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xo-cod · 7 months

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someone asked for it but the ask got deleted so here it is again :)

bodyguard!simon x popstar!reader

absolutely hated you in the beginning. only tolerated you because price had given him this responsibility and because the pay was decent. otherwise he was just a shadow with one worded responses and grunts towards whatever you said.

used to manhandle you whenever you used to walk slow, pulling you along with a tut and a roll of his eyes. you couldn't really see his face since he still wore his balaclava but his face was definitely screwed up behind it

the loud cheering becomes jarring to him the first few times, he's not used to this environment and there's been a few times where his hands have sprung to his gun ready to unload hell onto a poor excited fan who wanted a signature

but the more time he spends with you, the more he warms up around you. he even knew time brought you on base for when he needed to grab something quickly and you ended up meeting his team members

gaz and soap are basically #1 fans fr. the fact that you're friends with their favourite musicians makes them fanboy, your life is so exciting and they always want to know the latest gossip.

simon watches on unamused but secretly feeling a certain way when he sees you speaking happily with his friends

the dances you have with your backup dancers make simon so jealous ‼️‼️ the way your hips sway with theirs, the way their hands are across your waist, the tight outfits, god he has to physically restrain himself from ravishing you

he watches on with his jaw clenched, body rigid as his eyes feast upon your body like treasure. even through the thousands and thousands of people there, you'll always feel the burning of his eyes on you

and when your eyes meet him on a special part of a song, he's literally entranced by you. his breath held and he feels vulnerable, despite the millions of people there. when you're singing to him, it's to him

his praise to you is usually a nod of his head and a "good" but the more you both grow closer, the more you notice how touchy he can become and the more praise that falls from his lips (though it still can sound a little cold only because he feels awkward and doesn't think you need his reassurance that you're doing a good job)

"wear this pretty number f'me" when you both become super close, he likes it when you wear his favourite outfits. he'll hand them to you offering no explanation, only that it looks really good on you. secretly admiring you on stage when it glimmers and shimmers against the light because you look so beautiful

secretly has a few pictures on you on stage where you look so beautiful, he can't help but flick through them at the dead of night when he's alone.

will also secretly heart and save the videos on a private account of all the fan edits of you and him (a cliche but i like them 🤭)

will definitely notice the little skulls you have dangling from your outfit/jewellery and he smiles to himself, it's like an easter egg no one could guess

begged him to make an insta and after much reluctance and pleading he finally did.

he gained followers very quickly, his dm's full of people wanting to thirst over him to his workout routine

but you're the only one he follows <3

yes, he's also fallen victim to stalking your page and looking at old boyfriend with a smug and annoyed look

you got papped one time with the initials SR♡ on your necklace and it went crazy popular. everyone trying to figure who the mystery person was.

but simon looks on in pride, he might be called ghost to everyone else but between you both he'll always be your simon riley. a secret no one could know <3

cue soap and gaz screeching at the paparazzi pictures, having called on the whole thing when ghost was assigned to you in the first place

#simon riley #call of duty modern warfare #cod mwii #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #simon riley x y/n #ghost x y/n #bodyguard!simon #bodyguard!ghost #bodyguard!simon x reader #bodyguard!simon riley #bodyguard!simon riley x reader fluff #simon riley x reader fluff

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yawnderu · 3 months

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“My dad makes boring rules.” Simon has to hold back the urge to roll his eyes, his patience wearing thin by the second.

“Those rules are in place to protect you.” He scolds, his voice calm, but laced with sternness typical for a man who built his entire life on discipline and control.

“To make sure you stay out of trouble, to stop you from making dumb decisions.” Like trying to flirt with me when you know I can't and won't respond.

“Yeah, but still...” You dragged out, unsure of what to protest about next— but feeling the need to do it either way. Your eyes roam his gear for something to latch onto, trying to disguise it by looking back into his eyes. If he noticed your lingering gaze, he did a great job of not showing it.

“Still what?” Babysitting a grown woman who's stubborn as a mule and twice as bratty wasn't in Simon's plans, but his career keeps testing him.

“Well, the rules are annoying and dumb.” It's as much as you can argue, sneakily hooking your finger on his belt loop, subtly pulling him closer as he stands above you, arms crossed across his bulletproof vest. His eyes flicker to your finger, narrowing for a second before he tries to relax, his feet firmly planted on the floor.

“I can see why he has to keep those rules.” He comments dryly. “Otherwise you'd get in trouble, and I'd be the lucky one who gets to clean up the mess.” He takes a single step forward as you pull on his belt loop harder, your free hand going up and down his heavily armored body, feeling his gear before reaching your target— his hand.

“I got a different mess you can clean up.” He knows you're not truly trying to seduce him, yet the way you hold his wrist and guide his gloved hand down your body to help him cup your tit is testing his self-control.

“Fuckin' hell.” He mutters under his breath, trying to resist your advances even when he can feel the desire seeping through your teasing. His gloved fingers tense up slightly, kneading at the softness under his hand before he finally lets go, trailing up gently until he reaches your neck, applying enough pressure to get your full attention.

“I have a duty to protect you.” He reminds you in a whisper, his head tilting down to look directly into your half-lidded eyes, hoping you won't mention just how dilated his pupils are.

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midnightarcheress · 19 days

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Simon has a new assignment.

pairing: bodyguard!ghost x actress!reader 1 | gold rush masterlist.

after years exhausting his body in the military and too many losses to count, Simon decided to retire. goodbye extensive deployments, food and sleep deprivation, constant adrenaline pump in his veins, hours spent washing the blood off of his fingernails. except he didn’t truly retire. life as a civilian again was too strange, too boring. he thrives in following orders and being the best at it. he missed having a purpose, even if it’s far from saving the world.

so, because of that, he agreed on joining a private military company as a contractor. never takes the dirty, mercenary-like jobs though – despite being rusted, his moral compass is still there, so he usually sticks with the security, training, bodyguarding type of work. easy enough to not take a toll on his body, and to not strain his conscience with the worry of ending innocent lives to cover up some bastard’s filth, but demanding enough to keep his mind out of his own life for a while.

the guy on the other side of the line doesn’t tell him much about the new task. bodyguard for an actress, indefinite time, details via e-mail. a few minutes later, the computer screen lights up with the case information and his eyes skim through the text; famous actress, has been receiving threatening letters and who ultimately has a stalker. a seemingly uncapturable one, as the police have not been able to trace them for months. incompetent wankers. in his prime he would locate terrorists with ease; nothing he couldn’t do right now, but his contract was strict – keep her safe and keep to yourself.

he doesn’t recognize the name, but the small picture attached to the message is slightly familiar, maybe from one of the times he spent hours flicking through the channels on the telly while battling a crippling insomnia. his brows knit together when he peers at the set of rules that accompanies the e-mail. no talking, no touching unless extremely necessary, must keep distance at all times.

in the months he’s been working in the company, he never had a job with an actual celebrity – mostly politicians and businesspeople, extremely straightforward and simple to execute, usually for a short period of time. he’s convinced that it will be the longest mission of his life, probably dealing with an entitled rich woman who’s used to having everybody begging at her feet.

dread fills his mind as he watches the trees quickly passing by his window on the car. the drive to the meeting is short enough to contain the rate of the antipathy brewing on his chest, but long enough to make him question accepting the assignment.

he pulls up on the driveway and walks towards a tall, modern building, filled with frantic people walking from side to side. glancing at his phone, he re-reads the details of the reunion; second door on the 23th floor, her manager will be expecting you. his fingers tap on the side of his thigh as the lift raises to the office level, eyes glaring at the mirror in the back of the platform. the image on the glass differs from the one on his past – military buzzcut and skull-printed balaclava replaced by messy blond locks and a neck gaiter, still covering a bit of his face even after all this time. old habits die hard.

the doors pry open right after the number appears on the screen and he walks down the hallway to the office, stopping on his tracks as he notices a feminine voice coming from inside the room. “i’m scared just as much as you, but is this really necessary?” she’s in there too? wasn’t the meeting only with the guy?

