#Call of duty ghost

[skauni]

Simon adopts a retired dog from the military and soap gets jealous like "I was his dog before you >:( " jealous, Simon catches onto the rivalry and purposely leaves the dog in soaps care more often just to force them to get along (and by them it's just soap, the dog is just fine)

- thank you and have nice day :>

Yes. And I think it’s because the dog gets more head scratches than Soap and Soap decides that’s a no no so he stares daggers at the dog. The dog knows what’s going on so it smugly lifts its chops in a smile. Oh and the dog’s a pitbull. You can’t tell me otherwise.

[ginandvodka-writes]

Seeing him again was something that you thought impossible. Seventeen years had passed since the last time you’d saw him, when you both were eighteen. And even so, just by seeing those beautiful chocolate eyes your heart raced uncontrollably.

He was taller, which was saying a lot considering that back in 10th grade he was taller than most of the school staff, including professors. Also, he was now burly as a truck, a brute of a man, quiet and reserved like back then. And even with the chirurgical mask and those scars decorating his face, you could recognize him wherever you were, just as he could recognize you too.

“Yer still that same wee star I knew.” Back then you were friends, not the closest ones, but were in the same groupie. You were like day and night, while you were sparkling as he used to call you, he was quiet and almost aloof, a mysterious boy who barely spoke. But despite the differences, you get along pretty well, he enjoyed your company and liked to spend recess with you.

Until the day you took different paths, he enlisted in the army, and you continued your studies as a programming engineer. Since then, you never heard from him again. However, that didn’t stop you from thinking about him from time to time, after all you used to be in love with him, he was your first love, the first man that made your heart pumping so hard you swore it’d break your ribs, that made you daydream about him and a hundreds of future possibilities.

Maybe things were different now, you weren’t teens anymore, you’d experienced many things over time that made you become who you are now. But it still felt nice, as if those years hadn’t passed, the other’s company was warm and fit perfectly, like two puzzle pieces.

Months passed, now that you were part of the team as their personal computer scientist, Simon and you spent time together, catching up and getting to know each other once again. Not only in base, but also outside of work. And that’s how you discovered that he liked a Lieutenant from the base, beautiful and strong, the ideal woman for him.

Regardless of the weird discomfort in your chest, wholeheartedly you offered to help him get closer to her. Day after day you gave him advice, and even you began to befriend with the woman, thus bringing them closer.

However, those feelings that you had for him in your youth were reborn, and this time they were stronger. Your heart craved for him, a simple touch of his hands felt like electricity running through your veins, and every night you slept hugging your clothes that were impregnated with his scent, dreaming that he was there with you, loving you like you loved him.

How funny, back then you never confessed your feelings because you were afraid of his rejection, and the only time that you encouraged yourself, you found out that he liked another girl, so you kept your feelings a secret. Now, years later you were in the exact same situation, loving a man that loved someone else.

At first you decided to keep your feelings to yourself like you did back then. However, you weren’t the same innocent girl, you’d matured over time, experimented love and its disappointments, why remain silent again? After all, he wasn’t yours, so you had nothing to lose, and at least this time you wouldn’t be left with the feeling of “what if?”

That’s how you were there with him in a cozy park at midnight, after spending your free day together.

“I love you, Simon.” Amid the comfortable silence, you finally were honest with him and yourself. “I did it since 10th grade, and now that I see you again, that love that I felt has been reborn even stronger.” You looked at him tenderly, smiling sadly. “But I know that you don’t feel the same, and I don’t ask anything more than just remain friends. I just wanted to be honest this once.”

Silence. A heavy silence that could be cut with bare fingers. Your heart pumping violently, echoing inside your skull, while he stayed quiet, dead still as a statue. The ache in your chest got stronger and after what felt like an eternity, when you decided to speak, he stood up and walked away without a word or looking behind, disappearing into the night.

He just left, leaving you alone with your heart broken and a silent but clear response.

He didn’t love you, doesn’t do and never will.  

