Void

Of course, ghost first realized how bad your eating habits are while out getting dinner with you. Yes, dinner, a small payback-maybe-date after he rescued you from your broken down car at 3am.

"Uhm...I'll just have the chicken tenders. From the kids menu, please." You refuse to make eye contact with the waiter or ghost, stomach twisting that none of the more adult options were anything you liked.

You braces for the comments from ghost, having heard plenty from his teammates. Gaz snorting about what he's dubbed "your one vegetable a month" whenever he sees the only sub you eat lettuce with. Soap, too, makes comments about how you should try home-cooked meals instead of your store bought meals. Even price has chuckled about "dessert for lunch again, love?" When literally all you could stomach that week was sweets.

When you doesn't comment, you stubbornly stay staring at your hands "I know it's embarrassing eating with me...sorry."

"Wot? Yer eating, aren't you?" Ghost raises his brow at you, shoveling another giant onion ring into his mouth. "Not my fuckin' issue. If you don't want it, give it to me."

And...really you should have expected this.

Ghost, the man who lived on literal scraps in his childhood, who ate everything he was given because he had no choice. Of course he wouldn't care what you eat, so long as you eat.

"Oh...uhm." You're not sure what to say. You're used to always feeling some level of embarrassment about your diet. "Thank...you."

One dinner turns to two, turns to shared lunches and weekend brunches. You gravitate towards ghost because he doesn't care about your eating habits. If you order something and find it tastes different than expected, ghost will happily devour your dish while you ask about crisps.

you weren't ready to tell simon about your baby.

you'd been a single mother since you found out you were pregnant and did everything alone. she was only three months when you met simon, and you weren't exactly ready to date.

but you couldn't resist simon. his gorgeous face, decorated with scars. his big frame and bulging muscles. you wanted to lay on his chest and ride his big meaty cock all at once.

you should have mentioned it on the first date. she was the lock screen of your phone, which you left on the table for most of dinner. just hoping he'd pick up on it.

but you didn't mention it. and then you couldn't mention it. how could you on the second date? and then on the third?

except on the third date you take simon back home. you're not thinking about the nursery, you're thinking about getting him into your bed and doing whatever.

"thank god!" your mother was waiting by the door with your bundle of joy in her arms. she shoved her little girl in your arms and grabbed her coat. "she's been crying all night!"

your mother left, slammed the door shut behind her, and you were left with your baby girl and simon.

you're terrified when you turn to him, your baby girl screaming as you tried to bounce her in your arms. "surprise," you whispered. you were ready to start crying, ready for him to walk out that door and to never see him again.

"who's this then?" he asked as he moved closer. he looked down at your pudgy baby, no teeth in her mouth as she screamed and screamed and screamed.

you sucked in a deep, shaky breath. "this is clementine," you mumbled as you rocked her. but nothing was getting her to calm down.

"can i?" simon asked, reaching for her.

you let him take her in his big, strong hands. she was the size of his hands, so tiny compared to him. "easy, clem," he whispered as he bounced and rocked her.

your baby fell silent as simon walked over to the couch. "there y' go," he mumbled and sat down with her against his chest. he looked up at her with gorgeous eyes, your eyes.

"holy shit," you whispered, coming to sit beside him with your legs tucked beneath you. "i don't think she's stopped crying since i brought her home."

simon didn't expect you to fall asleep against him. he was fully ready to snog you silly while keeping your little baby calm, but you were sleeping against his bicep, drooling on his black shirt.

i love the idea that simon thinks he's super open and available with his emotions and reader thinking he's really cold and disinterested. is he ooc? yeah. do i care? no. if you want cannon ghost, play the game!

simon riley doesn't know when you became so important to him.

the only reason he even put out the ad for a roommate was because his landlord though he'd moved out while he was away and he'd rather have some bird in his place than deal with that again.

you were just so easy; showing up to the coffee shop (where you requested to have your first meeting just in case he was some crazy murderer) face flushed, strands of hair all over the place, and sweater a mess; rushing to explain how you got sprayed by a sprinkler on your walk over then chased by a dog. and just as you repeat sorry for the 30th time simon thinks he's in love. you're officially his roommate 30 minutes later.

but it's so out of character for him. he hasn't been around anything other than hard ass military men since he was a teenager. fuck, he's killed hundreds of men in his line of work, tortured thousands more. (he doesn't like to think that that's why he's so drawn to you. that you're so different from who he has to be, someone he's been for so long, that being around you lets him breathe. that he feels like he can actually sit and enjoy his moments away from the field in your tiny manchester apartment.)

he thinks it actually started with the decorations.

the small trinkets you let around the common spaces when he was away. it starts with your room obviously; fairy lights above your bed that spills light into the hallway when he comes home in the early morning hours, paintings on the wall that eventually flow over into the living room, the small plants in your window sill that you ask him to water one day after you leave for work.