“yes, princess, it is necessary. do you want to make the front-page news as a corpse?” another voice can be heard responding, this time, male. must be the manager. “in case you've forgotten, i’m also your friend, and i’m merely concerned about your safety. we cannot let that stunt from last week happen again.” stunt. he recalls part of the information on the file, depicting how she was almost assaulted by a weirdo that followed her on the street; however, the creepy prick was cleared from being the stalker and left the station on bail. great justice system.

“we’ve already increased the security on your house, he was just hired to keep you safe on the outside.” he decides to stop eavesdropping and knocks sharply on the door. “must be him.” the man says, and he listens as footsteps approach the entryway.

“well, hello there. please, come in,” he steps aside, allowing Simon to enter the room. the office is fairly average, leather couch on one corner, portraits on the wall of what he assumes are the man’s clients, but all of the attention goes to the large windows showing a perfect view of the city. “so, i’m Daniel, the great manager as you may know," he smugly speaks, "and of course you already know her.” he gestures to the woman on the armchair.

the woman from the picture. the woman from the late night movie he was absentmindedly watching on a late night. you. you look the same as he'd seen before, but somehow entirely different. the warm sunlight coming through the glass shines on your skin when you stand on your feet, golden flecks twinkling in your irises as you offer him your name and extend a hand to greet him, sweetly mouthing “and you are?”

he shakes your hand with a firm grasp, stirring away the sudden void in his brain and swallowing the lump on his throat that hindered his words. “Ghost.” easy detachment. his gruff voice reverberates in the space as he repeats the orders in his head, the sense of doubt starting to cloud his judgement. keep to yourself. maybe the job won’t be as bad as he thought.

been a bit obsessed with this idea so i decided to write it and see how it goes.

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ghostlywhiskey · 4 months

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i don't care how cliché this is. simon riley deserves a cliché plot that ends happy for him. i said what i said. but until then, cliché angst to build up to the happy ending.

bodyguard!simon who ignores his feelings, but also justifies any slip ups as him protecting you. when there's a crowd or he's simply guiding you in a specific direction, his hand doesn't just hover behind your back. fingers dig into your waist to keep you close, causing you to flinch the first few times he does it but after a while your body becomes used to the action. and your own subconscious action will have you reaching for his hand before entering a crowd, placing his hand there.

when you're out with friends and someone makes you uncomfortable, before your eyes even find his to give him a look that says 'help me', he's next to you. his large frame behind yours as one hand reaches to give your bicep a gentle squeeze while his eyes burn into the individual bothering you. "not makin' my girl uncomfortable, r' you?" the words don't even cross your mind as he says them, knowing he's just pretending for the moment to get the person to leave you alone. but in simon's mind, you're his girl in a way, just not in the way he wants.

and it's simon, who can't sometimes justify words and smaller actions and fights his mind after the fact. when he's sat on the couch, already dressed for the event that you are still rushing around getting ready for, he'll be up the second you call his name. knuckles knocking softly on the door to make sure you're decent before opening it all the way. the way he stops breathing for a brief moment when you turn to look at him enter, hands behind your back trying to zipper the dress. "need some help, please," you shamelessly act, the request made dozens of times before; only recently has simon felt it to be a torture method, unbeknownst to you. a small nod, he takes a few strides over to you and hands fiddle with the zipper briefly before tugging it up with ease. if he could drag out the moment, he would, but he's not confident he'd mask his emotions reflecting back to the both of you in the mirror. "beautiful," the word quickly spoken and quiet, followed by a fake clearing of his throat before he tells you he'll be waiting by the front door.

his favorite time is when you fall asleep on the couch after begging him to watch a movie with you. your body slumped before slowly finding it's way to lean against simon for support. his bicep becoming your pillow, and he knows well enough if your head is resting there, then you're a goner and deep asleep. but, he'll let the movie play to the end before he carefully picks you up from the couch to bring you to your room. and he promised himself after the first time he did it, he wouldn't do it again, but lips press against the top of your head as he lays you down. a soft 'goodnight' spoken into the dark bedroom, no response from you besides the sound of your soft breathing.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader fluff #simon ghost riley x reader fluff #simon riley fluff #simon ghost riley fluff #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley cod #bodyguard!simon #ghost cod #gw sfw ghost #nic talks ghost

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grlpartdoll · 2 months

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Ok so the first post I made about famous!reader and bodyguard!Simon made me think about something interesting. How would Simon react to his lamb actually getting sick or being in a bad place? I am sick, so this is incredibly self indulgent, lol.

afab!reader, mdni with any of my work pls.

You sip quietly, watching through your lashes as Simon types something on his phone. It's late at night — one am. Way past the bedtime established by the man himself.

There's only one light on, and it's the one in the hallway. It illuminates only half of his face, highlighting a sharp jaw, a scarred brow and lip, a once (or twice) broken nose.

When you shift uncomfortably, he peers down at you again, his eyes immediately brought to you when you sputter a little, water refusing to go down.

"Doc's beeper is off." He announces, turning off his phone and bending his knees a little to lower himself to your height. As you slowly move your cup of warm water down on-top of your thighs, you cup your throat, a desolate frown on your face.

He motions for you to open your mouth, raising a hand to pinch your chin gently between his fingers. He looks at the state of your throat, at the cough drop you're using sitting idly behind your teeth.

He shakes his head. "Still inflamed."

You pout. Quietly, you try to speak, but he shoots you a look you know too well.

"Y'know the procedure, Bambi."

You give a glance at the camera crew stuck at the door. The rule that Simon had firmly introduced and stuck to ever since the documentary had begun filming between the walls of your home — no cameras in your room, and none at the door if it was closed. The only reason its open now is because your manager had scolded him about the documentary not containing enough raw footage of what it was like to live in your skin. All of its current footage was made up of carefully nitpicked moments Simon allowed people to witness and nothing else.

Even this, you know, is eating away at him.

And at you, too.

It's shameful, to pull out your rusty signing skills when there are cameras there. When it's just you and Simon, it's.. different. You know he doesn't judge.

His hand tightens around your jaw a little. Nothing painful. But it jostles you back to reality, bringing your gaze back to him.

"Focus o'me. Just you and me." He whispers. You hope the cameras don't pick it up. Maybe, if you're lucky, they won't have. Afterall, you don't have mics strapped on — the whole crew had been sitting in your kitchen eating when Simon called your name, noticing (or hearing?) you tiptoeing to the bathroom for a drink, and none of them had had time to get mics on anyone because of how quickly it had all happened. Or, well, it could also be because he slammed the bathroom door closed and then proceeded to corner you in the bathroom until you admitted you couldn't sleep because your throat was hurting. He only let the cameras film you after you'd confirmed ten times over that you were okay with them filming you.

