#simon ghost cod

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Simon Riley wasn’t sure what the hell he was listening to.

Or more accurately… what kind of nonsense these sergeants were going on about.

"Fuckin' hell.” one of them, Ramirez, muttered over his mug. "Wife's knocked up with number two, and it's like tryin' to hump a bloody beach ball. No positions work, she's always knackered, and half the time she just wants to sleep. Sex? More like a chore I gotta check off the list."

The others chuckled, nodding like it was the gospel. "Tell me about it.” another chimed in. "Mine's the same. Gained a ton already, and the hormones? Christ, one minute she's all over me, the next she's cryin' over a stupid animal shelter Ad. Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

Simon didn't move, didn't breathe a word. His gloved hands tightened around the edge of his tac vest, but not from anger. No, it was something hotter, sharper, coiling low in his gut.

They were wrong.

So bloody wrong.

He thought of you—his wife, his everything—curled up in their bedroom back home, that soft swell of your belly just starting to show under his old shirts you loved to steal. Five months along, and you were glowing, all curves and fire, your body a map he couldn't stop exploring.

He shifted, feeling an erection growing under his gear. Just the thought of you did that to him now. The way your breasts were fuller, heavier, straining against the lace he bought you the last time he was on leave.

How your hips swayed a little wider when you walked, teasing him without even trying. Sex wasn't a chore—no—it was a privilege.

Last night, you'd been on your side, his hand splayed over the bump where their little one kicked, and he'd slid into you slow, deep, your gasps mixing with his growls. "Simon..” you'd moaned, arching back against him, your skin fever-hot and slick. He'd cum faster than a fucking virgin, all because of how beautiful you were, swollen with his child.

The sergeants droned on, oblivious. Simon pushed off the wall, a ghost in the dim light, heading home.

He needed you now—needed to feel that life you'd made together, to bury himself in the woman who turned his world from shadows to something worth fighting for.

As he stepped into the your home, the door clicked shut behind him, he found you on the couch, feet up, reading one of those baby guidebooks with a smirk.

"Miss me, Lieutenant?" you teased, eyes sparkling.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he knelt before you, hands gentle on your thighs, trailing up slow as his gaze darkened. "Every fuckin' second, lovie. Especially now."

His voice was rough, laced with that hunger only you ignited. And as he leaned in, lips brushing the curve of your belly before he found his way between your thighs, he knew this was heaven, not hell.

Their loss.

His everything.

You did your best to fill it.

Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.

Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.

A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.

Your whole body went rigid.

Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.

Someone was breaking in. Shit.

You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.

The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.

The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.

For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.

Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."

part one. part two.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

repost from my old deleted account tobeholyistobeempty - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

You’d woken up late, hair a mess, throat scratchy, body sore in that way that only meant one thing; Simon had been entirely too much the night before… like usual. Your phone buzzed that morning and Simon, already half-dressed and standing by your dresser, looked at the screen and raised a brow.

"Doc visit?" he questioned, voice deep, lazy.

You blinked at your phone and realization hit you. "…shit." You did have a scheduled appointment for today which you entirely forgot about.

He shrugged. "I’ll drive."

And like an idiot, sleep-addled and still sore from the night before, you let him come.

Now here you are, spread on the exam table like a goddamn starfish, feet in the stirrups, paper gown bunched up around your waist, fluorescent lighting making everything feel ten times worse… and Simon is in the corner, his legs spread, elbows on his thighs, and scrolling on his phone like he’s in a dentist’s waiting room.

Not one once of shame. You shoot him a look. He doesn’t even reciprocate it but just mutters, "Told you t’ put it on the calendar."

Before you can hiss back at him, the door opens.

Your gynecologist steps in, a nice, polite, middle-aged woman, all business and just stops dead.

Her eyes flick from you and your very exposed situation, then to Simon. The six-foot-something wall of tattoos and muscle, who by the way is generally not in the room. Then back to you.

“Oh!” the doctor says, pleasantly startled. “I… wasn’t expecting a guest today.”

Simon finally looks up. Nods once. “Ma’am.”

Just ma’am. Like he’s greeting a cashier.

You wish the earth would open and swallow you whole.

The doctor put on her gloves with that clinical snap that somehow made this even worse.

You stare at the ceiling like it owes you something. Simon goes right back to scrolling.

The paper under you crinkles as you shift, cheeks hot. The doctor sits on her stool, rolling close between your legs.

“Just going to take a look,” she says. “Any pain lately? Discomfort? Irregular bleeding?”

You open your mouth to say 'no, everything’s fine' but then she hums.

A concerned hum.

You freeze.

