howdy

1. borrowing misery from future

2. carrying grief of the past

simon ‘ghost’ riley x f!reader

you tell simon you’re pregnant with his third child.

no warnings | wc 700 | taglist | masterlist

Your third child with Simon: a story told over the phone. On a busy, frantic morning at the barracks, Simon had barely pulled himself a minute to stand aside and return your missed call.

“Everythin’ alright?” His words composed, although every time you phoned he liked to imagine the worst. Stood a good distance from his unit, hand clutching onto the opposite bicep with a habitual frown. “You phoned.” His jaw tight, the heel of his boot digging into the dirt beneath with a stomp.

“Yeah, yeah no, all fine.” You were spitting the words, pacing around your kitchen and haphazardly tidying with the phone snug between your shoulder and ear.

Simon shifted. “So. What is it?” You could hear the loud bustle of masculine laughter from far away on the other line, the uniformed men audibly walking past your husband.

There wasn’t a break between his words and your own, “I’m pregnant again.” You said without much gusto, as if this was routine by the third child and a few scares. “And I um, I don’t know how.” His silence on the line was briefly penetrated by a murmur of his own confusion, the sound of his weight shifting against the dirt beneath him.

“D’you want me to come back?” His dry tone wasn’t met with an answer, the pair of you in silent thought for when this could’ve happened. “I’d need to know, now, ‘cause—“

“No. I don’t need you back.” You cut him off, gaining a grunt of acknowledgment on the other end. “I just wanted to tell you.”

“Do you want it?”

A long sigh came. “Do you?”

hard of hearing!simon riley who comes home and immediately notices the silence. No loud greeting, no mid-rant about your day, no off-key singing. Just you waving at him with a little note that says “lost my voice 🥲”. His stomach drops. Your voice is the one sound he actually wants to hear.

hard of hearing!simon riley who becomes extra protective and attentive. He sits you on the couch and pulls you into his lap, resting his good ear against your chest just to feel the faint vibrations when you try to speak. Even the weak, raspy whispers you manage feel like a gift.

hard of hearing!simon riley who starts carrying around a notepad and your phone everywhere so you can type or write what you want to say. But he still prefers when you try to talk, no matter how scratchy and quiet it is. He’ll lean in close, eyes half-lidded, chasing every little sound you can give him.

hard of hearing!simon riley who gets oddly frustrated by the silence. Not at you — never at you — but at how much he didn’t realize he depended on your constant yapping to feel grounded. The flat feels too much like it did before you.

yapper!girlfriend (temporarily mute) who keeps trying to talk anyway, only for nothing but pathetic little rasps and squeaks to come out. Simon finds it unfairly adorable and infuriating at the same time.

hard of hearing!simon riley who fucks you extra slow that night, face buried in your neck, desperately chasing the faint broken whimpers you can still make. Every tiny raspy moan you manage goes straight to his cock.

hard of hearing!simon riley who growls against your throat, “C’mon, love… give me something. Need to feel you.” He thrusts deep and holds there, grinding against that spot until your voice cracks and you let out the loudest hoarse moan you can manage. It’s enough to make his hips stutter.

hard of hearing!simon riley who puts you on your back, hooks your legs over his shoulders, and eats you out like he’s trying to draw your voice back out. Every time you try to moan his name and it comes out as a wrecked whisper, he sucks harder on your clit, determined to force louder sounds from your damaged throat.

hard of hearing!simon riley who flips you onto all fours and presses his chest flush to your back, mouth right against your good ear so you can hear his low growls clearly. He rails you hard, one hand gripping your jaw, murmuring, “Louder. Try for me.” Your hoarse, broken cries are weaker than usual, but the vibrations against his palm and the way your body shakes make up for it. He cums harder than he has in weeks.

cw. mature content.

Simon never thought he'd love someone's mouth on his cock, ever. Just the thought of being so intimate with someone has him shuddering, sure he doesn't hate it. His past hookups were decent enough, he never went down on them because that wasn't really his thing and he never forced them to do the same either but when a few of them insisted, he gave in. But ofcourse it didn't really get him going.