Part 2

[archivesonlyyyhhh]

as someone who is always the “big girl” and hesitate to go in gym THANK YOUUUU!!! 🥺🫶🏻

you always looked fine to me

gym bro!simon x insecure!chubby!reader

ask

wc: 3k

a/n: omg anon this one hit close to home 🥺 literally whenever i go to the gym this is literally me so it was lowkey easy to write 🫶

You’ve been going to the gym for months now. Same time every evening. Same locker in the corner. Same oversized shirts and sweatpants, no matter how hot it gets. Not because you’re lazy. Not because you’re sloppy. But because every time you tried to wear something tighter—something even remotely flattering—you caught a look. A side-eye. A smirk. A whisper.

“If I looked like that, I wouldn’t wear that.”

That one stayed with you for weeks.

You didn’t even finish the set that day. Just left early and sat in your car with your heart in your throat.

Since then, it’s been full coverage. No skin. No curves. Nothing to point at or judge. Just baggy clothes, headphones in, and eyes on the floor.

Still, the comments find you sometimes. Not always mean. Sometimes fake-nice. Sometimes stupid little jokes you pretend not to hear.

“You’re here every day—where’s the progress?”

“Damn, it’s 90 degrees and she’s still dressed like it’s January.”

“Probably just here to feel better about eating later.”

You never react. That’s the worst part. You just lower your head and keep going, even when your face burns and your throat tightens. Even when it takes everything in you not to disappear.

But someone always notices.

And his name is Simon Riley.

He’s hard to miss. Built like a wall. Hood always up. Giant hands gripping weights like they’re nothing. People move when he walks by. Girls preen when he’s near. He never reacts. Never flirts back. Just keeps his eyes on whatever he’s doing and nods at people when they say hi.

He’s never said more than a few words to you.

A quick, “You done with this?”

Once, a low “Need a spot?” when you nearly dropped a barbell.

And one quiet, raspy “You alright?” when you accidentally wiped your eyes too hard after a whisper that hit too close.

But lately… something’s changed.

You feel his gaze sometimes. Not in a creepy way. Not like the others. But like he’s checking—watching. You’ll finish a set and look up and he’s already looking away. You’ll walk past and he’ll move slightly, like he’s clearing the way just for you.

One time you caught him staring after a squat set—your sweats riding low on your waist, your baggy tee damp with sweat—and his jaw clenched like he was holding something back. You told yourself you imagined it.

Until the night he actually waited.

You’d finished your workout, earbuds in, head down, already planning what you’d eat in secret later, and then—

“Hey.”

You turned. He was leaning against the front desk, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes on you like he had every right.

“Me?”

He nodded once. “You free Friday?”

Your throat closed. “Uh. Why?”

His lip twitched—just a hint of a smirk. “Thought you might wanna get food.”

You blinked. Stared. Tried to decide if this was some kind of joke.

“You’re asking me out?”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You nodded. “Okay. Sure. Yeah.”

He just nodded again, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Pick you up?”

You nodded again, stupid and flushed and already spiraling.

And now it’s Friday night. He’s on his way. You’ve changed clothes four times. Cried twice. You don’t own anything “hot girl cute.” You don’t even own jeans that make you feel good.

So when he knocks, you answer in your sweats and an oversized tee.

Still thinking maybe this was all a mistake.

And there he is.

Simon Riley. All 6’4 of gym-bro intimidation, in a plain black tee that fits him like a second skin, his arms crossed, hood down, eyes soft but unreadable. He glances down at you—at your flushed face, your bare collarbones, the baggy tee that probably looks ridiculous—and frowns just a little.

“You alright?” His voice is low, warm. The kind of voice that wraps around you without asking.

You nod. “Y-Yeah. I just—um. I couldn’t decide what to wear.”

His brow twitches. “So you picked nothing?”

You freeze.

“I mean—not nothing,” you say, tugging at your shirt, cheeks going hot. “I just… couldn’t find anything I felt good in.”

