#simon riley cod | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ebodebo · 20 hours ago

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imagine your ex-boyfriend being so annoying, spamming your phone, and randomly showing up at your apartment, begging you to give him yet another chance.

at first, you felt pity for the guy.

even thought of letting him in a couple of times.

you didn't, but the guilt that gnawed at your throat nearly became too much to bare.

your hand drifted eerily close to the handle as you heard his pleas through your door.

the only thing that made you come back to reality was the pounding of a broom stick on the floor beneath, shouting for the man to shut the fuck up.

that was some days ago, but now, instead of feeling pity or guilt, you’re starting to feel just plain creeped out.

scared he might act on impulse and break into your apartment in the depths of the night.

you're sleeping has taken a plummet, even with a knife by your bed, nothing seems to coax you into relaxation.

that is, until you have the brilliant idea to go next door to your tall, scary, military neighbor, who goes by simon.

you don't know his last name; hell you barely knew his first.

the only reason you knew it was because you heard some girl he brought home moan it through your thin connecting walls.

you felt guilty as you pulled out your small vibrator, goading your sweet release as you heard him groan and curse with every harsh thrust.

even the guilt that swirled in your stomach couldn’t take away the guttural effects he was having on your body, even from so far away.

you ducked your head, avoiding his gaze from then on, until one day, while having trouble unlocking your apartment door, he trudged to your door after examining you for a moment, gently scooting you away and fixing it right before your eyes.

you claimed he was a magician.

he chuckled, deep and gruff, before his name fell off his tongue in greeting, making your thighs clench together.

you hurriedly introduced yourself, before rushing into your apartment, shutting the door behind you, and sinking onto the ground with a deep sigh and hot skin.

pathetic, really.

but, he didn't mind.

he thought you were cute—odd but cute—and you brought him cookies the next day as a thank you, so how could he think ill of you?

so if anyone could help you, it was simon.

“hey, neighbor,” you greet him when he opens the door. he is wearing a simple black long sleeve shirt and dark cargo pants.

he nods towards you. “hello.”

you smile brightly at him, somewhat forgetting your dilemma.

he tilts his head to the side, quipping a brow. “any particular reason you’re here?” he asks, voice rough as always.

you rock on your heels, fidgeting with your fingers. “i need your help.”

he leans against the doorframe. “go on.”

“i’m sure you’ve heard that guy that comes around,” you start, watching his squinted eyes.

“who hasn’t? that bastard is always here,” he says gruffly.

“he’s my ex,” you admit, cringing.

simon stiffens, eyes opening wider slightly.

“he’s, uh… become an issue. he won’t leave me alone, and i’m scared he’s going to break into my apartment while i’m sleeping,” you say, shaking your head, the tension in your voice evident.

“he’s not going to do that,” he shrugs.

your eyes widen at his dismissal, feeling slightly hurt. “how do you know?”

he turns to grab a backpack off a hook beside him. “because i’ll be there. won’t let him through the door,” he casually mutters as he steps out of his apartment, closing it behind him.

you feel a flutter in your stomach at his taking on the role of your protector so quickly—no enticement necessary.

“i really appreciate it, simon.” your voice is full of gratitude.

“don’t mention it, sweetheart,” he shakes his head, heading towards your door. “key?” he asks, reaching for your painted key hanging around your neck.

you hurriedly lean forward, mind completely fogging at the endearment.

his lip quips as he tugs the key up and over your head to unlock the door.

once he unlocks the door, he pushes the door wide open, stepping aside for you to go in first.

“and they say chivalry is dead,” you can’t help but joke as you slip in, a teasing glint in your eye.

he matches your humorous smile with one of his own. “do they? hadn’t heard that,” he murmurs, closing the door as he steps in.

you spin your head away from his gaze, opting to stare at a lonesome flower pot with a dumb grin on your face.

the next two hours are spent lazing until you find yourself on the cushion right next to simon on the couch as he occasionally glanced at the door, while you picked and prodded at reality show stars on the television screen.

But you and simon both stiffen when you hear the familiar hard knock on the front door, followed by a strained male voice pleading.

you look at simon who's already stalking over to the door; you uncross your legs and walk behind him.

with annoyance, simon pulls open the door, and you see your ex’s face whiten and his body sag at the sight. “can we help you?” simon gruffs, cocking a brow at his pathetic demeanor.

your ex stammers, stumbling over his words as he looks between you and simon. “who the fuck are you?” your ex demands, though not daring to try and overpower simon because simon easily has fifty pounds and eight inches over him.

simon crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging bigger as he does so. “you should lose this address,” he urges, voice so gruff and commanding it sends shivers down your spine. “i don’t take too kindly to guys stalking my girlfriend,” he says with an ease that makes you lick your drying lips.

“girlfriend?” your ex chokes out, unable to comprehend what he is hearing.

“that’s what i said, isn’t it?” simon almost sounds disinterested.

your ex’s eyes wander to you. “you're dating this guy?” he almost sounds hurt.

you shift under his gaze, feeling awkward.

“don't talk to her. talk to me,” simon interjected, feeling your unease.

“you can’t—you aren’t dating,” your ex begins, narrowing his eyes. “you’re just doing this to make me jealous, aren’t you?” there is venom behind his words that pisses simon off.

simon’s lips flatline, and just as you go to speak, simon turns his head, hand coming to cup your jaw to kiss you deeply, possessively.

your ex releases a short breath as the sight.

simon’s tongue moves across to skim your teeth, making you whine into his mouth, as his fingers tangle in your hair for deeper contact.

you shallow a whimper of protest as simon pulls back, enjoying the sight of your ex so shell shocked.

simon tilts his head forward, looking into his eyes intently. “this is my girl, and if i find out you’ve been botherin’ her, i’ll make you a dead man. you hear me?” his voice is so lethal it makes you squirm, but in a completely different way than your ex.

your ex’s eyes look like saucers as he nods his head fervently.

“good choice. now leave,” simon instructs.

without another word, your ex spins on his heels, looking like a hurt lamb as he leaves the complex.

simon lets out a dry laugh as he shuts the door behind him.

“thank you,” you murmur.

he gives you a brief smile, gesturing for you to sit back on the couch. you both go back to lazing around, now watching some cooking show you put on.

later that night, he insisted on setting up shop in your living room for the night… or just the next two!

it’s really not a big deal.

he just wouldn’t be able to continue on if something happened to his cute neighbor!

that’s all.

you’re so sweet and still shaken up by the interaction that you let him stay the night.

…and the next one.

…and the one after that.

you’re starting to think he never really counted on staying just one night.

you don’t say anything, but after the second week passes and simon is still around, you find yourself reeling as you start to see his socks and shirts tucked nicely in your drawers.

his coffee mug now kisses yours in the cabinet, and some magnets of the countries he’s visited cling to the fridge.

there isn’t a crevice in your apartment that simon hasn’t explored, or left a piece of himself in.

you should have known better than to invite simon into the same place he had fantasized about for the past six months.

the very place where he listened to your sweet moans, so loud, so tempting.

every. single. night.

he kicked his friends out of his place every time he heard your vibrator start up, so that they couldn’t listen to your breathy whines and so he could sneak away to his room, where your thin walls meet, to tug away at his cock imagining it was you stroking him until he came all over his hand and sheets.

such a sweet girl, you are.

letting a dog into your home to roam free, unaware of the way he watched you with a slobbering tongue and a primal hunger.

oh, sweetheart, you never stood a chance.

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shinoko-oshi · 14 days ago

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Simon likes when you worried about him

Simon was sick. God, he had to be.

Sick if it made his cock twitch every time he came home with a fresh bruise or a new cut and the first thing you did was drop everything, rushing to his side with furrowed brows and worried hands, little compared to his.

Always asking if he was okay, even when he already told you he was fine. Not that it was your fault, not when he made the stories sound worse than they were.

That shallow nick on his arm from Johnny slipping while cleaning his blade? No, sweetheart, that was from an enemy ambush. Caught him off guard, pushed him hard into a concrete wall and slashed his arm with a veryy sharp knife.

He might’ve even blacked out a bit, hard to say.

Sex was even better when he was hurt, because you slowed down, you were gentle, whispering are you okay? like it would stop the ache. You made love to him like he was breakable and fuck if that didn’t ruin him.

He, on the other hand, was a bastard.

His shoulder was barely healed, and here he was already flipping you on your stomach, ignoring your squeals of protest, “Simon— be careful!”

He nearly came just from that sound alone, the way you worried even while your body trembled beneath his.

Maybe he even started doing it on purpose.

Slowing down just enough to get clipped, a bruise here and there, sometimes a gash. Nothing fatal nor serious. Just enough to limp through the door and earn that panicked little gasp from you.

But you didn’t need to know that part, sweetheart.

Just keep fussing over him, cupping his face with worried hands, kissing the bruise on his jaw like it hurt you more than him.

Yeah, no he’d be fine

I have barely been active on tumbler recently so I apologize for that and the fact this is lowkey short lmao

Master list

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jaesblogstuff · 1 day ago

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The Lines I Crossed For You

Happy (early) father’s day i guess LOL. I might write something a little better, best fit for the occasion.

Simon’s been divorced six years.

She left without a fight — just said she was tired of a man who worked too much and smiled too little.

