#simon riley x poc reader

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

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

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

Y/n:.......

Soap: Y/n. Answer the question, Y/n.

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

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

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

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

Gaz: It takes less than a minute!

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

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

Y/n: Like, 7 minutes!

Soap: *nods*

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

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

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

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

Ghost: Do none of you own a fucking kettle?

Source

[boowritess]

second addition to this post lol

retired!simon riley - sorry chef!simon riley x reader

imagine this motherfucker learns how to cook your cultures traditional foods better than you.

like maybe he had hit up an aunty, your ma, your dad, uncle, sister, brother, cousin, nan, granddad - whoever - to ask about one of your cultures traditional food that's special to you.

so they come teach him, or send him detailed steps, or probably video call him (but let's be fr they probably went over to teach him)

and that is the only time he doesn't ever raise his voice or back talks the person he's sharing a kitchen with - because why would he??? they're teaching him.

idk i just - AHHH i find it so cute imagining this towering fucking goliath of a man standing next to your nan or maybe even your dad - whoever - and he's just listening and watching so intensely.

the kitchen is filled with spices, there's music playing that he doesn’t quite understand the lyrics but it's nice and catchy.

but you come home, and you think that perhaps a family member come in and cooked it because there's no way - yet there he is. making it himself in the kitchen. hands working far better than yours at a task that you were practically raised doing.

and when you sit to eat, maybe you should feel jealous - but fuck

it tastes exactly like your family member that makes it... maybe even better.

as you eat, you look at him, eyes shining with a sort of warmth that's not just loving - it's far more intimate - more homey and one that's so personal. and he can tell because when he's looking in your eyes and there's thousands more staring back at him.

"you're making more of this..." the demand is firm, but with the way you speak, it's clear it's just covering up how much it means to you that he did this.

"whatever you want, lovie..." he softly chuckles, more than happy to adhere to your demands, pressing a kiss to your forehead before eating it himself.

a/n: something for my fellow ethnic babies xx

[boowritess]

he gets embarrassed when u point out his white person smile but he can't stop and it makes u cackle everytime.

Ghost’s wife starts thawing his cold persona to the point that Ghost starts doing the Awkward White Person Smile Greeting ™️ at everyone he passes.

Except Ghost wears his full mask at work and a half mask out in public so everyone sees peering, dark eyes narrowed on them as they pass him despite the tight lipped smile beneath.

[lxvvie]

Simon never thought his body was anything special—not really.

He's just keeping fit because it's part of the job, sweetheart, so body worship wasn't on his bingo card when you invited him over for some rest and relaxation.

Well, not his body, yeah?

Your eyes lit up like it was fuckin' Christmas when you saw him. Simon had just gotten out of the shower, hadn't really had time to put his towel on, and what the fuck is it with him losing track of time when he's with you? All Simon remembered was hearing you mutter "Bloody hell..." under your breath (heh, he's rubbin' off on ya) and next thing he knows, Simon's laying on your bed. Naked. Under you. Wait a fuckin' minute—

His mind goes blank when he watches you watch him; you look at him like he's a fuckin' masterpiece, like he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, body hair, cuts, bruises, burns, dents and all, drooling without the drool or what the fuck ever, but shit, it's enough to make Simon's face hot. If he wasn't embarrassed then, he's sure as fuck embarrassed now, and he'd bet every pound he had that knobhead Johnny would have a field day with this.

It's the way you kissed, nipped, and sucked everywhere you could (Christ, you even played with his nipples), making him feel so good, making him feel so bloody seen. Rough skin against your softness, and he's never felt so self-conscious before. You were so damn careful with his latest set of bruises, so fuckin' kind and considerate that he felt his heart jump.

It's the way you ran your hand down, all the way fuckin' down, until it wrapped around his cock. His cock that you're lazily stroking, his cock, hot, heavy, leaking, just... what the fuck are you doing to him?

It's the way you kissed Simon's Adam's apple, soft, gently, and he was afraid to swallow because he thought he'd lose something but he sure as hell felt the goosebumps on his skin and shivers run down his spine.

But it's the coup de grâce, you swopping down to kiss the scar dangerously close to his lips, that shatters Simon completely. Breaks him down so fuckin' much that he's practically holding on to you for dear life. He leans against your touch, wonders what the fuck it would feel like to have your lips against his, and he barely registers the fact that he came, not earth-shattering but a warm blanket over him, and it feels like his very first time.