“Not alarming,” she assures, too quickly, “Just… some residual bruising on the cervix.”

Your soul leaves your body. “Bruising?” you croak.

Simon’s thumb stops mid-scroll.

The doctor nods. “Yes. Fair amount of tenderness and discoloration.” She pauses, then looks at you knowingly. The doctor hums again, then says the absolute worst possible thing.

"It’s nothing dangerous, but I’d recommend you avoid prolonged, intense activity for a day or two. Especially with something…" She paused. Looked directly at Simon. "…that big."

She does not say big casually. She emphasizes it. Bold. Italic. Underline. Triple-sized font.

BIG.

The room goes silent and the air stops moving for a moment. Even the HVAC system seems to hesitate.

Simon slowly sits back in his chair, like someone just handed him an award.

A slow smirk creeps onto his face, subtle but smug as hell. He doesn’t even pretend humility. Doesn’t cough. Doesn’t deflect. He just stays, quiet and cocky.

You want to die.

The doctor keeps talking, clinically unbothered. “If your partner has a… larger anatomy, you need to take breaks, communicate, maybe use positions with less depth. Going too long can cause bruising or strain.”

The doctor continues, completely unaware of the war happening between you two.

“I’d recommend abstaining for a few days—”

Simon snorts.

You whip your head toward him. “Do you mind ?!” You are going to punch him.

Right here. Feet in the stirrups. Gown open and you’re going to assault this man.

Awhile after, the doctor gently removes her gloves. “All done. You can get dressed.”

As she stands, she looks at Simon again, still uncertain why he’s here at all.

“You’re welcome to wait in the lobby next time,” she offers kindly.

But Simon just stands, stretches, and says “Nah. ’m her support.”

Support.

Support.

As if he didn’t break open your insides twelve hours ago.

You slide off the table, teeth clenched, grabbing your clothes.

The doctor exits politely.

You round on Simon the moment the door shuts. “Next time you’re keeping your ass home”

He shrugs casually, taking your purse for you like the smug bastard he is. “Not my fault the doc praised my dick.”

“She did not praise your dick—”

“She said big.” He leans down, voice low in your ear “Emphasized it too.”

Simon’s eyebrows lift. “Larger anatomy,” he repeats under his breath like he’s tasting the words.

You point a murderous stare at him.

You shove his chest. He catches your wrist. Presses a kiss to your temple.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Get dressed. I’ll take y’ home. You can be mad in the car.”

You mutter, “God I hate you so much right now .”

Simons only ever had one tattoo artist, every tattoo on his body was done by you. And Simon’s starting to think you have a crush on him. And he wouldn't be wrong. You've known Simon for years, seen more of him then anyone has, and every time he comes in he’s hotter than the last time. The tattoos you've given him are just so hot and then every time he comes in you get so close to him and those nice big muscles. Not only is he so hot, but he’s actually comfortable around you, talks to you, cracks jokes, even some small flirting. 

pairing: simon “ghost” riley x reader

summary: your boyfriend pours candle wax on you while having sex

masterlist!

a/n: requests are open!!

“shhh, baby. yer alrigh’,” your boyfriend coos, landing a single smack across your beautiful ass perched in the air, “m’ gotcha.”

your boyfriend had you laid on your stomach, his pillow rested underneath your pelvis, your little arms tied above your head to the bed frame’s post.

the sound of your heavenly moans filled the air at simon’s big, girthy cock thrusting in and out of your tight cunt, forcing, “yes, s-si! oh!” out of you.

simon was relishing in the magnetizing site, the man’s massive hands gripping your waist, eyeing the ring of cream forming around the base of his cock at the entrance of your pretty pussy. the light shined on your glistening folds, messy squelching noises mixing with the echos of your boyfriend’s skin slapping against yours each time he thrusted.

“fuck yeah, luvie’,” the beefy brit groaned out, leaning his muscular torso on top of your back to place a kiss on your cheek, “feel so amazin’ for m’.” he wrapped a tatted bicep around your neck, “love ya so much.”

you smiled at simon’s words, biting on your lower lip when he hit just the right spot, “i-i- oh! i love you too, si!”

he sat himself up, eyes fixated on the candle you had lit on your night stand. his precious girlfriend always got candles to match the season, the man smirking at his great idea. simon went to grab your candle, blowing out the flame.

a strident screech departed you when you felt a hot liquid land along your spine, your boyfriend’s pounding only quickening at the beautiful noises of your pain.

he poured more candle wax down your back, eventually reaching the curve of your plump ass, watching the colorful liquid harden.

simon was loving the sight underneath him, how you were moaning and crying at the scorching sensation. you were just so perfect to the brute.