No thoughts just reader being so reluctant to take ghost home...
You've been kinda-maybe-dating for nearly a month now. It's about time you take him to your apartment, you can tell after the third time he asks "where are we going tonight, love?" That he's dissapointed when you say his.
"Do you not trust me?" He finally huffs one day, half-curled into your side while some match neither of you care about plays on screen.
It's not because you don't like him. You care more about ghost than you have any reason to. You're terrified of rejection, but your own fear is hurting both of you anyways. "It's....i trust you, simon."
"Then what, love?" Simon rolls to prop up on his elbows and really look at you.
"It's...i..." you bite the inside of you mouth, twist around your anxiety and spit it out "I still have stuffed animals on my bed!"
Silence. You brace for the mocking laughter that you always hear.
Feeling ghost slip off the bed hurts more than you want to admit. You blink up at the ceiling and try not to cry. It's fine. He can think you're stupid and childish, you don't care, you still love him and—
"Here. Open your eyes." You do. Plastic, black beaded eyes stare back. Cupped in scarred hands is a small cat plushie, body sagging from beans, fur a little dulled. Well-loved. You look past it to stare at ghost, stunned.
"This is Mr. Kitty." He tells you. Gently, ghost scoots right back to your side and sits the plushie in your hands "I've had him for...years. he means a lot to me."
Oh. You try to imagine ghost, this giant of a man curled in bed with the tiny kitty plush next to his face.
"...I have a cat plushie." You tell him, belatedly fishing your phone out and trying to ignore the tightness in your throat at such easy acceptance.
You spend the rest of the night looking at photos of your plushie collection with ghost. He likes the cats the best, has strong opinions about sanrio characters, and insists on seeing them soon.
You find you don't really mind the thought of that.
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nsfw | your boyfriend gives you more than just the tip 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
You were aching for him. After making out for what felt like forever, you were soaked and desperate, grinding against your boyfriend’s thick dick while he hovered over you. “Please, baby,” you begged, voice needy and breathy. “Just the tip. I need to feel you so bad. Just the tip, I promise.”
He groaned softly, clearly torn, but your desperate little whimpers were too much for him. He wanted to give you what you needed. “Alright, sweet girl,” he murmured, kissing you gently. “Just the tip. I’ve got you.”
He lined himself up and slowly pushed the fat head of his dick inside your soaked pussy. The stretch made you moan loudly, your walls fluttering around him. But the moment he was barely inside, your pussy started pulsing and clenching greedily, pulling him deeper. He tried to stay still, but your body was sucking him in inch by inch.
“Fuck… baby,” he breathed, voice strained as he sank a little deeper. “You’re squeezing me so tight.” You whimpered, hips twitching as more of him slid inside you. He pushed in further, slow and careful, watching your face as your pussy kept drawing him in.
“Is this what you wanted, sweet girl?” he asked softly, voice husky as he gave you another inch. “You said just the tip… but this greedy little pussy keeps pulling me deeper.” You moaned helplessly, nodding even as your legs wrapped around him. He sank in even more, stretching you open until he was buried halfway.
He leaned down, kissing your neck as he rocked his hips, giving you just a little more with every slow thrust. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered tenderly, even as your cunt continued to pulse and suck him in further. “I’m trying to be good for you… but you feel too fucking perfect.”
You didn’t think Simon kept the silly things you gave him.
The man had his fixations: bones, bugs, dirt sometimes- he kept jars of it in his room, hidden under the bed for reasons he would not disclose. Wild life seemed to calm the man’s incessant anxiety, oddly enough. The rot, the violence and beauty intertwined in the forest. Humans tried to sanitize their existence, pretend they didn’t murder and fuck and shit themselves. The forest did no such thing- was upfront about its violence, its depravity.
Simon liked stuff like that, only ever had stuff like that.
So you never thought he’d actually keep the little skunk stuffie you’d gotten him. Just a 99 cent little beanie baby, black and white just like all his masks and clothes. You’d given it to him after a small shopping spree to the local thrift store, laughed about how he stunk just like it when you handed him the toy. It barely sat in his massive palm, the man staring down at it before stuffing it into his pocket with a grumble of something you couldn’t understand.
You couldn’t quite believe your eyes four months later, when you popped into his quarters in the night. Only there to grab some of his reports you’d forgotten, just to see the man actually sleeping for once- little skunk stuffie gripped tightly in his fist, the fabric of its tiny head pressed up against his face as he slept.
It was.. sweet. He still had that balaclava on, safe and tucked away in his own world. You debated taking a picture, before glancing at the shot gun next to his bed and deciding against it.