Fuck, this should've been his very first time.

"Aw, you do turn bronze when you tan, Simon!" He looks down, takes inventory of his tan lines (when has he ever lied to you, sweetheart?), looks up at your beaming smile, snorts, and rolls his eyes. If this were anyone else, he'd probably be pissed that the mood was broken.

It's you, though, and it makes everything feel right.

__

Turning Simon Out series

[partiallysame]

Your work is scrumptious, delicious, mouth watering, melts in your mouth, amazing. If I could inject it into myself I would.

I’m not sure if you write for black/mixed reader, but if you do I need to know. How would the boys react to finding out how long it takes to get braids in/take out? Reader usually gets it done while they are gone, but getting new braids/taking them out couldn’t wait this time. 🥺 (Currently taking mine out, and it’s taking forever and a half.)

Would they help their little missus? Or would they try to help but having 4 men trying to take out tiny braids just cause more problems?

Yes yes yes ok john knew it took foreverrrr and you had taught him how to take them out (he’s even attempted helping put them in) when you first started dating and now it’s time for the rest of the 141 to experience the ordeal that is braiding. Let me tell you the panic that set in when they walked in on you cutting out the extra before unbraiding. Thought you were pulling a Brittany circa 2007. Don’t worry babes just making it easier to unbraid. John immediately asks if you need anything to which a joking “help would be nice” came out and suddenly they’re all sat. 30 sec in and Johnny is asking if you can just cut them out all the way. He is now on snack duty. Bringing you whatever you request. Kyle thought he was gonna be so good at this, he knows how to do this right? No. He’s convinced his brain disconnected from him fingers. Spend the whole time you’re there working on one braid. John gets a handful of them done but Simon? You give a sniper a task in which he sits in one spot and focuses on one thing for hours at a time? He’s living the dream. Fingers moving almost as fast as yours. You referred to the two of you as “the dream team” and it hurt everyone else’s feelings. Oh well that’s on them for not being better

[hahaifolded]

141 x POC!GN Intelligence Operative - Debrief 2 Author's Notes: This was super hard to write and not gonna lie maybe hard to read for some of yall so like please be careful. Probably safe after the lines Warnings: MDNI, Racism, Angst

Ghost was staring daggers at the back of the rookie’s head. How fucking dare he go after you? And in front of Ghost’s face? His stomach twists every time he thinks of Nikto’s question. Everyone is afraid of him… but not this rookie. Why?

He’ll find out soon enough. After Price is done gutting scolding the boy, Ghost will have turn. And so will Johnny and Kyle. Johnny was in the back of Price’s office with Ghost while Kyle was on his way.

“So, want to tell me what happened during training?” Price sneers. He sat forward in his chair, eyes burning with hatred.

Ghost nearly lunges at the rookie when the rookie just snorts in response. Ghost could tell that Price’s patience was withering by the second.

“I’d advise you to answer the question if you don’t want to be on toilet duty for the next month,” Price warns.

The rookie slouches in his chair and lets out an exasperated breath. “I know you’re doing this as a formality but you can drop the act. We’re on the same page.” Ghost cocks his head. What is this rookie on about?

“And what page is that?” Price thankfully asks for the whole room. The rookie leans towards Price.

“That this whole diversity initiative is just complete bullshit,” he admits like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Price’s eyes widen as the rookie keeps going and going on his whole anti-diversity spiel. Ghost’s and Soap’s body lock up.

Price clears his throat and asks, “and where did you get idea?”

“It’s pretty obvious. I mean none of you guys speak to them unless absolutely necessary. You never invite them to lunch or even the bar after missions. It’s clear none of you like them. I’ll admit I didn’t realize it until Lieutenant Ghost gave me a heads up.” Ghost feels his teammates’ eyes on him as soon as the rookie said his name.

Still looking at Ghost, Price asks what clue. And with glee, the rookie lets the three know how Ghost ripped your “dumb” gift in front of him and some other rookies while putting you in your place. Ghost feels his entire face go hot as he remembers the moment.

“And thank god he did because if I’m honest with you Captain, if I had to respect another one of them, I’d probably transferred by now and I know I’m not the only one,” the rookie jokes. While the rookie laughs, the 141 boys stay silent. None of them could believe what they were hearing. They didn’t realize how their actions looked like from the inside out.

Ghost felt his stomach churn. Fuck— is that why you asked him to accompany you with the rookies. Because— fuck. You turned to him for protection when actuality, he was the fucking reason you needed it.

