#simonghostimagine

Didn’t hate them – he just didn’t get them. Didn’t get how people melted over something that screamed, drooled, and stared at him like he was a nightmare in human form.

Kids always screamed when they saw him in his balaclava.

He took it off?

Worse. Way worse.

That was why he never showed at team dinners. Soap’s kids, Price’s kids – he didn’t want to be the reason they cried. Didn’t want to see that look again.

He’d seen it once before.

A kid on the street had stared at him too long and blurted out,“Mum, he’s uglier than a monster.”

The woman had grabbed her son and practically run, fear all over her face.

Ugly. Monster. Scarred. Scary.

So when it came to his baby girl, Simon was fucking terrified.

“No,” he said flatly the first time you suggested it.

You’d barely finished your sentence.

“She’s our daughter, Si,” you said gently. “She should see your face. Her father's face.”

“She doesn’t need to,” he snapped. “Mask stays on. End of it.”

He’d sit with her for hours, mask firmly in place, huge gloved hands impossibly gentle as he played with her. And she adored him —giggled every time he spoke, squealed when he leaned close.

“Yeah, you’re proper hard, you are,” he muttered one afternoon, bouncing her lightly. “Big strong girl. Gonna knock yer old man out one day, eh?”

She babbled back, fingers grabbing his crooked nose through the fabric.

You smiled from the doorway.“She thinks you’re pretty, Si.”

He scoffed. “Don’t talk shite.”

“I’m serious.”

“She’s a baby,” he muttered. “Give it a second. Soon as this comes off, she’ll scream her head off. I’m not doin’ that to her.”

Days later.

Steam still clung to the bathroom door when Simon stepped out, towel slung low around his hips, one hand scrubbing roughly at his face. Bare. Exposed.

You froze.

Then grinned.

“Oh no,” he muttered immediately. “Don’t you dare.”

Too late.

You stepped right into his path, your baby balanced on your hip. “Hi, love.”

“Absolutely not,” Simon barked, panic sharp in his voice. “Now’s not the time. Move.”

“Simon.”

He turned toward the wall, shoulders tight. “I said no. I’m not lettin’ her see me like this.”

“She deserves—”

“She’ll cry,” he snapped. “And I’m not havin’ that. So fuck off and let me get dressed.”

You reached for the towel. He tightened it instantly. It was heartbreaking seeing such a well trained soldier and more than capable man hiding himself out of fear of hurting his baby girl. Making her scared of him...

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t push me.”

Silence stretched - thick, painful. You didn't like this side of him. The side that hates himself so much he ends up hurting you.

Then–

The loudest giggle you’d ever heard.

Your baby shrieked with laughter, burying her face into your neck, shaking with it.

Simon froze.

“What…?” He turned slowly, confused.

She peeked out.

And saw him.

Her smile vanished for half a second–tiny brow furrowing, eyes studying his scars, his broken nose, the harsh lines of his face. Who was this man...huh...

Simon swallowed hard. “Sweetheart…” His voice cracked despite himself. “It’s me.”

That was it.

Recognition hit her like lightning. Her whole face lit up, mouth opening in a toothless grin as she squealed and reached for him.

“No! wait!!” Simon protested, panic flaring again.

You didn’t hesitate. You placed her straight into his arms.

He went completely still. Every muscle locked. Braced for rejection. A scream, a cry.

Instead—

She laughed harder.

Her chubby hands smacked against his scarred cheeks, fingers exploring every line, tugging his nose like it was her favourite toy. She pressed her mouth to his cheek and slobbered happily.

Simon let out a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Oh...fuck,” he whispered.

Tears welled, spilling freely as he smiled, really smiled, for the first time in years.

You crossed your arms, smug through your own tears.“Told you.”

She babbled at him, patting his face like she was soothing him now. Little chubby hands awkwardly patting his cheeks and eyes.

He kissed the top of her head, breathing her in like she was air. Then he pulled you into his side with one arm.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured thickly. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Thought I’d scare her. Thought I weren’t good enough.”

