the ceiling for a moment, catching your breath. Simon scoots back and you watch as he adjusts himself.

"Have fun?"

You tease. Before you can rag on him more, he yanks both your bottoms off and sits you right on his hard dick.

"Fuckin hell. You really do like that shit, huh?"

He grips your ass and glides you up and down as your dripping wetness clamps down on him. You're already drooling from the sensation of him parting you wide open so easily. You always get your way at the end of the day. You knew it. He knew it.

[lunarmothim]

safehouse - simon riley x reader.

You don't need to know how to read him to understand what you're seeing in his eyes, the dark edge of want that makes your breath catch in your throat. He must see it in yours too because he takes all of two seconds to roll his mask up to his nose, dipping his head to kiss you.

word count: 1.6k tags/warnings: smut my dudes. barely foreplay, just a quick crack of the pressure valve. afab reader. piv, brief oral (m receiving).

The safehouse is quiet. Dark and cold, the air conditioning unexpected after the wet, swampy humidity of the air outside. You won't complain, anywhere to lay your head and all. It's better than nothing.

"Exfil is twelve hours out," Ghost tells you, his voice a low growl as he drops his pack on the threadbare couch.

"Okay," you reply simply, dropping your own pack on the tiny kitchen island, digging out a couple of MREs. You toss one to him before hopping up to sit on the counter, ripping the package open with your teeth. Your canteen thuds onto the laminate beside you, half-empty. The first bite of the meal- chicken and dumplings, you think- is about as awful as you'd expected, and you can't help but make a face. You'll eat it anyway, but you won't enjoy it. You wonder what you'd given him.

Your eyes track over him, searching for injuries now that you have half a second to breathe. "You broken?"

"Solid," he answers, dropping onto the couch next to his pack. He doesn't look up at you, entirely focused on the brown packaging of the MRE you'd thrown his way. "You?"

"Solid," you echo, taking another bite. You hadn't been so sure there for a minute- things had gone tits up not long after you'd landed, your stealth infil clearly not as stealthy as you'd planned for. But you'd come out of it in one piece, mostly. Surprisingly. "They knew we were coming."

"They did." The empty package crackles slightly when he crumples it in one fist, eyes searching the room for a trash can. You almost envy him for the way he can inhale an MRE, like the taste of them doesn't bother him. "Problem for another day. We'll get outta here, regroup. Go from there."

"Hate this." You can't help the way your voice cracks slightly on the words, looking down into the package still in your hands. You don't feel so hungry anymore. "Konni always seems to be one step ahead of us. Like they're mockin' us."

"They are." Ghost says it so simply it makes you feel sick. You reach behind you to drop your MRE packet into the sink, unable to stomach it anymore. You hear his body shift, the creak of the floorboards followed by heavy footsteps, purposefully loud. He stops in front of you, and you inhale sharply when his gloved knuckles nudge under your jaw, tipping your head back until you meet his eyes. "We'll get 'em anyway."

"You sound so sure about that," you breathe, staring up at him. His eyes are dark, unreadable. As someone who wears your heart on your sleeve, you almost envy that about him. His ability to keep it close, to compartmentalize. "We haven't yet."

"But we will." His hand shifts, fingers curling around your jaw. His hold is loose, his eyes boring into yours. Calm. Sure. He sighs, and your eyes close when he tilts forward, resting his forehead against yours. It's the last thing you're expecting, but it feels nice. "We have to. Too much at stake if we don't."

"I know." Your hand curls around his wrist, fingers shaking. It's as close as either of you can get to a promise that everything will be okay.

You stay there like that for a long minute, just breathing each other in. Quiet reassurance. It's not enough, but it'll do for now.

He murmurs your name under his breath, fingers flexing around your jaw, and you open your eyes to meet his. He's staring right back at you, so close you can't tell if it's your heartbeat or his you can hear pounding in your ears. The edge of his skull plate digs into your forehead, indenting the bridge of your nose.

