#simon riley x gn reader

[sc3ptre]

On laundry duty

Pairing: Simon Riley x reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Setting: Military base, 2 a.m., laundry room

Genre: fluff

Warnings: none

Word count: 0.8k

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the otherwise silent laundry room, casting a low sterile glow on the linoleum floor. The machines whirred softly, the only sound besides your own slow, tired breath. You folded a black t-shirt into a tight square, barely noticing which one it was.

Then the door clicked open behind you.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. Simon’s footsteps had a rhythm you’d learned without trying. Heavy boots and a deliberate stride, steady in a way few people could be after fifteen-hour rotations.

He stepped inside without a word, carrying slung over one shoulder an empty small duffel he soon filled with warm clothes straight out of a dryer, before the door even shut behind him with a gentle thud and the quiet settled deeper between you.

You didn’t speak until he leaned against the dryer next to you.

“Didn’t know Ghost did his own laundry,” you said without looking up.

He didn’t answer right away. Just dropped his bag on top of the machine, arms crossed and mask rolled halfway up his face, mouth visible and jaw clenched from exhaustion.

“I make messes,” he said finally, voice low. “Figure it’s only fair I clean ‘em.”

You huffed. “That might be the most domestic thing I’ve heard all week.”

He let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh but you risked a glance at him anyway.

Simon Riley, fatigues rolled at the ankle, sleeves pushed up, skin damp like he’d just showered and mouth soft and drawn with sleep…visible for once. You’d seen glimpses before, on the field when he peeled the mask to wipe blood or drink water, but not like this. Not here, not in the hush of fluorescent light.

You folded another shirt, as he threw his pile next to yours and did the same. “Can’t sleep?”

He shrugged, then glanced at the machines. “Too much noise in the head, this helps.”

You nodded. “It does.”

There was a pause, longer and overall heavier.

“‘Sides,” he added, “figured you’d be here. You always are.”

You tried not to react while keeping your eyes on the pile in front of you but your eyes flicked to his working gloved hands. “You watchin’ me now, Lieutenant?”

Simon grunted, noncommittal, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. You just folded in tandem, close enough to feel the residual heat from his skin. It should’ve been awkward…should’ve felt like silence was a void to fill but it didn’t. It never did with him.

You handed him a pair of folded socks that were his without thinking and he took them without a word. After a while, he reached into the single pile now that his clothes and yours mixed and picked something up, a black graphic t-shirt, smaller than his usual size, brows pulling slightly.

“Don’t think this is mine,” he muttered.

You looked over and chuckled quietly. “Because it’s not.”

He frowned, held it up against himself anyway. “Could be…maybe it shrunk”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for it but he pulled it back.

“I’ll hang on to it. Just in case.”

You paused. “You’re stealing my sleepshirt?”

“Borrowing. Temporarily…for morale.”

You snorted, half a laugh, half surprise. “Didn’t peg you as the sentimental type.”

He didn’t meet your eyes, just folded it slowly and deliberately before placing it neatly in his pile.

“I’m not.”

Sure and yet…You didn’t push. You just kept folding, eyes drifting now and then to the exposed line of his jaw. The way he leaned on one arm, once he was done, like he belonged there, like you were his routine…like this quiet was something he sought out, not something he stumbled into.

You weren’t sure when it had started. The quiet check-ins, the shared glances before missions and the way you always seemed to land laundry duty around the same time but you knew you didn’t want it to stop.

By the time you were done, Simon was already zipping his duffel shut, your shirt carefully tucked inside like a secret and you wondered if he’d give it back if you asked, even when you didn’t want to.

He caught you staring and paused. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said with a shrugged and bit back smile.

He watched you, unreadable, then nodded toward the door. “Walk back?”

You blinked. “You’re… offering to walk me home?”

“It’s past two,” he said, like that explained everything. “Could be gremlins out there.”

“I’m armed,” you wanted to reply but didn’t because he knew. You smiled instead, genuinely this time. “You gonna protect me from gremlins, Riley?”

He held the door open for you, lips stretched into the most attractive grin you’d ever seen, before he could pull the balaclava down. “Yes ma’am.”

[freakstur]

Hello hello hello!! This is my brain vomit of the day! GN!Reader!

Simon, and his glorious muscles.

Truthfully, you’d gawk at them. Shamelessly. He loved the attention — but it got him hard at all the wrong times.

Like when walking through base. He’d casually flex an arm when you walked by — just to see how your face would heat up, how he could see your mouth water. He’d grin — because no matter how bad you wanted to bite him hard — he had places to be. So did you.

Or sometimes when you were sparring together.

Sweaty, panting, and hot — he’d manage to get you down, wrapping an arm clean around your throat. That little moan you let out was not from pain.

He’d be bad about it too. Holding you down, making sure you’d feel every inch of him while his thick, strong legs wrapped around your core to keep you pinned — surrounded by his scent, his heat, his muscles.

He’d poke fun. Letting you bite down on his biceps just to mock you, like ‘what’re you? a dog?’ But it only egged you on. You loved it.

How when you’d go down on him.

He’d flex his thighs, showing the strength, the power behind them — how fucking huge they were compared to your hand.

Oh, he was bad. The way he’d subtly flex his arms in meeting to make you squirm. The way he’d put his arm around your throat when fucking so you could feel the throb of pure strength.

Or when he’d simply do ‘manly’ things.

Training. When he’d go at the punching bag — when he’d work out — when he was moving equipment, when he was simply standing. Every curve, every dip, every vein. It all drove you mad.

The way his eyes would glint with mischief, making sure you saw directly into his eyes when he was working out.

You weren’t looking at his eyes anyway.

!!

worms are eating my brain tonight. feast

‘Fuckin’ and fightin’, it’s all the same,’

[pythonmoth]

(Teach me how) to Love You

simon “ghost” riley x gn!reader

inspired by this drabble. for @outfor-v ♡

cw: past addiction mentioned. smoking. they’re both neurodivergent. ace simon. do not trust simon’s description of himself (unreliable narrator). minority reader.

wc: 4.1k

Pt.1   Pt.2   Pt.3

Long before Simon met you, he was a broken man.

He was just a teenager and didn’t want to be at his house, if he could even call it ‘his’, so he was often out with questionable friends. Back then, Simon wouldn’t turn down anything they offered, glad to just forget about his problems for a while. Then, he met Johnny at a party and the guy would not leave him alone; at some point, Simon realised he’d been sober for over a few months, surrounded by good friends who quite literally slapped beers off his hands.