He didn’t beg. Didn’t chase. Just stood in the kitchen while the door shut behind her. Since then he’s been steady. Alone.

Liam —his only continuation of Riley blood, his son — moved in after burning through money and excuses. Said he was trying. Said he’d “try and get back on his feet” Simon didn’t ask. Just gave him a room. A second chance.

But he knew the truth. Liam wasn’t trying. He was coasting. Still a boy in a man’s world.

And then you came along.

At first, just weekends. Then overnights, shifts too long, Liam too distracted to show up. You were always moving. Always tired. Always giving.

Simon saw it all. Quietly. Every forgotten pickup. Every brushed-off look. And the way you stayed anyway. He knew that lingering in the doorway, cooking for you, waiting up even when you didn’t ask. It was too much. But there was a point where watching became unbearable.

He told himself to stay out of it.

But tonight? He can’t, He wouldn’t.

⸻

It’s almost 11 p.m. when you show up. No text. No call.

You hadn’t planned to really. You’d finished a 14-hour shift, head splitting, feet throbbing, too exhausted to go home. You’d asked Liam to pick you up — just this once — and when he didn’t answer, you sat in your car with your keys in your hand and your chest tight with something between shame and fury. Simon’s house was closer than your apartment. That’s the only reason you came. At least… that’s what you told yourself.

He opens the door in sweatpants, barefoot, hair a mess, face unreadable — and the moment his eyes land on yours, something in you buckles. You’re not okay. And he sees it. “I didn’t know where else to go,” you murmur. “Just… need a quick crash.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just steps aside. “You’re here,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”

You walk in. He doesn’t ask questions. Just takes the bags and load from your hands, sets them gently on the counter, and looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you. You swallow and glance toward the hallway. “Is Liam here?”

Simon’s jaw shifts, barely, but you catch it. “He left a few hours ago,” he says. “Went out with friends, I think. Didn’t say much.” A pause. Then quieter, “Haven’t seen him since before dinner.”

You nod once, like it doesn’t matter. Like it didn’t sting.

“I called him… three times,” you say, mostly to yourself. “Guess he forgot.” You rub your hands over your face, the fatigue crashing down all at once. “I can go… if this is weird. I don’t want to—”

“Stop.” Simon’s voice is low, firm. “You’re staying. Sit down.”

You do. Not because you’re told, but because for once, it feels like someone means it.

He places a warm mug in front of you — tea from the pot he made not long ago. You wrap your hands around it like it’s the only heat you have left. He sits across from you, watching you sip. “Rough day?”

You nod. “I don’t even know what happened. Just… non-stop. Four admits. One code. Everyone short-staffed again.”

You shrug lightly, stare into your cup. “It’s whatever.”

Simon watches you a long moment, his eyes careful, searching. “And Liam?”

You let out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh — hollow. “Didn’t show. Again. I waited outside the hospital like a fucking idiot for fifteen minutes before I gave up.”

The silence that follows is thick — not awkward, just loaded. Something in Simon snaps. Not loudly. Not violently. Just… breaks.

“I’ve watched you give him everything,” Simon murmurs, voice low and sharp. “And I’ve watched him give you nothing. That’s not fair. That’s not love.”

You blink hard. Swallow. “I don’t want pity.”

“You think this is pity?” he says, eyes locked to yours.

Then, softer, steadier. “I don’t look at you and see someone weak. I see someone who’s been strong for too long.”

His hand finds your knee. His thumb moves in slow, grounding circles.

“I’d give you everything if you let me. Every minute. Every drop. Just to watch you breathe easier.”

Your throat tightens. Something inside you splinters. You’re tired. Spent. But right now — right here — you’re also seen. Not just as someone who’s holding it together. But someone worth being held.

And Simon? He’s still waiting. Still giving you room.

“I don’t want to think,” you whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why I will.”

Then you nod, barely a movement, and say, “Yes.”

⸻

He fucks you like someone who’s had years to imagine it.

Because he has.

Celibacy might as well have been stitched into the collar of his shirts — not by choice, but by the kind of quiet, aching resignation that comes from too many years of going untouched. No one since his wife.

And not once does he rush.

He undresses you slowly, reverently. Like your body is something to earn. His hands are warm and a little rough from yardwork and tools, but his touch is gentle. Intentional. His lips brush the inside of your wrist. Your collarbone. The skin just beneath your navel.

He doesn’t move to tease. He worships. When his mouth finds your thighs, you’re already trembling.

His tongue circles your clit. Soft, controlled, devastating, and the moan that leaves your throat is so quiet it startles you. It’s the kind of sound you don’t mean to make. The kind that lives deep in your chest and only comes out when someone really knows what they’re doing.

“Please,” you whisper, hips twitching, too gone to be embarrassed.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Let me feel you first.”

Two fingers slide into you — slow, deep — and the groan he lets out is nearly broken. Like he’s mourning all the days he didn’t get to touch you like this.

His mouth doesn’t stop. And neither does your unraveling. You writhe under him, hand fisting the sheets, tears pricking at your lashes from how tender it all is. He doesn’t stop until you break — gasping, breathless, your back arching and legs shaking as you come hard against his mouth.

Only then does he rise, chest heaving, and kiss you like he’s starved. And then, just before he sinks inside you, he presses his forehead to your shoulder, voice rough and trembling

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Simon says, his voice low and raw against your shoulder. “To have someone like you. Someone so strong, so fucking hardworking, and beautiful, and kind — and just… look away. To not show up for you.”

“If you were mine—”

He stops himself. Shakes his head again like he’s trying to clear it. Like the thought hurts too much to say out loud.

But you feel it. You need it.

“No,” you whisper, voice shaky. “Say it.”

His throat works around the words. And when they come, they’re not smooth — they’re wrecked.

“I’d never stop touching you,” he says, voice cracking. “I’d never stop showing you. Every day. That you’re wanted. That you’re seen. That you’re safe. That you deserve it. All of it.”

You let out a broken sound, a breath that turns into a moan because the way he says it is what finishes you.

Not the touch. Not the friction. Him.

When he finally pushes in — slow, thick, achingly deep — the sound that leaves your mouth is a strangled cry.

“Oh my god—Simon—”

He groans, low and guttural. His hands grip your hips, firm but careful. “That’s it,” he pants. “Take it. Let me give it to you. Let me fucking have you.”

You nod wildly, mouth open, no words left. Your moans are quiet, breathy, raw. Real. They spill out of you like confessions. Like relief.

Simon moves slow — deliberate — each stroke heavy and deep, angled just right to drag a new gasp from your throat. His eyes never leave your face. His hands never stop touching.

It’s not just sex. It’s reverence. It’s grief. It’s a man making up for all the years he didn’t believe he’d ever get to feel this again.

It’s a man giving you everything his son never even thought to.

“You’re so full,” you whimper.

“You deserve it,” he breathes against your mouth. “Deserve to be filled until you can’t think.”

And when you come again, harder this time, your whole body clenched and trembling, he fucks you through it with nothing but praise:

“Good girl.”

“So fucking perfect.”

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

When he comes, he doesn’t pull out. He stays there — still buried inside — holding you like he’s terrified the moment might vanish if he lets go.

Later, when your breathing slows and the room fades to a quiet hum, Simon wraps his arms around you from behind. Anchors you to him. Then softer, at your temple: “Sleep.”

And for the first time in a long, long time — you do.

(i don’t know what i was thinking oh my goodness i’m sorry)

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amaranthinespirit · 2 months ago

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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...)

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matumogs · 2 days ago

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🤤we like em thick & long🤤

And having that Manny Brit accent fk me...*faints* 😳😩💘

Sorry for all the smut I’m ovulating 🥰 🥰

Simon Riley has a massive dick. And not in the typical pornstar, 15-inches, a dildo was modelled after it type of way. It wasn’t perfectly shaped, or symmetrical, or anything you’d expect.

It’s just… huge. Girthy and veiny and long, and always hard as a rock whenever he was with you.

The first time you laid eyes on it, your eyes almost fell out of your skull.

He’d never admit it, but he immediately felt self-conscious. He hadn’t been with an awful lot of women, and most of the time he and the woman in question were both pretty drunk.

Fortunately for him, you thought he was gorgeous no matter what (especially when it came to his cock) and even better, you were moaning his name within seconds of him spearing it into you.

“Feels good, huh?” He groaned lowly as he pounded into you, every thrust making a lewd slapping sound that had your eyes rolling back in delight.

“So good— god, so good…” you could only mewl in response, clawing at his arms so you wouldn’t fall apart.

You were so full. You didn’t know how people could function on a daily basis without always feeling this blissfully full. “Simon, god, oh, god…”

He only grunted and kept going, speeding up as he felt the familiar feeling of you tightening around him even more so than you already were. “That’s it, sweetheart, that’s it…” he broke off suddenly with a much louder groan, when you suddenly felt a heavenly warmth shoot up even further than where he managed to impale you, all the way up into places you didn’t think were possible to touch.

That was all it took for you to join him in his pleasure. You went over the edge at just the sensation, limbs trembling and chest heaving in the aftershocks.

“That good?” He asked, after a few minutes of silence where only your satisfied pants filled the air.

“So… good…” You gasped. In your head, you decided to never let this man go.