Before this retched conversation could even continue, Kyle walks in. The rookie lets out a wicked laugh and quips, “Don’t worry Captain. Me and the boys will get rid of this one.” Kyle freezes, confused by the statement. Ghost’s entire body goes hot. He rushes towards the rookie and throws him to the floor. This ends now.

— — —

Ghost takes a deep breath before gently knocking at your office door. It’s time to make amends. And if amends can’t be made, he can at least be punished by your hand. He waits with bated breath as quick steps near the door.

“That was fa—,” you immediately stop. You straighten up your posture and roughly rub your eyes.

“Are you crying?” Ghost barks. He didn’t mean for it to come out so accusatory. Yes, he’s mad but not at you, never at you. Ghost takes a large step into your office and quickly closes the door.

Your jaw tightens at his sudden entry. You stop rubbing your eyes and stare straight in his eyes. “Might come as a surprise for you but we’re not all complete monst—.”

Ghost gently grasps your face in both hands and takes a sharp breath. “Please. Anyone but you.” Ghost knows he’s overstepping but he has to hold you at least once before you completely slip from his fingers. While wearing gloves, he gently rubs his thumbs over your cheeks and stares in your eyes with every ounce of admiration he has for you

You still. Your eyes widen in confusion. “Lieutenant, what’s going on?” Your gaze shift from his eyes to his hands on your face. They keep bouncing back and forth until they finally pause to his right hand as you catch Ghost’s skin peeking out between his pointer and middle finger.

“They’ll never bother you again, I promise,” he whispers. He knew you recognized the gloves. He knew you were reliving that moment in your head.

“Ghost?” you whisper. You look up at him, eyes shining with so many emotions. Anger, disbelief, betrayal… hope.

There’s still hope. Maybe Ghost can turn this around. Maybe Ghost can be the man you deserve. Maybe Ghost can be yours—

— your office door slams open, revealing a towering Nikto at the door frame. You immediately pull yourself out of Ghost’s grasp and lean against your desk. Ghost turns around and faces Nikto head on. The two giants stand still, facing one another, almost waiting for the other one to strike.

“Lieutenant, surprised to see you here,” Nikto states. He walks through the door and glides past Ghost. He makes his way to you and eagerly takes your side. Without a single care in the world, Nikto caresses your face and you immediately lean into his touch.

Ghost just stares on as the weight of his actions fell on him. Instead of protecting you, he threw you in the wolves. He pushed you away and pushed you in the arms of another monst— man.

“Lieutenant,” That breaks Ghost out of his trance. Nikto, with your head still in his hands, stares at Ghost and asks if he needed anything.

You.

Word Count: I’ll get to it

More Thoughts - Next Thought

[beloveds-embrace]

Would you be willing to write Tf141 with a POC Jazz Singer? They find a bar and as they settle in their drinks, the sweet sound of a southern accent fills their ears like siren song. It’s as if the world has faded aside from her. The siren like eyes, full lips, and the voice of an angel. To them, it’s as if she’s pumped the life and joy back into their lungs. But when she actually talks to them, she’s actually got the personality of a skittish kitten. She’s easily nervous and gets embarrassed easy, a far cry from the confidence she shows on her stage.

Thank you @miss-vanta-likes-to-write for helping me with this <33

The place is dim, the kind of bar that looks unassuming from the outside but unfolds like a secret the moment you step inside. Wood-paneled walls soak up the golden glow from antique lamps, and cigarette smoke dances lazy swirls in the air. You know this place. It’s old, but it breathes- alive with ghosts of stories whispered into tumblers and between the notes of the house piano. You’d been singing here for nearly a year now, tucked into the city’s quieter corners where the world still made space for jazz and soul.

Tonight, like always, you glide onto the stage with a practiced calm, heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor, the microphone standing like an old friend in the middle of it all. Your curls are pinned back just enough to show off the gold earrings brushing your skin. Your skin catches the spotlight- a warm, rich brown that glows under the low lighting, deep and radiant, the shimmery oil you use glittering like constellations and stars under the light. You’ve got on your favorite silk slip dress, the one that shimmers bronze like your grandma’s sweet tea in the sun, hugging curves you used to shy away from but now wear like armor. Your lips are painted a deep wine red, and your nails- long, almond-shaped- are the same color. It’s your ritual. Your way of saying I’m here. I’m proud. Watch me shine.

