#simon thoughts

you’re playing a game of truth or dare, taking shots and laughing and trying to relax even though the pub is so loud. it’s a saturday, there’s a footie game on, and you’re just trying to get to know them better.

well, johnny and gaz dare you to ask ghost out. the big brute that’s standing like an awkward statue ordering more drinks at the bar. and there you go, swaying on fawn legs, poking ghost gently in his meaty arm. the boys watch as ghost has to bend down to hear you over the noise, and you stand on your toes, putting your hands on his shoulder and murmuring in his ear.

you disappear with that big giant man’s arm around your waist, and when you come back to the table about twenty minutes later, you’re giggly and a little sweaty and stumbling just a little more. johnny leans over the table, confused.

“what happened? what did he say?”

“huh?” you raise a brow.

“what did he say? when ye asked him out?”

“oh…” you go warm all over, pressing the backs of your hands to your cheeks. “is that…is that what you meant? i couldn’t hear you!”

“what?”

the booth rattles when ghost sits his weight down right beside you, big fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck and curling you up so he can press his forehead to yours. the eye contact is intense, and you break out into another fit of giggles as you stare right back at him.

big, scary bear. adorable giant.

you turn back to johnny, shrugging your shoulders.

“i thought…i thought you said to ask him to eat me out.”

That sundress does nothing to hide your frame, the swell of your breasts peeking out the top of the dress, a pretty necklace hanging in your cleavage, his cock chubs up nicely in his work pants, wishing he could just bend you over and take you in the middle of the street. He'll settle for just this for now.

30 minutes later Emily drags you to Simon to introduce you as "the pretty lady from next door" and you awe at her before sticking your hand out for a handshake towards the big brute.

He extends his thick calloused hand and shakes it firmly, feeling how soft your hand is, he feels no ring... good. He'll change that soon.

You end up talking for a while exchanging numbers before heading off to wherever you were going before.

simon on his knees in front of you, his heavy arms wrapped around your waist with astonishing tenderness, his head resting peacefully on your lap, where your fingers run through his short cropped blonde strands, burrowing into the dark roots of his hair.

you scratch and weave the soft strands between your fingers, moving down the back of his head to his neck, running your nails over his nape and gathering short strands of blonde hair, immediately pulling a muffled growl of — “feels s' good, luv, don'' stop„ from simon's mouth before he stretches his neck.

there's tv with some kind of movie working muffled on the background, to which you periodically direct your attention, while your hand scratches and strokes simon's head, occasionally moving behind his ears and allowing him to press the side of his face against your warm palm, light eyelashes tickling your skin.

the next time, you don't hear unintelligible growls and purrs, but a soft snores in your lap, letting you know that simon fell asleep, so you gently turn his face on the side, so his cheek would rest on your leg, as you lean over to kiss him gently on the top of his head, whispering a soft — “sleep tight, si„ before continuing your stroking.

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3.

you keep your face neutral. he keeps his hair shaved close to his head. he has three long slashes that go from his left eyebrow to his nose. they've healed poorly, pale skin raised and puckered along the lines. his nose is crooked, septum deviated for sure, and his mouth looks like someone tried to cut a smile into it.

when he runs his tongue over his lips, you notice his chipped teeth. his face is dry, carved, and missing chunks. his eyes are the only thing they left alone, and they are hard to read and darker than you are used to.

he looks away from you as you inspect him. he's prepared, anxious, knowing that if you react some kind of way, he's ready to just throw the mask back on and leave. it wouldn't be the first time he's had to leave after revealing himself, but if he did this time, he knows it would be the last.

"jesus," you whisper, reaching up to cup his cheek. "what did they do to you, baby?"

his throat closes up when you wrap your arms around his neck. you kiss the side of his face, taking a deep breath of him, and he's slow to wrap one big arm around your back and hug you back.

"not runnin'?" ghost murmurs into your hair, and you guide his hand from your waist lower, until it slips under your skirt. he interprets what you mean, slipping two thick fingers between your thighs, and he lets out a sharp breath when he feels how wet you are. when he inspects his fingers and pulls them apart, the fluid webs, and he drags his tongue over them before going back in to feel more. your nails dig into his big shoulders as he circles over your puckering hole, and your knees weaken a little as he hikes your knee up around his hip and starts to tear a hole in your knickers. "fuckin' hell..."

months, you think. coming up on a year. you stare at his dark flat often, looking at the window next to the front door and hoping you'll see his shadow pass through, but you never do.

you had never spoken to simon before he left for the last time. said he'd be gone for a little while, handed you a small key, and asked if you could keep an eye on the front door while he was away.

what the fuck was he thinking wearing something like that at work? a compression shirt a size too small—i mean what the fuck—how is that fair? how is that normal? what else are you supposed to do except sit at your desk outside price's office and oogle at him whenever he goes into and out of a meeting?

it wasn't really a problem, actually, until he caught you.

he was waiting for the typed transcripts from laswell's meeting. standing in front of you, arms crossed over his chest, pecs straining against the dark grey fabric he wore as he grunted out that he wanted a copy of the papers that you were holding in your very hands.