It felt nice, being protected. Simon didn’t struggle to understand why he was better off without them, and why his other group was terrible. He had known, he just couldn’t be arsed to care enough to leave them, but they never came back either —and if it had anything to do with Gaz’ older friend Price who threatened to bury them in his backyard if they did, he didn’t know. Simon didn’t really care.

When he got to university —he was very surprised he did—, he was pretty popular. Johnny and Gaz were anyway, and would always drag him along, so there was nothing he could do about it; everybody knew him. It was a little pathetic, though: “ah, he wears all black”, “he always wears his mask”, “heard he nearly killed his dad when he was a teen”. Simon knew it all about the rumors, knew that people were curious but feared him enough not to ask him directly.

Truth be told, he did beat up his father when his brother died because of his neglect and a badly placed gun, but he didn’t feel like telling them. It wasn’t a secret, but people made up so many lies they thought it was just another rumor.  After meeting Johnny, he found shelter in him and, when Tommy died, Simon forced his father to leave town and told him to never come back. He promised he would kill him if he did. Johnny made sure to make their close friends aware the talking was all bullshit and, only with Simon’s permission, he would tell them the truth.

Some embraced it easily, welcoming Simon as their own. Some didn’t, but they weren’t important, so Johnny and his entire circle would drop them, showing Simon their entire support.

Peace.

The thing is, he wasn’t expecting much of his life. Just peace, friends, and a shitty job that paid bills.

Price had invited them to his younger brother’s birthday party, and Gaz was acting incredibly annoying that day, urging Simon to dress up nicely —he didn’t have to tell Johnny, who had outfits pre-prepared for those days—. He didn’t resist because he really wanted some cake, and if dressing up a little made Gaz approve faster, he didn’t care. 

Because Price had said “younger brother”, he had expected kids.

Wrong.

Simon stared at the people filling Price’s home, immediately feeling overwhelmed. They were all his age, or just old enough to be at university, so that meant that Johnny and Gaz wouldn’t be shutting up at all, meaning he would be forced to interact.

Price introduced Michael, his younger brother, who was smiling down at them. It was easier to forget Price was literally ten whole years older than them, so of course his little brother was in his twenties, and not fucking ten.

Simon decided to stay out of his friend’s vision, finally eating cake, and having some non-alcoholic beer in silence in some corner of the room. Price’s brother and his friends played beer pong and whatever drinking game they could think of, trying to get plastered quickly. Simon sipped his drink, shaking his head, wondering what was wrong with kids these days.

The night was pretty nice, he could admit that, but as people started disappearing into random rooms, and after taking care of over a dozen’ girls drinks while they peed, he decided to go for a smoke.

That’s the only thing he didn’t fully beat, and it was also the thing that got Simon attached to Price in the first place. That man’s cigars were on another level, but he didn’t always crave it, just sometimes. As long as he didn’t drink, Johnny didn’t shit on him for smoking here and there.

The sky was clear, no stars on sight to Simon’s disappointment, but the thing that made him grunt in real annoyance for the first time in the night was that he didn’t have a lighter on him. Simon patted his pants, checked the pockets a couple times, but he could only stand there against the railing of the balcony, looking like a loser with an useless cigarette between his lips and a mask scrunched up to his nose.

“Need a light?”

Simon turned with an embarrassing flinch, not having realised somebody was there already, leaning against the wall in the dark. He watched as you got closer, your expression hidden from his view. “Yes. Thanks.” He could only stare as you held the lighter up to his lips, the soft flame letting him appreciate your features.

With a tilt of his head, he looked at you, unashamed. You stared right back, raising an eyebrow before you lit up your own cigarette, moving a few steps away to breathe out the smoke. “You’re friends with Price? Saw you with his boyfriend.”

“Aye. I’m in Gaz’ class. You’re friends with his brother?”

“Yeah. Same class, too.”

The conversation ended there, but you kept lighting up his cigarettes one after the other, not even waiting for him to ask you. He liked that, the company, and the silence. Risking his face and his own sanity, he unlocked his phone and handed it to you, hoping you didn’t see his hand shaking. “Your number.”

You didn’t say anything as you took the phone, quickly typing down your number and saving the contact. Before he could say anything, he saw you call your own phone as you handed it to him. “Your name.”

Apparently Simon’s a fucking idiot, like Johnny told him later, because Price’s brother went to the same university as them and he didn’t know. It was truly a walk of shame as he went into campus and got more people than usual nod his way, a lot more girls grinning and waving —some of them he recognised from the party and their drinks. Michael even came over to greet him with a tight hug. They were friends now, and more people knew Simon. Great. Of course. All he did was eat cake in a corner and not be a fucking creep.

As usual, he didn’t have breakfast at home because Johnny was still asleep and didn’t want to wake him up, so he went to the cafeteria for something to munch on. What he wasn’t expecting, though, was hearing a familiar voice arguing with the kitchen lady.

“I’ve already paid for it! Ma’am, I’ve been coming here for three years. Why would I want to steal a sandwich? Please be reasonable.”

“You didn’t pay yet! It doesn’t show here, so don’t you try lying to me. I know your kind, kid.”

Simon got closer, staring as your face twitched, no doubt growing upset at the lady’s tone. “I’ll ignore that because you’re a hag, and clearly have issues. I’ve no cash on me, and it’s not my fault your machine doesn’t work.”

“That’s it! You—”

He came behind you quickly, holding up a bill in front of the lady’s face, his eyes all charming. “It’s on me, ma’am. Add another one because I’m starving. And, you can keep the change, of course,” Simon told the lady, who just scoffed and snatched the bill, disappearing into the kitchen.

The anger seemed to banish from your face when you turned to him, lips parting when his mask clicked in your mind. Simon waited, his lips twitching behind the fabric. It’s weird to see adults arguing like that in university, but he’s on your side —he just doesn’t want the lady spitting in your sandwiches, so he keeps quiet for now.

“Thank you. I was starting to panic,” you huffed, rubbing your forehead. “Hi.”

“Hi. Yeah, of course,” he mumbled, his smile widening.

After a few minutes, the lady came out of the kitchen and completely ignored you as she handed Simon the sandwiches, giving him a happy smile. It made you sigh but you didn’t say anything, walking right next to him in silence. Not thinking of it, Simon went to his friends’ table. He didn’t notice they were all quiet, staring as the two of you got closer, but when you sat down and he handed you the sandwich, Johnny’s arm was suddenly around his shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Hi, hello. You’re from Michael’s party, right?”

“Bloody hell, personal space—”

“Yeah. Nice to see you again. Hi, Gaz,” you hummed, a little smile dancing on your lips.

