A little Ghost Hairball I can't seem to get rid of.

Simon gaining weight.

His last deployment was particularly nasty and he was getting too old for field work. So, asked Price to transfer him to desk duty. It wasn't the most glorious job, but it would get him back home to you in one piece.

It was hard helping Simon adapt to his new, normal life. His military habits were definitely hard to break. But, over time, he realized he was allowed to live as a normal person. He slowly stopped going to the gym. He preferred spending time at home with you, anyway. He started spending more time on the couch. Whether that meant watching the newest Manchester Match, folding a load of laundry, or curling up next to you, he was allowing himself to relax. And, best of all, he actually had time for three good meals a day. At the base, the closest thing he got to dinner was a crushed up granola bar that he would later throw up after PTSD nightmares. Now, the two of you had warm meals together. Simon hadn’t sat at a dinner table since he was a kid. And even then, it was tense.

With time, his abs softened, hidden by a new layer of fat. He wasn't overweight, definitely not, he just became a little softer around the edges.

He was worried you would dump him. After all, the two of you started dating while he was being deployed every other week. You had always known him as your muscled, military boyfriend. It was so strange, a man that had braved through so much trauma and death, only to be nervous about putting on a few pounds. He started taking off his shirt less around you, embarrassed about the person he was becoming.

Saying you didn't treat him differently was a lie. But you weren't upset. No, you were the exact opposite. You grew more physically affectionate, with his permission, of course. He was still not used to any touch that wasn't cruel. You comforted him and told him how you loved him, hell, maybe you loved him even more now that you could lie in his stomach comfortably. Cuddling with him now was far better than cuddling with his hard abs getting in the way.

And it was the truth, he could tell. He had memorized all your little tells that would show if you were just trying to be nice like you did with the neighbors.

You loved Simon like this, you didn't judge him. He was finally happy. Healthy. All yours. You pressed kisses against his stomach, his arms, truly appreciating him. Now that he wasn’t all muscle, you could suck on his skin and leave hickeys all over him

Simon smiled to himself when he thought back to those moments. Perhaps getting soft wasn’t too bad.

“Simon gaining weight” thank god—

old price sketch

the thought of price being all cocky and smug with you during foreplay because he’s got you a cumming mess. dirty talking right up to the moment he sinks into your cunt then suddenly doesn’t know how to talk at all.

“How’s that— (jaw clenching) fuck.”

“Take me so— (head falling onto your shoulder) yeah.”

slutty simon (he doesn’t pose)

there’s my good girl

the (real) reason Price kept you a secret

Thinking about Price posting a picture of you two, only for them to use it as their phone wallpaper (the picture was zoomed in on you, he was cut out of the picture)

Ginger Snaps (2000)

proper fed — simon “ghost” riley

when ghost comes home, he’s all worn-out muscle and quiet exhaustion, his broad frame leaning against the doorway as he watches you from beneath that ever-present balaclava. but the second he sees you—curled up in one of his old shirts, all soft and waiting for him—his shoulders ease just a little.

“missed you, love,” he mutters, voice thick and gruff as he strides over, pulling you into his arms like he’s been starvin’ for the feel of you. his hands, rough and calloused from too many fights, find your waist, squeezing just enough to make you shiver.

“you’ve lost weight again,” you scold, smoothing your hands over his chest, frowning at the way his body feels sharper, leaner.

“been busy, ain’t i?” he grumbles, but you’re already dragging him toward the couch, settling yourself in his lap as you grab the plate you made for him earlier. He doesn’t argue—not when you’re all warm and snug against him, not when he can feel the soft press of your thighs over his own.

the telly’s on, some football match playing, and he barely glances at it as you lift a forkful of food to his lips. “c’mon, si,” you murmur, tapping it lightly against his mask. “up.”

with a quiet sigh, he pulls it up just enough, letting you see the sharp cut of his jaw, the hint of stubble he never quite gets rid of. and when he takes that first bite, his eyes flutter shut for a brief second, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

“bloody hell, you tryna fatten me up, sweetheart?” he mutters, cockney drawl thicker now that he’s home, safe, warm.

you grin, feeding him another bite. “maybe. can’t have you wasting away, yeah?”

his arms tighten around you, one hand settling on your hip, thumb rubbing slow circles over the softness there. “gonna make me proper spoiled, you are.”

but he doesn’t complain—doesn’t stop you from feeding him, doesn’t stop himself from pressing his face into your neck between bites, inhaling deep, like he’s trying to memorize the way you smell. and when the match ends and he’s full, relaxed, his hands stay where they are, holding you close, keeping you exactly where you belong.