You don't need to know how to read him to understand what you're seeing in his eyes, the dark edge of want that makes your breath catch in your throat. He must see it in yours too because he takes all of two seconds to roll his mask up to his nose, dipping his head to kiss you.

He clearly didn't think it through, though, the skull sewn to the balaclava bumping awkwardly into your nose.

"Fuckin' hell," he mutters, voice a low growl of annoyance that has you giggling. He reaches up, ripping the mask off his head without a second thought before coming back in to kiss you again. You don't expect it, but he doesn't give you a chance to think about it- not when he's singularly focused on yanking your tac pants down your legs, leaving them dangling around one ankle. Your left boot is gone, chucked somewhere across the room, and you can't help a gasp when he practically scruffs you, keeping your head exactly where he wants it while he devours your mouth.

If it's meant to distract you from his hand between your thighs he's not doing a very good job. You're very focused on his fingers, the perfunctory way they drag through slick folds, the barest hint of his thumb teasing against your clit. It's a promise of exactly what this is going to be- something quick and rough, a pressure valve in desperate need of cracking, driven by adrenaline and pent up energy. He's not going to take his time with you, he's not going to build you up and drag you over the edge, you might get one orgasm out of this if you're lucky. It's fine is a surprising thought to have, but you need this just as badly as he does, if you're honest, and if quick and dirty is all he's gonna give you, you'll take it without complaint.

You groan into his mouth, low and filthy, when his first finger slides in to the first knuckle, bucking into his hand. The second has you keening, thick and scissoring you apart in a way that has you wondering just what it is he's packing- it's still not much but it's more preparation than you're used to, thick digits working you open. He grunts at the sting of your teeth sinking into his neck, fingers crooking in a way that has your eyes rolling back, the fingers of his free hand tattooing his prints into your hip.

"That's it," he hisses into your throat, dragging a soft gasp out of you when he pulls his hand away, lining himself up at your entrance. His fingers press wet into your thigh, slick with your arousal, and you choke at the first prod of him, thick and hard and endless. "Good girl, good fuckin' girl-"

When he bottoms out you're sure you've died. That's the only explanation for how you feel right now, split open and so fuckin' full. He's pressed so deep you feel him in your throat, the vibrato of his voice rumbling against your shoulder when you drag your nails down his back. You're not entirely sure God is real but you pray to Her all the same when Ghost draws back and punches right back into you so hard it hurts.

"Fuck," you choke out, voice raw and broken, clutching at him like he's your only lifeline. He groans when your nails dig bloody crescents into his shoulders, a noise you swallow greedily when he finds your mouth again, the taste of tobacco and the MRE heavy on his tongue. You suck his lower lip between your teeth and revel in the way blunted fingernails bite into your ass cheek, dragging you closer. You think you hear the sound of the radio in the background, someone checking in, but you can't bring yourself to care right now, not when Ghost is splitting you in half around him.

"Not gonna last," he growls into your mouth, dragging a raw cry out of you when he drives into your cervix, painful and bruising. His hips stutter when you clench around him in response. "Fuck. Fuck, you feel so fuckin' good-"

"Gonna come for me?" you croak it out between ragged breaths, ruined by the way your voice pitches up. He shudders all the same. Your nails bite into his neck, digging in to the arc of your teeth impressed into his skin. Your eyes meet his, holding his half-lidded gaze, pupils blown wide. "C'mon, want you to come-"

You've barely tipped over yourself before he's ripping away from you. You can't help a startled yelp when he suddenly yanks you down off the counter, your knees slamming into the floor with enough force to bruise. He's quick to silence you with his cock- he doesn't seem to care much when you gag around him, burying himself to release down your throat.

Your palms hit the floor when he releases you, sucking in a ragged breath. You can still taste him, thick and salty, can feel the weight of him on your tongue. You look up at him, hazy through the sheen of tears in your eyes, and the way you see him looking back at you… fuck, you're not expecting that, his vulnerability on full display across his exposed face. Dark eyes peer down into yours, his mouth stretched into a thin line. Every scar is on display, the nose you've imagined buried between your thighs as crooked as you'd expected.