#call of duty #cod fic #my husband #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley cod #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you

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punkkture · 1 month ago

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pronebone with simon pronebone with simon

laying so comfy on his bed, just whining and whimpering to be fucked. he’s tired, and so are you. but his heart always swells at the look on your face when you’re trying to cum but can’t.

so he’s always so sweet about it. pulling your soaked panties to the side and rubbing against your slit for a little. his big bulky thighs on either side of your legs while he’s jerking of his heavy dick.

using his other hand to spread you open a little and spit down onto that spot that ‘just hurts so bad’. prodding his thick tip into you while cooing at your little mewls and whimpers. he’s so sleepy, so there isn’t much force behind it.

just sliding his cock in and out of your tight cunt almost lazily. his half shut eyes just watching how the sticky wetness soaks the first five inches of him. and he’s usually more vocal, but right now he’s just trying to get you to sleep.

“jus’ calm down little baby . . daddy’s gonna cum soon.” he’s stretching you open so harshly and stuffing your cunt full it feels cozy almost. knowing he’s right there. “he promises.”

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ethe-realfantasy · 14 hours ago

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The apartment smells like warm chocolate and something faintly fruity. The soft hum of your voice floats out from the kitchen. Simon steps inside, his gear slung over one shoulder and his keys catching faintly on the hook as he hangs them up without even glancing up. His tired feet carry him toward the source of the sound before his mind fully catches up when he sees you.

You're wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, your hair is pulled up messily, your hips swaying a little as you move barefoot between the oven and the counter. You're humming a melody under your breath he can't quite make out.

He freezes in the doorway for a second, his hand still resting on the frame, the weight of the day slipping from his shoulders.

“Christ,” he mutters, mostly to himself, a small smirk playing at his lips. “You tryna kill me?”

You turn with a surprised grin, cheeks glowing with warmth. “You’re home early.”

“Not early enough,” he says, his voice low but teasing. “Should’ve been here hours ago if I’d known this was waiting.”

You giggle, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear and holding out a muffin on a little plate. “I saved one just for you, Lieutenant Riley.”

His eyes flick from the muffin to your face, then back to the muffin. The way you said his name like that... playful, yet intimate. He doesn't say a word about how it makes his chest twist pleasantly. He just moves toward you. For a second you think he goes in for the plate, but he just places it on the counter next to you.

Without warning, he wraps his arms firmly around your waist and lifts you off the ground. You let out a squeal of laughter as he flings you gently over his shoulder.

“Simon!” you laugh, half-kicking, half-laughing as you hang over his back. “What are you doing?”

He walks toward the bedroom like a man on a mission. “First ’m gonna have you,” he says teasingly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Then I’ll have a muffin.”

You laugh so hard your breath hitches. “That’s not the proper order of dessert!”

“Depends on who’s asking,” he says, giving your hip a small, playful squeeze as he carries you down the hall. “You baked them, didn’t ya? That makes you the main course.”

“Simon,” you giggle breathlessly now, voice warm with affection and mirth, “you’re completely insane.”

He drops you gently onto the bed, your hair fanning out on the pillows as you laugh up at him.

Simon leans over you, resting a hand beside your head and drinking in the sight of you: your flushed cheeks, your bare legs tangled in the soft cotton of your shirt and joy radiating from you like sunlight.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “And you’re the reason for that.”

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amordixon · 8 days ago

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୨ৎ 𓂃 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭 ˚. ᵎᵎ ‹𝟹 ₊˚⊹

sfw. title kinda says it all. mentions of anxiety and the fear of being pregnant. fluff. kind of angst.

having a family was something you and simon had discussed on occasion but never anything truly solidified. it was hard, thinking about the future when he was always away on missions, in action for weeks at a time, but you knew that was just a part of his job that you had to accept.

so as you sit on the sofa of your small apartment, the small white test in your hand that held the potential to blow up your life with its very distinct dual lines at the end, your mind began to run away from you.

you didn’t know what to do, what to say, you felt numb with fear.

simon was due home any minute, out running an errand, and you were barely keeping it together. what if he didn’t want this and every throwaway comment that had been made was just lighthearted fun? these are the thoughts that were plaguing you.

“back, love,” simon calls as he enters the front door and you shove the test under your thigh, opening the book you had on the coffee table in front of you to try and play it off, but you know better than that, and so does he. “what’s wrong?” he asks immediately.

you curse yourself for being an open book to your boyfriend and for his impeccable perception skills. you try to hold it together, try to keep it in, but the thought of potentially losing simon was scarier than anything you had ever had to face before.

he immediately sits beside you, noticing the way your eyes had begun to glaze over, an arm reaching around you after shrugging off his jacket, “darlin’, what’s goin’ on?”

“i have to tell you something, but it- just promise you won’t get mad?” your voice is so small, a tiny house mouse compared to the behemoth one he had.

he nods, pulling your face up by the chin to look at him face on, his big warm eyes that you fell in love with reassuring you, “hey, whatever it is… s’gonna be okay. alright?”

despite the anxiety that was still coursing through you like hot lava, you nod softly before gingerly pulling the pregnancy test out from under your thigh and placing it on the coffee table.

simon was expecting anything, prepared for you to tell him whatever was wrong, but nothing like this, and it showed. his blue eyes closed in on the test before flicking back to yours. the anxiety radiating from you was enough to almost make him feel dizzy from the intensity.

“are you…?” he questions quietly, and you practically squirm under his gaze. he hated seeing you like this, hated seeing you so scared, and because of him.

you nod once more, though this time it’s accompanied by your uneven breathing and a tear that rolls down your cheek, “i am.”

his eyes immediately soften as he sees you tear up, big arms wrapping around you to pull you into his lap. while he was reeling from the news, he was more focused on making sure you were okay first. that was one perk of his job and his ability to keep his emotions under wraps when necessary.

“breathe, love,” his voice gently urges you. “it’s alright, you’re alright.” he continues to soothe you, rubbing small circles into your thighs as you settle on his lap.

“you aren’t mad?”

he shakes his head, softly tilting your face to look up at him once more. “i’m not mad. why would i be mad?” he questions gently, his hand moving from your thigh to wipe away the tears on your cheek.

you exhale deeply, feeling your fear resolve at his reassurance, “i didn’t…. didn’t know if this was something you wanted.”

“of course, this is something i want,” he says, cupping your face with his hand now and running his thumb across your cheek. “i want anythin’ and everythin’ with you.”

all of the anxiety and fear you had been harbouring vanishes now, as if it had never happened, “yeah?”

he leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, “yeah. i was just surprised, s’all.”

you watch as he then leans forward to pick up the pregnancy test from the table, noting how much smaller it looked it his hand compared to your own. it was almost comical.

he turns the test over between his fingers, examining it from every angle. the reality of the situation was only starting to really sink in now - he was going to be a dad.

he couldn’t help but think about the fact that you were now carrying a child, his child, something you had both created together, his hand gently moving to brush over your stomach.

there were no physical signs as of yet, but just knowing was enough for him right now.

“we’re really going to be parents,” he says quietly, glancing up at you, his blue eyes meeting your own once more. “we’re gonna have a family.”

“yeah, si. we are.” your eyes glaze over for a second time, though now it was out of happiness.

a small chuckle leaves his mouth at how adorable you look, his arms wrapping around you tighter as he nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck.

he can’t stop himself from brushing his fingers over your abdomen again, the thought of the small child starting to form in your stomach making him all sorts of soft.

simon was a lot of things, and whether or not your initial fear about telling him seemed silly, you knew now that he was going to protect and love you both with every fibre of his being.

596 notes · View notes

cod-bin · 1 day ago

Text

how is this at 900 notes chat?? TYSM

you think i don’t notice?

part 2 to don’t tempt me

fuckboy!simon x nerdy!reader

wc: 6.7k

cw: slight mentions of sex, heavy swearing by simon, angst (only a little), angry!simon (not at reader), jealousy

Simon doesn’t leave your room.

Not after he kicks her out. Not after she slams the door like it’s you she’s mad at and not herself for getting caught.

He just… stays.

Sits on the edge of your bed like he has any business being there, like he hasn’t spent the last six months pretending you don’t exist. You, with your messy ponytail and hoodie sleeves stretched over your hands and tissues peeking from under your pillow like some kind of sick gremlin.

You don’t know what to do. What to say.

So you just sip the tea he brought you. Let the silence stretch.

“I thought you hated me,” you say finally, voice still raw.

Simon huffs a quiet sound. “Didn’t say I liked you.”

That makes you smile. Barely. But he sees it.

His gaze flicks to you — sharp, unreadable — and then just stays there. Watching.

You clear your throat and look away, suddenly too aware of how small your bed is. How close his knee is to yours. How he’s still here and hasn’t gone back to texting whatever girl he’d probably had lined up for tomorrow.

Your stomach flips.

You hate him a little. For making you feel like this. For confusing you. For being decent when he’s supposed to be a total ass.

“You can go, you know,” you whisper. “I’m not gonna, like… die or something.”

He doesn’t move. “Didn’t ask.”

“You’re not staying out of guilt, are you? ’Cause of what she said?”

Simon’s jaw ticks. That muscle again.

“I don’t feel guilty.”

“Then why are you—?”

“Because you’re sick,” he says. “And you looked like you were about to fucking cry, and I didn’t like that.”