He noticed from that moment that you were forcing yourself to speak, nodding and giving others small smiles before saying anything, as an after thought. It was obvious you were trying to keep the conversation going, especially with someone as chatty as Johnny. It didn’t sound unnatural or unkind, but Simon could see your fingers folding and unfolding the napkin the longer the conversation went, and he felt seen. For him it was easy to only listen to Johnny, because they were already friends, and Johnny knew Simon didn’t really like talking too much, but you weren’t close. The performance was too good for Johnny to notice, but Simon saw right through it.

Simon’s glad for his friends. They’ve never disappointed him.

As soon as Johnny and Gaz realised you were not stop coming around them, as Simon kept meeting you and spending more time with you, they quickly caught up on you being a quiet person and learned how to communicate without making you overwhelmed.

Simon thrived with it. He could show you a funny video and you’d smirk at it, go on your phone and show him one in return, not even talking for a couple hours if you happened to meet out of the campus. And it quickly became a routine, too, Johnny asking him if he was with you, because a couple weeks before meeting you he’d be back home before the sun was down, but now, Johnny was lucky if Simon made it out of your house before the morning.

And so, it ended up with Johnny calling in the middle of the night when he stopped sleeping at home for a week.

“You have your key, you know?”

“Mhm.”

“I’ll start charging you rent if you don’t show your face, dumbass. Bring milk on your way back, at least. Tomorrow, if possible.”

“What are you, my mother?” he complained quietly, curling into the couch, trying not to disturb your sleep. “Fine. Send me a list.”

“You kids grow up so fast. I remember when I met you—”

Simon did not want to hear the rest so he just hung up, knowing Johnny wouldn’t take offense, and would probably blow his phone up with pouty emojis. 

He did.

It’s a little impossible for him to recall when it started.

At first, it was just a couple days a week that he slept over at your house. You lived alone, so he could just drop by if Johnny had somebody over and he didn’t want to be a bother to them. You never complained, and even frowned slightly when he said he’d sleep somewhere else so, feeling grateful, he started filling your fridge with groceries, including some for himself, since he was there majority of the time anyway. 

At some point, he started waiting outside, watching a movie on his phone while you were out, instead of going to Johnny’s. It happened a couple of times, but you caught him once and, right then, you gave him a key to your place.

“I thought you knew where I keep the spare,” you grunted, visibly upset. “Call me if you forget your key next time.”

“Okay. Brought chinese from the place we like.”

“Oh, neat.”

By the time winter arrived, months after you met, you two were a lot more vocal with each other, sharing movie nights every other day and studying together, even if your classes were different. Half of your drawers had his clothes and he had taken over your bed, stealing your blanket from time to time until he just asked you to cuddle —it would solve the problem until he bothered himself to bring his own from Johnny’s. You mumbled under your breath and shuffled closer.

His arms moved without hesitation, curling around you as your arms folded between the two of you. Your clothes were warm against his skin, and he could feel himself shivering, his nose diving into your hair.

When you sleepily whispered that the mask felt funny against you, he tugged it off. 

Only when he woke up in the middle of the night, reaching up to scratch the mask by his cheek like always, did he realise what he did. Looking down, your forehead was against his chin, your arms warm against his chest, and there was a little pool of your drool by the collar of his t-shirt that he couldn’t hate, no matter how it felt against his skin.

The routine he shared with Johnny for many years was very different from this. The only times he shared a bed with him, Simon was curled around his own personal blanket —which he stole from his father’s house since day one—, and they never once cuddled. He didn’t even think of asking Johnny when the cold was too much, and his friend never offered. Cuddling you was the most physical contact he had with anybody in literal years. Ever, maybe.

It’s interesting, he thought, as he watched you shift in your sleep.

Simon’s sure he has never been attracted to anybody the way Johnny describes it: the rush, the need. Maybe not even a real crush, if what Gaz said about Price before they started dating can be used as a reference.

Having you in his arms, he felt closer to understanding it.

Graduation came faster than he thought it would.

Two years had gone by with his loved ones around him, now all of them wearing graduation gowns and bright smiles. To his left, Johnny was holding at least seven bouquets of flowers somehow, and Gaz’ arms were around Price’s middle, smiling so brightly that Price had a hard looking away from him.

Turning to his right side, you were right there, one of your hands anxiously holding his arm while talking to your friends, who were just as quiet and shaky as you were. Even if the ceremony was done, he knew the remaining sensation was too much. His friends were busy, and his parents wouldn’t be coming, so he turned quietly to your friends, watching as you all held hands, whispering promises and already organising a small gathering for new year.

A few kisses here and there, a couple hugs later, your friends waved at the two of you as a goodbye, and only then did you turn to him, raising your eyebrows. “I need a smoke so bad.”

“Let’s steal some from Price.”

“Deal.”

Enamoured as he was by Gaz’ happy expression, Price didn’t even look your way when you two asked for his cigars. Johnny gave you both a big, squeezing hug before he ran off with his partner and families, and Gaz kissed his cheeks, and yours, before he tugged Price away. Simon wondered if they would leave him now. Or perhaps he would, like he did with his father.

He wondered if Johnny, Gaz and Price would ignore him now that they weren’t obliged to see him, or because he moved in with you. Perhaps Johnny was angry at him about it, even if he never said anything. Perhaps Gaz didn’t really care for him and was only forced to take him in because of Johnny, and Price—

“Are you dizzy?” you asked suddenly, your fingers curling around his wrist.

Simon realised you two had walked away from everyone else, less people on that side. You weren’t much shorter than him, but you still shielded him from view, guiding him to a bench. Gratitude burst through his heart and his lungs up to his throat, choking him. “I think so,” he managed, letting you force him to sit down. Lighting up two cigarettes, he handed you one as you stood in front of him. After a moment, he looked up. “Your parents aren’t coming?”

That made you smile, shaking your head. “No, because of work. They called me a while ago.” A beat. “I’d like you to meet them.”

“Of course.”

Your family didn’t take long to invite you two over to celebrate, a couple of days after the ceremony at most, and Simon was very anxious.

Truth be told, he’s never known peace ever since he was born, but something about meeting your family had him… worried. Simon wanted your opinion on everything, including clothes, and breathed with relief when you told them you two could wear matching shirts. He wanted your opinion on colognes, on gifts and on whatever he could bring to the gathering. He was anxious, but he also wanted to make your parents see you weren’t dragging him around. Simon had been learning he isn’t a bother in your life, and you’ve been patient with him. He’s been an asset, according to your words, and welcome, and loved.