Simon tilts his head. His eyes sweep over you, quick but careful. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate. It’s messy. You’re a mess. But you step aside anyway.

He steps inside, boots heavy on the floor, and turns to look at you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “So that’s it?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re just gonna tell me you couldn’t find anything,” he says, “and expect me to believe that’s why you were panicking behind the door?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I wasn’t panicking—”

“You were.” His voice is so calm it makes your chest ache. “I heard you trip.”

You let out a weak laugh and hug your arms over your middle. “It’s dumb. I just—”

“You don’t feel good in anything.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

He looks at you. Not with pity. Not with confusion. Just with this weird, heavy softness in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

“You look good now,” he says simply.

You stare at him like he just said the sky’s purple.

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I’ve seen you at the gym. You always look good.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Yeah, in my giant sweatpants and hoodie.”

“Exactly.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, steps a little closer. “Not even a bit. You think I’ve just been sitting there watching you squat for fun?”

You blink at him.

He smiles, faint and slow. “Okay, maybe a little for fun.”

“Simon—”

“I like how you look,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. “And I like how you carry yourself. Even when people stare. Even when you keep your head down and pretend you don’t hear ’em. I notice.”

You swallow. Hard.

He doesn’t say it like it’s romantic. He says it like it’s true. Like he’s been thinking it for a while. Like it’s obvious.

Then he glances at your couch. “We’re staying in.”

“What?” you blink.

“Not letting you spiral over clothes for the rest of the night.” He moves past you and plops onto your couch, legs spread, one arm thrown over the back like it’s his now. “C’mon. I’ll even let you put on one of those dumb romcoms you pretend not to like.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. “You haven’t even seen my Netflix.”

“I’ve seen your hoodie rotation,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Don’t need to.”

You roll your eyes but feel a flutter in your chest.

He pats the cushion next to him. “C’mere.”

You hesitate.

“You’re not hiding,” he says, quieter now. “Not from me.”

You sit beside him, cross-legged, still hugging your arms like a shield. He’s warm beside you. Way too big for your couch, thigh pressing lightly against yours. It feels dangerous. Familiar. Safe.

“You seriously don’t think I look—” you start, then stop.

He turns to you. “Bad? No. Not once. Not ever.”

You look down. “I always feel like I have to prove something. Like if I’m not shrinking, people think I’m lazy or gross or… I don’t know.”

Simon shifts closer. “Fuck ’em.”

“Easy for you to say. You look like you were built in a lab.”

“Still insecure,” he says. “Still hate my reflection sometimes. Still overthink every time I talk to someone like you.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Like me?”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Yeah. You’re funny. And sweet. And every time I’ve seen you, you’re kind. Even when people are dicks.”

Your throat burns. “That’s not—”

He cuts you off gently. “I like you.”

You stare.

“You don’t have to say it back.” His voice is quiet now. “Just don’t sit there thinking you’re not worth being liked.”

You bite your lip. “I just never thought… someone like you would want to…”

“Someone like me?” he echoes, brow raised.

“You’re intimidating. Like. Hot intimidating.”

Simon snorts. “You ever seen yourself stretch after a lift?”

Your cheeks go nuclear. “Simon!”

“What?” he grins. “Not my fault you look good with your hair up and those little flushed cheeks—”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily, then tosses it aside and grabs your hand before you can look away.

His hand is so much bigger than yours. Warm. A little rough.

“You don’t have to be anyone else tonight,” he says. “Not for me.”

Your chest is tight. But it’s not painful. It’s full. Like he just cracked something open inside you, and now all the air’s rushing in.

You lean into him, just slightly.

He wraps his arm around you and pulls you in fully.

Your head fits against his chest like it’s been there before. Like it’s home. His other hand rests lightly on your knee, not moving, just grounding you there.

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t really want to watch a movie.”

“That’s alright,” he murmurs.

“I just want to sit here for a bit.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

And he means it. You can feel it in the way he holds you. The way he settles in, like this is all he wanted.