You blink. Hard.

“Oh.”

That’s all you manage.

Simon runs a hand through his hair and exhales like you’ve exhausted him, like you’re the problem, not the girl who stomped in and insulted you in your own goddamn room.

“You ever gonna tell me?” he says suddenly.

You frown. “Tell you what?”

“Who hurt you.”

Your blood freezes.

“What—?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he says, low. “You flinch every time someone raises their voice. Every time someone touches you. Even when it’s me.”

You look down at your tea.

“It’s nothing,” you lie.

He doesn’t believe you. You can feel it.

But he lets it go.

For now.

You should feel relieved. But something in your chest twists, tight and aching.

You’re not sure when it started — the wanting.

Maybe it was when he wiped your nose without laughing. Maybe when he kicked out that girl without hesitating. Maybe it’s been building under your skin this whole time, slow and sharp like a splinter.

Whatever it is, it’s worse now. He’s too close. Too real.

You curl into yourself, trying to disappear.

Simon shifts. Leans back against your headboard like he lives there.

“You always this quiet?”

You shrug.

“Figured you’d be the type to never shut up.”

You glance at him. “Why?”

He smirks. “Glasses. Big words. You know. Nerd shit.”

“You think I’m a nerd?”

He grins wider. “Don’t play coy. You literally labeled your tea mugs.”

You flush. “I was sick. I didn’t want to—”

“You’re adorable when you’re defensive.”

You blink.

Did he just—?

Simon doesn’t look at you. Just casually tosses it out there like it’s not going to haunt your dreams for the rest of your life.

You sink deeper into your blanket.

Then—

Your phone buzzes.

You grab it instinctively, thumb swiping across the screen before your fevered brain catches up.

Simon doesn’t move, but something shifts in the air.

“You texting someone?” he asks.

You glance up.

His voice is too light.

You hesitate. “It’s just— this guy from class. He was asking how I’m feeling.”

Simon’s eyes darken. Just slightly.

“This guy.”

You nod, oblivious. “Yeah. He brought me cough drops once. He’s nice.”

Simon doesn’t respond. Just stares at the wall like it insulted him.

You scroll. Smiling faintly.

Simon’s hand twitches.

“What’s so funny?” he mutters.

“Nothing,” you say, looking up. “He just said I sounded cute when I was all congested.”

You’re teasing. Sort of.

Simon isn’t laughing.

“He say that before or after he asked if you were alone?”

You pause.

“What?”

“Don’t trust guys like that.”

Your brow furrows. “You mean nice guys?”

“I mean guys who see a girl who’s sick and vulnerable and think ‘oh cool, now’s my chance.’”

Your stomach twists. “You don’t even know him.”

“And you do?” Simon snaps. “What, you think he actually gives a fuck how you’re feeling? You think he’s checking in because he cares? No. He wants something.”

You stare at him.

“Why do you care?” you ask quietly.

Simon’s mouth opens, then closes.

His jaw clenches again.

“Because I’m your fucking roommate,” he mutters.

You nod slowly. “Right.”

Silence.

Then—

“You like him?” Simon asks suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“That guy. You like him?”

You hesitate.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Simon doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

Then he laughs. Bitter. Mean.

“He wouldn’t last a day with you.”

Your throat tightens. “What the hell does that mean?”

He turns to you. Finally looks at you.

“You think he’d take care of you like this?” he says. “You think he’d sit here while you look like hell and wipe your nose and make sure you’re breathing okay?”

You flinch. “I didn’t ask you to—”

“I did it anyway,” he says, low.

You don’t know what to say.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters. “Whatever this is.”

You stare at him.

“Then why are you here?”

He looks at you. Quiet. Serious.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I keep thinking about you. Even when I don’t want to.”

Your breath catches.

Simon leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clenched.

“I hear you through the walls,” he says. “When you cry. When you laugh. When you talk in your sleep.”

Your cheeks burn.

“I don’t talk in my sleep.”

“You do,” he says. “You said my name once.”

Your heart stops.

“What—?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease.

Just looks at you like he’s watching something fall apart.

“I don’t hate you,” he says. “I just didn’t know how to not want you.”

The air leaves your lungs.

Simon leans in.

Not close enough to touch.

Just close enough to ruin you.

“If that guy texts you again,” he says, “you tell him not to bother.”

You swallow. “Why?”

He looks at your mouth.

Then your eyes.

“Because I’m the one who hears you through the walls.”

And then—

He kisses your forehead.

Just once.

Soft.

Barely there.

But it shatters you.

Simon pulls back.

Stands.

Doesn’t say a word as he moves to the door.

He pauses.

Glances over his shoulder.

“You need anything,” he says, “you call me. Not him.”

You nod, speechless.

And then he’s gone.

Leaving behind a mug of tea, a thousand questions, and a silence that sounds a whole lot like the start of something else.

You were feeling a little better.

Not good, not normal, but better. Enough to shower. Enough to pull on fresh sweats and eat half a bowl of soup without gagging. Your nose was still red, your eyes still glassy, but the fever was gone, and you could finally breathe without feeling like your ribs might crack.

Still, you hadn’t left your room.

Not since that night.

Not since Simon kicked the girl out, sat on your bed like he belonged there, and touched you like you mattered. Like he saw you for the first time.

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

He’d been distant ever since — not cold, exactly, just… unreadable. No more girls. No more music shaking the walls. He hadn’t said anything, but you could feel him in the quiet. In the way he paused in the hall. In the untouched takeout that showed up outside your door, no note, no explanation.

He hadn’t checked on you again.

And you hadn’t dared knock on his door.

You were curled up in bed, watching some old documentary through one barely-open eye, when you heard it — the heavy thud of boots in the hallway. His door creaked open. Then closed again.

Then silence.

Then your door.

It didn’t open. Just a knock. Once.

Your heart jumped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still scratchy.

The door cracked. And there he was.

Simon Riley.

Gray hoodie. Sweats slung low on his hips. One hand braced on the frame like he might change his mind.

You blinked. “Hi.”

He stared at you like he wasn’t sure why he came. Like he’d rehearsed something in his head and forgot all of it the second he saw you.

You tugged your blanket tighter. “What’s up?”

Simon didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned you — flushed cheeks, hair still damp from the shower, sleeves too long over your hands. You knew you looked fragile. You hated that he was the one seeing you like this again.

He finally spoke.

“You look like hell.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Thanks.”

He stepped inside anyway.

Shut the door behind him.

Then leaned against it like he had nowhere else to be.

“Didn’t say it was a bad look,” he muttered.

You stared. “Are you flirting with me or trying to pick a fight?”

“Why would I flirt with you?”

“Ouch.”

Simon’s eyes flicked to yours, and something there made your breath hitch.

“I’m just saying,” he said, voice rough, “don’t get any ideas.”

You almost laughed. “Believe me, I wasn’t.”

He pushed off the door and crossed the room like it was nothing. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t spent months pretending you barely existed.

He grabbed the empty mug off your nightstand. Frowned at it.

“No tea?”

“I drank it.”

“No shit.”

He turned like he might take it back to the kitchen, but you stopped him.

“Wait.”

He paused.

You shifted awkwardly under the blanket, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “Why are you… here?”

Simon didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just looked at you — really looked — and it made your stomach twist.

“You’re still sick,” he said finally.

“I’m getting better.”

“Didn’t ask.”

You huffed, grabbing the nearest pillow and hugging it to your chest. “You’re being weird.”

He snorted. “You’re the weird one. Sittin’ in here like a damn ghost.”

“I’ve been recovering.”

He looked at you over his shoulder. “From the flu or from getting screamed at by that silicone-sculpted banshee?”

You blinked. “Both?”

He turned back around. Set the mug down. His shoulders were tense.

“You shouldn’t’ve opened the door,” he muttered.

“I didn’t,” you said. “She did.”

He didn’t respond.

Just paced a few steps away, hands on his hips. Like he had too much energy and no clue what to do with it.

“What’s your deal?” you asked, quieter now.

He shot you a look.

You sat up a little. “You’ve been… off.”

“I haven’t.”

“You haven’t brought anyone home in three nights.”

“So?”

“So I’m not complaining, but it’s weird.”

Simon’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker. Frustrated.

“Maybe I don’t feel like listenin’ to some brat whine about thread count while I’m tryin’ to—”

He cut himself off.

You blinked. “While you’re trying to what?”

“Never mind.”

You tilted your head. “While you’re trying to pretend you don’t care about me?”

That stopped him cold.

His jaw flexed. His hands clenched. He turned to face you, slow and deliberate.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, low.

You smiled — tired, knowing. “You keep saying that, but you’re in my room.”

Simon stalked closer, eyes dark. “Because you’re sick.”

“You didn’t care before.”

“I didn’t know before.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Silence.

Thick enough to drown in.

Simon stood over your bed, jaw tight, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

You stared up at him, heart thudding. “Why do you care now?”

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then your knees pulled up to your chest. Then back to your eyes.

“You really wanna know?” he asked, voice like gravel.

You nodded.

He stepped closer.

And closer.

Until he was right in front of you, close enough that the heat from his body made your skin prickle.

Then he leaned down, braced his arms on either side of you, and looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that made him feel anything at all.