A hush falls over the place as the lights dim around the room and center on you. And with the first hum of your voice, that hush turns almost reverent, a church for those who worship singing angels.

The music takes you.

Every note, every slow, honeyed syllable- sweet drawls and soft vowels dripping like molasses, blues stitched into every lyric. You don’t just sing. You spill. You pour your heart into that mic with the kind of soulful ache that makes even the most jaded patron set down their drink to listen, and every regular knows better than to interrupt your performance. Your voice slips into the room like smoke- low, velvety, dipped in honey and gospel. It carries that Southern cadence, a melody shaped by summers in Georgia, Sunday mornings in church choirs, and humming with your aunties. You aren’t just singing. You’re testifying. And when you close your eyes, the room disappears. It’s just you and the melody- until they walk in.

The bar quiets. You’ve seen it happen a hundred times, but it still gives you that little thrill- that hush, that moment when people stop mid-sip and realize something real is happening. The world slows down to listen. And that’s when you see them.

A group slips into the back booth like they own the place without meaning to. There’s a weight to them- a presence. Shoulders broad, posture alert, eyes that don’t miss a damn thing. Soldiers, you can tell. You’ve got cousins like that- men and women who smile with their mouths but carry ghosts behind their eyes.

You chance a glance between verses.

One of them- tall, masked, all sharp shadows and piercing eyes- tilts his head as he listens. Another, shorter yet stocky with a mischievous grin a mohawk that reminds you of roosters and coyotes, leans over to say something, clearly impressed. One is more relaxed, beautiful beyond words, throws his arm over the back of the booth and lets your voice wash over him like a balm. And the last watches you with a quiet reverence that makes your breath catch.

It is their first time here, and yet they subconsciously know not to whisper more than necessary while you sing. They just listen- like the world’s gone silent except for you.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the mic. You’re used to attention; you've earned it. But there’s something about the way they look at you- like you’re more than just a song. Like you’re a miracle- and that does something sweetly unfamiliar in your chest. You finish your set and offer a soft “thank y’all” that rolls gently off your tongue. The applause is warm, respectful, but your eyes flick once more to the group in the back. Still watching.

Heart thudding, you slip off stage, nerves replacing the calm that had carried you through the music. It’s always like this. Up there, you’re a storm in silk. But offstage? Offstage you’re still that shy little Southern girl who used to sing into hairbrushes in her mama’s living room and hide when guests clapped too hard.

You drift toward the bar to collect your drink and try to ground yourself, hands still trembling slightly. You don’t even realize how close they are until a voice says: "That voice of yers? You just poured heaven straight into my chest, darlin'."

The scottish accent curls around your ears, playful and disarming, and catching you off guard for a few seconds. You nearly spill your drink.

“Oh! Um… thank you.” You blink up at him, suddenly hyper-aware of the whole team nearby. “I, uh- thanks. I’m… not used to compliments.” Despite how many you often get, the feeling of shyness never truly washes away.

He grins wider. “You’re not used tae compliments?” he echoes with mock offense. “Then this place must be full of fools, aye?”

You try to laugh but it comes out awkward, soft. “People usually talk to the voice. Not the… um. Not the girl behind it. I- I don't always know what to say when folks talk to me like that."

“You don’t gotta say a thing, sweetheart,” comes another voice- this one smoother, a british accent. The pretty one with the cap smiles kindly at you. “You said it all up there.”

You duck your head, cheeks burning. “Y’all are real sweet. I just… ain't great with people. Off-stage, I mean.”

While the masked guy remains silent, the one with the beard- another Brit- chuckles, his voice warm like the whsikey he is nursing. “Sit with us a while. If you’d like.”

Your heart damn near skips.

You hesitate, biting your bottom lip, fingers twisting around the edge of your glass. “I… might be a little awkward,” you admit with a sheepish look, voice feather-light. “I’m kinda like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

the Scot hums. “We like cats. Don’t we, Ghost?”

The masked man- Ghost, definitely not an eerie name- shrugs and speaks at last. “So long as they sing like that.”

They laugh softly, and it’s warm. Not mocking and not amused at your expense. It’s the kind of laugh that lets you breathe a little easier.

You slip into the booth, and they make room like they’d been saving a spot just for you.