You start to go through the words in your head, translating them into jerky movements of your hands. He nods as you sign "it doesn't hurt anymore"

"That's the cough drops," he whispers, and his voice sounds so intimate that you want to melt into it. He tucks your blankets around you, and takes the hot pack from your bedside table, silently applying it to your throat.

With your performance just tomorrow where you're supposed to sing live, this is really not something you want. You get the flu too easily, you have a shit immune system, had always been like that since you were a kid, but today, it feels even more disappointing because it's ruining something important you'd been practicing for a very, very long time.

You hum. It feels tight in your throat, and you cough again, trying to alleviate the pressure.

"Alright, alright, get it out," he moves the two of you around until you're on your side, and he's sitting right beside you. You're curled around him, and he's patting your back, rubbing it soothingly. The flue meds would kick in soon enough — knock you out. But for now, you worry, and you're angry.

You stick your hands up at him. You sign too quickly — clumsily ; "told you we shouldn't have went to the award show. Someone there was sick as hell and we all know it was—."

As he glares at the cameras trying to catch what you're signing, he also expertly catches your hands and lowers them to his lap before you can do or say something stupid, warming them in his impossibly warm ones.

"Stop fussing," he grumbles quietly, probably meaning for it to sound reprimanding, but it comes out more like a plea. "Go to sleep. We'll deal with this in the morning."

You sigh, burrying your face in your blankets. He keeps rubbing your back.

You eventually dig yourself out of the blankets, fever making your body run hotter. He helps you move on top of them until you're laying on your back, your upper body raised by a shit ton of pillows. He sits next to you like you're on your death bed. Something about the situation makes you want to laugh, even though you're a bit upset.

He still holds your hands.

When his hold on them finally loosens, though, when he probably thinks you're finally succumbing to the medication, you move your hands up again and sign, calmly this time ; "sorry for waking you up."

He fixes some strands of hair that fall in your face, sticking to the beading sweat on your temples. He shakes his head, his face severe and strangely.. comforting. Every harsh slope, every cruel swipe of scars, every movement. It all feels like home to you. His hand lingers on your temple. Calloused and scarred too, but he touches you with so much gentleness you only feel the soft edges of his fingers.

"Sleep, kid." He finally murmurs. You know the cameras and the crew don't catch that. "Please. You'll feel better in the morning."

You doubt it, but you close your eyes, and let his presence sway you into sleep anyway.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x afab!reader #ghost x reader #ghost #ghost cod #bodyguard!simon #bodyguard!ghost #famous!reader

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kneelingshadowsalome · 10 months

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I Never Missed You 1/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)

Word count: 3.5 k

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Romance, eventual smut, fluff, light angst, banter, pining, flirting, minor injuries, major character death, HFN ending. Lady/Knight dynamic. Unequal pairing trope. Bodyguard AU. Reader is a rich bitch (how else could she afford a PPO?)

Summary: 1/3 You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.

A/N: A three part fic based on this request. The first chapter features banter and pining. If you're here for smut, stay tuned. There is an entire chapter of it coming right up.

Your lawyer says it would be a good idea. He even dares to look at you from under his brow like you're a child who doesn't know what's good for her.

And you don't.

Because that's exactly how you feel like: a grown woman who's stunted to a kid, now being supervised by adults.

The bodyguard they assigned you - the one you accepted because he was your lawyer's first choice - is exactly the broad, brooding type you have always imagined bodyguards to be like.

But he's not wearing sunglasses, and he's not wearing a suit. He says the point of a bodyguard is that they don't look like a bodyguard.

The first thing you actually pay attention to is the milky-white eyelashes. Only days after you hear that this man rarely shows his face. You were given a file on him, but you never peeked inside it because you were pissed that such drastic measures had to be taken in the first place. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now you pry it from the pile of papers you buried it into, open it, and the first - and only - photo you see is a perfect portrayal of what Death looks like.

He's the Reaper himself when adorned with that human skull. Keen but emotionless eyes stare from the pits of the sockets to somewhere in the distance, but that look is a stare into the past. The photo raises thousands of questions, and not only the need to know why this man prefers to wear human bones when he's shooting people.

Because apparently, that’s what he used to do before he became a bodyguard. He's buff, that you already know. But in that picture, he looks even more packed, with what you suppose is a bullet vest beneath that blouse. He’s holding an ugly-looking gun – not a pistol, but a rifle of some sort. The gear on him no doubt weighs something close to 60 pounds. His sleeves are rolled up and expose the crisscross veins on his forearms along with war-ugly, crude tattoos, and you swallow.

Were you really looking at a picture of a barbaric soldier like it was some peculiar soft porn now?

You flip the file closed and toss it on the table, rather disgusted with yourself.

The next time you see him, you look into those brown eyes a moment longer. That stoic stare is the only thing you recognize as that of the man in the picture. That, along with his size, although photos really can't convey how this brooding grunt makes you feel: small and insignificant. Nor do they illustrate how the man looks like he’s the most graceful bull in a china shop when moving inside your house.

You suppose he grew up poor, the way he looks at your furniture, your half-a-mile bookshelf, and the latest art piece you got last month in your living room. He's judging you.

You're posh. And clueless. And a child.

And this brute lives with you, for now. He's placed downstairs until the target is neutralized. And he's not just a bodyguard: he's hunting the hunter while you're the bait.

It should give you a thrill; your friend giggles when you two gossip about him over a lunch while he's standing only a few feet away. But this situation does not give you a thrill. It just makes you pissed.

And it's not just the situation, it's this... Simon Riley who makes you pissed.

Couldn't they teach manners, some conversation skills at the bodyguard school or wherever the hell this pale, emotionless Hulk came from?

You recheck his file and snoop some more details about his past. He didn't go to bodyguard school (of course he didn't); he used to work for some PMC. The brute's a cold-blooded, cold-hearted mercenary. To put it more eloquently, he's an elite soldier of some tactical unit. But all of that is classified, as is almost every other detail about him. The only thing you are left with is that he's British through and through, but you can already tell that by his accent - the thick Mancunian that makes your stomach and heart flip.

It's gruff – of course it's gruff – and sometimes chafes your ears like they were being grated with the softest grater. You find yourself thinking about him while you're in the shower, when your fingers start to drift and wander.

And for the love of god, you are not thinking about that accent and those eyes while you're masturbating. You're not going to mourn the fact that he never rolls his sleeves when he's with you. When he's at work.

"I saw your file," you start to chitchat over breakfast one day.

"I reckon."

He won't even touch the coffee you poured him but proceeds to drink almost all the tea. The delicate china looks miniature in his hands as he pours the Earl Grey into his cup. The cups are dainty, too – this savage would prefer a large, black mug, perhaps, from which to gulp his tea.

"So. What made you become a soldier?"

"Joined the SAS when I was 17."

And another thing he won't do is look at you when you speak. No manners at all in this man, only rough, sharp edges. He sits as far from you as he can, at the other end of the table, as if you were in a meeting. Or a war council.

"That's not what I asked."

"I know."

You roll your eyes. Conversation skills, god. Just give this man at least some charm…

"I'm going to do some shopping," you declare. "You can stay here."