then the dinner table suddenly has checkerboard placemats and a vase of flowers that change with the season. and his run-down couch has decorative pillows and a throw blanket (both words he learned from you when he questions what the fuck is on his couch). then the bathroom in the hallway gets a new soap stand, and a mat is placed at your front door, next to the shoe organizer and coat rack.

so he starts buying things too; the penguin plushie in the supermarket window, the vase that matches the curtains in the living room, and a small skull magnet to rest on the face of your fridge.

and before simon knows it his dreary, cold apartment actually looks lived in. and instead of coming home to a dark hallway and an empty fridge, your flower lamp is on, some random show from the 90s is playing, and there's food on the table.

he gets to know you more than he thought he would; he knows what foods you don't like, the books you're reading and the ones you refuse to read again, and even that dick from work he promises to take care of if he bothers you again (it's evident that you think it's a joke and not something that he would genuinely do but simon doesn't think he's ever been more serious).

but he never lets you know too much about him, you don't need to know about it and the less you find out the better.

then came dinners, actual dinner not just him showing up while you already had food ready. you would ask if he wanted whatever you had made ( 'i'm already making food and i normally don't eat is all anyway, so i might as well share' ). so suddenly he was spending his nights at your table with a homecooked meal and simon doesn't think he could ever let this go.

then he gets sent away again, for way longer this time. he makes sure to update his paperwork, changes his emergency contact, your name swirled onto the spouse line. you were probably as close as he'll ever get to one and if you're there they'll tell you if anything happens to him faster. he doesn't want to think of how nice your first name looks with his last name. and you'll probably never even know, simon's never gotten that injured before and he doesn't plan on it now.

months in the heat of the middle east return him to hard shell of a man he was. coming home caked in dirt, blood speckled on his clothes; he doesn't want you to see him like this, he doesn't want you to know this version of him. and for the first time he regrets letting you come into his life.

you are home when he gets back, 2:30 in the morning and every light is off, he opens your door to make sure. you're asleep, not shocking, cuddled into the giant octopus you won at an arcade. he tries not to move, he just wants to look at you for a little bit.

he wakes up the next morning to breakfast and a new pair of combat boots. he's only home for a week this time, not that he's ever home for longer than a month, and he tries to soak up all of your time. you complain about your car, he's on it. the heater started being testy, that's fine he'll take care of it. he's going grocery shopping with you, he watching that weird hospital show, and he enjoys his time in domestic bliss before getting thrown back into some random country.

somehow that all led him here. laying in a hospital bed with two bullets lodged in his shoulder with you sitting in some shitty chair pulled as close to the bed as you could.

"so uh, i'm mrs. riley now?"

your roommate was a strange man.

can you even really call him a roommate if he's only home for one week every few months? but when he is home, simon riley is a pretty good roommate.

he fixes the heater that's been broken for two months, he replaces the faucet after it drenches you for turning it on too quick, he even takes a look at your car when you mention how your breaks have been squeaking. but other than his penchant for whiskey and the color black, you really don't know much about the man you've been living with for more than a year.

he's in the military, you know that for sure. he works with a team because he tells you that you have a striking resemblance to a man names "soap"? you take that as a compliment even if he didn't really mean it to be one. he wears combat boots even when he's off, you buy him a pair for his birthday that he doesn't take off until soles wear out. but all of these are merely observations, you don't actually know anything about him.

and it's not like you don't try to find out more things about him. you search his name on google- nothing. you ask him about his social media- 'don't got any'. you never ask about family because he never brings them up. all you have is a phone number and the license plate on his beat up dodge charger.

so, getting a call in the middle of the night, three months after you'd last seen simon, about a mission taking a bad turn and simon taking a bullet for an american private. all you really manage to catch after that was the hospital's address and a room number to ask for.

obsessed with your husband's obsession

pairing: husband!simon “ghost” riley x wife!reader

summary: your husband’s obsessed with your tits

masterlist!

a/n: such a good request, anon!! had soo much fun writing :)) requests are open in my ask box!!

“c’mere,” your husband motioned his fingers toward you, closing the front door behind him, “need m’ sweet wife.” the brute had a long day at work, desiring nothing more than to come home to you.

he eyed your frame scurrying over to him, "hi husband," melodically chiming in his ears as you threw your arms around his neck, slightly lifting on your toes. "how was work today?" you asked, feeling his biceps encircling your torso. you always loved how your husband completely engulfed you— forever feeling safe in his arms.

he didn't verbally respond at first, the man lowering himself to his wife's height, leaving a trail of kisses. he started on your forehead, stealing a kiss on your cheek, before making his way down to your neck. he found that sweet spot on your collarbone instantly, knowing every pleasure point on your beautiful body. simon knew you like the back of his hand.