So when you came along and sink down on your knees for the first time, blinking up at him with those pretty eyes, simon can't help but caress your hair. You unbuckled his cargo, pulling down the zipper as you stared at the prominent bulge straining against his boxers. You eagerly pulled them down, just enough to reveal his massive throbbing cock, "woah.. it's big" you whispered in awe. Your hands gently took the bulge in your palm, feeling it twitch to life in your hold.

He bit back a groan as you rubbed your small thumb on his swollen tip, the bead of precum smearing on your fingers as you let out a giggle and pulled away, bringing the finger to your mouth as you licked it clean, making simon grunt, "Fuck, don' do that luv." But you couldn't help but smirk as you looked up at him and while maintaining eye contact, you pushed his cock down your throat in one go.

Simon couldn't stop the groan that slipped as his large hand gripped your hair tightly, "Fuckin' hell", you choked around him, your spit dribbling past your mouth as you tried to hollow your cheeks but just the sheer girth of it has the inside of your cheeks stretched wide as you gagged. You could barely breath as he quite literally had blocked your windpipe, your hands fisted into simon's jeans as tears burned in your eyes. You pulled back before trying to take more of him but you just couldn't! He was just too big!!

You fully pulled back now, sputtering as you tried to catch your breath but simon groaned in frustration, "Bloody hell!" His hips bucked, chasing your warm mouth, "can't sii, you're so biiig!" You coughed as his tip poked your cheek but simon's hazel eyes looked down at you, wide with new found obsession, "ya can take it." He muttered before gripping your hair and thrusting his cock in.

He let out a grunt, pushing your head deeper onto his cock, not caring if you gagged or cried. Would it be sadistic if he happened to like the sounds you made as you struggled to take his cock down your throat, it did hurt him seeing your poor jaw slacked open as you tried your best to take him but he's make sure to kiss your face better, his poor dovie. Your cheeks sucked on his girthy length while your hands travelled to his heavy balls, squeezing them as he bucked his hips in sudden excessive pleasure.

"Jesus!" Simon's hand gripped your hair as his stomach scrunched and he came right down your throat, making you gag as you pulled back. His cum flowing down the side of your mouth as you coughed, sniffling as tears and snot ran down your face. It was such a mess and honestly as simon stared down at you, there was just hearts missing in his eyes, this had just become his new favourite view. "Ya were amazin', luv."

@masterlist

Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller. 

He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—

Laughter stops him in his tracks. 

Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it. 

And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears. 

“Cute pups,” you say. 

Cute...what? 

You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile. 

“You military?” 

He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip. 

“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”

You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.

Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs. 

And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet. 

You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl. 

Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.

“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”

As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.

And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all. 

(that’s rich, coming from her. if she would have ponied up and kicked mean ol’ richard riley to the curb seventeen years ago, as she should have, he wouldn’t have been around to have an influence on her son.)

but simon doesn’t think he’s any of that, really. he isn’t mean, he isn’t unjust, he doesn’t judge unfairly or go out of his way to make anyone miserable. he gets good grades, looks after his baby brother, works a part time job at the butcher’s. he does the best he can with the cards he’s been dealt, as dismal as they are.

it’s a miracle he that isn’t an addict, a convict, or a corpse by now. all things considered, he’s doing pretty damn well for himself. his mama should be proud.

she’s not, and richard sure as hell isn’t. but tommy thinks he’s pretty much the coolest guy ever (his words, not simon’s), and then there’s you.

you think he’s pretty cool too, though simon knows you’ll never admit it. why else would you subject yourself to his company?

simon doesn’t like people much, but he does like you. luckily for him, you have a soft spot for strays. like the mangy cat you feed everyday, and the impolite, antisocial, surly boy who lives in the flat underneath yours, who comes pawing at your bedroom window whenever richard hits the bottle a little too hard, and buys your affection with less-than trustworthy weed and shitty jokes.

unlike the rest of the world, you don’t mind his apathy, or his temper, or his inability to chit-chat or flirt. you don’t consider him particularly ugly, either, despite what the girls at school whisper when they think he can’t hear them. despite his crooked, stained teeth and his broken nose, his acne-scarred cheeks and choppy haircut. you’d even called him handsome once (you were high as a kite that night, unburdened and uncharacteristically giddy).