Finally, he raises his stare. It's full of tired distaste.

"Nah. That's not how this works."

You rise from the table, gracefully and with a neutral face, indicating that you are an adult and won't be needing a babysitter at a store.

"Lady."

The command is dark and stops you before you have taken one step from the table. It's a slur, almost.

He rises from the table too, and you almost feel sorry, noticing he hasn't yet finished his toast.

"You hired me. And I'm gonna do my job."

He looks big and broad, like a beautiful storm, with that piercing stare and the most alluring lashes you have ever seen on a man. Your voice turns into a meek, pitched attempt to reason with a giant.

"...I'm just going shopping."

His head tilts with a mock: you're only a child in his eyes.

"Then let's go shopping."

…......…......

Sitting next to this giant in a taxi must be a hilarious-looking scene. A charming, vibrant lady and a sullen, intimidating Theseus – what a pair.

You've also never been this close to him. The man always sits with a wide spread. One heavy thigh almost touches your knees, which you have turned towards him for some unfathomable reason. You were taught to sit with knees closely set together, and that’s what you’re trying to do now: make yourself as small and feminine as possible. It only accentuates this man's size compared to yours. There's a pile of shopping bags between you two, and your gaze is directed outside the window, but you can feel his presence like there's a thrumming monolith beside you.

And he's always dressed in black. You kind of enjoyed how you two looked at the store: you in your heels and a pearl white suit, he in black, tactical ripstop and boots. You wouldn't define the man well-dressed… but he is sharply dressed in his own field, that's for sure. Even a commoner like you could see that.

He had complained about your clothes. White draws too much attention and makes for a bigger target. You had brushed him off with a scoff. You’re not going to change the way you dress because of this.

"You're from Manchester, right?"

You're only trying to make the journey home more enjoyable, but feel like you're snooping again, this time from the man himself. The less you know about Simon Riley, the more you want to learn who he is. It is only natural to get a little curious when his file barely had two paragraphs and a photo. You suppose even that single picture was taken and given forward with reluctance.

And the only thing you learn is that small talk is a completely foreign concept to this man.

"You're quite the Sherlock," he mutters with that fat accent that gave him away the minute you two shook hands. You Sherlock about some more, look at the left hand that rests on his thigh.

There's no ring. Not even a tan line. He must be lonely: no relationship could stand working hours like these.

"Do you still live there?"

"...No."

"Do you miss the place?"

"No."

The short answers are guttural and spoken from the back of his throat. You don't know if he's doing it on purpose, or if this Simon is like this with everyone. He's not annoyed, though, not the way you're beginning to be.

"Aren't you a chatty one…" you mumble while watching cloudy London pass by. You figured he might hear it, and perhaps that was your purpose, even if your voice was barely a whisper.

"I'm not here to talk. Ma'am."

…......…......

You are told to stay away from the windows. The dinner table is moved so no one can aim at your head through a glass. And even then, most curtains must be closed at all times.

He goes through doors first, and advises against going out at all. You get a list of things you should take into consideration if you do go out.

And you’re not going to give in to fear.

You simply take different routes to your friends and family, have lunches at different restaurants than usual. He says you should get an armored car, but you don’t have a license. Of course your brooding bodyguard could drive, but what will you do with some armored tank after you're finally through this thing?

What's far more interesting is that it turns out this Simon Riley is a smoker.

Disgusting, you think at first, then think about him all sweaty and grimy after some gunfight, reaching for a cig, curling those thick fingers around a pure-white coffin nail. No, wait – he had gloves in that picture; he wouldn't bother to take them off before he smoked, he would just lean on his gun and on some crumbling wall and sigh from the joy of being alive, of being bloodied and dirty and victorious before taking a long drag from his cigarette.

Ugh.

Reluctantly you agree that perhaps there is an odd charm to this man after all. Either that, or then you are in need of some serious therapy.

Breakfasts are torturingly quiet with Simon, and you can hear the slow roll of eyes every time you make plans to go to a party or an art gallery.

Once, a zipper gets stuck and you have to ask him for help. It’s mortifying, and he doesn’t say a word, only mocks you with his eyes as you turn around for him to place a warm hand on your hip and another on your back to pull up the zipper you had fought to reach and drag up by yourself for at least 10 minutes.

A week passes, and he’s buried in work, not only because he’s guarding your body 24/7, but because he’s trying to locate the hitman. The fact that Simon Riley is technically speaking a hitman too - to think that you have hired a killer - is something you don’t have the mental strength to delve into right now.

"Found the one who's hunting you."

Another file is dropped before you at the end of the week. The man marches into your office like there's no door there at all. Doesn't even bother to knock.

This isn't what you meant when you politely told him to make himself home…

You roll the glass of water on your temple and sigh. The file reveals another photo, this time of a man who looks like an executioner.

"Goes by the name König," he says and clasps his hands over his crotch while taking a wide stance in front of your desk. "Austrian war criminal. Skilled with knives… Likes to torture people first."

Nice. More brutes.

"Why are you telling me this?"

You're tired, there's a headache approaching, and you really don't care to go over some details about a professional lunatic killer right now. But Simon Riley - codenamed Ghost, you’ve lately learned - looks down at you like a storm cloud over a carefree meadow.

"Because you clearly don't understand the danger you're in."

He adds "Ma'am" as a footnote. Purposely forgotten...

And you wish he would forget that silly, overly courteous term.

"Well–" you sigh your frustration in the air between you two, then realize that perhaps you're being treated like a child because you behave like one. "What are you going to do about this man...?"

"Gonna kill him," he simply shrugs, the eternal, distant look in those eyes gaining a smug tone to them.

He enjoys this. Enjoys killing, but what's even worse, enjoys seeing how his ruthlessness makes you shift uncomfortably in your chair. Or perhaps he just likes shocking you with that file with an image of a lyncher in it. You know perfectly well that you're in trouble and under threat. That's what you've tried to forget, but no one lets you forget.

Simon takes a deep breath before placing his humble petition before you.

"Ma’am. I'm gonna need your help."

And nothing in this man is humble. Even though he rarely speaks and never shows his talents, not to talk of showing off, he reeks of pride and testosterone.

You set the glass on the table and straighten the file to align with the leather pad on your desk. Your fingers are not trembling. Yet.

"What do you mean?"

He gives a hoarse laugh. The sound drills straight to your core and starts to bloom there. You realize you have never seen him smile before. And he's not smiling now: the short laugh is just a dark chuckle that mainly stays inside his chest; it only makes those stocky shoulders rise and fall.

"Not like that," he looks down at you with a tad of mercy. "You're gonna serve as bait."

"Isn't… that what I've been the whole time?"

"Yeah. But this time, we're gonna lure him in."

The way he talks makes your thighs rub together without your consent. You wonder what it would feel like if you were trapped between that solid chest and a wall, what it would be like if those hands woke you up with a calloused caress of a thigh.

You don't quite understand the difference between bait and a lure but find yourself willing to do whatever you can to help him. Help Simon…

"Sure... I'll help you," you say as if this man wasn't on your payroll.

"That's the least you could do."

That barely hidden bite in his dry retort doesn't escape you. This man's audacity buries whatever odd want you have started to feel for him and replaces it with searing, womanly fury.

He could be a little more sensitive.