You exhale slowly, finally letting your body relax against him.

Maybe you’ll wear something cute next time.

Maybe you won’t.

But right now, you’re not thinking about how you look.

You’re just thinking about the weight of his arm, the way his fingers graze your wrist, and how good it feels to not hide—for once.

He notices.

He always has.

☆taglist☆

@poshestpigeon @avgdestitute @eremika104 @lostintransist @little-mini-me-world @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @h0lydrag0ns @trixilove257 @fertilise-me

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

What do I do with writer's block, with whatever I am's block, with... Ugh

Hormones are hormoning I guess

[blo0d-mo0n]

Ye

[alien-zeph]

Headcanon that ghost has a Glasgow smile/scar

[steriotypicaloutlaw]

I've neglected posting my fanart here for far too long

I need to draw Price.. I have sketched him once, and that's it. Tragic, really.

[rooadkill]

young simon

[readwritealldayallnight]

Part six coming tonight

This chapter was a labour of love… fluff, smut, angst, she’s gonna have it all folks, get ready

- M 🫶🏻

Bird Watching

Construction Worker!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x single mom!reader

‘Birds of a feather,

We should stick together, I know,

I said I’d never,

Think I wasn’t better alone’

Part one (2.3k words)

Part two (2.4K words)

Part three (3.6k words)

Part four (4.5k words)

Part five (6.3k words)

Part six (coming soon)

‘I knew you in another life,

You had that same look in your eyes,

I love you,

Don’t act so surprised’

[amaranthinespirit]

please PLEASE Can you write reader ovulating with Simon Riley, his dick would hurt by the end.

what happens to simon riley when you're ovulating (his dick would fall off if it were me tbh)

your sex life with simon is already active as is, so the moment you start ovulating, he's in trouble. serious trouble. you can barely keep yourself off of him. everything he does sends a throbbing want to your pussy.

manspreading? you're already on top of him, tugging his jeans down just enough to ride his heavy cock. his big hands find purchase on your hips, grunting lowly.

"fuckin' eager, huh?" he's only half hard by the time you're bouncing on him, and you don't get off until either of you can't speak, and you've ruined yet another pair of his jeans from the amount of slick and cum that stains the fabric.

rolling up his sleeves, seeing the way his forearms and veins flex? you're begging him to finger you, and he gladly listens.

"need me t'fuckin' fill ya full, don't ya?" bent over whatever surface of your house, stuffed full of his fingers knuckle deep as your walls clench around him. one orgasm isn't enough, two, three, four, five until you're babbling incoherently and spraying the front of his shirt with your release.

the thing men do when they reverse, placing one hand behind the passenger seat? belt, GONE. you make hasty work of his jeans just so you can suck his dick as he drives—bonus points if he's still reversing. half-way laid across the center console with a face-full of his throbbing cock, already leaking pre. he's a mess, whimpers spilling from his lips as he bites down on the plush flesh. he's pulling your panties to the side, burying three fingers deep in your cunt with ease at the sheer wetness of your pussy.

him, reading with glasses? you bet he isn't taking his eyes off a single page as he ruts into you from behind, book laid across your back slick with sweat. he might be a little mean, make you fuck yourself back on his dick, balls slightly slapping your clit enough to make your eyes roll back into your head. get a drop of cum on his book, and he'll punish you.

getting passionate about his interests? fuck in missionary so he can continue yapping as he toys with your clit and pounds into your throbbing cunt. his words are long lost on you—you don't even notice when his words start getting condescending.

"always gettin' in m'pants..." he grunts, the sound of skin slapping and mindless whimpers and mewls fill the room, "fuckin' slut, you tryin' to get pregnant? want me t'fill you? dirty whore..."

by the end of your ovulation phase, you might've definitely gotten knocked up, and his dick is no longer with us. (he still has his hands and face, ladies...)