“I don’t,” he said.

You blinked. Breath caught.

“I don’t care,” he repeated, voice lower now. “You get sick, you get better — not my fuckin’ problem.”

Your chest ached. “Right.”

“But if I hear you cry because of someone I brought into this house again,” he said, tilting his head, “I will lose it.”

You swallowed. “Simon—”

“I’ll lose it,” he said again. “Because I’m not gonna watch someone tear you down when you’re already hanging on by a thread.”

You stared at him. “That… kinda sounds like caring.”

His mouth twitched. “It’s not.”

You smiled. Just a little. “Okay.”

He leaned in closer.

Close enough that his nose brushed yours. That his breath was warm on your cheek.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he whispered.

“You’re worse.”

He didn’t deny it.

And then — without thinking, without warning — his hand reached out. Fingers under your chin. Lifting your face to his.

Not kissing you. Not yet.

Just holding you there, eyes flicking over your face like he was trying to memorize the exact version of you that made him lose control.

“You still feel like shit?” he asked.

“Less like shit,” you whispered.

“Good.”

Then he let go.

Straightened up.

Walked to the door like nothing happened.

Paused there, hand on the knob.

You watched him, heart still racing.

He looked over his shoulder. Met your eyes.

“Don’t go thinking I care.”

Then he left.

And shut the door behind him.

Your room was still too quiet.

You hadn’t said anything since Simon walked out last night.

Not when he brought you soup. Not when he leaned against your doorway and asked, “Need anything?” like it didn’t feel like his voice dragged hot iron down your spine. And definitely not when he stayed longer than necessary, standing there like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to start.

You didn’t answer because you didn’t trust your voice. Or your face. Or the way something was cracking open between you two and he didn’t even seem to notice.

But he did.

You just didn’t know it yet.

You were curled under the blanket now, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, glasses slipping down your nose as you flipped another page of the book you weren’t reading. It was easier than looking at the door.

Because you knew he’d come in eventually.

He always did now.

The shift had been slow — from silence to tension, from passing jabs to something warmer, if not softer. But the edge never dulled completely. Not with Simon. Especially not when he didn’t want it to.

You heard the door creak open behind you.

“Still alive, then.”

His voice was lazy. But there was a tightness beneath it. Like he’d been rehearsing sounding casual.

You didn’t turn. “Barely.”

Footsteps. Closer.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered. “House’s been quiet. Almost peaceful.”

You scoffed into your blanket. “Guess your bimbos took the night off.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“I haven’t brought anyone home all week.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t like him. At all.

You turned to look at him, and he was already watching you.

Leaning against the frame. Hoodie half-zipped. Hair messy. Eyes dark.

You said nothing.

He stepped inside.

Something about his energy was different tonight. Less cocky. Less put together. Like whatever was usually holding him upright had been worn thin and now you were seeing what was underneath.

You sat up slowly, pulling your sleeves over your hands again.

Simon’s gaze flicked down. Noticed. Something flickered across his face.

“You mad at me?” he asked bluntly.

You blinked. “Why would I be mad at you?”

He didn’t answer.

You swallowed. “You’ve been… weird.”

Simon huffed a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve been weird.”

More silence.

Then he said your name.

Just that.

Soft. Like a question and a warning all at once.

“I don’t get it,” you said finally, because your chest was too full and your head was too hot and everything about him made you feel like you were drowning in something you weren’t supposed to want. “Why are you being nice to me now?”

“I’m not,” he muttered.

You blinked at him.

Simon looked away.

“You’re just…” He exhaled sharply, jaw ticking. “You’re too fuckin’ quiet all the time. And then when you do talk, it’s like you think I can’t hear you.”

You frowned. “What?”

He stepped closer.

You felt the shift in the air immediately. The pull. The way he always managed to fill a room, even without touching anything.

“You think I don’t notice you?”

His voice was low, dangerous in the way a storm is dangerous — not because it’s loud, but because you can feel it coming.

“Every fucking night I brought someone home, you think I didn’t hear you breathing through the wall? You think I didn’t feel it when you went quiet, like you were trying not to exist?”

He leaned closer. You could feel the heat coming off him now, smell the faint smoke of his cologne.

“I see everything, sweetheart. That’s the problem.”

Your heart stopped.

Literally stopped.

“Simon…”

“You think I was ignoring you?” His eyes pinned you in place. “I was. I fucking had to.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“I’d come home, see your light on, know you were in here reading some stupid ass book in that dumb oversized hoodie like you weren’t the most distracting fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

You flinched. His voice wasn’t angry. But it was so raw it hurt to hear.

“And then I’d go in my room and I’d hear you—just existing—and I’d get fucking mad.” His tongue ran over his teeth. “At you. At me. At the whole fucking situation.”

You sat there frozen.

Still too sick to fight, too overwhelmed to speak.

Simon stepped forward again. You were face to face now, your knees nearly brushing his thighs where he stood.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You never got it.”

“Then tell me.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“I didn’t bring those girls home because I wanted to,” he said. “I brought them home because it was easier than thinking about you. About the way you look at me when you think I don’t see.”

You swallowed. Your voice barely worked. “You’re always so mean.”

His mouth twitched. “Because I didn’t want you to look back.”

Silence.

He sat down on the edge of your bed like the first night, his knees brushing yours. But this time, he didn’t look away.

“I’m not good at this,” he said, almost to himself. “At—feelings. At being… kind.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffed a soft laugh. Ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

He looked at you again. And this time, the weight of it was unbearable.

You shifted. “Why are you here, Simon?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then—

“I heard you crying last night.”

You stiffened.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “Just… stood outside the door like a fucking idiot.”

You stared at him. Eyes hot.

“I wanted to come in. But I knew if I did, I’d say something dumb. Or too much. Or not enough.” His voice dropped. “And I couldn’t handle you flinching from me again.”

You blinked fast. “You make it really hard not to flinch.”

“I know.” He leaned in, elbows on his knees. “That’s why I’m trying.”

You stared at him. Hard.

“Do you even like me?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He exhaled.

Then he said your name again.

Soft.

Real.

“I think I’m fucking obsessed with you.”

You didn’t breathe.

Didn’t dare.

Simon looked away, jaw tight. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You shook your head. “That’s not a problem.”

He turned back toward you.

And for the first time in forever, he looked like he believed you.

Like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t going to break him.

Or you.

You reached for him without thinking, fingers wrapping gently around his sleeve. He stilled. Let you.

He looked at your hand.

Then at your face.

“You’re still sick,” he muttered, but he didn’t move.

You smiled. “I’m always sick.”

Simon’s mouth twitched. His eyes softened.

He leaned in just enough to let his forehead touch yours.

No kiss.

Not yet.

Just heat and breath and a storm that didn’t want to pass.

“I’ll stay,” he said quietly.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed. “Okay.”

And for once, Simon didn’t run.

part 3

☆☆☆

☆taglist☆

@little-mini-me-world @h0lydrag0ns @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @pixiellove @fruitymoonbeams-blog @jokerivory @arrowacer @4ri3n @yasmin-003 @charliehunnamsleftsock @strawberrymilk99 @queenoflaflames @xigua2kuai5yijin @arnnf @genea-myers @elixir-of-dreams @turtlegreentia @pinkembodiment @bbygirl9

#☆sonya yaps☆#simon ghost riley x reader #cod x y/n #call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost x reader #call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #cod x reader #simon riley x you #fuckboy!simon #simon riley imagine #ghost simon riley #simon riley #simon riley cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #college au

948 notes · View notes

phantasm-ae · 6 days ago

Text

Okay so I had a thought JSJSJSJJS. What if Simon Riley was in the great British bake-off. But! With his wife

cw: afab reader x ghost, fluff, domestic chaos, competitive simon

HEADCANON: You and Simon sign-up for a couple’s baking contest. Simon… takes it way too far

PAIRING: Ghost x reader

Simon Riley didn't belong in places like this.

Room smelling like butter, sugar, honey, and too much of that bloody syrupy optimism that he's got a headache at 9 in the morning.

Pastel aprons hanging on the wall. Floral curtains fluttering over wide sunlit windows like they were bellowed in by the spring wind. Mocking and swaying in some idyllic little breeze that screamed "domestic bliss" like a fucking threat.

Bloody hell. Has this what has come to his life?

The Ghost. Big bad massive hulking operative who once battered into a man in half, executed high-risk operations without so much as breaking a sweat, and cleaning house at record speed -- now clad in a frilly pastel apron with a fucking bunny clip on the side.

The print matching yours -- his sweet little wife who he'd break necks for -- as you two stood in the fucking spot center of a couple's baking class. Trying not to itch his skin inside out as more of that shitty frilly lace tickled the outskirts of his neck and clavicle. Both of you armed -- given -- whisks, rolling pins, pastry brushes, and -- "what the fock is tha'" "Simon stop touching it" -- trying to keep his spine from turning into a rod of steel and glaring at anything that moved.

Bloody fuckin' hell.

Simon Riley didn’t belong in places like this. This wasn’t his world. This wasn’t his fight.

But fuck, here he was yeah? Dressed in all tactical black like usual, only now fashioned with that bloody lacy apron you baited him to wear. Trying not to look absolutely impatient and restless amidst the other cheerful little couples in their own ruffled and flounced smocks. Knuckles turning ghost-white as he tried not to clutch the rolling pin like a rifle.