You're the one who has a target on their back. You're the one who fears going to sleep at night and feels lucky they're alive come dawn. If he wasn't so crude and uncaring, you would've asked him to sleep in the same room with you from the start. But he has to be a brute, has to follow and mock you with those ink blot eyes at every turn.

You rise from the chair when he turns and walks toward the door. It's almost a snappy jump, an attempt to reclaim your power. You're sore and thoroughly peeved.

"I never wanted this," you tell him with an annoying timbre in your tone. He stops right before the door but doesn't turn.

"Neither did I."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Could be somewhere warmer with no damsels giving me their cheek."

The BDU blouse you saw in that picture was yellow, burnt yellow. Desert wear… He wants to be in a hot desert with a cold gun in his hand. Dropped straight from some plane, working alone, in a place where damsels aren't giving him their cheek. Where there are no damsels at all.

You're relatively sure there is no Mrs. Riley. No woman could stand this man.

"Then go somewhere warmer," you snap, almost stomp your heel on the soft carpet. This man is simply intolerable. The way he never reacts to anything makes you want to throw things at him.

He must be trained to be so calm, but you're not. You're used to making men a little stupid and flustered. You're used to men eating out of your hand. He's not behaving at all like he's supposed to. Simon Riley is just a mountain without emotion.

He turns with that eternal, downgrading look in his eyes. There's a flash of amusement there, too.

Soddy bastard…

"Nah. Not until I've done my job."

His voice is warm now; the gruff and gravel make way to a smoothness that goes directly to your knees. Your lips part, and his eyes fall on your mouth just before he lifts his chin a hair of an inch.

"Your job…" you breathe, too furious to even rage or shout.

Your fucking job.

Why did you even want this job if it's so–

"Yeah. My job. Some people got one."

You have to take support from the table with your fingertips.

"Excuse me?"

There's the tiniest curve at the corner of his mouth before he takes his leave.

"Good night, ma'am."

…......…......

The next day, you start the breakfast by apologizing.

You barely slept that night, first because of this man's utter nerve, then because your wrath eventually cooled down into a bleeding consciousness of how you must look in his eyes.

He has accepted this job, something different from what he usually does, for reasons unknown to you. He might not be on some faraway battlefield where bullets fly past, but this is no less risky. The picture he showed you, the file on König, haunted your restless sleep last night – when you finally did get some sleep.

You have been running around like everything’s normal when it’s not. The man’s just trying to do his job.

And you're the one who hired him. Not your lawyer.

"I want to make peace," you coo while spreading some jam on toast. You expect Simon to finally melt a little. You might even get a smile. You secretly hope your reward is that this brute turns into a tamed lap dog you can feed some treats every now and then.

The situation is thrilling: the beefiest man you have ever seen is going to kill someone for you. Even if he's being paid to do so, he is prepared to die for you. There's something incredibly sexy about that.

But there is silence at the other end of the table. Only the crunchy sounds of toast getting sugar on top can be heard.

"That so?"

He doesn't sound like he's melting. He doesn't sound at all domesticated. He only sounds more and more amused.

"Yes. I'm happy that you're here," you put the toast down and turn to look at him with angel eyes.

He laughs. When he stops, he looks you up and down, then laughs some more, a silent, shoulder-shaking chuckle.

"I'm… I'm serious," you hurry to add. "I mean it. I haven't been treating you the way I should–"

"That's for sure."

You see more warmth in those eyes. But it's not because of your humble apology.

His eyes are trekking down the neckline of your blouse, and to your horror, you notice – feel – how one of the top buttons has opened, revealing much more than just some skin. You're pretty sure he gets an ample view of the fuchsia bra you're wearing underneath.

If you reach for that button now, you underline that he's not supposed to look, even if it's your mistake that you're so obscenely exposed. If you close it now, you tell him he's not allowed to look. And that's not entirely true.

"Will you forgive me?"

You feel like you're offering peace, or at least a truce, with more than just that peepy question. Because your breasts swell inside that blouse. They rise and fall with your breaths, your nipples grow hard from that look that stays down a bit longer before drifting back up.

"There's nothing to forgive," he says, voice dropping a note or two.

"Good," you swallow. The following sentence comes out so weakly that it's almost a whisper. "After all, I hired you."

"Ain't that the truth."

The dim glint in those eyes still holds you as a prisoner, and his tea is growing cold.

"Are we going shopping today?"

"No," you utter, dreading the next inevitable question.

"What then?"

"I… I have a yoga class."

"Of course you do."

…......…......

Taglist: @cumikering

#ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley imagine #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod fanfic #mw2 fanfic #simon riley fanfic #simon riley x female reader #ghost x female reader #bodyguard au #bodyguard!Ghost

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audisive · 10 days

Text

♪ MILLION DOLLAR MAN. (💌)

౨ৎ simon 'ghost' riley | reader

synopsis: you need a bodyguard, and simon's the only one you can trust. for now.

tags: fluff, angst (ish), hurt/comfort, romance, soft!simon, bodyguard!ghost, model!reader, trust issues, hints to a panic attack, you have a bad dad (and family)

There's an ugly yellow folder on your vanity, sticking out like a sore thumb.

That's the first thing you see.

There's a hitch in your breath before you speak. "Vel," you walk over to your desk and call out to the lovely girl with your coat over her arm, your favorite maid. "What's this?" With manicured nails, you pick up the folder cautiously with the feeling of familiarity and déjà vu.

Veliana tilts her head to the side, the clueless little bird she is. "A folder, miss." You huff a smile out at her simple response, the pretty little thing never knowing better. "Please give Noah a call." You tell her and she nods her head automatically, still smiling at you.

When she carefully places your coat on the rack, she scurries off to who knows where. You're left in the comforts of your too-large room, a delicate piece of work that you'd paid thousands of dollars for after your face had snatched the interests of magazines, reporters, and such. You find that there are even uglier men inside when you open the flimsy thing in your hand.

Veliana is breathless when she comes back to you like the obedient girl she is, handing over the phone with your manager's name on it.

"What's wrong, darling girl?" Noah asks, annoyance seeping into his tone despite the usual pet name. "What's with the profiles?" you question right back, flipping through the folders, carefully scanning each gruesome man with horrifying detail. You already know the answer, but you dread it.

"About time you actually considered my suggestion," he voices out. "You need a new bodyguard."

You find that your new bodyguard is just as noticeable as the folder you threw away without much thought. There's people staring at him when they would be gawking at you.

Simon Riley is a trusted man; at least that's what you try to tell your manager. A remarkable 6'4 military man who should be off in a bar with beer – he drinks whiskey, imbecile – or resting in a broke-down apartment, not babysitting his model of a friend. Honestly, you wouldn't have minded it if he acted just a little annoyed at you, but he doesn't even spare you so much as a glare. You're not sure if you should be glad or not.

You have to admit that you do feel a little smug when your manager avoids yelling at you with Simon glaring daggers at him. Then again, there's this anxious feeling pooling at your stomach when he gets a little too close. He's certainly scarier than the last one.

His large hand calms you down when it lands on your lower back and sneaks his warmth through your thin clothing. You let out a breath, as if he'd just commanded you to do so without a word.

Simon should be in his awfully empty apartment, sleeping the day off or making a small trip to the groceries for necessities fresh out of deployment. But when he opened the door to you, who's clearly so troubled and almost begging to help you out with.. whatever it was you asked, how could he say no?