You leaned into him. “She loves you, Simon. Mask or no mask.”

He spends days afterwards apologizing, doing everything he could to make you happy. But you already were the happiest seeing your daughter shriek with laughter as her daddy makes funny faces to feed her.

And begs you to make little skull patterned mittens for her. To match of course.

Simon Riley’s baby loved him more without the mask.

She grew up thinking she looked just like her dad. And that made her proud.

MASTERLIST 🍎

A/N: Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated. Luv u all 🍓

༺♡༻

Simon Riley was a nightmare of a dad. One wrong move and he grounded his son for a whole week. No calls. No going out. No friends. Nothing but staying in and fucking studying.

You walked into your home after a soul-crushing day to find your only child, Tom, and his friends clustered in the living room, bags slung over shoulders, laughter too loud. They were heading out, again.

"Tom, baby, no" you said, setting your bag down. "It’s too late. It’s ten already."

"Ma, it’s fine" he said easily. Too easily. "I’ll be back in an hour. And if not, I’ll just crash at Ric’s -"

"No. Absolutely not. Nuh-uh."

He groaned. "Mom, I’m seventeen."

You turned slowly and looked him dead in the eye. "Exactly."

He scoffed and stood up - and Christ, he was already almost Simon’s height. Broad shoulders. Long limbs. Too big, too fast. Your chest tightened. You’d always been scared shitless of big men.

You remembered the first time you met Simon - bumping into him on your way back from partying with friends, freezing when you looked up and saw just how massive he was. Towering over you. You’d panicked and sprinted across the street like your life depended on it.

And yet years go by and he’d been the only man who ever mattered.

The only one who sat when you entered a room. The only one who shifted his stance to seem smaller at crowded dinners. The one who always knelt down to hear you better as you rambled on about your day.

You didn't even know he was in special forces when you started dating him. Yet he was the only one who bent the world around you instead of the other way around.

"Tom" you said sharply as his friends grabbed their things.

"I said no. You aren’t leaving. It’s dangerous, and have you even seen the news? That psycho killer still hasn’t been caught-"

"Ma, move" His voice dropped. Firm, just like his dad. "I’m goin."

He nudged past you.

Your hand shot out on instinct, fingers wrapping around his wrist. "I said no baby it's not safe. And you're not going."

He turned and looked down at you. God...

Your body betrayed you.

Your breath hitched. Your limbs locked. Too tall. Too close. Your heart slammed violently against your ribs.

"Ma" he muttered, irritation creeping in. "Let go."

You didn’t. Hell you couldnt even hear him. It's like your system had a shut down.

He shoved your hand away - not hard. Barely anything at all.

But it was enough.

Your foot slipped. Pain exploded up your ankle as you stumbled and went down with a sharp cry.

A busted kitchen pipe? You fixed it.

A blown fuse bulb? Sorted.

Rats in your kitchen? You’d catch them bare-handed before asking a man for help. You were not only the eldest daughter, but the eldest grandchild, and your mum (eldest daughter) and dad (eldest son). So asking for help wasn't a default setting.

But sometimes - rarely - you were stuck.

Like the night your car started leaking something dark and slick onto the driveway.

"Shit. No. No" you muttered, crouching to inspect it. Oil. Maybe. Or something worse.

Seven in the evening. Makeup half done. Phone buzzing with *Where are you?* texts from the girls.

You straightened and felt it before you saw him.

Simon. Your new neighbour.

He stood on his porch, glass in hand, watching you with an intensity that made you shift your weight. Big man. Quiet street. The '141 Boys' sticker on his jeep caught the light.

Finance job, he'd told neighbours when he moved in. Didn’t explain the balaclava. Didn’t explain the way he watched - like he was assessing a situation, not a person. He was so...weird.

He set the glass down. Didn’t rush. Walked over.

"Car’s bleedin" he said flatly.

You blinked. "Oh. Right. Yeah. I noticed."

His eyes flicked to the stain under the car. Then to you.

"Need help, or you just starin’ at it?"