[differenteagletragedy]

Simon, without ever really considering it, places a lot of weight on a name. It's why he likes the separation between Simon and Ghost, why he gets to a point where he calls Soap Johnny, even when no one else does. It's important, what you call someone. There's a lot in a name.

With you, you'd never even know about Ghost -- to you, he's just Simon, and that's all he ever wants to be. He doesn't want those worlds to mix. Simon will do just fine.

But, after you've been dating a while, when you've convinced him to relax enough to lay his head in your lap while you watch tv and you let out a soft little "there you go, baby"?

Well that's something else entirely.

Because he's never been a "baby." He's never been "honey" or "sweetie" or any of those other cutesy little names you come up with, but when you call him those things, it's nice. Sort of relaxing in a way he never knew it could be.

"Baby, can you change the lightbulb for me?" "What's for dinner, baby?" "Right there, baby, don't stop."

He notices, every single time. It makes him want to try it too, to see if it'll give you the same little easy thrill it gives him. But he's not sure what kind of pet name feels right. He turns over words and phrases in his head when he's trying to go to sleep or in the shower -- he'd absolutely never admit this to you -- and he practices, trying to figure out what feels natural, what feels like you.

In the end, all the practice is for naught, because the right one slips out without him even thinking about it.

It's after he comes home from a deployment, exhausted from both everything that happened and from trying to hide his desperation to see you. When he gets home, you take him in your arms, and all the tension, for the moment, anyway, just falls right out of him, and he holds onto you like a lifeline.

"Missed you so fucking much, sweetheart."

He can feel you smile, your face pressed against his chest, and while he is glad to see you seem to like it, he wasn't prepared for how much he'd like it himself.

Because what you call someone matters. He'd spent the first half of his life as Simon, the second as Ghost, and now, as a complete surprise to him, he's getting a third chapter where he gets to be "baby," where he gets to be close enough to you to share these special little names. He gets to know your sweet heart, and it's more than he deserves.

But he'll never, ever stop trying to earn it.

[ginandvodka-writes]

Part 2 of this.

That night you spent hours crying on your bed, regretting your decision of confessing your feelings.  You thought you had nothing to lose, and now the man you loved had left your life forever, and that hurt even more than knowing he loved someone else, because at least you could be there with him, being friends as always.

You didn’t sleep at all, said that you managed to sleep an hour was a lot to say considering that every twenty minutes you woke up because of the terrible nightmares that attacked you. So, it was hard to concentrate, not only you were physically tired, but emotionally too, your heart was broken, torn from the inside out.

That’s why you decided to just put a barrier between you and him, it’d be the best for you. You avoided him as much as you could, if you needed him for anything word-related, you just went straight to John. Instead of staying in your office, you worked with the rest of the IT workers, at mealtime you excused yourself saying you’d a lot of work and locked yourself in the cleaning room to eat secretly. And when the team wanted to spend time together just to chill out in the common room, you immediately made excuses to just avoid being with them, and therefore with him.

The first two days, despite of your broken heart and constant escapes to the bathroom to cry a little when reality overwhelmed you, you managed to avoid him Olympically, as a professional ninja working in the shadows.

Until the third day.

You were making some corrections to the IT equipment, however, the notebook where you wrote the improvements that needed to be made wasn’t anywhere. With a heavy sigh you headed towards your office, alert to your surroundings and praying to not met him. Once you were there, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and quickly approached to your desk, searching for your notebook.

“Do ya need this?” That deep voice startled you; you turned around in one leap and ran into him, who was right at the door, looking at you, and since he wasn’t wearing his balaclava, you could see the sad expression drawn into his face, dark-circled eyes and a furrowed brow. If his mere presence wasn’t enough to eat away at your heart, his decayed and broken appearance was a stabbing directly at your soul.

Your notebook was held in his hand, and you had to gather all your strength to speak firmly.

“Yes. Give it to me, Lieutenant. Please.” Despite your doubts about why he had it, you decided to get straight to the point. He, for his part frowned even more at his rank, looking hurt.