"oi!" ghost snaps. your eyes, half lidded and focused on the middle of his chest, shoot wide open at the sheer volume of his voice, and you shuffle a little on your heels as you blink up at him.

"s-sorry, lieutenant, what were you saying?"

you squeak when he grips your face in one big hand. he squeezes your cheeks, puckering your lips, and you're dragged up and onto your toes as he leans down and presses the mouth of his mask against your own. he makes your lips move like a fish, squishing them tight and loose again, and he chuckles lowly as he studies the way your skin warms under his touch. pretty, stupid thing—smartest behind that desk, stupidest when you're standing in front of him.

"look at you," he murmurs. "y'r so bloody soft. all over. just how i like."

"y-yeah?"

"yeah..."

"y-you're so hot," you whisper. he laughs, chest heaving with it, and you ache to reach out and feel how meaty and fat he is there. "o-oh—"

"not supposed to fraternize with staff 'n the like, you know tha', don't ya?"

"y-yeah," you nod, leaning up on your toes, keeping your face against his.

"y'r just naughty, tha' it, innit? naughty, pretty thing you are."

"s-super..." you lose your train of thought, giggling, "naughty."

"fuckin' useless, tha' head o' y'rs," ghost mutters. you chase his thumb that traces your mouth, aching to take it into your mouth. the world is quieter when he lets you have it; your lips close around it, and you suck with a soft whine. "bloody useless."

"sorry..."

been months apart. no signal for communication, just pictures of her in his locker back on base and an influx of e-mails about paying his credit card bill when he finally gets connected back to wi-fi.

she's banging on his door, he knows it's her. it's that poignant, aggressive bang of a fist that only she would be brave enough to do on his door.

fuck, she looks incredible. she's got a fresh blowout, and there's a new patent leather purse dangling from her shoulder. pristine black acrylic dior sunglasses that she slides down her nose to look at him as she pops a bubble of gum around her sticky, glossy lips.

she looks positively pissed. annoyed. absolutely livid. simon can't help the blood that rushes south; he knows it's all gathered there, because he can no longer think a coherent thought.

"where the fuck have you been, you selfish prick?" are the first words out of her mouth in the four months he hasn't seen her. her hand falls from around her sunglasses, and simon chokes on his breath when her palm lands on her belly.

her round, full belly. it sticks out from the midsection of her form-fitting dress. it fits her so perfect, outlines every beautiful new curve and soft line of skin. she taps her perfect manicure there, and then simon is brought out of his own head when her hand comes up and smacks him on the side of his masked cheek.

"hey! up here!" she snaps, and he looks into her eyes. "you have a lot of fucking explaining to do." she pushes on his chest so she can come inside, and the slight waddle of her walk only makes his cock harder. when he goes to follow her as she sits on his threadbare couch, she tsks and shakes her head. "where the fuck are you going? who's gonna bring in all my stuff?"

ghost narrows his eyes at johnny, who's got a grin on his face he'd like to smack off. when he turns his head just enough, he sees you staring. as soon as you realize he might be looking your way, your head snaps downwards, and you go back to typing, staring a little too hard at the laptop screen in front of you.

you're a shy thing. a civilian assistant that follows laswell around like a puppy, tablet clutched to your chest and always passing her coffee with a wobbly hand. it'd be cuter if it wasn't so pathetic, but laswell liked you.

you were nothing less than perfect. each of her reports organized by date, separated into different colors by operation name. everything typed just how she liked, sans-serif fonts only and 1.5 spaced. you bold the text where she likes, highlight the words she's interested, and you always put little tabs next to where she needs to put her signature so she never wastes her time reading documents she doesn't care to read. you put a little "TLDR" sticker above them, and she decides whether or not she'll sign it, and then she's moving on. she's never been more efficient, more on track, and less stressed, so if you spill a little bit of her coffee because you're a little nervous, so what?

it's not her fault she's surrounded by men that are just your type. gaz and his million-dollar smile. captain price and his rugged, controlling demeanor that your daddy issues scream for. johnny and his stupid haircut—he wags his tongue a bit too much, too, but you have no doubts that he eats pussy like a champ.