Simon’s mind went back to the first times you two cuddled. That was when he started feeling loved, and he wanted it so bad to last, so he didn’t want to screw it up by being ridiculous and bringing the wrong type of beer to the gathering.

What if they didn’t like his non-alcoholic beer? He would buy the regular one, too, for them. Work had been kind to him, so of course he wouldn’t be cheap. But what if he had to talk too much and got overwhelmed and couldn’t handle it and accidentally made someone mad and they went off on you because of him and that made you hate him and if that made him lose you… what then? If he ruined this and you realised you’d rather not have him around, how was he supposed to go crying to Johnny, tell him he lost someone dear to him and that he just can’t move on? How could he survive without the movie nights with you, if he fucked it up?

If he lost you, would Johnny and Gaz see it too? That he’s not worth it.

And maybe that was also why his mother left him and Tommy as soon as his brother was born. He couldn’t blame her, though, he just—

“Simon.”

He looked up from his phone, were he was aimlessly scrolling down. There was a knot in his stomach, his throat closing up. “Hm?”

“I’ll just brush my teeth, and then we can go.”

Right. Simon nodded at you, giving you a small smile as he got up from the couch. His mouth tasted sweet from the chocolate you gave him —and sour from his panic—, his hands were sweaty and he wanted to slap himself for zoning out like that. He had been too focused freaking out that he completely forgot he was meeting your family in less than an hour.

The drive to your home was filled with music, old songs he would’ve totally listened to in middle school had he been a normal kid, and he kept his hand on your knee for support as he drove. Simon wanted to throw up, but your humming voice kept him sane enough not to start bawling there. The last parents he met were Johnny’s when he was a teen, and it was… something. Gaz’ were amazing. And, of course, his own. All of them terrifying and nerve-cracking experiences.

It had become a silent mutual understanding not to ask if the other was okay, especially if they couldn’t function. Simon couldn’t look your way when you said something about the dishes, zoning out? You would do them yourself. You couldn’t move when the fire alarm accidentally went off? He would put your noise cancelling headphones over your ears, then his own, and sit next to you until you melted against his side. Instead, you two talked about being dizzy, needing to sit down, wanting a drink and maybe even a hug.

You playing with his sleeve was a silent “I’m here”, and he was very grateful.

To his overwhelming surprise, your entire family accepted him instantly.

Your parents called him son, your little cousins called him uncle, and your aunts called him “sweetie”. Simon was so, so surprised he had to hold onto your hand, not noticing the smiles on your parents’ faces at the action. Your fingers squeezed him back, tugging him to a less crowded place, shielding him once again.

A thousand thoughts were running through his mind, and Simon could only look at you in silence for a moment, lips parting as he tried very hard not to blow up with anxiety and gratitude. With love.

“Intense, huh?”

“Tell me about it.”

The little joke made the two of you relax, hands still holding onto each other as he leaned down, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “I know you hate it when I say thank you.”

“I guess I can’t do anything about it. Or can I?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

“Thank you.”

“Lame.”

“I mean it. I haven’t felt this happy in a long time.”

“You’re important to me, and they can see it. It’s nothing you need to thank me for.”

“Lame.”

That made your shoulders shake with laugher, and Simon pulled back just enough to stare at you. In that instant, he felt it. The warmth everybody’s been talking about. Maybe not the same type of rush Johnny mentioned, or the need Gaz always so loudly declared, but it was there, burning in his chest and his heart.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

“I sure hope so, it’s been two years—”

“Oi!” A voice cut you both off, breaking the intimate moment. “Bring your pretty boyfriend over. The food is ready.”

There was no time to react, to understand, and he frankly didn’t give it much of a thought. Simon knew how he felt, so he couldn’t do anything else but think of a way to ask you out without making you pull away from him if you didn’t feel the same. 

Standing with your family, his arm wrapped around your middle, his non-alcoholic beer warming up at his touch, and your body leaning against him… it was heaven for him. Overwhelmed with love, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

Blinking, you looked up at him, raising an eyebrow.

Simon could die a happy man right there.

Then, he saw a new face. A very old lady with a sweet smile came over to hug you and your family, patting your cheeks and arms, looking overall sleepy. “Hello, dears. Where’s my beer— ah, thank you, sweetheart.” Simon’s lips curled up at the sight of her sipping the beer, chest tightening when she looked in his direction. “And who’s this handsome man? Look at your pretty face! You need a tan, darling.”

Simon heard your chuckle, his own smile widening. “This is Simon, my boyfriend.” Boyfriend. Boyfriend?

Boyfriend.

Suddenly, a rush of whispers and giggles he heard since you two arrived hit him like a brick to his head. Simon had ignored them because he learned to do that with his surroundings, but he suddenly felt ridiculous. You’ve been introducing him as your boyfriend to everyone to his face and he didn’t even blink. He didn’t see it as a lie, didn’t think you were joking, it just was so natural he only grinned and said hi.

They’ve been calling him your boyfriend.

You called him your boyfriend.

He was aware he’s had feelings for… maybe two years? Simon had an epiphany less than an hour ago, but he remembered when it probably started: the day he took his mask off, the day he forgot to put it on and never wore it again, scaring the hell out of his friends when they saw him for the first time, or when he heard you sing in the shower. 

The first time he wished he could melt like butter and slip under your skin so you two could be one.

“Simon?” you whispered, shaking him out of his mind with a gentle squeeze on his arm. Your grandmother was staring at him, waiting patiently despite his silence.

Not missing another beat, Simon smiled. “Yes, I’m the boyfriend. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Are you sure? You went blank on me,” your grandmother teased, patting his cheek.

“Yes, positive.”

“Very well. Help an old lady and bring me a chair, sugar.” 

Simon’s never moved faster.

masterlist | buy me a coffee

little taglist: @just-a-little-nut @identity2212 @british-ppl-scare-me

[the-palelady]

cowboy!ghost is soooo desperate to get his hands on the cute nurse he’s had his eyes set on since he showed up in town.

the last patient for the day is already making their way to the exit when he steps inside the dingy clinic. he’s calm. too calm for a man who’s got the image of you writhing beneath him in pleasure sitting so vividly in his mind.

you greet him with that same saccharine smile, uttering something about how you were almost done for the day. the rest of your words were lost to the wind.

amber irises followed the sway of your hips, the natural pout of your lips as you concentrated on finishing up your doctor’s notes.

you were oblivious to the way he stalked up behind you, a bear cornering its prey, pinning it down with the shadow of its massive form. his hands find the edge of the desk, and you’re caged.

and he almost falls to his knees seeing how tiny you are beneath him, head knocking against his chest when you stand up to your full height.

a gasp leaves you, eyes darting up to look at your reflection in the window, but all you see is the darkness in his eyes, cloudy with something that has your thighs pressing together, the apples of your cheeks flushing a bright shade of pink.

ghost doesn’t let you get a word in, instead leaning down to press his lips to the shell of your ear.