Christ, he was too tall for the damn room too. The tallest bloke in fact. Countertops only hitting his mid-thigh. Ceiling fans spun too closely overhead like they were judging him. And to top it all of, someone had embroidered Live, Laugh, Loaf and hung it above a shelf of jam jars like that meant anything.

Simon stared at it for a long second.

Deadpan. Blinking. Unamused. Silently wishing for death.

Then you tugged his hand.

Making him turn his gaze to you. His sweet sugary little bird. Looking right at home adoringly with her hair twisted up with a little flower clip. Soft, innocent, and warm smile full of excitement and enthusiasm.

"Thank you for joining for me", you voiced out. A hand slipping into his arm. Tender. Reverent and gentle.

Simon didn’t reply, but his posture unwound a bit. Clearing his throat and giving you an acknowledging nod only as a response. Not saying another word as he bent down so you can press a kiss to the side of his mask with a giggly smile.

Then came Debbie.

An overly chipper instructor who waltzed up with her arms open wide and big mellowy grin plastered across her face. You said she looked so sweet. Like your little old gran marshed up in a storybook cottage. Simon said she looked like a cult leader of pastel-loving pastry idiots. You hit him with a whisk for that one even if he barely even bristled, only giving you a slight quirk of a smile underneath his mask.

Debbie clapped her hands together in that way that made Simon’s teeth grit, her eyes shining with excitement as she stepped into the center of the room, her apron so pristine and perfect it made Simon want to turn around and leave right then and there.

But you were there. Bloody toying and teasing little bird. He'd have to tan your perky little arse red later for even thinking of a stunt like this, he thinks.

But the moment you tugged on his arm again. Pinky puffy and plump lips bitten in joy as you try to stifle a shrilly and excited giggle. He was stuck.

Simon Riley didn’t belong in places like this.

But when he looked at you again. Such a stark contrast to everything and everyone in his place. Sunshine. Soft. Pure. Homey and Warm. Yeah. Fuck that

Simon Riley didn't belong in places like this

-- but for you...

He'd stay.

Even if it meant wanting to put his entire nuts int the mixer than be this fucking ridiculous class ever again.

"Alright, everyone! Let’s get started!" Debbie's voice rang out, cheery as hell, somehow managing to make everything feel like it was going to be the best day of everyone’s life. "We’re going to start with something fun today! Fruit tarts!"

Simon wasn’t sure whether to laugh or sigh. Fucking fruit tarts. Of course. One of the most delicate, dainty, and tottery things on earth. And here he was. A grumpy hulking mass of muscle and scars. Bloody towering force of nature in a frilly pastel apron, about to try and bake something that didn’t involve a weapon or breaking bones. A pastel hellscape that's what it was. Fuck. fuck. fuck.

He glanced down at you, who was looking up at him with that sweet smile of yours, as if you were perfectly content to spend the next couple of hours teaching him to bake and make sweet treats. Looking absolutely right at home. Fever dream and a vision at that.

"We’ll make them simple, fresh, and delicious. You’re going to love it!", Debbie chirps. Clapping her wry hands with her bright smile unwavering.

Love it? Fuck you Debbie. No. This was murderous.

But Simon wasn’t about to ruin it for you -- not when you were looking so genuinely happy. If this is what you wanted, then fine. He’d survive this. Hell, maybe he’d even make it look like he was enjoying himself.

With a deep breath, he reluctantly grabbed the rolling pin, his knuckles turning white around the handle as if it were the trigger of a weapon.

He wanted to swallow it whole then vomit it right now at one chirpy bloke named Craig who tried to make friends with him at the beginning.

He glanced down at the bloody dough again. Nodding along at all your plans and ideas about colors, designs, and the like. Letting you -- his beautiful sweet and lovely little bird mouth along, always enamored with your tiny little chirring and warbles even if it was incoherent or nonsensical at times.

Smiling proud and knowingly a bit as he lets you pretend to take the lead even if his eyes were already scanning through the pink manual that jotted the instructions of making said sweet. Humming along to every word you said as he memorize the terms, jargon, and content with uncanny precision and dexterity.

As Debbie went on about the tarts and their required ingredients, Simon’s gaze drifted around the room again. One hand now whisking the batter with... eerily steady and practiced precision. Observing some of the men as well who looked genuinely excited, even chatting about what flavor fruit they’d use, while their wives or girlfriends laughed along.

Simon tried not to scoff. This wasn’t his world. This wasn’t his fight. The most dangerous thing in the room right now was the over-sweet scent of sugar in the air, and that was barely even a threat.

Simon's gaze narrowed as he scanned the bloody kitchen. Tactical. Observant. Steady. Scoping.

Jaw suddenly clenching as an unfamiliar sense of… competitiveness stirred in his gut. This was a fucking baking class, but as far as Simon was concerned, it was starting to feel like a bloody warzone. Especially since he heard you voice out how much you’d love to get your hands on a brand-new oven.

That damn bloody fucking oven.

Gossamery smooth surface, coupled with steel knobs and all that shite modeled in front of all of you as the supposed "grand-prize" for the winner of this little bake-off.

You were so excited about it. Your eyes had lit up like a kid in a candy store when Debbie mentioned and flaunted it. The promise of a fresh, shiny oven to use in your kitchen -- your space, your domain. It wasn’t just an oven -- it was a symbol of something better, something more.

You’d been talking about it all week, gushing over the idea of baking even more, expanding what you could do with your sweet treats.

And Simon? Simon Riley? The bloody Ghost who’d killed a dozen men and didn’t blink an eye? He wasn’t going to let some bloody oven slip through your fingers. Fuck that. Not in a million fucking years birdie.

He hadn’t realized how competitive he could get over something so stupid. But now, it was like a switch flipped inside him. He wasn’t just baking tarts anymore. He was hunting. And he’d be damned if some pampered little couple with no idea how to wield a whisk would get their hands on that oven.

He glanced around, his eyes narrowing on the other contestants. They were chatting. Giggling. They had no idea what they were in for. They didn’t need that oven the way you did.

They were too soft. Too happy.

The moment Debbie mentioned the prize, Simon knew this was his mission. He had to win. And to win, he was going to show these fucking amateurs exactly how it was done.

He wasn’t going to lose -- especially not to some chirpy bloke who had the nerve to ask him about his “signature move” in the kitchen.

"Clean cut. Precise. Less blood. No noise"

"Oh uh... okay"

Simon Riley didn't belong in places like this.

But you did.

His lovely light of his life perfect girl, and he'd make sure you'd always have the world you wanted. Even if it meant carving out Sharon's eyeballs before she could fucking separate her egg whites before he did.

He continued on. Movements deliberate and measured. Dough rolling under his hands smooth and precise. Tarty mixture weaving together silkeny and perfect beneath his fingers. Each motion purposeful and calculated, his gaze unwavering. Grunting lowly as usual to signal his agreement as he promised to let you do the decorating when he finished.

Wanting his beautiful sweet bird to add her own prettiness and delicate touch to bring it all to life afterwards.

Debbie clapped her hands after a short while. Grinning widely as she frilled about. Pulling Simon back to the present. “Right then, couples! Last few minutes”

Simon’s eyes narrowed at that. Glancing around again to scope out the competition. The other couples were… well, they weren’t bad, but they weren’t him. They were far too distracted, too sloppy, some of them not even following the instructions correctly.

Ha. Fucking idiots

“Focus,” he muttered to himself, the words a low growl. He shot a quick glance at you, his lips twitching into a smirk beneath his mask. “We’re not just baking a tart. We’re making history.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bit dramatic, Simon.”

But you smiled. And that was enough.

Near the end, his hands -- trained for delicate precision in the field -- were handling the tart shells in perfect ease and skill. Fruit slices uniformed and precisely cut. Letting you help him start piping bits of decor and shapes sharply and clean. The bloody thing now looking like something out of a pastry chef’s textbook.

"Hey uh... Simon", someone interrupted him. A grimy shiny lad. Mark his name probably was. Simon forgot. He didn't care either way. But Mark was standing too close. Smiling too wryly and enthusiastic. Nervous and jittery little pup he was. Making Simon's skin crawl with annoyance. "You mind if we borrow some of your --"

“Sugar?” Simon’s voice cut through the air. Interrupting, cold and steady as he turned to face Mark. Mark's hands pausing to reach your container. Simon not moving, nor flinching. Stance solid and a looming wall of force.

Mark blinked. “Uh, yeah… just a little, if you don’t mind -- ”

Simon’s hand gripped the sugar jar tightly. “I mind.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Mark quickly stepped back, eyes wide, clearly reconsidering his approach. Nodding twice before scurrying off.

Simon's eyes followed him until he was all the way back to his station, like a predator watching a prey skitter back into its burrow. Earthy irises going over the smaller lad's stiffening posture twice then turning back to the tart like nothing happened. Calm. Precise. And still in fucking control.

You blinked, looking between him and Mark with mild amusement. “Jesus, Si,” you murmured, not even trying to hide the smile pulling at your lips. “You gonna pull rank over some granulated sugar now?”

“’S not about the sugar,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly as he pressed a final slice of kiwi onto the edge of the tart like it was a tactical maneuver. “It’s about principle. That little prick thought he could cut corners. Not on my watch.”