Your jaw tightened. "…I don’t know what’s wrong."

That seemed to satisfy him. Might've boosted that ego all men carry these days.

"Stay there."

He disappeared into his house and came back with a toolbox. Heavy. Metal worn. Not new.

You think he will ask for permission to enter your yard but nah. He crouched, already reaching under your car.

"Don’t start it."

"I wasn’t going to" does he think you are some dumb little girl.

"Good" he muttered. "That would’ve made it worse."

You hovered nearby, arms crossed. Watching his hands. Large. Scarred. Steady.

"Hm." He clicked his tongue. "Oil pan’s leakin."

Your stomach dropped. "Is that bad? That sounds bad."

"Depends how long you ignore it."

You exhaled sharply. "Can you..." You hesitated. "Can you explain it to me?"

He paused. Slowly looked up at you.

"…Explain it."

"So if it happens again" you said, "I know what to do."

Silence stretched.

"You tryin’ to fix it yourself next time?" he frowns looking up at you.

"Yes" you repeat firmly.

He opens his mouth maybe to argue just like every misogynist prick in your life but then -

"…Alright" he said quietly. "Get down here then."

You hesitated looking down at your new denim skirt "Under the car?"

"That’s where the problem is, innit?"

You crouched beside him as he jacked the car up. The space beneath was tight. Too close. His shoulder brushed your knee and stayed there.

"See this?" he said, pointing. "That’s your oil pan. Oil keeps everything from grindin’ itself to death. You crack it, oil leaks. No oil...engine’s fucked."

He reached past you and something warm skimmed your arm. You didn’t move.

Few drops of oil splashed onto your cheek. You flinched and wiped them away.

He froze, waiting for you to shriek and run away.

"You alright?" His voice was lower now. Sharper.

"Yeah" you said. "It’s just oil."

"You're not scared of gettin dirty?" he mumbled.

"Let's focus."

"You don’t have to be under here" he added. "I can do this alone."

You met his gaze. "Then I don’t learn."

Something unreadable crossed his face.

"…Stubborn" he muttered. Then, after a pause "Fair."

He talked you through it slowly. Made you repeat things. Corrected you when you got it wrong. You mirrored his movements carefully.

"No - look. Not there. Here."

His hand closed over yours, guiding your fingers. Firm. Professional. Too aware.

You swallowed but didn’t pull away. Any other man would've taken this opportunity to harass you or humiliate you for being helpless. But this one was treating you like you were paying for a tutorial.

Half an hour later, it was done.

You both stood, brushing dirt from your clothes. The air felt thicker than before. You open the car door switching it on and hell it was fixed.

"Thank you" you said. "Really. Do I owe you?"

He shut the toolbox. "No."

"You sure?"

He looked at you for a long second.

"Just don’t ignore it next-

The words die in his throat as you move closer wiping drops of oil off his cheek. He looks down at your proper now...oh.

The next afternoon, he heard the hammer before he saw you.

You were on a ladder, nailing a hand-painted sign onto your garden shed. The steps wobbled.

"Oi" he called. "That ladder's shite."

You looked down. "I’ve got it!"

The ladder swayed again.

"Yeah?" He moved fast, crossing over to your yard gripping the ladder. "You sure about that?"

You laughed nervously. "Okay maybe not."

You gulped as you realised the maxi skirt you were wearing was now flowing in every direction thanks to the sudden wind...that means he can definitely see your -

You look down to see his gaze cast downwards. His eyes never once lifted up.

"Don’t move" he said. "I’ve got you."

His hands stayed steady. Didn’t let go. And kept staring at the little ceramic mushrooms you had in your garden.

You glanced down at him. "You’re good at catching people."

His jaw tightened.

"Part of the job."

"What job’s that?" you teased.

He looked up at you. Held your gaze and didn't answer.

"Keep workin" he said instead. Yeah he did catch people, just not in the way you thought.

You thought - he must be married. A man this controlled had to have someone grounding him. No wonder he has so much control and authority. He must have someone who taught him this respect.