“No. We ‘ave to talk.” He closed the door right behind him and slowly approached to you.

It was weird. You felt like a lamb with no escape, but he didn’t look intimidating, he looked more like a wounded wolf than a real threat. And even so, the air was thick, heavy to breathe, and your heart was pumping so violently you could feel it in every organ.

Fortunately, he stopped just two steps away from you.

“’m sorry for t’other day, I shouldn’t ‘ave ran away…” He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding looking at you, his voice was so weak it felt scattered. “I― I’ve tried to talk to ya to explain myself, but ya always find a way to walk away even before I can see ya…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.” Finally, he looked up, focusing completely on you as if he was trying to read your soul. “I should’ve never told you about my feelings knowing that you didn’t feel the same.” He took another step and when you stepped back, he raised his hands like he was talking to a wounded animal.

“That’s what ’m trying to tell ya, I feel the same way ‘bout ya.” Time stopped around you, your heart skip and beat and felt like air was being drained directly from your lungs. Meanwhile, he looked down once more, his body was tense and numb at once. “I love ya, so fuckin’ much it’s driving me crazy.” He let out a weak laugh that was more like a snort in surrender. “I’ve always loved ya since secondary school.”

For what felt like hours none of you said anything, not a single word. You couldn’t after all, your brain was working at a thousand miles an hour to process his words, only to be filled with more doubts.

“You’ve always been like a star, always sparkling and lighting my fuckin’ world…” Again, he took a step forward, and this time you didn’t retreat, which was a good signal. Although you didn’t know if you want to believe him or not, he seemed so honest, so raw, but the story between you said otherwise.

“What about Jennefer? And the girl you used to like back then?” He immediately shook his head, almost upset.

“Back then I thought that ya could never love me back, but everyone seemed to know about my feelings and I..." He sighed heavily. "I was scared, and believing that if ya knew you’d hate me, I decided t’ lie." One more step and he was right in front of you, separated by a few centimetres. His hand reached out for you, coming close to your face only to stop midway, and you hated yourself for wanting him to touch you. “And Jennefer… ‘m not going t’ lie, I used to like ‘er. But when ya came back into my life, my love for you was reborn intensely…” He snorted once again, completely defeated. “And I made the same mistake believing that you’d never love me back…”

One second, he was so close his breath was tickling your face, causing chills throughout your chest, and the next he was knelt in front of you, grabbing your hands tremblingly.

“I’m so, so fuckin’ sorry swee’heart, ya don’ have t’ forgive me, but I swear that I’ll spend my whole life improving myself for ya, to be the man who deserves yer love.”

You didn’t answer, you just stayed there, feeling his warm calloused hands wrapping yours with delicacy, his body betrayed him with subtle tremors that denoted his desire to cry. Your heart hurt too much, but now it wasn’t a negative pain, it was an overwhelming ocean of feelings that crashed against the other.

“You’re an idiot…” Your voice was barely audible, but he heard it clearly and out of inertia his grab tightened, and the tremors became even more noticeable. Still, you took his face carefully making him look at you. His watery eyes ached deep inside your heart. “But you’re my idiot.”

When those words let your mouth the exhaled hardly, in the blink of an eye he stood up and wrapped his arms around you, bringing you as close as him as possible. You immediately melted into him, feeling finally at home. A home that could heal all your wounds.

“I love ya, I love ya, I fuckin’ love ya.” With one hand he grabbed your face and without further ado he crashed his lips against yours in a kiss that started awkwardly, in a mixture of desperation and love, only to transform into a kiss as sweet as it was intense, so much so that it touched your soul.

Perhaps that love story didn't start idyllic and had setbacks along the way, but, like a seed, it finally blossomed, marking a new beginning. The sweetest of all.

[tobeholyistobeempty]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.

“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”

it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.

“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”

and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.

“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”

he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.

“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”

he exhales. slow. almost a growl.

“jesus. stop talkin’.”