"It's just temporary, I swear. I just need some time to do a proper background check on the other bodyguards."

Given that your shitty father's in jail with unfinished as well as illegal business, it wouldn't be proper of him to let a civilian walk around with danger right at her back. That's what he says to himself, anyway.

He's just not so sure he signed up for the right job as a bodyguard. Truth be told, he would've preferred to be your boyfriend.. but as long as he has rights to protect you, then he won't complain.

He's well aware of the men coming for your neck for a variety of reasons. Some out of jealousy – Simon thinks that the fashion industry might as well be a warzone. Maybe that's why he accepted this in the first place – and some because of your problematic family.

He's also heard about your past cowardly bodyguards, if you can even call them that after they'd left you in the face of death. It's a wonder how you're still alive, but he wouldn't dare question it.

It doesn't help, not really, when there's an ear-deafeaning explosion and a panicked angel in his arms, clutching onto him for dear life. "Simon," you all but whimper, labored breaths and uncontrollable tears slipping out of you.

He hushes you, coos at you as sweet as he possibly can. He soothes you and cradles you against his chest as he shoots back at death and carries you to safety when the storm of chaos calms. And he never leaves. Not once.

Not even when you're well and sitting on the cold bed of an even colder hospital room. You'd begged him to stay and lay with you, and when he does, you insist that you owe him your life, and he tells you he's just doing his job.

Still, you can't help that you push yourself closer to him. "Thank you," you whisper, "for staying."

"'M yours to keep." Simon gruffs out, "my loyalty and life belongs to you. All of it." And so does his heart.

(bodyguard!ghost is just modern knight!ghost to me :3c)

divider by @cafekitsune !

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cyberghouleo · 6 months

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bodyguard! simon riley x celebrity! reader

To the displeasure of everyone I know, I got cod brain rot.

Inspired by: Celebrity by Slayyyter

When your manager suggested you hire a new bodyguard after your old one quit, you were not expecting a masked man with an accent to walk through your doors.

At first, he sees you as a spoiled brat. He’s not used to being a bodyguard for someone famous, he is used to being hired as a hitman in more dangerous situations. He only accepted this job as the pay was good and his last job was nearby, but now he feels as if he's being toted around like a puppy, trailing behind you as you go along your normal day to day life.

Everything was a culture shift to him, he wasn’t used to following his clients while they shop or getting asked if you should purchase something, to which he always responded with “if that’s what you like.” He’s not used to sitting at lunch at a nearby table as your friends drill you with questions about him, questions about the mask and why he looked so differently than your previous guards. He was used to being in stressful situations, spending hours researching his client's attacker while being on alert 24/7, now he was just following you around with no immediate threats happening to you.

While you're doing interviews or getting your makeup done before a photoshoot, he is sitting across from you in a chair with his arms crossed. He keeps his balaclava on and hardly speaks unless someone tries to deny him access behind the scenes with you. He speaks before you can, “I’m ‘er guard.” he grunts out as he keeps walking past them, following behind you.

Trying to get to know him felt like pulling teeth, he’s standoffish and when he does answer questions, it's always short answers, even refusing to tell you his real name after you asked. You knew almost nothing about him, but that all changed once you’re alerted that your P.O box is being sent threatening letters, claiming to have a hit out on you. Ghost instructs that you are both to not leave the house until he can gather enough info about your threatener, leaving the two of you alone for several weeks.

These weeks alone cause him to slowly start opening up to you as the two of you have nothing else to do or talk about. You learn about his past clients, how this is his first high status bodyguard job, and his time in the military. He tells you bits at a time, not willing to spill too much at one time, almost testing to see how you respond to each bit of new information you learn about him. During dinner one night, he randomly speaks up. “Simon.”

“What?”

“My name. Simon.”

It only takes a few weeks for him to track and find the person sending you the threats, and he reassures you that everything will be fine now. He doesn’t show any proof, but you trust him enough to believe him. The weeks you spent together did lead to some tension between the two of you, you are able to see a human side of him that you weren’t expecting, and you could feel yourself getting intrigued by what else you could learn about him. You scolded yourself for thinking this way towards a bodyguard, someone trying to do his job, but you also couldn’t deny the way you were starting to feel when you caught glimpses of his arms flexing underneath the tight black shirts he wore often.

He slowly starts warming up to you and seeing you in a different light once he spends a few months inside your house. You aren’t as bratty or snobby as he expected. He tries to brush away any lingering thoughts as you ask him to help you zip up your dress, noticing how small your shoulders look under his gaze. Or when you ask him to help you put on a necklace, comparing how small your hands are to his when you hand him the necklace.

The tension finally breaks when you are in a dressing room alone, waiting around as the photographer goes over the photos one final time before you could leave. You can feel him eyeing you up and down while you aren’t paying attention, his eyes studying the dress you were getting paid to wear and the way it hugged you. One offhand comment from you leads to him lifting you up onto the vanity counter, his mask pulled above his nose as his mouth finds yours, soft moans escaping you. Your panties are pulled to the side as his tongue circles around your clit, one hand pressed against your mouth to quiet you, so the staff doesn’t hear you cumming against his tongue.

When in large crowds, one of his hands is always pressed against the small of your back as he guides you through the masses, the feeling of his touch lingering on your back even after he pulls away. His other hand resting close to the concealed gun he keeps at his hip, staying alert as his eyes scan through the faces to assess any threats. Crowds will naturally part once they notice how big he is and the way he towers over most of the fans.

The paparazzi gets a photo of you two together, Simon holding a few shopping bags as he trails behind you. The photo is captioned as if he was your secret boyfriend and your fans go crazy, tweeting how cute the two of you are together and how mysterious he was.

“Look, everyone thinks we are dating.” You say as you shove your phone in his face. His eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the photo, reading a comment on how good of a couple the two of you are. He only hums a response and rolls his eyes. He expects you to have a different reaction, shocked that you didn’t find it annoying but almost enduring. The idea of you being okay with the two of you being in a relationship and not just fuckbuddies ignites something deep in his stomach.

You definitely talk him into taking a few photos of you for Instagram, instructing him on how to frame the photo as he stares blankly at the phone. When you post the photos, comments flood in asking if your mystery bodyguard was the one who took them. You often post stories with him lingering around in the background, only fueling the relationship speculation as fans talk about him living with you.

After the media starts to report more on the two of you, Ghost starts getting more offers from other celebrities to become their bodyguard. He gives them no second thought as he denies them. He will get approached with offers to pay him triple and he still waves them off, he plans on staying loyal as a bodyguard to you and you only, no matter how much they offer him.

Simon decides to make the two of you official by gifting you a necklace with his initial, something you wear and post about often, sending your fans into a bigger spiral. He finds the fans both amusing and slightly disturbing, showing how much love they have for you, yet you only get to call him yours.

#ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #call of duty #cod mw3 #bodyguard au #famous reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #smut #kinda? idk lol #got my wisdom teeth out yesterday so i got to speedrun this lmfao #ill post proxy things soon just let me live in my masked man fantasy rn

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ink-n-shadowfiction · 8 months

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Omg I am so head over heels for your bodyguard!simon AU ;w;

Nah because with my sensitive ass the “M’ not touching you again” would instantly make me sad like SO fast :’3

so, how would he react if she got all pouty because he said that? Because in all actuality she definitely wants him to touch her more often, yknow? Like it ain’t even gotta be sexual…probably-

🍋-

i like the way you think, anon🍋 >:) this one's not sexual (unfortunately) BUT it is cute and a bit angsty so enjoy

pairing: bodyguard!Simon "Ghost" Riley x rockstar!reader (link to all works in this au)

genre: somewhere between fluff and angst

word count: 588

warning: mean!ghost at first, then soft!ghost, crying for something small, drunk!reader

"what did i say when you were on vacation last month, hmm?" ghost grumbled as he lead you through the lobby of your apartment building, keeping a grip on your upper arm. "m'not. fucking. touching you like that."

you had gone out with the rest of your bandmates, having a few drinks (way more than you needed) to celebrate the upcoming release of your first album. you weren't completely wasted, but you were damn close—your face flushed, steps a bit wobbly, eyes bleary.

ghost kept as much distance between you two as he could, but he knew he had to help you walk. so he gripped your upper arm to steady your steps, walking slow enough to help you keep pace with him. he glared down at you, but when he noticed the pout on your face and the tears beginning to form in your eyes, his eyes softened.

it wasn't the usual bratty pout you'd use—no, this one appeared legitimately sad.

"y-you're so mean, ghost. i just—" your sentence paused in the middle as a hiccuped sob shook your chest, your free hand coming up to wipe at the tears and smearing some mascara down your cheek. "i just wanna hold your hand. but y-you don't like me. why don't you like me?"

ghost let out a frustrated sigh, shaking his head a bit as he approached the elevator and pushed the call button. he moved to stand in front of you, his grip on your arm falling away. "dove, c'mon—you're ruinin' that pretty makeup on y'face." he thumbed at the mascara on your cheek, frowning under his mask as the black only smeared more.

you tried to push his hand away, but the amount of alcohol in your veins made your movements slow and uncoordinated. "i don't care, ghost. just like you don't care about me."

"god—would you stop that?" ghost grumbled out in frustration as he ran a hand over his mask, trying to regain his composure before looking back down at your teary face. he lifted a hand up to grip your chin, forcing your eyes on him. "i obviously fuckin' like you. i wouldn't be walkin' you home from the bloody club if i didn't, 'kay? you're just drunk right now—and you get a bit emotional when you're drunk."

you sniffled up the tears lodged in the back of your throat as your unsteady eyes met ghost's, skin warming at the way his gloved fingers trapped your chin in his grip. "t-then why won't you just hold my hand? i-it's not like i'm asking you to kiss me or date me or somethin'. it'll make me feel better."

ghost let out a scoffed breath as he turned away from you, shaking his head and grumbling something under his breath before you felt his leather-covered fingers lace with yours. the elevator dinged and pulled open with a hiss, and ghost gently tugged you inside with a squeeze to your hand. "there—happy now? gonna stop being a little crybaby about it?"

as soon as you felt ghost's hand in yours, a drunken smile smeared across your lips, warmth coating your skin as you stumbled into the elevator behind him. "you have big hands."

"jesus." ghost muttered with a shake of his hand, using his free hand to punch the button for your floor and watching the elevator doors close in front of you two. "don't get used to this, 'kay? m'only doing this because you're bloody cryin' over it."

#iNs requests ⭒#bodyguard!ghost ✰#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley headcanons #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #ghost cod #cod mwii #ghost headcanons #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley imagine #ghost mw2 #call of duty #simon ghost riley headcanon

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lunarw0rks · 10 months

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Old Bones | Masterlist

A/N: where you'll find all chapters of my new fic 🕊 comment if you want on the taglist <3

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ warnings are at the top of chapters!

| main masterlist // ao3 ver. // playlist

'*•.¸♡ [Chapter One] [Chapter Two] [Chapter Three] [Chapter Four] [Chapter Five] [Chapter Six] [Chapter Seven] [Chapter Eight] [Chapter Nine] [Chapter Ten] [Chapter Eleven] [Chapter Twelve] [Epilogue] ♡¸.•*'

: ̗̀➛ ─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

#simon riley x reader #mw2 fanfic #mw2 #simon riley #ghost mw2 #task force 141 #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon riley fluff #ghost x you #ghost x reader #ghost x y/n #task force 141 x reader #task force 141 x y/n #bodyguard au #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n

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rhetorical-conscience · 1 year

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Young Royals Characters as John Mulaney (because it was bound to happen eventually)

Simon:

Wilhelm:

Erik:

August:

Sara:

Ayub:

Nils:

Malin:

Kristina:

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xo-cod · 6 months

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Bodyguard!Ghost just scrolling thru his socials and it's just full of clips of his popstar!girlie answering questions from interviews on the main inspiration of her new songs/album, trying to be sneaky on hiding how she feels for him <3

Bonus points if it's Gaz or Soap sending him the clips in their groupchat going 'dis u?'

wait nonnie aww i love this so bad 🥺🩷🥺🩷

popstar!reader getting interviewed and getting flustered when interviewers ask about the new album <333 you're careful not to reveal any names but you can't hide the soft chuckle or the small smile that grows when they try to find out the person :")

the way bg!ghost would be stuck in a trance watching the videos again and again, his heart absolutely melting into pieces at your smile, who knew someone could look so damn pretty laughing? him secretly liking all the videos too on a priv account, #1 fan frfr 🤭

he listened to your new album, especially the song you wrote about him. he listened to it on repeat, half the views are from him pls. he can't help but chuckle when he looks at the comments, everyone trying to decipher who it's for but it's only a secret between the two of you

that is until gaz and soap heard and them instigating everything LMAO. blowing up the gc with their own conspiracy theories "THAT'S WHY SHE SANG THAT PART!!!" "SOAP YOURE A BLOODY GENIUS!" and ghost either replying with "🖕", "👍" or just straight up reading their messages. price asking both men to stop harassing the poor man and ghost leaving the gc only to be added right back by soap every single time 😭😭

#asks #this was so cute !!!! :(((#i really want to do a gc text msg thing w the 141 it'd be so funny they have the best gossip 😭😭#simon riley #bodyguard!simon x reader #bodyguard!ghost #bodyguard!simon

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yawnderu · 5 months

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Shooting Star — Bodyguard!Simon ''Ghost'' Riley x Popstar!Reader

Being a bodyguard for a 20-something year old pop star was the last thing Simon had in mind. Simon, the same man who had an uniform adorned by chest candy, the same man who was known as a Ghost, the same man who was a highly accomplished SAS soldier, forced to sit on your pink bed while you did your makeup on the floor.

The image was almost comical, the man in a black suit for the first time in forever, a bulletproof vest concealed underneath his white dressing shirt. It felt uncomfortable despite everything being the right size, tailored specifically for him upon your very extra request.

''Are you done? Bloody hell.'' You've been getting ready extremely slow just to spite him for making you wake up at 5am sharp, claiming it was protocol. Protocol my ass.

''I liked you better when you were quiet.'' You try to control the way the corners of your lips lift up when you hear the overdramatic sigh muffled by his black balaclava.

''Too bad.'' He gets up from bed, warm hands sneaking under your armpits.

''Up.'' He doesn't even give you the chance to stand up, simply pulling you up and smoothing out your skirt, hands treating the fabric delicately until the wrinkles you caused by sitting on the floor are gone.