[huunni]

breaking simon into calling you mommy.

no fucking way, princess. he laughs and shakes his head like you just told him the funniest joke on Earth. no chance, never.

simon can't even believe you would ask him such a thing. him call you mommy? have you gone mad? why in the world would he ever do that? simon had a hard enough time submitting to you as is. now you throw this into play? you must want him to tie you up and show you who runs shit around here. (it's you.)

c'mon, babyyy. you lament, leaning in and letting your dark brown nipples rub against his. up and down, still wet from simon sucking on them earlier. just one time, c'mon. say it.

simon was coming up on his third nut in the last thirty minutes, and he was starting to lose himself. your hips were moving the same pace they were when you started, maybe faster since your pussy was creaming like a faucet. no, no..im not gonna-- fuck me.. not gonna say it.

he's not. nothing can crack that wall down. he won't. his mind is made up. you clench around him in retaliation, but the tightness adds to his overstimulating pleasure and makes him drop his hands to the sheets, gripping them with a force that would have stopped you in your tracks, must be why he moved.

fuck, mm-mommy. it comes out completely unplanned, unrecognized and unintentionally. simon can't look you in the eye, just gripping your hips again and watching you grind back and forth just a bit.

what's that, si? he shakes his head, closing his eyes and throwing his his head against the headboard. simon bites his lip and whimpers, simon riley, the 6 foot 200 something pound tank of a man whimpers at the feeling of your pussy gripping him.

mommy. i said-- i called you mommy. he reiterates, moving you up and down on his cock and watching it like it would disappear if he looked away. fuck you. fucking hate you-- fuck! simon's cum started spurting up into you and he was seeing white. his balls felt like they were cramping, tightening and releasing too quickly, too harshly, he swears for a second he's gonna pass out.

before you can quip, his fingers are wrapped around your throat and squeezing. not a word. he damn near whines. he's trying to sound all manly and deep voiced, you can tell, but his voice nearly cracked at how tight you are around him, and how fucking sensitive he is. not a fucking word, i swear.

maybe not now, but this will definitely be brought back up (especially when he starts to get a thing for fucking you while you're knocked up.)

[venuslut]

FANTASIZING ABOUT being a barracks bunny and having the biggest crush on SIMON “GHOST” RILEY. Completely revamping your image so you’ll be more appealing to him. Even going as far as sleeping with your captain, John Price, so he’ll put you and Simon together more often for missions or training. You may be a bimbo, but you weren’t dumb and knew how to get what you wanted. Slowly but surely, you wormed your way into his heart. And the grande finale to get him into your bed was to invite him to your room, the perks of sleeping around providing you the luxury of your own private room without any bunkmates. Promising to let him leave after one glass of whiskey, but one glass turned into two and soon enough y’all were already about to finish the second bottle.

It wasn’t long before your fleeting touches on his arm turned into harsh grips on his biceps that left red scratches from your short manicured nails. Caused by the way he pushed your legs back high to your chest, his calloused hands gripping your meaty thighs while he held them down, pushing your flexibility to the max. Your knees were to your chest and ankles rest on his broad shoulders as he fucked into your needy cunt with all his weight. He fucks like a machine: hard and strong thrusts with no pause or hesitation, determined to fuck you both into oblivion in a drunken haze. And fuck… he’s big.

He continued to pound into you with a relentless rhythm, your legs twitching in the air involuntarily while he held you in place. " ‘m in so fucking deep, baby… is that why yo’ can’t talk?" he groaned, his voice low. "Don't you dare close those pretty little eyes. Look at me while I fuck you, Y/n. Look at me and know that no other soldier can satisfy you like I can." Now Simon knew what kind of woman you were, everyone did. He never planned to get involved with you until you suddenly appeared in his life and coaxed him into your company. Simon didn't need to fuck one of his comrades to deal with the normal frustration brought by being a Lieutenant. But this time, he just... Fuck, he needs this. How could he resist with the way you batted your eyelashes up at him, or pouted those plump glossed lips, and don’t even get him started on those skimpy clothes you wore when you invited him to your room for a drink.

Besides, it would a lie if he said he hasn’t dreamed of smothering you with his much larger frame and force you to take his cock in your tight cunt. Watching you writhing underneath him while you cried out his name. And now it was all coming true, with a few liquid courage in his system of course. He jumped at the chance to have you all to himself when you caressed his thigh and promised to remove all his frustrations. Little does he know, you orchestrated this from day one, and all those tension filled encounters would lead you to this moment.