“kept me waitin’ long enough, love. i’ll apologize to the doc tomorrow for the mess m’about to make.”

[oceantornadoo]

when you first start talking to simon riley, you want to check yourself into an insane asylum.

you like to think you’re cool, you’re chill, you’re nonchalant. but he takes eight hours to text back, sending you a “come over.” text at 7pm like he hadn’t just ignored you the whole day. you complain to your friends, of course, which is a terrible move when they tell you to drop him and if he wanted to, he would! and you think he does (want to), he’s just so insanely nonchalant about it. so the next time he comes over, chinese takeout in hand after not texting you back since 8am, you go a little crazy…

you open the door for him, stepping back awkwardly when he tries to peck your forehead. he practically shrugs it off, toeing off his boots before setting the food down on your table. “got tha’ dish ya like.” you nod, forgetting his back is to you. simon unpacks the boxes with precision from the bag, not stopping until it’s all laid out on the table. you’ve been quiet for a while, unusual since you’re the talker of the bunch, and that creeping feeling that’s been sliding up his skin finally sets its hooks in him. he turns around curiously, brows furrowing at the sight of you still standing by the door, biting your lip with a timid look and wet eyes. “love?”

you shake your head with a watery smile. “can we talk?” simon follows you as you walk to your couch, feeling like he’s been dropped into an op with no details. he doesn’t know what’s wrong, just that you’re hurting and he seems to be the cause of it. “i just…don’t get it. how you’re acting so normal.” you’re twisting your hands together. “somethin’ happen, love? got me confused.” you give him that small, weak smile again and it’s like you’ve stabbed him in the heart. “you- you barely talk to me all day and then you just come over here like it’s nothing. it’s just so hot and cold and i’m wrecking myself over it when it’s so clear you don’t care. i’m just so confused, si.”

simon runs through his memories. he texted you good morning, you texted it back, then he went about his duties for the day until he was finally free to ask about dinner. hadn’t even picked up his phone in the meantime, security risks or just plain busyness being the cause. “‘ve been busy, sweetheart. ‘s why i asked t’ come over when i was done.” you shake your head, biting your lip. “it’s the modern day, simon. everyone’s on their phones. i don’t think you’re as into this as me, and that’s fine, but i just want to know!”

now simon’s the one shaking his head, pulling out his phone. he might not be tech savvy but he does know this move from johnny, the fucker constantly complaining about his screen time. he pulls up the screen time tracker and turns it to you. “not everyone.” you’re a bit shocked to be honest. his screen time is ten minutes for the entire day. a few in the morning when he texted you and nothing until nighttime, when he texted you again. you’ve never seen anything like it.

“‘m not a big texter an’ we don’t use personal phones for work, so it’s jus’ a brick i leave at home or lug around. ‘s nothin’ on you. been thinkin’ about you all day, to be honest.” your mouth is open, honestly. any other man would have never shown you their minute-by-minute screen time, would have begged off the “busy” excuse while having been on social media for four hours. simon, by all standards, is genuinely different.

“so, you do like me?” he nods stiffly, gloved hands reaching for you. you slide into his lap easily, tucking your face into his neck to hide your heated cheeks. you’d even shed a few tears over this, how embarrassing. “‘course i like you, sweetheart. an’ im sorry if it didn’t feel like it. let’s have it out, yeah?” you nod into his skin and he takes a deep breath, pulling you closer to his heart.

from that day on, you compromise with phone calls. when he’s got a few minutes and you’ve hit a lull at work, he’ll call you. it’s better than any text in the world - hearing his gruff voice asking questions about your messy coworkers or dinner plans. not so nonchalant as you thought.

-

i wish this was from personal experience but unfortunately for me, it’s closer to the men not responding for days but having a screen time of six hours.

[criminalamnesia]

Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

[dmitriene]

you have a a small courtyard behind your house, where on the trimmed grass, closer to the light fence, there is a table with couple of chairs, an umbrella providing shade, and a little further away, is a fairly large pool, with water that shimmers in the morning sun, a lounger on the edge, where you are perfectly visible to your nearest neighbor, namely, simon ghost riley.

stretched out under the warm rays after cold water is nothing more than a treat, lying on a sun lounger on your side, hip curved, sun playing over the skin and drops of water that remain frozen all over you, shiny and iridescent, having no barrier in the form of a thin swimsuit to soak up, body completely exposed, soft and warm, almost melting, as you reach over to touch a plate of fruit sitting on a small table nearby.

it's not the first time simon has laid eyes on you, and not without a trace of shame, only a hint of pinkish hue spreading across over his cheeks and the tips of ears, staining his fair skin, blonde eyelashes quivering, as his honey molten eyes flutter over your figure, the curve of your waist, the movement of your spine, your ass, perched full and ripe, covered with a fuzzy layer of hairs that are barely visible, and he thinks of peaches, of sinking his suddenly aching teeth in the juicy meat of the fruit he sees.

simon rarely comes back to this house, preffering to stay at the base for as much as possible, as often as possible, because he has no reason to return, no one to go to, but he couldn't have known that there was a hidden treasure in the neighborhood, one that had most likely not been plucked, or bitten yet, and his entire being is boiling, filled with that searing, intense need, sweat breaking on his temples, and maybe simon should introduce himself to you.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[lay-z]

Simon Riley appreciates a healthy routine.

Neither Gaz nor Soap can quite tell what is stranger their Lieutenant declining to go for a pint after touching ground back on base or the sight of him furiously typing away on the cracked screen of his phone since they got some proper cell service.

They keep sitting in their respective seats on the plane, quietly observing Ghost and Captain Price for the past hours like they're some nearly extinct animals they shouldn't dare to startle; trying to gauge the latter's reaction, though that hint of a knowing smile barely hidden behind a coarse beard is only confusing them more.

It's as if Price has found the answer to a riddle that his Sergeants aren't even fully aware of.

Almost immediately, they lose sight of the sneaky Lieutenant as soon as the plane lands on the tarmac and once the tired soldiers receive permission to sign out for a long weekend after spending the last eight weeks deployed, travelling places no one else wants to go.