You want more. Fuck, you want more.

You know you won't get it. Not when the radio crackles again and he steps back, the metaphorical mask already back in place even while the physical one still sits on the counter behind you. This had been a one-off, pressure relief.

And you'll just have to be okay with that.

mdni banner by @/cafekitsune line divider by @/gildui

[shotmrmiller]

Situationship into Relationship.

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x AFAB! Reader

TW: disgustingly explicit, p in v, pregnancy talk. Strap in, its a doozy.

Since the first time Simon physically ruined you for other men forever, the both of you spent half of his leave in the bedroom, and the other being the best friends you were. Eventually, you noticed Simon practically moved in with you. Toothbrush next to yours in the bathroom, black balaclavas inside your knickers because Simon is a closet pervert, and thinking back on how he's treated you in the past before this situationship— unsurprising.

Then things went from situationship to a relationship. Simon, in a manner that's all him, didn't even ask. Simon and you had been resting on your couch, book in your lap and feet tucked under his thick thighs, when his cell started ringing. Simon picks up the television remote with one hand to pause the movie and answers his phone with the other.

"Soap."

You glance up from your book to look at him.

"No." a pause.

"No, I don't care that you flew out here to visit," followed by a suck of his teeth and then a deep resigned sigh.

"I'm with my girl. No, you cannot ask what her name is. Now piss off.", and as if nothing happened, Simon just unmutes the television and wraps your foot with his hand. With a secret bashful smile, you look back down at your book.

Now that leads you to now. Simon has to leave to a mission for a possibly yearlong mission— and you knew what you were signing yourself up for— doesn't mean it didn't hurt every time he left.

Raising to your toes you pull him to you in a hug. You feel his arms wrap around your waist tightly and he shoves his unmasked face into your neck.

"I'll miss you," you whisper with a sniffle. He kisses your neck in a comforting manner before he says,

"I'll be back before you know it, sweetheart. You just make sure you're eating well."

He pulls away reluctantly and puts on his balaclava, then looks down at you. A mischievous glint in your eyes has him squinting his eyes at you.

"Maybe the next time, you can leave me with some company."

His eyebrows furrow as he says, "I didn't know you wanted a pet. I could look into—"

"A baby, Simon."

His blue eyes widen, and you can see the outline of his gaping mouth behind his mask. Giggling, you step forward, pressing your side to his and putting your hand on his chest as you— almost painfully— tilt your head up to look at him . He shakes from his stupor and makes eye contact, tossing an arm around you.

"Simon. Did you hear about the accident back at base?"

"No. What happened?"

"If you want the answer, come back home to me."

Nodding he says, "My heart will hold you when my arms cannot."

Your lip trembles in a pout and your eyes mist. Slapping his chest, you say in a shaky tone, "You bastard," and in a much smaller, vulnerable voice, "I love you too."

Simon nods before pressing a kiss to your hairline. He then turns, grabs his bags and leaves.

---

It's been 8 months since Simon left.

8 long months since you hugged him last. You got scarce calls from him, letting you know he was alright before having to cut it short, and for that you were grateful. But you still missed him. Hopefully today you'd get another call from him, you thought as you went to bed.

As you're burrowing in the comforter, you hear the door unlock. Ripping yourself from the bed, you scramble to the living room.

With a breathy tone, you say his name.

Si is back home. Your Simon's back.

He locks the door, drops his bags, and opens his arms wide. Your reaction is immediate and visceral. Launching yourself into his arms, you wrap your legs around his waist and arms around his neck— ripping his mask off, putting both hands on his cheeks and smothering him in kisses.

"If this is the welcome I get for being away for so long, maybe I should do it more often," he jokes.

"Don't you fucking dare. I was miserable without you."

Holding you up with his arms, he pulls his face away from you and asks, "Well? What accident happened at base?"

"Oh. A Humvee ran over a box of popcorn and killed 2 kernels."

He huffs from his nose.

"Good one, love."

Simon finally takes notice of what you're wearing — one of his black shirts and pink knickers underneath.