You bit back a laugh, watching the way his broad shoulders were squared and his entire stance screamed soldier. Guardian. Protector. The most intimidating presence in a goddamn kitchen full of lemon zest and baking powder.

And God, did you love him for it.

“Alright, darling” you whispered, stepping closer and nudging your shoulder against his. “Let’s win this stupid oven.”

That made him glance at you.

Not with words. But with that soft crease at the corner of his eyes. That slow, near-invisible shift of his posture, like your voice was a pressure release only you knew how to access. You were his handler, in a way. The only one who could give the Ghost a fucking apron, put him in a room full of pineapple glaze and sugar dust, and still make him deadly efficient.

After everything was done, he didn't say much. Placing the finished tarts carefully on the countertop. Standing stock-straight and easy. Hands quiet at his sides. The soft scent of burnt sugar still clinging to him as he watched Debbie flutter about to start judging. Eyes following the manically upbeat woman as she bounced around, humming to herself, cooing at each tart like it was a newborn child.

Simon stood behind you, arms crossed, letting you do all the talking as Debbie approached your station. Big hulking and weighty shadow. Ready to snap her neck if she does so much as blink at you wrong.

At the sight of both of your fruit tarts, her eyes lit up.

“Oh my, now this -- this is a masterpiece! The layering, the balance of fruit, the shell -- this is professional-grade work!”

You smiled sweetly. “All credit goes to Simon. He’s a natural.”

Simon didn’t speak. He just gave a single nod.

Debbie giggled like a teenage girl. “I can see that. Very focused, isn’t he?”

Focused? No. He was possessed. Possessed by the need to get you that oven, by the need to see you happy. That was all.

A few more judging rounds. A few tense minutes.

And then --

“Well!” Debbie announced, clapping her hands. “It was a tough call, but the winners of today’s baking challenge are… Simon and his lovely wife!”

You gasped. Covered your mouth. Turned to him, eyes wide and sparkling.

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there as you launched into his chest, arms wrapping around your waist instinctively without so much as a single grunt. Effortless and always knowing. Would rather swallow the entire baking brush than let you fall.

“You did it! We did it!” you laughed, muffled into his shirt. “Oh my God, we actually won!”

Simon Riley didn’t belong in places like this.

Too much light, too much peace.

But then you looked at him —

— soft around the eyes, joy bubbling, glowy, warm, quiet in your chest — and something in him loosened.

Like a knot untying after years pulled tight. Bloody Theia with powdered sugar on her cheeks and dried frosting on her fingers.

Yeah. Simon Riley didn't belong in places like this --

-- but he belonged with you and that’s all that mattered. Everyone else can choke on flour. :)))

masterlist

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pooksamiras · 28 days ago

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- amira. 05/19/25. 6:46 AM. (simon’s pov.)

I fuck her like I’m never gonna see her again.

She’s folded beneath me, thighs pressed to her chest, body shaking against the mattress as the headboard smashes the wall with every brutal thrust. Doesn’t matter if the neighbors hear — she’ll be louder than them anyway. And fuck, the way she clenches around me like that? it’s like she wants them to know, wants the whole bloody building to hear how good I fuck her.

Her cunt is soaked, stretched tight around my cock, fluttering like she’s already coming again — I’ve lost count. Doesn’t matter. I’m not stopping. Not ‘til she forgets her own damn name.

My mouth drags along her neck, biting, sucking — leaving marks like an instinct. I feel her pulse under my tongue, her breath stuttering. “So fuckin’ good for me,” I growl against her skin, hips snapping into her. “Your cunt’s made for me, yeah? Squeezes me like it knows who owns it.”

I bite down, harder this time — right where her shoulder meets her neck. I need to leave something that stays. The bruises on her tits and thighs? They’ll fade. This one—this—will linger, just like the ache I’ll leave deep in her belly.

She’s trembling, whimpering under me, I feel her walls flutter again. She’s close — again — but I’m not done.

Just when her body starts to go limp, thinking I’ll finally give her a break, I flip her, dragging her onto me. She whines — a sweet, pathetic sound — hips shaking as she tries to move. Cockdrunk, and ruined, barely holding herself up.

“Aw, what’s wrong, darlin’?” I taunt, voice thick with mock sympathy. My hands gripping her hips, forcing her to grind against my cock, buried inside her. “s’ it too much? Can’t handle my fat fuckin’ cock?” i mock.

Her eyes roll, tears clinging onto her lashes, lips parted like she wants to beg. I almost let her. Almost.

My hand snakes down between her parted thighs, finding her swollen clit, pinch. Not gently.

She gasps — back arching, as her body jolts.

“Need help?” I echo, tilting my head with a grin. “That’s too fuckin’ bad, isn’t it?” My voice dips lower, dangerous. “You’re not gettin’ a fuckin’ thing until you ride like you mean it.”

she will. She always does — eventually.

I’ll make sure of it.

#simon riley cod #call of duty #fanfic #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon riley #smut

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munsonsmixtapes · 20 hours ago

Text

Give Me a Hand

roommate!simon x fem!roommate!reader

You accidentally walk in on your roommate, Simon and decide to help him out.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) oral (both f and m receiving) masturbation, fingering, both Simon and reader are pervs

You should have known that you wouldn’t be able to work from home when Simon’s there. Things have been awkward between the two of you the moment you moved in with him. You try to make conversation and be nice, but he just ignores you as much as possible. It’s always one word responses like he wishes he’d rather be anyone but here. He was so normal when he interviewed you to be his roommate. But the second you moved in, everything shifted.

It was like he turned into a completely different person. He’s no longer the nice guy you talked to that night and now he barely even looks at you. If you come into any room in the apartment, he leaves. He’ll be watching something on the TV and then go to his room the second you walk through the front door.

Simon knows that he’s being a dick but he can’t help it. He’s starting to like you way more than he should. He knows that the second lines are crossed, there’s no going back. He wants to get to know you better, but he knows that if he’s in a room with you, he’ll just do something he’ll regret. Something he shouldn’t.

He’d never tell you how badly he wants to kiss you. He’d never tell you that he jacks off to the thought of you every time he takes a shower, pretending that his hand is yours. And he knows it’s wrong to ignore you, but what else can he do? Tell you how he feels? Yeah, there’s no fucking way that’s happening.

He’s found himself in the shower yet again, but this time, it’s to hide from you. You’re folding laundry in the living room, wearing that tight tank top that drives him crazy. He can see your nipples so clearly and is trying so hard to not think about how much he wants to have them in his mouth.

He wants to lie you back on that couch and have his way with you as you beg for more. Or maybe he wants to be between your thighs, devouring you until you beg him to stop. He’s getting hard just thinking about it and tries to shake it out of his head. You’re just down the hall and he’s paranoid that you’d hear him even though the water beating down on his back would drown out the sound.

The water running is a nice background noise for folding your laundry. But as you think about how it’s Simon in the shower, you can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to get in there with him. You’d love to back him against the wall and get on your knees to suck him off like you’ve been wanting to do for months.

Hell, you’d even feel lucky to kiss him and you wonder what his lips feel like. You want to feel the beard that he let grow out rub against your skin as he kisses you desperately. You want his hands to slide down into your shorts and have his way with your cunt. God, what you would do to have his head between your thighs, devouring you like a full course meal.

You’re only doing your laundry to keep yourself busy. You tried to get some work done, but you just can’t-now when all of your thoughts about Simon have become dirty. And you know you shouldn’t feel attracted to him when he’s done nothing but ignore you, but you can’t help it. He’s become the star of all your late night fantasies and you don’t want them to stop.

The water turns off just as you find one of Simon’s t-shirts mixed in with your laundry. You set it to the side with the intent of putting it in his bed when he inevitably leaves the house and continue to fold your clothes.

His door closes and let your mind wander, wondering what he looks like naked. Maybe it’s a bit pervy of you, but you don’t care. You just know that his body is toned and you want to run your hands all over it. And his cock has got to be huge. Got to be.

You decide that he’s got to be dressed by now and grab the shirt, making a beeline for his room. You don’t care if he doesn’t like you. You’re tired of avoiding him to get out of his way and decide now that you’re going to kill him with kindness.

You knock on the door before opening it and you both scream when you catch Simon jacking off. His hand is fisting his cock as he stares at you wide eyed in horror.

Your initial shock wears off and you step into the room to take him in. His cheeks are bright red as he tries to cover up. But as he sees that you’re into what’s happening, the embarrassment melts away.

Simon removes his hand and lets you get a good look at his very large cock. You step closer and take it one of your hands as you back him up against the wall.

“Do you want some help?” You ask and he nods furiously, his pupils growing wider.

“Please,” he begs and you remove your hand before spitting into it and grabbing it by the base. You pump harder and harder and the most delicious sound falls from his lips. You never expected him to be just as much of a perv as you. You really thought he’d kick you out.

You sink to your knees and take the tip into your mouth, licking the slit before sucking on it. You continue to pump as you suck on him and feel yourself getting wet at the whiny mess you’ve made of him.

You take him deeper and deeper, licking up and down his cock as you suck and suck, moaning loudly as you do so. Your hands move to his ass as you push him further into your mouth, the head hitting the back of your throat, making you gag.