And of course, the lads think that Ghost has simply had enough of their bullshite, that the naturally aloof man is feeling too agitated and overwhelmed to linger, even though the mission was finished successfully. Perhaps he made arrangements with some working lady to get it out of his system (Soap's words, "Who else would the bloody geezer be textin' to, eh?"), or perhaps he's already being called in for a single op by Laswell.

They don't see the signs their Captain has picked up on a while ago when it comes to the closed-off Lieutenant.

The hushed phone conversations behind a closed office door, the more frequent rummaging for a phone that he usually didn't spare a glance at for hours on end, a spring in his step after suddenly spending more weekends off base, eating homemade biscuits from a Tupperware box that surely isn't his while doing his paperwork, pushing himself harder at the gym with a kind of natural energy that comes with higher testosterone levels, humming on his way back from a terrible training session with a squadron of rookies.

Yes, the signs are all quite obvious to a happily married man like John Price, because he remembers the honeymoon phase with his wife in the beginning of their relationship all too well.

Meanwhile, Simon manages the one hour long drive from base to your flat downtown in 37 minutes, and he takes the fact that he got caught speeding in stride. And what if he loses his driver's license? He's broken much worse laws in his lifetime than driving without legal documents.

The spare key to your home that you've gifted him with, feels heavier than all his tac gear combined as it rests in his jeans pocket heavy with meaning and responsibility, a reminder that he's found a new purpose in his life.

He sheds and leaves his gear and dirty fatigues in his truck, and he takes three steps at once as he rushes upstairs to your flat with single-minded focus, excitement and adrenaline equally coursing through his veins as if he's about to seize a hostile target by himself.

The familiar front door closes behind him with a soft click, and then he's greeted by peace and quiet.

Instead of finding fear or annoyance, Simon is met by raw happiness and adoration as he watches your eyes light up once you notice his presence all curled up and cozy on your couch.

"Hi!"

His socked feet make no noise as he approaches you over the carpeted floor.

"I didn't expect you for another hour," you tell him, even though he very well remembers what time he'd told you he'd arrive, though he had added two hours to that time frame just so he wouldn't disappoint you if he didn't make it.

"Your dinner is ah!"

Simon picks you up with practiced ease, and your little shriek of surprise dissolves in a fit of melodic giggles. Bulky arms wrap around your body and cradle you to his chest bridal style as he carries you towards the bedroom with simmering urgency.

The words he mumbles as explanation come out gruff and harsh, oafish even, but you can't help and feel utterly smitten by them: "Bed. Now."

You're dropped onto the mattress without warning, and the way you laugh again makes Simon's chest hurt with how hard his bloody heart flutters.

And then you're already reaching out for him right when he joins you, mattress dipping beneath his added weight as he drapes himself over the full length of your body; slotting his meaty thigh between your legs until he can lay down more comfortably on top of you like a weighted blanket.

"Can you rub my shoulders? Please?"

His voice is muffled as he nuzzles his flushed face in the crook of your neck. Sometimes, it still feels forbidden to ask for something so mundane from the person he would die for.

"Yeah, sure. Can I take off your mask?"

You can carve out his heart with a butter knife if you'd like, but he chooses to keep that to himself for now while the fact that you're asking for his consent again makes his head feel fuzzy and his arms tighten around your warm, welcoming frame reflexively.

Simon nods. "Aye, take it off f'me."

The cloth is gently removed when he manages to lift his head up before letting it drop back into the crook of your neck, and then your fingers card through his short, disheveled strands of dirty blonde hair; blunt nails scratching lightly at his skull until a full-body shudder runs along his spine.

It's heavenly.

It's more than he ever wanted and everything he never even dared to wish for.

It's a routine he's managed to build up with you from scratch.

Strangers to lovers, and he will never let you go now that he's sunken his sharpened claws into your willing flesh.

Yet he is but a tamed kitten in your tender embrace. Just a man enjoying and craving the simplest and purest form of affection right in this moment, stripped bare from his demons as you keep them off his back with your sheer, golden presence.

"You're safe now, Si. I missed you so much, baby," you coo into his ear, and his brain fills with cotton while he noses along your pulse point, breathing in your calming scent.

Then he feels the gentle press of your lips against his temple while your warm palms stroke and rub along his back, and he melts into a vulnerable puddle, exhausted eyes finally fluttering shut.

"Missed ya, too, pet," he murmurs gruffly, chapped lips brushing over your sensitive skin. "M'not gonna move f'a while, yeah?"

And Simon barely registers your answer when he's already drifting off into a dreamless slumber, allowing himself to cling to your body like a needy child while soaking up the warmth and comfort you're giving him oh so willingly.

He's home.

[x-x-nyctophilia-writes-x-x]

Y/n: Which one of you was gonna tell me that tea tastes different if you put it in hot water?

Gaz: You... You were putting it in cold water?

Y/n:.......

Soap: Y/n. Answer the question, Y/n.

Y/n: Well... yeah. I thought for, like, 5 years that people just put it in hot water to speed up the “tea-ification” process. I didn't realize there was an actual reason. Besides, do you really think I have the patience to boil water?

Soap: Ye dinnae have the patience to microwave water for 3 minutes?

Gaz: Wait, wait- why are you putting it in the microwave to boil it?

Soap: Do ye think ah've got the patience to boil water on the stove?

Gaz: It takes less than a minute!

Y/n: Bestie, is your stovetop powered by the fucking sun??

Gaz: Well, how long does it take you to boil a cup of water on the stove then?

Y/n: Like, 7 minutes!

Soap: *nods*

Gaz: *sighs* Just stick the mug on top of the stove on medium heat, and it boils in 2 minutes. Less than that if you use a saucepan. 

Soap: ...Ye're puttin' the whole mug on the stove? On medium heat?

Y/n: *crying laughing* Your stove is fucking enchanted!

Price: Every single one of you is a fucking lunatic. 

Ghost: Do none of you own a fucking kettle?

Source

[musouie]

cw ⊹ ࣪ ˖ mention of/allusion to watersports

you and simon have this little game where he masturbates above you when he’s really pent up after overtime at the base. he’s on his feet all day, hardly has time to even use the lav, substituting meals for cigs, but the second he gets home all he wants is his sweet, little bird.

he’ll free his heavy cock, force you onto your sore knees, and order you to keep your head lolled back and mouth wide like you “often do” (the cheeky bastard). and then he’ll fuck his rough palm, humping into his hand while panting like a dog, pre dribbling down his thick shaft and into the blond curls at its base — and neither of you know whether he’ll piss or cum on your face :(

(“it’s better that way”, he smirks. “makes it more fun ‘cos you won’t ‘spect it.”)

and he’s bent on having fun, bent on reliving himself, getting lost in you — so if his pretty little bird even slightly closes their pretty little mouth, he’ll pry it back open with meaty fingers. work the rugged things into their jaw until it’s wider than it was before —

“be good f’me, hm? jus’ take it all down this pretty throat. you can do tha’, can’t ya’ … for poor lil’ me?”

and you’ll nod fervently, despite the ache in your jaw, the ever-growing dryness in your mouth. but it’s all worth it when his grip on your face slackens and his hold shifts into something akin to … tenderness.

he’ll cradle your chin, hold it like you’re something precious — something scarce, thumb running across your parched bottom-lip.