"I haven't forgotten about your little comment you blindsided me with. You want me to make you a mum? Beg me for it, pretty."

"Oh please, Si. We'd make such pretty little tots. It'd be half of me and half of you— I'd always have a part of you with me, even if you were across the world. I'm also ovulating this week and I'm," you dig your fingernails into his traps, "so irrationally aroused it's not even—"

He cuts you off with his mouth as he kicks off his boots, leaving them scattered by the front door and he's jogging to the bedroom. Throwing you on the bed, he grabs your hips, fingers curling into the waistband of your knickers, and pulls you to the edge of the bed— haphazardly pulling them off and tossing them over his shoulder as he kneels.

Your pussy is already slippery from arousal and the extra hormones in your body, and your face flushes. How embarrassing. Simon notices your expression because he says, "What a pretty little quim my girl's got. All this for me?" he leans in and inhales deeply, "You smell so sweet, love. I have to get a taste."

His long tongue immediately starts drawing languid small circles on your clit, and you're letting your head hang back with a moan before he stops and slaps your thighs with both hands— causing you to raise your head and look.

"You keep those eyes on me and watch what I'm doing to you, pretty."

With a fierce blush, you acquiesce, and he goes back in— eating pussy like it's his job— and you're approaching the end of the cliff at an alarming rate. He squeezes his fingers into the meat, forcing you to keep eye contact— your eyes staring into steel blue as his tongue flicks your swollen clit repeatedly before he lowers, stiffening his tongue and sticking it into your hole— and rubs his nose over your nub. Your thighs start to shake, digging the heels of your feet into his shoulders—and the intensity of his gaze holding your own sends you over the edge.

Toes curling and your feet hooking across the back of his head to pull his face further into your pulsating pussy to ride out your nerve-scraping orgasm. Getting down from your high, limbs loose and like molasses, you rub the only two brain cells you've got at this moment and wonder if you drowned him.

You glance down between your legs and Simon is there with an irritatingly smug grin as his nose shines with your come and drips from his chin.

"Be good for me now, pet. I ain't fuckin' you until you give me one more."

Before you even get to protest, he pacifies you with a, "I know you're painfully sensitive. I promise I'll be gentle."

And he does. He spits on your pussy, and you whimper at the contact before he oh-so softly starts tapping your clit directly with the bottom part of the tip of his tongue in a sharp, but feather-light, staccato rhythm while using the pad of his thumb to rub small delicate circles where your lips split open and you're coming in seconds.

You're drained. Empty of all thought and energy, your vision is hazy when you feel Simon take your foot that was pressing into his shoulder by the ankle and puts it into his mouth — tongue swirling around your toes— and lets out a filthy moan. The sensation of his tongue in between them sends a shiver from the bottom of your spine up to your scalp, body hair standing on end.

Dropping your foot, he gets up with a grunt, yanks off his shirt and undoes his trousers to free himself.

"How do you want me?"

He chuckles darkly and says, "Don't worry your pretty little head, pet. I'll take care of everything— you just lie there and let me take what's mine."

Maneuvering you on your back in the middle of the bed, he brings your legs together before shifting them to your right side, his left, knees bent at a 90° angle—and your upper body is still facing him—when he pushes your legs with one massive hand into the mattress and uses the other to hold himself up, palm digging into the bed by your head.

Simon pushes in, long hefty cock stretching you open in one solid stroke. There's a sting as he forces you open on him, and he's bottoming out with an obscene squelch bit but it's these first few minutes that are you love the most. The first firm strokes that feel so intense, you're pushed to your limits. The lack of time to adjust to him lights your nerve endings on fire, you love it.

In this position, he covers your body completely, like a shield. He's all you see. All you need to see.

Every time his balls are pressed up against your pussy, you feel a burn, deep inside as the tip of his cock presses firmly against your cervix and it forces a groan out of you with every thrust.

Now he's grabbing your arm—hand engulfing your elbow—as he lies down on his back, pulling you to straddle him. He takes his cock in his hand so you can lower yourself on it and you wince at how sensitive you feel, and his tip is barely in.