you’re his best friend — his only friend, actually. sometimes, you feel like a little more than that, like when you tend to his wounds with the dwindling first aid kit you keep stowed under your bed, and when you hold his hand on the walk to school some mornings, or steal kisses in between hits off a shared blunt, but that’s something that neither of you quite care to address.

this is one of those times where the lines blur (not that they were ever very substantial in the first place). simon, sprawled out on the floor of your bedroom, a two-months expired bag of frozen peas held against his bruised sternum, his eyes half lidded as he watches you roll a joint from your desk chair, your maths textbook acting as a makeshift tray.

it’s just the two of you here tonight — your mom’s rarely home lately, though he doesn’t have the heart to ask where she goes, isn’t totally sure that you’d have an answer if he did, and your ol’ man moved out two summers ago (he was there, in this very same spot, when it went down). he can hear richard stumbling around upstairs, though simon knows no one will come looking for him, not after the beating he took an hour prior. his family all knows to let him lick his wounds in peace.

“my birthday’s comin’ up.” he says abruptly, raspy voice momentarily overcoming michael jackson’s sweet one. it’s unlike him to care about such things, let alone acknowledge them. but this one, it’s special. he turns eighteen in september. it’s the end of a long, grueling sentence.

“yeah?” you don’t look up from your task, the steady beat of your feet tap-tap-tapping on the floor never letting up. you only respond out of courtesy. you know his birthday. you’re oftentimes the one reminding him of its approach.

he’s silent for a moment, thoughtful, almost timid, staring at you with his tongue pressed to his molars. from this angle, you look something like a dream he had when he was still small and scared. like peter-pan come to take him away. the soft glow of the streetlight outside makes your shadow seem bigger than you are — but, then again, you always look that way to him. larger than life. much too great for the shoe-box apartment you’re trapped in.

he waits until the awkwardly-stuffed paper’s between your lips, pink lighter held to its tip, before he speaks again, his heart beating so, so hard that his abused ribs ache in protest. he’s never been nervous to tell you anything, until now.

“m’gonna enlist, i think.”

your eyes, red-tinged and glassy already, dart to his, your feet stilling. he’s stone-cold sober, but his mouth is as dry as the sahara. “yeah?”

it’s gentle, breathy, somewhat taken aback — he doesn’t know what he expected. anger, perhaps. he wouldn’t fault you for it, if you were. you don’t turn eighteen until january. he’ll be gone, and you’ll still be here. he’d be angry, if he was you.

but your temper’s never been nearly as short as his. your feelings are much harder to hurt. you don’t take things personally. he wishes that he was more like you in that way.

“yeah.” the military’s his only escape route. he has no money saved, as it all goes to putting food in tommy’s belly and keeping the lights on, and no family, nor friends, to take him in, and he can’t live under his father’s roof any longer; hell, even making it to september seems far-fetched. he doesn’t have to explain that to you, though. you know.

he’s thought about it. he’s been thinking about it for a long while. you probably know that, too.

you nod slowly, smoke curling from your lips as you lean back in your rickety chair, unblinking. “it’d suit you.” you tell him, plain and simple. “you’d do real good out there, i reckon.”

he isn’t sure if that’s a compliment, but he chooses not to think about it too hard, because thinking about you too hard in any means usually makes his head spin. instead, he sits up, letting his ice pack fall to the floor, and wraps one hand around your ankle, using the other to pluck the joint from your hand.

he doesn’t tell you he’ll come back, because he can’t promise that he will. he doesn’t tell you he’ll miss you, because that much is obvious. he doesn’t tell you that he’ll keep in touch, because you loathe phone calls, and he doesn’t think he’s ever received a text from you in all the years he’s known you.

you once told him that, if it’s meant to be, it’ll be. either he’ll find you again, somewhere along the line, or he won’t. he likes to think that he will, one day, when he’s grown, when he’s kinder, more patient, when he has the means to take care of you like you’ve taken care of him for all these years.

you lean precariously forwards in your chair, warm hands cupping the back of his neck, and kiss him as he blows smoke from his nose. your lips taste like weed and sour candy, familiar, and his split lip throbs as his mouth meets yours, and simon considers that this might be what fairytales are made of.

twenty years from now, simon will be surrounded by friends — price, johnny, kyle — thousands of miles from your bedroom floor, and he’ll look at the stars, wondering if, somewhere, somehow, you’re looking up at the same ones.