You didn’t know yet -

Simon Riley, Lieutenant of the SAS, was dangerously good at restraint. Dangerous. Everyone back at base, from rookies to colonels knew how much control he had over everything. And that included his feelings and emotions. Not to mention the staring problem he had. And right now he was thinking of 100 ways to make you ask for his help....don't be suprised if you wake up next day and see your front door broken with expert precision.

Simon god damn Riley has a purpose now. It was making you life hell just because he wanted to help ;⁠)

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A/N: Yes he pretends to be unable to cook so that you invite him over. But you don't know cooking either. So now he is even happier to learn watching youtube videos besides you in your cute kitchen.

Masterlist 🩷

I am soo sick of seeing Ghost × Reader fics where he calls her 'whore, slut, bitch,cunt' etc etc.

That man would rather die than call his better half anything like that. He’d find it dehumanising. At one point you may think he would rather call you ma'am as he rails you. Might even throw a military salute in the middle of changing positions. Like yes Sir flip me over!! He sounded like he would give orders even in bed.

But hell, he wouldn’t even say it if you begged him to.

“Just a kink thing, Si. It’s not serious - I read it on the internet,” you scoff, poking his chest. Only to be met with a firm “Absolutely not. Nuh-uh”

“But it turns me on.”

“Oh, my tongue can turn you on just fine without those words, angel. Last time I checked, you were twitching like a butterfly with a broken wing" he says pushing your hands to his lips and kissing your knuckles.

“We can tryyy -”

"Least I could call you is bad girl...or a brat. You'd like that won't ya. But not those words", he says pushing you down before biting your earlobe. You let out a giggle wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Scrape my tongue with a fruit peeler if I ever call you that hmm? No means no, angel. Your words not mine. Now promise me”

"Promise you what" you frown wiggling your hips to take your pants off.

"To dump my arse if I call you those words. Humiliate me in front of the team if you'd like to...slap me into oblivion. You don't deserve hearing em" he chuckles lifting you by your waist to get rid of the clothes quicker.

"Never thought of you as a gentleman in bed Mr Riley" you coo as he huffs squishing your cheeks together.

"Well you thought wrong. I'm far from it", the bastard smirks. A kiss on forehead and nose and you're a goner.

You have no idea what he means by that. Staring up at him smirking at you while you frown figuring out his kinks. There must be something cracked inside his head to refuse any sort of roleplay too. "Lazy and uncreative", he would say. But after an hour you get it...he was the devil incarnate but with soo much control it disguised his dirtiness as manners. Oh!!! you think he was being respectful refusing to call you a slut...but his alternative terms and actions were way dirtier. Sure, he couldn't care less about the latest kinks and sex trends but he will make sure you don't get a chance to complain.

This man would be the perfect mix of dominating and sweet - but not in the way people expect...😋

A/N : I will write smut if y'all want 👀

Masterlist Raaah 👹

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He didn’t know this before marrying you. Not that it would’ve changed his mind, no, but it would’ve been useful information.

First night of marriage. He’s drifting off, arm heavy around you, when you whisper -

"Eyes are the egg yolks of our body."

He frowns into the dark. "The fuck"

“Huh...you droppin’ random facts on me, darlin?” he mutters, half-asleep, Mancunian slurring hard.

You smack your lips, burrow into his chest, and mumble about "you have brown yolks. prettybrown..yolks..mhm.. 500 rainbow pigs beneath the bed.”

He exhales slowly. "Right. Married a lunatic." Arms tugging the blanket over your head. If only he knew this was just the tip of it.

He was gone most of the nights. But oh when he was on a break from missions, he noticed the more tired you are, the worse it gets.

"Mmm… gah. Fuck the Brits" you mumble, rolling away.

He stiffens. "Oi - hang on. I’m British."

Before he can defend his country, your body jolts and you shriek -

"SIMON, GO BACK!"

Sleepy! Simon who wakes up his toddler by snoring like a malfunctioning engine about to explode. Y/N smacks his ass to wake him up– might even pinch his nipples like a human defibrillator. (In his defence, the man is surviving on months of catastrophic sleep deprivation.)