You hug Ghost extra tight the next day though, burrowing into his chest to hide your giddiness as he clutched onto your back. Massive hands gripping your shirt tightly, like he never wanted to let go- but couldn’t bring himself to cling to your actual body itself. Huffing your hair, rubbing his masked face against the top of your head like a weird cat.
summary: once simon finds out you're sick, he takes care of you.
tags: depictions of sickness, including fever; depictions of medication; soft!simon; sick-fic for self-indulgence.
a/n: no, i'm totally not sick
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
“L.t.?” You croak, as the door to your shared barracks shuts softly.
Footfalls enter the room, somehow quiet and heavy at the same time. Your lieutenant’s large frame comes into view, the harsh line of his shoulders softened by a black hoodie.
He's wearing the simple balaclava, the one without the skull sewn to the front.
Simon's quick to approach your bed where you've buried yourself beneath piles of blankets. He crouches, one knee connecting to the linoleum floor, his eyes level with yours.
You blink sluggishly, vision blurred around the edges. You've kept the blinds closed and the bedside lamp on, the edges of the window outlined by morning light; Simon's frame is washed in an orange glow.
“Hey, L.t.,” you mumble, too tired to smile.
A cough builds at the back of your throat, and you dread the inevitable pain that'll spear through your temples when you're forced to let it loose.
Simon's fingers gently touch your hairline, smoothing back sweaty strands of hair.
“Sergeant,” he says, “was wondering where you were during training.”
Simon doesn't look very surprised by the state he's found you in; brown eyes rove across your face, taking in your dark circles and sickened complexion.
“I got my sick note, L.t.” You sigh wearily, pushing a hand out of your bundle of blankets to point at the bedside table.
A folded note lies on the edge, and Simon can easily make out the typed text of a doctor's recommendation for rest.
He chuckles, the sound dark and barely audible. “Don't need a chit to tell me you're sick, Love.”
“Just thought you should know—”
The cough travels up your throat and you turn your face into your pillow, face scrunching in discomfort as you expel a bark of phlegm and sick air into the fabric. Pain travels through your temples like nails to your skull.
A hand falls to the curve of your shoulder, steady as your body rocks.
Once the cough dissipates, you grumble. "I feel so gross."
Simon's head tilts to the side as he regards you. His hand leaves your shoulder to press against your forehead, knuckles grazing your sweat-slick skin.
“You're runnin’ a temp.”
“Can't get it down.”
“I can help with that.”
Simon stands to his feet, hands curling around the top of your blankets to peel them back. You recoil from the cold that flushes down your body, goosebumps scattering down your flesh.
“S-Simon!”
Simon curls his arms underneath you, lifting you from the mattress you've tried to burrow into. Your hands move to clasp behind his neck, and you can't bring yourself to feel embarrassed—not when his warmth soaks into your skin like a heated blanket. It makes you want to bury your face into his neck and sleep, breathing in his scent of cigarette smoke and clary soap.
“Gonna put you in the shower, Love,” Simon tells you as he brings you into the small bathroom. The tiny window in the upper corner of the room is open, chilling the air.
You almost whine as Simon settles you on the closed toilet lid, the plastic cold enough to seep through your pajama pants.
“A hot shower?” You ask, already knowing that it won't be.
Simon doesn't answer, instead turning the handle all the way to the cold side. Water rushes from the showerhead, sounding like a thousand little beads hitting the tiled floor.
“Right,” he huffs, “you get in while I fix you some proper medicine.”
Your cheeks heat sheepishly. Of course he'd notice that the only medicine that had been scattered across your bedside table were blister sheets of paracetamol.
Simon points at the shower, body halfway through the door. “Get in. That's an order.”
The bathroom door closes.
*******
Your teeth aren't chattering anymore as you climb back into bed, nor is your skin glistening with sweat. You still feel like you got rammed by an armoured vehicle, but at least you're clean, internal temperature no longer fluctuationing between boiling hot and freezing cold.
But there's still a horrible ache in your nose from your blocked sinuses, and a tightness in your chest. Exhaustion, despite being in bed for a long time, still clings to you like a second shadow.
Settled snugly under the covers, your weighted gaze slides to your bedside table; your heart kicks against your ribs.
All the blister sheets have been tidied up, the empty ones nowhere to be seen. Your glass of water has been refilled, and there's a cup of steaming tea placed on a coaster that you've definitely seen on Simon's desk before.
Pushing yourself upright against the headboard, you can't help but smile a little stupidly as you grab the cup of tea.