“tha’s it … jus’ like that,” he’ll murmur, and without warning, something warm’ll hit your lips, splatter into your mouth and down your chin.

it’s only after you risk a taste that you’ll know what it is.

“poor, ‘ungry baby,” simon’ll coo — all sweet words and a half-soothing tone — whilst massaging the fluid across your face with a dirty, calloused thumb.

he’ll look down at you with hooded eyes, blue turned black as he watches you wipe at your chin. “get back in ta’place, ‘m not finished with ya’ yet.”

masterlist <3

[lavender-wolfie94]

Y’all need to understand what gender neutral actually means. Saying “This fic is gender neutral and there are no pronouns or descriptors used” then using “pretty girl” or “that’s my girl” immediately after is NOT gender neutral! Stay out of our spaces if you can’t respect us.

[leyavo]

Simon Riley x Mute!reader

───⋅☠︎︎⋅───

Simon already knew sign language, it surprised you when he approached you at the shops and relayed your message to the worker. Your notepad and pen are halfway out your bag when he speaks to the worker, telling him that he doesn’t think ya deaf so there’s no need to raise ya voice mate.

You sign him a thank you and go your separate ways. But as Simon’s walking across the car park, you suddenly appear and offer him coffee, a cheap one from the adjoining cafe but that’s the best there was. He takes it, helping you put your shopping in the boot and giving you his number. You scribble your name and number on paper, ripping it from your notepad and passing it to him.

Simon stares at your name and number for the rest of the day. Your neat scribbled writing slanted over the lines, crumpled paper and blue ink. Your text makes it feel like fate, like he’s meant to be with you.

And it’s not long till you’re spending more time together. Moving in to his spacious flat and creating a home.

It doesn’t matter that he’ll never hear his name on your lips, because your gaze lingers on him. You both take extra time and care to understand each other, to live in the present. How your attention is just on him and his on you as his eyes dart from your face to the movements of your hands.

He calls you Mouse, you’re so light on your feet that he doesn’t hear you approach. “Missed ya’ Mouse,” he says as soon as he shuts the front door and toes off his boots.

You might not talk, but you give him verbal cues. Humming whenever you’re satisfied, a low squeak whenever Simon accidentally scares you whilst you pad around the flat in the darkness of night.

Loves that you hum along to music in the morning whilst you make coffee and he stands over the cooker with breakfast. Has loads of your sticky notes stored in his bedside drawer and has one in his wallet with him for all times.

Simon trains a dog, “to keep ya’ company whilst I’m gone.” He does agree it looks a bit like him. A German shepherd, Gizmo because you both love the gremlin films. Funny how he doesn’t like baths either…

Takes Simon a while to get used to the guys voices when he goes back to work. Noticing the loud echoes trailing after Johnny’s words, Kyle’s snorts as he tries not to laugh at whatever story Johnny’s telling him or the drumming of Price’s finger on the table. He can’t wait to collapse into bed in the residential house and savour the silence.

The silence reminding him of you. A quiet comfort he can’t seem to explain to the guys when he retreats to his room early each night.

Your communication whilst he’s away is mostly text, a few video calls just to see your face and some hummed verbal responses. Anything to see the smile on your face.

───⋅☠︎︎⋅───

[Masterlist]

[rodricksreid]

Serial killer! Simon Riley x Writer! Reader

based off of this thread because I think its very romantic

cw : mentions of brief violence, obviously. Reader does NOT know Simon is coocoo. Briefest mention of nsfw

A/N — Brief drabble! I’m trying to get back into the writing game. I might write more if these two, I love them.

Simons calloused fingers tapped against the cool, polished wood of the table. He wasn’t nervous. Of course not. Who’d be nervous of a pretty little bird when he’s got enough bodies under his belt? And of both kinds.

You sat across from him at a simple table at a bar, your nerves a lot more obvious than his own. You shifted in your seat every once in a while, clearing your throat before he finally spoke.

“ So, you’re a writer? ” The Mancunian spoke, his head tilting to the side slightly.

“ Oh, yes. ” You responded with a sheepish smile. You cleared your throat once more, throat suddenly feeling too dry under the intense gaze of the freakishly large man.

“ What kind of stories do you write? ”

“ Uh, thriller, I suppose. Kind of leads to the weird search history, y’know. ” You chuckled softly, bringing the straw of your iced water up to your lips. Simons dark eyes locked on the way your lips settled over the straw. He couldn’t help but think about how—

No. No. Absolutely not.

Simon hummed softly, looking down at the bourbon sitting in his glass. However, he suddenly froze at the next sentence that came from you.

“ And what about you? You’re a writer? ”

Simon thought for a split second, his mind racing as he tried to come up with a proper lie.

“ Uhm. I’m a butcher. Or was. Figured that dealing with humans and animals were similar. ” He lied. Straight through his teeth.

You froze, mulling the sentence over in your head for a moment before smiling.

“ Oh, a butcher? I thought you were a soldier. ”

“ Retired soldier. Needed something to do afterwards, y’know. ” Well, he wasn’t fully lying. He was retired, after all. Just not a butcher. But what was he supposed to say? Oh, yeah. I’m actually a serial killer. He didn’t think so. Not when you’re smiling at him so sweetly, like he was the most interesting thing you’ve seen in a while.

The more you two talked, he was just getting more and more interested. Morbid questions, basic ones. He found himself.. enjoying your company. Giving the subtlest smile, listening intently to whenever you’d ramble on about something that would’ve been considered gross to anyone else.

Looks like he’d have to find a job at a butchers shop. How else was he going to keep the lie with you up?