Sleepy! Simon who is horrifically shocked when his wife shoves the baby’s pacifier into his mouth to silence the snores. “Sucky sucky, big boy.”

Sleepy! Simon who wakes up grumbling about having the sweetest dream of him and you scuba-diving in an indoor aquarium, like that somehow explains anything. Not to forget, you have phobia of water.

Y/N who is already livid after hearing their baby cry at this ungodly hour – entirely thanks to her husband; decides she’s had enough and chooses violence shoving the pacifier back in his mouth. "Do you feel like a fish yet!!!"

Sleepy! Simon is still processing life, pacifier stuck in his mouth, when his wife returns to bed and deposits their wailing baby girl directly onto his chest like a consequence.

Y/N who turns on ambient rainforest sounds on her phone and immediately dozes off. “Night. You did this–now pay. Love you sooo much.”

Sleepy! Simon makes the dumbest faces until his baby girl finally settles. Her big brown eyes twinkle, clearly thinking her dad is an absolute nutjob.

Y/N who wakes up later to see Simon snoring lightly, their baby sleeping happily beside him babbling in sleep. Her chubby little legs planted at his tummy as he holds her gently.

Sleepy! Simon who is woken up after hours with a soft kiss on his head from his wife. But the threat that follows "I'm gonna wear a sock and walk miles in it, from the bakery to the butcher shop to that abandoned factory and come back and shove it in your mouth if you snore like this again", knocks every bit of sleep out of his system.

Y/N who smiles watching him laugh rubbing his eyes. They both look down as their sweetheart baby babbles happily watching her mum dad.

"Dada pig" she giggles pointing at Simon.

"Huh...Darlin...the fuck who taught you that" Simon blinks sitting upright. Out of everything she could call her dad. This is what she chooses– oink oink???

Before he could turn and face you again, you rush out of the room laughing. Yeah, being a Riley was chaotic.

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A/N: Yeah I should stay away from writing when sleepy...uh. Comments, likes, reboobs are appreciated. Luv u all🩷

MASTERLIST💤

It was an ongoing trend on social media - girls putting photos of their boyfriends covered in lipstick kisses. It would be so fun to try with your grumpy masked one.

"No, no - don’t do this, yeah? I’ve got a bloody briefing in an hour. Need to focus on important matters" he grumbles, voice rough as you drag him through halls. Hands pulling him by his belt.

Catching Simon and dragging him to your room was an achievement in itself. You deserve medals. He was rarely free and almost always in a foul mood. But he would never say no to his girl. You manage to get him on the bed and straddle him as he squirms beneath you.

You grin. "Shush, I just wanna try this new shade I got…"

"Try it on yer wrist like normal people do, not on my -" Before he can finish, you plant a big kiss right on his forehead. God... this man’s pupils blow wide like a cat’s, and he pretends not to notice. He lets out an annoyed grunt, hands clamping onto your hips as you reapply the lipstick, smothering his mask with kisses.

"Christ woman" he mutters under his breath.

Every single one earns you another grumble. You know he’s got a suitcase full of spare masks, so what’s the problem anyway??

"So pretty, Si!! You look so tame" you chuckle, tugging his jaw up to snap a photo.

"Don’t you dare put that anywhere" he snaps. "I swear, I’ll have you scrubbing toilet floors for a month sergeant."

"Oh, I’m terrified. Look at me, I’m shaking" you pout, mocking his accent.

"There’s other ways I can make you shake, petal" he growls, clearly unimpressed, before shoving you off his lap so he can grab another one for the briefing.

"Half an hour" he adds sharply. "That’s all I’ve got."

You sigh, flopping back onto the bed and watching him tear the room apart for the suitcase.

"Where is it? For fuck’s sake… was right here last time."

He walks into the bathroom to see himself in mirror. Every visible inch of his mask was covered with red lip-shaped kisses. The same lips he loved.

He sighs looking around and then it clicks. He dumped all the masks into the laundry that morning.