“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”

his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.

“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”

he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.

and you?

you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.

“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“

he doesn’t let you finish that thought.

“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”

“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“

his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.

“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”

that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.

“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”

he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”

by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.

and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.

your thighs tense. he notices.

“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”

he pauses. boot in hand.

“…what?”

he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.

your lashes flutter.

“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”

he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.

your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”

he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.

“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.

“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“

“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.

the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.

not fully, but enough.

you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”

he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—

“only when i breathe.”

your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”

he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.

he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”

the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.

“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“

before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.

“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”

you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.

your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”

his eyes snap shut.

“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”

even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.

“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“

his palm tightens over your lips again.

“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”

then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”

[scoobywrites690]

Ghost wanting you to sit on his face.

Simon pulling you off his dick mid bouncing, his hands gripping the fat of your hips as he try’s to drag you up towards his face.

“Up, mama” he mutters as his grip tightened trying to get you to just sit on his face. He just wants to feel your soft supple thighs on either side of his head, and your sweet cunt on his mouth. He wants to be surrounded by you. To be engulfed by you and your delicious pussy.

Trying to refuse what he’s asking of you only gets him to beg more, mutter sweet words to you as he continues to pull you up towards his face, just aching for it.

This is something that the two of you haven’t done together yet, but it’s been the only thing that Simon can think of. Your hips rocking back and forth your slick coating his face as he has his tongue buried deep inside you. Making you squirm around on top of him, trying to lift up and away from his teasing tongue. Only making him wrap his arms around your thighs to hold you in place, his strong arms holding you steady with ease whilst he continues his assault on your poor little pussy.

Sometimes he’ll land a light slap to your ass as a warning if you still continue to squirm after he’s contained you with his arms, mumbling something about behaving as he’s sucking your clit into his mouth.

Simon takes great pride in pleasing his woman, it’s probably his biggest turn on to be honest. Seeing you all sweaty with your flushed face and your legs shaking as you try to recover from the 3 orgasm that Simon gave you all in a row.

[byfawn]

SIMON RILEY loves how desperate you get for him—how you spread your legs wide, whining as his big hand comes down on your pussy, making you jolt. smack. your clit throbs, already swollen, and he grunts at the sight of it, red and glistening under his rough touch.

his hand comes down again, a sharp smack against your puffy little cunt, and you jerk with a whine. “fuck—!” your thighs tremble, but he doesn’t let you close them, his free hand pinning your hip down. “look at her,” he murmurs, voice rough but so fucking tender, like he’s talking to something precious. “all red and swollen, just for me. poor thing.”

another slap, this one lighter, just his fingertips brushing over your throbbing clit, and you sob. “simon—!”

“shh, i know, i know,” he coos, leaning down to press a kiss to your inner thigh. “she’s so sensitive, isn’t she? can’t even take a little tap without shaking.” his thumb rubs slow circles around your clit, not quite touching, just teasing. “you wanna come, baby? gotta ask nice.”

“please,” you whimper in a shaky voice.

you’re dripping, your cunt making a mess of his sheets, and he tsks like you’re being greedy. “such a wet little thing,” he murmurs, finally giving your clit the pressure it’s begging for, his thumb pressing down just enough to make your back arch. “there you go, that’s it—let me take care of her.”

his fingers slide through your slick, gathering it up before he brings them back to your clit, spreading your own wetness over it, slow and filthy. “gonna make her even redder,” he promises, voice dark. “gonna have you crying before i let you come.”

his calloused fingers drag slow over your clit, teasing, just enough to make your hips jerk. "fuck, she’s so needy," he growls, before landing another sharp slap right on your clit—your back arches, a broken whine tearing from your throat as the sting blooms into heat.

every slap, every cruel twist of his fingers has your clit pulsing, your cunt clenching around nothing. "there she goes," he chuckles, watching the puffy pearl twitch under his touch. "such a good girl for me."