The porcelain is warm against your hands, and you note that he's prepared it the exact way you like, only he's added a slice of lemon and some honey. The smell is faint to your clogged-up nose, but still strong enough to send your stomach somersaulting.
“Thanks, Simon,” you murmur beneath your breath, lips brushing the rim of the cup.
*******
It's much later when you wake up. If you had to guess, it's some time in the afternoon.
Simon flits inside the room like a shadow, dropping something off on his desk—probably reports—before looming over your bedside.
He taps a gloved finger to your forehead. “Rise and shine, Sergeant.”
Groaning, your face twists, muscles protesting as you stretch like a cat woth your arms above your head, curled fists pushing at the headboard.
“C'mon," Simon mutters. "Got you some nasal spray and tablets for all the mucus in your throat.”
You squint at Simon, suddenly finding all of this rather comedic. Here is your lieutenant, intimidating in all his mysterious allure and grizzly Manchester accent, telling you to take your medicine like a grumpy nurse.
The laugh in your chest morphs into a cough, and you press your mouth to the inside of your elbow as your lungs rattle.
“Bossy, you are,” you rasp, nonetheless complying with his orders and sitting up straight.
“Better I boss you around then leave you to rot like a corpse.”
“Very thoughtful, L.t.”
The stare you're given is less than impressed. Simon hands you the glass of water, along with two tablets cupped in his palm.
You take both, tipping your head back as you swallow down the tablets with a large gulp of water. Nearly gagging, you let Simon take the glass away from you as your hand settles at your sternum.
“Bloody hell, that's horrible,” you mutter, bringing the back of your other hand to your lips. A bitter taste lingers on your tongue.
“Don't whinge, Sergeant,” Simon scoffs.
You send him a glare as he violently shakes the small bottle of nasal spray. You frown at it, anticipating the uncomfortable burn in your nostrils.
A knuckle taps the underside of your chin, and you diligently tilt your head up. Your eyes flutter closed as Simon pumps a spritz of medicine into each nostril.
You pull back, grimacing as you sniffle, nose stinging. “Horrible, horrible, horrible.”
“Bit dramatic, Sunshine.”
“Reasonable, actually. Stuff's vile.”
“You'll live.”
*******
You breathe shallowly through your nose, eyes closed as tiredness lures you closer to sleep.
Your nasal passages aren't completely open yet, and each inhale still carries a faint whistle, but at least you're not drooling onto your pillow from an open mouth.
That would be a little embarrassing, seeing as Simon sits in a chair next to your bed. His chin is pillowed by his folded arms, which rest on the edge of the mattress; brown eyes are dropped to half-lid.
His fingers card across your scalp, moving over the side of your head in a repetitive pattern. Occasionally, his index finger traces a crescent over your ear.
Warmth leaks into your heart like a tipped can of paint. “Thanks for taking care of me, Simon,” you whisper.
You hear him breathe out, air feathering out across your nose and cheeks. Your stomach flips, knowing that he's pulled off his balaclava.
“Anytime, Love,” Simon whispers back, gruff voice turned to something gentle.
You fall asleep just as the crickets begin to chirp outside.
simon ‘ghost’ riley genuinely the type of man to tell his s/o to stop teasing him.
meanwhile his s/o is simply eating the takeout he just got them in their jammies, fresh out the shower while watching their fav show sitting in the most heinous shrimp position.
they’re wondering wtf is he talking about while he’s only a few seconds away from ripping his clothes off and taking them on the couch.
its even worse if he just came back from a mission.
he has to stop himself from letting out a loud moan when he spots his s/o cooking up something in the kitchen, wearing what they call their ‘ugly clothes’ cause it’s laundry day, it’s obvious that they haven’t had a chance to shower and they’re even wearing their thick lens glasses because they ran out of their contacts just the other day.
they have to bat him off with whatever kitchen utensils they’re using because they know he’ll just take them right then and there on the counter or even snatch them up to their bedroom.
and they cannot let that happen again after the last time. their kitchen almost burnt down because they forgot to turn off the stove.
he just loves seeing his lover at their most comfortable, especially around him.
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You, who cant STAND the horrible heatwave engulfing the UK right now, with the heat only being a million times worse on base.
Youve finally made the decision to switch to summer uniform, opting for a tank top when able to do so, and thinner cargos. And occasionally having your hair tied higher up, rather than the standard low bun, on more casual days on base.
Weirdly enough though, your Lieutenant seems to be more evasive these days. He already was, to a degree, but he was now moreso than ever. You chalked it up to the extra layers and mask he wore, making the heat all the more unbearable for him.
Ghost who refuses to spar with you nowadays. You thought you had finally proved yourself to him, saving his ass on the last op, but apparently not!