"You are ridiculously lucky you’re pretty and mine" he mutters. "Cause otherwise I’d - nah. Forget it" He sighs heavily and stomps toward the sink, scrubbing the mask with shampoo and a brush.

"Why’s this shite not comin’ off?"

You tiptoe to the doorway and mumble softly, "It’s, uh… love, it’s—"

"What?" He shoots you a glare. "Spit it out."

"It’s waterproof" you bite your lip looking at anywhere but him.

He freezes. "What d’you mean, waterproof?"

"And smudge-proof."

The look he gives you could kill. He shoves the mask into your hands, grumbling nonstop about how you’d better wash it properly and fast - but oh. It doesn’t budge. You even try wiping it with military grade detergent but looks like your favorite makeup influencer didn't lie.

Thirty minutes later, he’s in the briefing room with the rest of 141, still wearing a lipstick-covered skull mask.

"This is my special-occasion mask. It's reserved for Fridays" he deadpans.

"Today's Monday mate" Soap smirks.

One look from Simon shuts him up instantly. "It’s a trend."

The entire day, this grumpy hunk of a man stalks around the base in his "spoilt mask" as he keeps calling it - but beneath it, he’s quietly proud. Proud of being marked by you. And even prouder that everyone else can see it.

You see him training in gym afterwards wearing just the mask and joggers groaning and huffing as he lifts weights.

"So...admit that you like it. Walking around like a teenagers wallpaper" you laugh sitting on the benches.

He drops the weights panting and walking towards you. Jesus his chest could put many girls at shame.

"Have more of that dumb lipstick left?" he asks tugging your chin up..caressing your lips with his sweaty thumb. You just nod not knowing why he would ask that.

"Good. There are more things I will be needing those pretty marks over" he mumbles walking away grabbing his towel.

"You know the routine angel. See ya at eleven and bring that lipstick along" he smirks storming away leaving you wide eyed and visibly flustered...god this man would be the death of you tonight.

Masterlist🩷🩷🩷🩷

It wasn't until he was out for a walk one evening. Got a month off the base so might as well act like a normal civilian eh? Have some pancakes by the lake, whistle a tune as he walks. Sure why not.

Until he walks past you and mutters sideyeing your dog "wet rat". You freeze looking at the huge ass man walking past you...what did he just say.

Did he just whistle and call your sweet angel puppy a wet rat!!???

You shriek stomping to match his pace and tap his shoulders to make him look back.

"What", he mumbles looking down at you. Jesus who let their pet gargoyle out. He was tall enough to fix street lights.

"You are so rude for what reason man. Have I stepped on you or what" you frown sizing him up.

"You heard it then eh. Wanna hear it again", he scoffs already turning back.

"No no. You say sorry right now mister", you reach out to hold his elbow to make him face you.

Uh...why wasn't it working. It usually does.

You see his gaze drop to your dog again who was very much barking at his boots. Her little bows shaking as she shows him teeth and growls. Couldn't even reach his knees. He leans his head lower to see her better.

"That's one hell of a stupid looking rat if I ever saw one-

Thwack!!!

Your fist, his nose, perfect!!

You had imagined this scenario a hundred times. Punching a random man on street. Because why not.

You gasp waiting for a reaction.

Instead he just stands still touching his nose. And oh...he grins stepping closer. Before you could land another punch, he shoves his phone into your reaching palms.

"Your number.Now".

"What why", you were so confused. Was this a dream. Nothing made sense. You just punched him and he is asking for your number.

"I'll apologize tomorrow evening at the cafe down the street", he says taking his phone back as you type your number frowning.

He crouches down and take a little pink bow off your pups collar and walks away.

While you stood baffled, Simon damned Riley was planning ways to win your heart over. No one, especially a civilian had the audacity to do what you did - without an inch of hesitation.

That too over a little dog.

He looks at the screen smiling at the name you saved your contact under "Not happening cocksucker".

Oh he'll make sure it happens. You wanna make him apologize so bad don't ya??

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