''Don't manhandle me.'' There's something especially fun about annoying him, seeing him resist the urge to roll his eyes or take a sharp breath to calm down his witty tongue.

''I didn't manhandle you, brat. I lifted you up.'' He corrects, gently pushing you towards the door.

''Put this on and always make sure I can see you, yeah?'' He hands you a black surgical mask, meant to conceal your identity as much as possible to avoid being recognized by fans on your day off.

''Yup-yup.'' You put the mask on, adjusting the straps before leaving the house, Ghost following close behind, eyes quickly scanning the area before getting in the car, driving you to the fair you begged him to let you go to. It took 3 full days of begging before he relented, purely out of annoyance.

''Don't talk to anyone, don't look at anyone— don't even breathe at anyone. I'm not dealing with your bloody fans.'' He warns.

''Yes, dad.'' You roll your eyes, head leaning against the car window, the vibrations making a slushy out of your brain— probably.

''And don't take any pictures. If anyone recognizes you... punch them dead in the windpipe.'' You stifle a laugh as you hear him, knowing that no matter how blunt he is, he was joking... maybe.

''Go to jail forever if someone asks for a picture, got it.'' You jokingly plant your hand on his thigh and he slaps it away, side-eyeing you before he keeps driving, hoping you ignore the red lights he's speeding through.

#cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley #ghost cod #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #simon x reader #ghost simon riley #bodyguard!simon #bodyguard!ghost #popstar!reader

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midnightarcheress · 5 days

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Simon thinks he could live like this.

pairing: bodyguard!ghost x actress!reader cw: nothing he's just down bad 7 | gold rush masterlist.

“are you insane?!” Daniel shouts, slamming the door behind him and stomping his feet towards Simon with a menacing look, “you think you can just move her around like this?”

“she wasn’t safe in that house, this is for her protection,” he answers promptly, crossing his arms and taking a step in front of you, covering your frame from the irate man. if he could, he’d land a punch on his face in no time, not caring that technically he’s his boss.

“yeah? and you simply have to be here with her, right?” he scoffs, rolling his eyes at him. you watch the scene unfold from behind Simon, brows knitted together and bottom lip nearly bleeding from biting too much. he’d managed to momentarily tranquillize you, bring you back to earth after the terrifying panic state, but the anxiety kept simmering underneath your skin, just waiting for another chance to take over your body.

“the shitty security system you put in her house wasn’t enough to prevent the bastard from intrudin’, the bloody alarm didn’t even go off,” he retorts, eyes shooting daggers straight ahead, “so yeah, i’m gonna stay with her for as long as it’s necessary. contract says to protect her, doesn’t it?”

the two of them stay quiet, a silent staring competition on Daniel’s side, a mere warning on Simon’s side. he won’t budge, won’t allow you to go back to that house, hand you on a silver platter to the grim reaper hiding behind letters and eerie messages.

Dan leans on his side to look at you, ignoring the mass of a man in front of him. “are you sure about this?” his tone is strangely soft, like a switch flipped in his mind, all anger vanishing. you nod, offering him a small smile that does a poor job of concealing how nervous you are about the situation. he purses his lips, taking one last glance at Simon’s unwavering posture before sighing in defeat.

it’s been two weeks since the mirror message that led Simon into comforting you, and two weeks since he had to control his own panic, trying his best not to spiral. it had been a while since he shared a living space, so staying with you feels like a dream that he’s constantly afraid of turning into a nightmare by saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way, or even thinking about what’s happening.

the safe house Price arranged is far from the size you’re used to, being at least three times smaller than your own house. but to his surprise, again, your reaction to it contradicts his expectations. it could just be you being a phenomenal actress, covering your resentment behind a beaming smile, but you seemed to have grown accustomed to his presence easily, didn’t protest once, never lamented the loss of luxury and privacy.

he wanted to deny the feeling, shove it deep down in his brain and lock the safe, but it was nice, the domesticity of it all. it was nice learning little details about your routine; how you only get out of bed the second time your alarm rings; how you’re definitely not a morning person, judging by the gruff good morning you mumble when you slide to the counter stool; how you love trying new recipes and quietly dance in the kitchen, freezing when you notice him watching you; or how you’re always carrying something to read, it being a book or a script.

it was nice making you coffee in the morning and seeing you rub your sleepy eyes, nice hearing you humming a song in the shower, nice catching a glimpse of you in lingerie when you forget to lock your bedroom door, nearly making him choke in his own spit by the sight of the small tattoo on your hip. is it a star? a flower?

he felt like he was playing house with you. a game where you’re his loving wife and he’s a devoted husband, where he could feed his delusions, live everything he was convinced he’d never have in this lifetime. inside those walls, he could do it all, except the one thing he longed the most – touch you. kiss the top of your head when you’re baking in the kitchen, run his fingers through your hair when you’re curled up on the couch, feel your soft skin under his fingertips when you lay in bed, bend you over the table when you pass by him in skimpy pyjama shorts.

“do you... wanna watch a movie?” you ask, remote in hand and head leaned back on the sofa, chewing the inside of your cheek and attentively glaring at the television. he tilts to the side, stirring his thoughts away and taking in the view of your features illuminated by the bright lights coming from the screen. it was easy to get lost in how beautiful you were, a magical creature brought to earth to bewitch him.

your head suddenly shifts to where he’s sitting, and it hits him that you’re still expecting an answer. fuck. “uh, yeah, sure.” he mumbles, snapping back to the telly, swallowing the desires his throat dared to spill.

later that day, Simon steps onto the front porch for a much-needed nicotine fix, dark blues painting the sky as the last rays of sunlight vanish from the horizon. he hates the burning sensation of the smoke in his lungs, but always craves the lightheadedness and dopamine flush in his veins, no matter how many years it takes from his life.

“god!” you jump, looking behind you and putting a hand over your chest to steady your rapid heartbeat, “you really are a ghost, aren’t you?” a chuckle falls from your lips after the startle, travelling the air like a lullaby, and he ignores the flutter in his chest that happens whenever you laugh.

“sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” you shrug and turn back to your initial position, sitting on the steps and watching the crunchy tree leaves dancing in the breeze. he follows your gaze to the front lawn, bringing a cigarette from the pack to his lips, debating if he should truly smoke with you in there. you never complained, but he’s caught you frowning at the thin cardboard a few times around the house, so he decides not to light it.

“can i ask you something?” you blurt out, lifting your chin to face him, eyes searching for his, and his head dips, irises focusing on yours. one brow raises at your sudden curiosity and he nods, back propped against the column, waiting, “why Ghost?”

his jaw tenses, gaze shifting from you to the carton in his hands. the ever-dreaded question. “dunno. just a nickname.” lie. he couldn’t tell you how everything was taken from him and he faked his death years ago; how he truly became the ghost of man. you don’t deserve to be burdened with that knowledge, so it is just a nickname.

he looks back to you, gauging if you bought his deflection or not. you’re still focused on him, vision flicking at every crease of his expression, waiting for any falter, but it doesn’t come. “you can call me Simon.”

the thin line of your lips breaks into a smile, cheeks rising and making his heart skip a beat. so much for easy detachment, “okay, Simon.”

the way i still have at least ten parts of this story in my outline but i'm so unmotivated to write it :(

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