then there's the lieutenant. big, bad lieutenant simon riley, legally dead on paper so he chooses to ignore authority for the most part. never shows his face, so all you have to go on is what his clothes outline, and all you see is huge, meaty muscles and pudge that begs for you to sit on.

it's a dumb thought, and you know it. you're a pathetic wallflower, and that's how you'll always be; and ghost is a ranked killing machine that has much more important things to do than pick up on your pitiful advances. he's out there saving the world—he doesn't have time for dating, especially someone as shy as you. ghost seems like someone that is no-nonsense. he tells it like it is, and if his partner can't meet him where he needs, you imagine he walks away easily. no fuss. no mess. no drama.

has he ever even had a partner? does he even seek out romantic relationships? you imagine he's the kind of man that prefers his solitude—a couple minutes with just his hand is all he needs, because other people just complicate things, and he doesn't have time for complicated.

you know it'll be complicated with you. it always is. that's what your partners always tell you. pretty enough for the bedroom, soft enough for the fuck, but not good enough for the long-run, and that's how it'll always be with the kind of people that are your type.

that's why it confuses you when the paperwork crosses your desk. lieutenant simon riley's assets, official paperwork for what to do with them in the event of his death (second death, you suppose, if they want to be technical about it). it's a lot of paperwork, pages of it, and you swallow when you realize what exactly he has under his ownership (under fake names, of course, but his all the same). several offshore bank accounts, a couple of properties dotted around london and manchester, and then there's your name at the bottom of the very last page.

"...all assets hereby unto my death transferred to..."

your mouth falls open. huh?

your heels are clicking and clacking as you make your way towards where his little office is. he knows you're coming by the sound of them, and he leans back in his chair as he sees the shadow of your feet under his door and then your shy, timid knock.

he licks his teeth under the mask before muttering a low, "come in."

"l-lieutenant—" you're so cute, shuffling inside, taking a seat in front of his desk that's two sizes too small for him. you set the papers down, shaking your head. "—surely, there's been a mistake, i just got—"

"wot's tha'?" ghost tilts his head to the side. "y'think i'd make a mistake, tha' it?"

"n-no! no, of course not—"

"y'said i'd made a mistake, just said tha', yeah?"

"no, i just..." your shoulders slump, clearly anxious and defeated, and he crosses his arms over his chest as he looks you over. "i don't understand."

"nothin' ta understand, love," ghost shrugs. "everythin' goes to the missus when it's over."

"if it's over."

"mmm," he smiles under the mask. "quite right. if."

your hands tremble a little, shaking the papers that you grip, and you look up at him.

"wait—" you swallow. "missus?"

he scoots his chair close to the desk, leaning his elbows against his as he folds his hands in front of him. his eyes go lidded.

"you want tha'?" ghost asks. "lot o' strings attached, man like me." he kisses his teeth, chuckling low. "but like i said. i don't make mistakes."

you set the papers down, playing with your fingers in your lap as you look down at your heels.

"there's a lot of strings attached with me, too," you say softly, shaking your head. "sorry to say."

"look at me." your head lifts, and you chew on your nail as you meet his eyes again. he leans his head towards you, narrowing his eyes. "i. don't. make. mistakes."

you stop biting your nail, a twitch of a small smile on your face.

"do you..." you clear your throat. "do you keep...everything covered, lieutenant? o-or...just your face?"

ghost hums, big-bellied laugh leaving him as he leans back in his chair again and spreads his massive legs. you stare at the space between them, noticing how much room there is for you there.

"mask doesn't come off," ghost murmurs, nodding. "but the belt can."

you cover your mouth as you giggle, and your eyes sparkle when you see his eyes crinkle—like he's smiling. you're so cute as you stand up, clicking and clacking your way around the desk as you sink into that very space between his knees. cheek against his thigh, blinking up at him, watching as he uses one gloved hand to unbuckle his belt and the other hand to caress the back of your head. you whine when his head leans back at the first touch of your tongue against his cock, curling the wet muscle around the tip before sucking it into your mouth.

"fuck—wait, baby—" ghost hisses through his teeth before he cums too fast. you whimper, eyes closing, and you swallow as you lick around the tip. you didn't even take him very far, just the tip, and you didn't even have him inside your mouth for a full minute before he came too fast. you open your eyes, looking up at him, and he's panting hard, gloved hands clenched into fists as he looks at you, embarrassed. "i..." he hums, trying to find the words, but you slide your hands up his thighs and get up off your knees. you hike your skirt up and settle into his lap, reaching down and guiding his tip to press against your slick cunt. you sink down on him, pressing your forehead to his, and he squeezes your soft middle between his big hands as you sit down on him and whine through the stretch.