[pythonmoth]

imagine dating Simon for like two years

except he doesn't know

you two didn't talk it out, it was just a given for you. he did things for you, and always made sure you were okay and even held you at night. you've pretty much moved in with him at this point

sure, he's never kissed you or tried to do anything except for cuddles at night, but you know he's ace, so... (it never crossed your mind he didn't know)

you thought you two were far beyond a regular relationship that it wasn't even necessary to talk it out

imagine his surprise when you introduce him as your boyfriend to your family

sure, his arm is around your waist and you're at a family gathering, introducing him to cousins and aunts. sure, you two sleep together every single night. sure, you two are very touchy and he can't think of a moment in his life where he'll want to be away from you

it's just surprising for him, really

for a hot minute only, because when he looks at you, a smile on your face, shoulders brushing as he holds you close and the cold beer in his hand warms to his touch, all the moments you two have spent together rush to his mind and...

well

he presses a soft kiss to your head, lips curling up when you look at him

part 1 up now!!

masterlist | Buy me a coffee

this will be a 3 chapter fic, for lovely @outfor-v

[the-palelady]

something something you and ghost get into an argument over a mission, and after that you give him the silent treatment, defying his orders and giving him the cold shoulder.

he finally tries to stop you one day, calling after you, and you turn the opposite direction blatantly ignoring him. you’re speed walking down the hallway, almost in a full sprint but not quite.

and he’s right on your tail

his strides are so much bigger than yours, and he’s chasing after you with purpose, like you’re prey.

you don’t even get a second to register your arm being grabbed, manhandling you into a nearby janitor’s closet. he keeps the light off, and all you can hear is the rustle of fabric before his lips are crashing into yours, one hand grabbing the hair at the nape of your neck while the other holds your face.

[sc3ptre]

Coffee breaks before sunrise

Pairing: Simon Riley x reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: been writing so much lately for Ghost so here goes an extra fic this week! Enjoy!

Setting: Military base kitchen, early morning

Genre: fluff

Warnings: none

Word count: 1k

The base at 0430 was a ghost town. Most of the soldiers were still tucked in their bunks and those on the night shift dragged themselves to the showers like zombies.

You, however, were already in the kitchen, barefoot, hoodie hanging off one shoulder and glaring at the coffee machine like it had personally wronged you, because it had. Twice.

You jabbed the start button again, watched the little green light blink, then nothing. No sound, no drip, just a faint hum and your own caffeine-deprived frustration.

“You gonna try threatenin’ it next?” came a deep voice from the doorway.

You didn’t even need to turn around. “I might,” you mumbled, rubbing your temple. “Nothing else seems to be working. I think it’s possessed.”

Ghost, Simon, walked in slowly, his footsteps softer than they should be for a man his size. You could tell it was him even without watching. The way he moved was unmistakable, methodical and quiet, like he didn’t want to leave a footprint behind.

“I’ve seen you fight men twice your size with less aggression,” he added, voice dry.

“Yeah, well, those men didn’t stand between me and caffeine,” you muttered.

He let out a low, quiet chuckle and rare sound. You gave up and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. Simon moved past you to open the upper cabinet. He didn’t say anything, but you could see the corners of his eyes crinkling above the balaclava, amused.

“I brought my own,” he finally said, pulling a small tin from the shelf.

“Of course you did.”

He shrugged. “Base coffee tastes like regret.”

“And wet dirt.”

“You make a face every time you drink it,” he added, already heating water in a battered kettle he must’ve smuggled from somewhere.

You squinted at him. “So you’ve been watching me drink it?”

Simon didn’t answer, just pulled down a second mug, yours, because apparently he had been watching, then set it beside his without a word. You watched the muscles in his forearm flex as he stirred, silent and focused. He moved with the calm, practiced rhythm of someone used to routine, to quiet mornings and getting in and out without waking anyone.

“How long have you been awake?” you asked.

“Long ‘nough to know you’d be here.”

Something flipped in your chest. You didn’t respond and truly didn’t need to. There was too much unsaid between you both already.

Simon poured the drinks, slid your mug over without meeting your eyes. “Careful, ‘s hot.”

“Thanks.” You took a sip of real coffee, not sludge. Smooth, dark and strong making your eyes nearly roll back. “Holy shit.”

Again, you noticed that faint curve in his eyes, a smile you clearly weren’t supposed to see. You leaned against the counter again and took another sip, slower this time, watching him from over the rim of your mug. He was still standing, leaning one hip against the counter, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave…and like he’d made coffee for two with the intention of staying.

“You always up this early?” you asked, quietly.

“Old habit. Never stopped.”

You nodded. You got it, some of those habits never left, even when the war wasn't actively knocking at your door. Sleep was shallow, dreams were loud, and coffee was non-negotiable.

“Why bring enough for two?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head, gave you a look you couldn’t quite read. “Didn’t.”

You raised a brow at that and Simon hesitated, just long enough to make you notice.

“…Started bringing it a few days ago,” he admitted. “Figured you’d be here, eventually.”

The weight of his voice, quiet, honest and definitely far from teasing, hit you right in the gut. You opened your mouth to say something, maybe thank him, maybe admit you looked forward to these little shared silences, but then–

CLUNK.

The damn machine sputtered to life behind you and you both turned. Watched it belch out two drops of oily, burnt coffee into the empty pot.

You snorted. “Now it wakes up.”

He shrugged, sipping his mug. “Too late. I win.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t hide the grin his comment pulled out of you.

A few minutes passed in that comforting early-morning silence. You both just… stood there. Not talking and not needing to.

It was a strange thing…this quiet familiarity with a man you didn’t really know, not in the usual ways, but you knew the way he moved, the way he breathed heavier when the day ahead was going to be difficult and how he loosened his gloves by an inch or two when he trusted the room.

He didn’t hide around you, not really.

“Are you going to the briefing later?” you asked, your voice soft.

He shook his head. “Already got what I need.”

You nodded again. Of course he had.

He finished his coffee before you and rinsed out his mug, but instead of leaving, he hovered for a second. Then stepped close, closer than usual, and slid something small across the counter toward you.

You blinked. It was a travel-sized tin, the same one he’d pulled from the cabinet.

“You’re giving me your coffee?” you asked, surprised.

“Not giving.” He met your eyes. “Loaning.”

You smiled. “And what’s the return fee?”

His gaze held yours, steady. “Another cup. Same time tomorrow.”

You couldn’t help it, you just smiled again, this time slower, warmer.

“Deal.”

He gave you a nod and backed away without another word but just before he disappeared around the corner, he paused with one hand on the doorframe.

“Oh,” he said. “Don’t go gettin’ soft on me…just means I like good coffee.”

“Sure thing, Lieutenant.” You replied with a smile.

He muttered something about being too early for cheek and disappeared into the hallway.

You stood there for a while, staring at the tin in your hand, it wasn’t what warmed you, though. It was the fact that he’d been thinking of you, quietly, without needing anything in return, and that said more than any mission debrief ever could.