“You were made for me, doll.” Something something about Possessive Simon Riley who says it like he’s carving the words into you, like it’s not just sex—it’s claiming. Maybe it’s a vow. Maybe it’s a threat. You’re not sure. But you believe him. Right, lovie?

═════════════════════════

It’s always the same words, whispered in that low, darkened voice of his.

“You were made for me.”

He says it when you dress yourself up pretty for him, when his gloved fingers tilt your chin and his thumb smears your lipstick because he likes you messy.

He says it when you kneel, when you take him into your mouth and he’s gripping your hair, praising you through gritted teeth for being so good.

But when he’s inside you, when he’s got you split open on him, that’s when it feels less like a promise and more like a fact. A brutal, inescapable truth.

“You were made for me,” Simon growls, voice thick and dark, teeth scraping hot against your throat as his hips slam into yours. “Only me.”

His hand wraps tight around your throat, not squeezing, just holding—reminding you that he could if he wanted. That you’re his, and there’s nowhere else you belong.

You cry out, nails digging into his back, body trembling under the brutal pace he sets. It’s too much. He’s too much.

“Can’t—” you sob, voice breaking. “Si– I can’t”

But he’s already shaking his head, leaning in until his mouth is against your ear.

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You will.”

His hand slides down, fingers bruising your waist as he pounds harder, deeper. “You can take what I give you, love. You were made for this. For me.” His voice is a dangerous rasp, but there’s something almost reverent underneath it. “Made for me to fill up. For me to ruin.”

And fuck, if you don’t believe him.

It hurts. Your body’s shaking, stretched too far, too full—but you need it. Need him.

Because he’s right. You were made for him.

And you’ll let him ruin you, wreck you, all over again—just to hear him say it again.

═════════════════════════

disgusting stalker simon 🤫

his head pumped hot and heavy full of blood, the thin joggers he’d had on, suddenly had him sweating and itching. but he shivered in excitement, sandwiched between the thin slice of floor and the bed frame. it was scary, how he’d stalked this very moment out, snuck in while you were gone and… waited.

and here he was, listening to you shuffle up over your sheets, watching as your panties dropped to the floor beside him. and he couldn’t help as the blood drained from his upper half straight to his lower.

he’d waited, waited till the garbled voices on your phone began, listening to your breathy sigh. n then his hand snuck out carefully to pull those sweet, pretty pink panties into his fist, pressing them to his face in a disgusting gasp.

something was seriously wrong with him, it was gross, perverted, scary. if you’d known he was here, you’d be screaming, pleading and quick to dial the police straight over. that’s what made it so fuckin’ exciting, you were a pretty girl, and he was just a man. a sick one at that.

so as he heard your fingers play, his did too. and with the little space he had, he fisted up his cock, the same pace your pretty little fingers pressed into your pussy. he moaned with you, so goddamn desperate to fuck into the squelching mess of your sweet cunt.

jesus christ, he pleaded, mouth screwing tight as his balls drew up. his head rolled, skull grinding down into the ground as his hips involuntarily bucked. and his release was soon dripping down the back of his hand.

but you weren’t there yet, still shoving your fingers to the hilt, breathing out those small little high pitched gasps, so simon wasn’t done either.

not super yummy i’m sorry please fill me up with your ideas angel anything please

Stalker!Gaz who had never intended to stalk you, he was just worried when he noticed how you barely have any survival instinct.

Like how you like to take a long walk alone, at night, with earphones on blasting loud music. How you often forgot to lock your door or have your curtains wide open while you carelessly strut around half-naked in your flat. How you somehow could fall asleep in public transport, leaving you and your belongings vulnerable. Or when you missed the last bus and you just casually hitch-hike with a stranger (seriously? who did that anymore)- fortunately, that stranger was him. That was the only one good thing that came from your carelessness, him being able to know you.

..So he can't just leave you alone, can't he? he had to protect you, beat up every creep that had the audacity to whistle your way, resisting a facepalm when you simply whistled back in response.

He felt like some kind of unofficial (and illegal) guardian angel more than a stalker really. And he was sure you would never realize it.

At first he was discreet, watching you at a safe distance. But eventually, he found out that you were very annoyingly oblivious.

Eventually, he would just sit beside you on the bus everytime he followed you home, not knowing if he wanted to be pissed or smile when you fall asleep with your head leaning against his shoulder. You were lucky it was him, what if you fell asleep on a creepy man instead?

Gaz with piercings please!! 😩💎✨

HE'S SO PRETTY (´｡• ω •｡`)