you had to bite your lip from making too much noise when he eventually reached your cleavage, littering soft kisses on top. "was a little stressful," he answered between smooches, "started countin' down tha hours 'til m' could see ya again." with that, he brought his hands to either side of your thighs, lifting you into his arms with ease. after years of marriage, it still amazes me how strong he is, you thought, wrapping your legs around his waist. he carried you through your shared home.

you held back a giggle when you felt your husband smother his face between your boobs, scared he was going to run you into something, "si! you can't see anything!" "don' need to, luvie'. 'tis 's tha only view m' need."

each time you lounged with your husband, whether it be on the couch, in your bed, hell— even on the floor, he habitually found a way to have his face in your tits. "yer girls are amazin' pillows," he'd claim, getting comfortable on them when you'd watch a movie together.

this man even had the gull to eat popcorn off them, "apparently amazin' tables too." "alright! you lost privileges for tonight," pushing him away as he frowned, but you secretly loved it. simon just matched your freak.

so when he did it again, this time with potato chips, you didn't protest.

your boobs were even helpful in waining simon from his tobacco use. the brit's been smoking since before he's even known you, so it doesn't really bother you when he lights one. shit, you still have a cigarette or two now, but he's expressed interest in wanting to, at least, slow down on his intake.

"m' pack 's empty, hon'. and we both know m' probably shouldn' buy anotha."

plus, you wanted to help your husband, "you can suck on my boobs, si!" what a great idea! since his lovely wife suggested it, how could m' turn down tha offa'?

using his gruff hands, he clutched your tits, holding one in each. he took his time sucking on them, showing each girl their own affection.

you both knew there was never sexual innuendos behind this, but you couldn't help the way your eyes rolled behind your skull when your nipples reached a certain numbness, the sensations toe-curling. you'd get so sensitive after the five minute mark, "sweet'eart', m' smoke for at least ten," you'd hear simon tease.

Simon had you exactly where he wanted you.He was perched on the edge of the reinforced table, legs spread obscenely wide, one gloved hand fisted in your hair as he shoved your face between his thick thighs. His tactical pants were shoved down just enough, and his fat, dripping pussy was already glistening with slick.

You didn’t hesitate.Your tongue dragged through his soaked folds in one long, hungry stroke, tasting the salty-sweet mess of his arousal before pushing deep inside his tight, clenching hole.

He let out a low, guttural groan, his powerful thighs tensing around your head as he rocked forward, grinding his cunt against your mouth.

“Fuck… yeah, just like that,” he rasped, voice rough behind the mask.

You devoured him without mercy. Your tongue fucked into his pussy in deep, wet thrusts while your lips sealed around his swollen clit, sucking hard. Slick coated your chin and dripped down your neck as his grip on your hair tightened, guiding you exactly where he needed you. His hips rolled in short, greedy movements, using your face like a toy.

He was soaked. Every lick and thrust of your tongue made filthy, obscene sounds echo in the room. You slid two thick fingers into his dripping hole alongside your tongue, curling them up hard against his front wall while you flicked your tongue fast over his clit.

His thighs started trembling around you. A rare, broken moan slipped out as he fucked himself on your tongue and fingers, chasing the pleasure with shameless rolls of his hips.

“Don’t you fucking stop,” he growled, pressing your face deeper into his cunt. “I wanna cum on your tongue.”

You worked him harder, sucking and licking and fingering him until his whole body tensed. Ghost’s head fell back with a deep, muffled groan as his pussy clamped down around your fingers, gushing slick all over your mouth while he came hard.

Even after, he kept your face buried between his thighs, hips giving slow, lazy grinds against your tongue as he rode out the aftershocks.

When I moved, I’m certain they understood I was leaving because I had all my stuff and gave them lots of food and compliments.

But, they chased down my friend who lived in the next burrough over. They had recognised that friend with me several times and followed them to their house when they couldn’t find me.

They adopted my friend and it was now my friend’s job to bring them snacks and receive the presents.

This was maybe 6-7 years ago.

I visited London last year. Went to see my friend. The crows all not only recognised me, they tracked me down. We got into my friend’s flat and not twenty minutes later there was chaos on the balcony.

We open the curtains, the entire fucking murder is there shouting because they wanted to see me.

Like, Grace is in the bathroom, shaving, the curtain pulled to the side and suddenly he stops and says "stop touching my stuff". Rocky, frozen, somewhere behind him, can't fathom how Grace sensed that. He was so quiet. The razor is so loud. Grace's still facing away from him. What the fuck.

You are not going to pass a skillcheck against a rip current once it has you.

Waves will not bow to your physical prowess no matter how impressive.

Shock does not care that you used to be on your school swim team.

If you hit your head, being good at swimming isn't going to turn you face-up while you're unconscious.

adrian, fussing over him: are you okay?

grace: yeah, don't worry. it's just these onions you guys synthesized for me