You, who, rightfully, gets annoyed, confiding in the other sergeants to which they placate you as best they can, but it only riles you up even more!
Ghost who is entirely unused to seeing so much of you, having seen you as nothing but a capable soldier before this... only to learn that you were doing things to him. Things you had no right doing.
Ghost who cant stand the sight of the exposed nape of your neck, the very sight of it setting off something inside him, drgging his thoughts to nothing but being able to bite and ravish your soft skin. Night after night he thinks about you, you and your stupid neck that make him think impossibly dirty thoughts.
Gaz and Soap who know how much Ghost is going through it right now, and at the same time, pissing you off. They both share a wall with the Lieutenant after all, and know all about the effects you've had on him.
camgirl!reader x ghost anyone??? cw for hints to blackmail/stalking at the end
Simon pauses outside of the Captain's office, the sound of muffled voices drifting to him through the door. A woman, speaking softly. The voice feels… vaguely familiar to him, but he can't put his finger on why. With a shrug, he knocks twice on the door before swinging it open and stepping inside.
Immediately, his eyes land on you. He knew the Captain had a daughter, but he didn't know you were… fucking hot. You flash him a smile before leaning in to kiss Price's cheek. "Bye, daddy. Enjoy your lunch." Simon grunts as you brush past him, trying his best not to stare at your ass as you walk away. He's stronger than that, he tells himself.
That night, Simon is lying on his bed when his phone pings with a notification that never fails to get his blood pumping - 'cherrydaze is now LIVE!' . Even just reading that username makes his cock harden. He quickly taps on the banner and his screen fills with those familiar cherry print sheets. One hand grips his phone while the other reaches down, fingers wrapping around the base of his length while he waits to hear her sweet voice.
"You guys won't believe what happened to me today," Simon freezes, his eyes snapping open as he hears that voice. Your voice, to be exact. Price's daughter. "There was this huge guy, and he was wearing like… a mask!" you giggle, shifting the camera closer to your pussy. Simon can barely focus on the images he's seeing, too preoccupied with the fact his favourite faceless camgirl is apparently also his Captain's kid.
A moan fills Simon's ears, his fingers squeezing his dick as he watches you spread open your cunt on screen and circle your clit with a finger. "I wish it was him touching me right now," you purr, and Simon thinks he might explode right then. You're talking about him. You're playing with yourself, wishing it was him.
He's never been so hard in his life.
The sight and sounds of you pleasuring yourself combine with this newfound knowledge of you wanting him, making Simon stroke his cock harder and faster than usual. When he finishes, it's more intense than he's ever fucking experienced before, ropes of white painting his stomach as he grunts and groans.
He watches through hooded eyes as you present your sticky fingers to the camera, a growl rumbling in his chest. Those should be his fingers. And, he realises, they can be. You're not anonymous to him anymore - he knows exactly who's behind 'cherrydaze' now. He knows your name. He can easily find out where you live, can find you and give you exactly what it is you've been asking for.
And if you don't want to put your money where your mouth is? Well, he's sure you wouldn't want your daddy to know what his little princess is getting up to online…
a/n: might extend this in the future...🫣
Simon Riley who loves to pamper you and make sure you're well taken care of. It took him about six months to convince you to move in with him and let him take care of you. His exorbitant wages weren't getting spent on anything unless he really needed it, so any disposable income he has he loves to spend on you. He's a simple man, loving to spoil you, he thinks all men should do that for their partners and they really wouldn't struggle with what to do in the future.
When he's home he plans your dates so you don't have to lift a finger. The new restaurant that opened whilst he was deployed? There's a reservation with your name on it. He spends a long time helping you shopping, considering it quality time.
Even though you have a job, he doesn't demand a penny of it towards the bills, groceries or even the furniture you both picked out together in an IKEA. He doesn't even want you to lift a perfectly manicured finger as he builds it himself, putting on a show with his skilled hands.
"Si, you spoil me." You mention one evening whilst you're in his arms watching a movie you told him he needed to watch after he mentioned he'd never seen it.
"I don't spoil ya at all. If I was 'ere more ya'd get so much more." You don't dare to question him why. You don't need to. He does this because its his way of loving you, and you settle back against him in a comfortable silence.
He's never asked for you to pay anything back. Hell, hes never even asked you to pay for anything. The only times you've ever been able to get away with buying stuff with your own money is when its for his birthday or for Christmas as you wanted to surprise him. He keeps tabs on what you spend on his card, he just wants to make sure you're spending his money and not your own, so it'd ruin the surprises of his gifts if he knew.