[khioneee]

tap out.

simon doesn’t expect anyone to tap him out. a ritual where loved ones step forward to release a soldier from duty, creating a chance to reconnect.

based on this.

simon stands in formation, a soldier among countless others, each bound by discipline, each carrying their own story beneath a stoic exterior.

in the unyielding line, he’s silent, gaze fixed forward, while around him, families reunite: sons embraced by tearful mothers, women lifting their children into their arms, couples lost in long-awaited kisses. joy and relief fill the air, carried on quiet laughter and murmured words of love.

but simon is an orphan now.

there’s no one to step forward for him, no one to break his stance. he watches it all, standing alone, feeling like a stranger in this crowd of reunions, this world of connections he never belonged to.

over the years, the military has stripped him down, rebuilt him into something hardened and unbreakable. this new self is his armor, a wall between him and the life he left behind.

the tap-out tradition is a formality he’s only ever heard about, something he’s watched from a distance but never expected for himself.

he stands motionless as soldiers around him are tapped out by loved ones. he watches quietly, feeling a distant sense of satisfaction for them, grateful that they have that in their lives.

maybe soap would tap him out after he’d seen to his own family.

no matter how many times simon tried to keep him at arm’s length, he’d come to accept that soap wasn’t leaving him behind. coerced into the friendship or not, soap was a friend. until soap has been tapped out, there’s no one in simon’s life to come pick him out.

still, simon knew he was alone in ways he couldn’t change. or so he believes.

then he feels it—a subtle shift in the air, hesitant footsteps halting just in front of him, carrying a weight he doesn’t understand. his breath catches, but he doesn’t move. he’s trained to hold his position, but something in him almost falters as he senses a presence just inches away. slowly, he lets his gaze shift, barely, enough to catch a silhouette he thought he’d left behind a lifetime ago.

it’s you.

you. his childhood best friend. the love of his life.

you. the only person he thought of when he escaped his broken home. you. the guilt that wracked him when he ran, unable to say goodbye after the night he barely escaped after being beat nearly to death. you. the only reason he wanted to be alive, and the person he hadn’t been able to look back for.

—you. you. you.

and now here you are, standing before him, eyes wide with hope and uncertainty, tears gathering at the corners like unsaid words held back for too long.

he doesn’t understand, not fully. he thought he’d locked that door, left that part of him sealed away. and yet, here you are, holding everything he thought he’d left behind.

you hesitate, the weight of the years pressing down between you, unsure if you’re allowed to do this. if you can reach out to him after all this time, to be the one who taps him out.

he senses your uncertainty, feels it as if it’s his own, and in that moment, he lets a flicker of vulnerability break through—a slight furrow in his brow, a subtle nod. silent permission.

and you know, in that instant, it’s okay.

with a trembling hand, you reach forward, closing the distance. your hand hovers over his shoulder for a heartbeat, the air between you heavy with everything left unsaid.

then, gently, you tap him out. a simple touch, light and fleeting, yet it breaks something open in both of you.

in an instant, simon moves. his arms come around you, his grip unyielding as he pulls you close, lifting you off the ground. the soldier falls away, and he’s just simon again, holding you as if you’re the only real thing in a world that’s constantly shifting.

his head lowers, his face buried in your shoulder, and he breathes you in, lets the walls he’s held up for years fall away.

‘you’re here,’ he murmurs, voice rough, thick with emotion he can’t hide anymore.

his hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, each touch soft, a silent promise. the weight of years and regret presses against him, but he holds you tighter, as if to make up for every moment he was gone.

you feel the warmth of his tears against your shoulder, silent and raw. he pulls you closer still, as if afraid to let go, his voice barely a whisper as he breathes, ‘i’m sorry, lovie. i’m so damn sorry. i’ll never leave you behind again. i promise.’

and in that moment, surrounded by echoes of lives left behind, he’s just simon again, the boy who belonged with you.

. ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ an. i know the tap-out tradition isn’t common in the uk and is usually done at the airforce but oh well. read part 2 here.