“Such a dirty girl,” he growls. “Want me to fuck that mouth?” He watches you nod and his hands grab onto your hair as he thrusts his cock in and out of your mouth. “You’re so shy and quiet. Didn’t think you had this in you.” He’s moving fast and hard and you can’t help but moan loudly, so turned on by what’s happening.

“You’re so hot when you’re on your knees. Bet you’d look even better on my-fuck, fuck, fuck.” Rope after rope of cum leaks out into your mouth and he pulls out with a loud pop before you swallow.

He pulls you to your feet and and his lips find yours as he backs you up to the bed before pushing you down onto it. You don’t know when your shirt came off, but you see it on the floor behind Simon as he lies on top of you. His kisses are rough and messy and you moan into each other's mouths as your tongues tangle together. He tastes himself on your tongue and wonders if you taste even better.

He pulls down your shorts and panties and when he spreads your legs wide, seeing that you’re so wet that it’s trickling down your legs.

“Guess it’s my turn to take care of you, huh?” He asks. “It would be the gentlemanly thing to do,” he winks before he gets down onto his knees in front of you. He puts your legs over his shoulders and licks up each thigh to clean up your mess before he dives straight in.

He goes for your clit first, licking and sucking as his fingers pump in and out of your cunt. They’re moving at a rapid rate as he continues to suck hard on your clit. Your hands grab onto his hair as you let out moan after moan. This is easily the best head you’ve ever received and you wouldn’t mind at all if this is all the two of you did all night.

He introduces another finger and somehow moves even faster-even harder. You swear he’s trying to tear you apart and you wouldn’t even mind. It just feels so good. Especially when they curve, hitting that one spot that drives you crazy. You’re coming, the most beautiful moans falling from your lips, but Simon keeps at it, wanting to see just how many times he can make you orgasm.

His fingers come out and now his mouth is doing all the work as he bites down hard, causing your thighs to press against his head, your heels digging into his back. He stares up at you, watching you come again. Your mouth forms that “O” shape as a scream falls from your lips. Your right where he wants you and he thinks you’re both ready for him to get inside.

All you have to do is say please. You don’t even need a break-just him. You need him to fuck you so senseless that you won’t be able to walk for days.

“Please, Simon.” God, the way you say his name drives him absolutely crazy. He’s so willing to do whatever you ask. “Fuck me.” The words come out in a breathy Noah and he doesn’t need to be told twice.

He’s hovering over you in seconds, hands on your waist as he slides inside. He rocks into your and you’re quick to match him, hips bucking against his. You’re both moving with so much force that the bed is shaking, the mattress squeaking underneath you.

Neither of you are sure how long it’s going to last but you’re determined even though your words are starting to slur. You guess you’re just going to have to go for multiple rounds since that’s the case.

“Look at you,” he says, his words also starting to slur. “Taking me so well. God, you’re-fuck-perfect.“ He’s close, he can feel it. And he can tell that you’re not far behind. You come first and when it’s his turn, he’s quick to pull out, cum leaking out all over your stomach.

As you’re coming down, Simon fetches a damp washcloth from the bathroom and cleans you both up. He then helps you get dressed before putting his pants back on.

“Sorry for being such a dick,” he apologizes as he sits next to you on the bed. “I-I couldn’t stop thinking about you in that way and I don’t know, I felt gross about it so I avoided you. It won’t happen again.”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you that I’ve been thinking about you too?” You turn to him and he smiles before leaning in for a kiss.

“You uh-you can sleep in here tonight-if you want.”

“I’d like that. But I don’t think we’re going to do much sleeping,” you wink and kiss him again before fleeing his room, smiling to yourself as you think about how excited you are for tonight.

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skauni · 3 days ago

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Beautiful writing

husband!simon setting up the baby's room warnings!: bad words, pregnancy.

It was a cold afternoon.

You were wrapped up in a thick blanket on the couch, half-asleep, barely paying attention to the TV. The final month of pregnancy had turned you into a furnace of exhaustion, cold, and drifting thoughts.

Suddenly, a sharp grunt followed by a dry curse.

"Son of a bitch"

You flinched. The voice came from the nursery. That’s when you remembered: he was home. For the weekend.

More curses, more wood cracking. You got up slowly and walked to the door.

Simon — or Ghost, because it was impossible not to think of him that way when he looked that focused — was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by crib pieces, screws scattered around, hammer in hand.

You leaned against the doorway. He didn’t look at you.

"This manual was written by idiots" he muttered.

"You said we were gonna build it together, remember?" you said quietly, your hand resting on your heavy belly.

"That was the plan. But the manual’s useless. And I don’t have time to waste."

The sharpness in his voice wasn’t for you. It was frustration, mostly aimed at himself.

You sighed and stepped back. You knew better than to push.

When you came back minutes later, the crib was standing. And... tilted.

Ghost stood up slowly, arms crossed, staring down the crib like it was an enemy target. His fingers tapped against his elbow as his mind scanned for flaws.

"I’m not sure she’ll fit in there, Moonie." you tried, half-joking.

He didn’t answer. Just ran a hand down his face. Then looked at you. At your belly. And for a second — just one — something cracked behind his eyes.

"She’ll fit," he said flatly. But there was something in his tone. Pressure.

You took a step toward him. Then another. Until you stood right in front of him.

"Love... it doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be real."

Simon said nothing. But his hand came to rest on your belly.

You saw his jaw tense, eyes fixed on the life inside you.

"I’ll fix it," he muttered. No drama. No softness.

Just promise.

And even without sweet words or kisses, you felt it.

Felt that, in his own way, Ghost was trying to be a father.

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followmybadreligion · 1 month ago

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thinking about getting a little too drunk w husband!simon…

he’s already a super possessive guy, but your drunken antics are only making it ten times worse.

sure, coming to the bar was his idea. it was only fair, after such a long week at work, that he got to have a nice dinner on the town and a few beers shortly after. even better that he got to do it with his pretty fucking wife, you know?

yeah, he watched you slip into the tightest, smallest dress you had, curl your hair into pretty little coils, and push and pull at everything else out of place. he saw the too tall black pumps you choose— the one’s he got you for your anniversary that make your legs look model-length long. he even saw the way your black lace bralette played peek-a-boo along your dress’s neckline.

all of it only made him more excited.

getting to show you off on the town? his sweet, sexy little woman all done-up and pretty, hanging off his arm like his little trophy? god, he was practically hard before you two could reach the front door.

the second that liquor hit your system, though, was the second all hell broke loose.

at this point in the night, you’re long past the idea of sitting pretty, eating your food, and posing for pictures. now, you’re feeling good. a little tipsy, or maybe even drunk. all the shyness or docile little feelings from the beginning of the night are gone.

now, you wanna dance. you wanna throw your arms up and sway with the other bar-goers, and why shouldn’t you be able to?

you didn’t mind the way your dress rode up your thighs, giving the wrong people an eyeful of your goods. you hadn’t noticed the men who’d run their hands over you, every so often passing by with their crotch just a little too close to your ass. all you were focused on was the music, how good you felt, and when your next shot was coming.

if only you had paid attention to the damn near menacing stare simon had you under. something that rivaled a madman’s with its intensity.

he’d held back for the first few songs, letting the angel on his shoulder telling him to ease up guide him. sure, he still stood around like an unamused body guard, sending glares to the gawking men and buying your drinks whenever you asked. maybe occasionally he’d get a cute picture or video of you too. that was just what came with the simon o’riley type though.

it wasn’t until you got to the flirty territory, grinding your ass into him with the music or kissing him with a little too much tongue, that he decided to pull the plug.

and god, did you always give him attitude for it.

“i’m not ready to leave, simon,” you’d whine, eyes glossed over and face screwed up in that cute little way you only do when you’re aggravated.

“i want another drink,” but you’re slurring and stumbling already.

“just keep kissing on me, baby,” you protest as he grabs your discarded shoes and purse and starts leading you towards the exit.

he’s sweet with you at first, given how drunk and cute you truly are. sure, you may have triggered his possessiveness early, but you’re batting your eyelashes up at him and clinging onto him for dear life. how could he not talk to you softly? how could he not kiss you back as he tugged your dress back down?

“it’s alright, lovie. let’s get home and i’ll take such good care of you.”

you start trying to fight him though and you’ll see how thin his patience truly is.

doing things out of spite? pulling his hands away from you while he’s trying to guide you down the street? arguing with him through your half-coherent sentences? cursing him under your breath just loud enough that he can hear it?

you’re getting yourself in trouble and you’re too drunk to know it.

he was prepared to let your little outbursts slide. wouldn’t hold it against you and still keep his plans straight for the night.

after all you’d done, he was still gonna get you home, slip off those stockings and undo those zippers. dedicate the rest of the night to making you feel all good like how you’d begging him too.

but you just can’t keep that pretty little mouth shut, can you?

“don’t make it worse for yourself.” he’d warn, grabbing your face from its resting place against his passenger-side window, “you’ve already fucked up enough as is, yeah?”

his voice is gruff and his jaw is set, but his eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

you’ll be making it up to him all night long, and he’s gonna be anything but nice now ;)

#simon riley x you #simon riley smut #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #mxf smut #smut #drinking #obsessed lover #obsessed!simon

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