Simon takes notice, of course, he's always attentive to you and your needs— and he coos at you.

"Deep breath, sweetheart. You're doing perfect," he grunts as half of him disappears into you, " The only one that can take all of me so well." And like a stone dropping into a pond, surface tension giving into the weight, you drop and take the rest of him in your body.

It's too much, you think, but can't help and grind down on him. The pinch in your lower belly is too much but you twist that pain into pleasure— otherwise, Simon will notice and stop. You really don't want him to stop.

Peering up at you through his lashes, Simon takes pleasure in your expression. Lightly tapping your cheek with the pads of his fingers strong enough to jolt your head to the side a bit, but never to hurt you, and says, "Look at that cock-drunk look on your face. Fuckin' hell, I could stare at you all day."

Simon is so large, your knees barely skim the comforter— can't even bounce on his cock properly— that he just takes over. He tells you to flatten your feet on the bed, like you're sitting on your haunches and puts a palm on your chest to lean you back at an intense angle— pulling a loud mewl from your throat.

He raises his legs, knees bending and planting his own feet flat on the bed and shoves his forearms underneath your thighs to grip your ass and lifts you as if you weighed nothing. He lifts you, at the same time lowering his hips to bed, to leave just the tip at your entrance before he yanks you down— his own hips slamming straight up to meet you halfway to fuck you.

He's feeling you squeeze his cock in a tight vice, your moans getting high and whiny— all of your tell tales signs that you're close.

"This," he says with a particularly hard thrust, "is my favorite part." and focuses on making you come on his cock. The sheer strength behind his thrusts sends you careening straight into a blinding orgasm.

You're keening so loud you know the neighbors are going to put in a noise complaint, but you couldn't care less. You've probably had one of the most intense orgasms in a long time, and Simon just fucked you through it without a single stutter in his pace— the only sign you see that he was straining was the sweat dripping down his temple towards his jaw and the rapid intake of breaths coming out of his mouth.

He looks down at where you two are connected and you leaked cream on his happy trail, making it stick together, and he groans at the sight.

Now that you'd come, it was his turn to get his pleasure. And he was gonna take it. He's tossing you up and down like his own personal pocket pussy, and you swear you can feel him trying to open the plug of your womb with the flared head of his cock. His grunts are deep and get louder the closer he gets. It takes him 8 more brutal strokes and he's choking out, "Fuck, I'm gonna come. Fuck, fuck, fuck," and he bites his bottom lip and lets out a whimpered, pathetic wail— something you've never heard before—as he stiffens and grinds into you. You think you can feel his coming moving from the base of his length to the tip where it spurts into you in such a large quantity, it's spilling from in you and dripping down onto him.

Your hands are on his chest, putting all of your weight onto them, as your legs lower back down. Simon, underneath you, removes his arms from under you and straightens them out to where your legs are— grabbing onto your calves.

As he comes down from his high, his gaze clears and intensifies on yours— causing you to blush under the scrutiny of it— and with emphasis says, "I love you. Marry me."

You give a deep sigh. You should've known Simon would be as unorthodox as possible. It's almost like he only lets intrusive thoughts out when around you. Giving your walls a clench, making him hiss, you tell him, "Fine. But you're going to the Mexican restaurant down the street. I've worked up an appetite and they don't do delivery."

Chuckling quietly, he slaps both of your thighs saying, "A'right, love. Let me get dressed."

He gets changed at an alarming pace before leaving. You lie back on the bed, head on the pillow, and close your eyes for a minute before the door opens again. Simon comes back in and heads straight for the bathroom in long strides. After a second, he turns to head back out and you catch a glimpse of something— another obnoxious scrunchy, this time in a lime green, on his wrist. Again. You don't even wear those anymore because you cut your hair off into an asymmetrical pixie. Snorting, you figure that's as close to a wedding band that he's ever gonna wear.

A/N: ill be in the VIP section in hell, popping bottles.

@thychuvaluswife @corvusmorte