“Sim— Lieutenant! Oh my God! ngh… slow down, please!” You beg, throwing your head back as the pleasure was becoming too much. You move your hands from his arms to weakly try and slow down his movements, but Simon quickly snatched both of your wrists and held them over your head. Using his free hand he smacked your thigh hard enough for a red print to show, “don’t be so sensitive, bunny. Keep your hands to yourself and just take my cock like the good slut I know you are.”

[francisco-castle]

me everytime I read words like "reader blushed pink" in a fanfic

[moonbeamoclock]

Hot take that shouldn’t be a hot take:

my biggest pet peeve is when people tag something as a x reader but it’s actually an oc…..i got to the last chapter of a fic only for the description of the ‘reader’ to be of a white person.

then the author got nasty with me after i called her out about it but that’s whatever

it takes an extra 2 mins to have a generic description of a person rather then give the details of their appearance but some of y’all are just too lazy to do even that

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

Simon: *suddenly remembering traumatic memories that he'd been repressing* Oh my god... Y/n, I just realized something.

Y/n: What?

Simon: I had a bad childhood.

Y/n: Oh. Yeah, I know.

Simon: You know?

Y/n: I mean, look at you.

Simon: What do you mean, "look at me"?

Y/n: Just look at how you stand. People who had good childhoods don't stand like that.

[pixiesbored]

oil rig Simon? oil rig Simon? oil rig Simon?

oil rig Simon.

[lxvvie]

Simon doesn't think he's ever tasted something so good in his fuckin' life before.

He didn't know what he was in for this time when he got back from deployment, and nicotine and whiskey ain't got shit on this. Poor bastard can't remember the last time he had something so good invade his senses like this.

You said you had a treat for him, made him lay down, and promptly sat on his face, and Simon was fuckin' gone. Don't know what the fuck possessed him but he took one whiff and was instantly hooked.

Simon feasted on your cunt like a man starved. Tongue, lips, fingers, you name it. Anything to get his fix, anything to make you moan.

Anything to make you cum.

Didn't let up for shit, not even to breathe, and when you voiced your concern while whimpering and trembling, Simon didn't give a fuck and still continued to love on your pretty cunt because where the bloody fuck are you going?

Shut up. Shut the hell up and let him make you cum, sweetheart.

Actions have consequences. Shouldn't have made him feel so bloody good, shouldn't have poked at the beast, and he'd be damned if he didn't think this was the best post-deployment gift he's ever gotten. Better than the nicotine high or occasional pity wank.

Fuck, it's been so long and he's absolutely disgusting about it.

And Simon's aware of it all, the way his cock is so hard it's bloody painful and leaking in his pants, the way you're grinding on his face, smothering it and fucking his mouth (don't you dare stop, either), and how his everything is consumed by you. You coat his stubble, fill his nostrils up with your scent, his tastebuds are fired up—bloody hell, need he explain more?

Simon could die a happy man right now, and what would his gravestone say? Here Lies Simon Riley, Died Eating Cunt.

He'd chuckle if he wasn't too busy at the moment. Shit, he probably did if the way you're moaning is any indication. That felt good, didn't it, sweetheart?

It's your turn now to say his name like a prayer and believe in him just as he believes in you.

And it's the best fucking thing to ever bless his ears.

--

Turning Simon Out: Part I and Part II.

[swordymacaroni]

Closer

A/N- I just wanted to post to feel like I accomplished something in life.

Ship- Simon Riley x Reader

Warnings- First-person POV(is that a cw??)

I swallow the remnants of my bitter beverage in one scalding gulp. It does nothing to ease the anger prickling under my spine. How dare he? Meanwhile, the Luitentant, unaware of my internal seething, continues to look over the paperwork, occasionally making disgruntled noises when he messes numbers up. I huff audibly, and he glances up at me, eyebrows raised. I quickly turn away. I would rather stab my eye out with forks than willingly talk to him.

I blink out of my haze when he waves a hand in front of my face. “What?”

Behind his mask, his expression looks to be one of resignation when he says, “I’ve asked you three times if you want me to refill your coffee.”

I choke on thin air. It’s the invasion of the body snatchers. Because how else do you explain Big, Bad, Simon "Ghost" Riley voluntarily inquiring if I require something for my elevated comfort?

The anger prickles under my skin. How generous of him to ask me if I needed more coffee mere hours after he humiliated me in front of the other recruits. Simply for being three minutes late.

I invoke my inner devil so promptly I shake myself to the core.

“It’s funny. You think we’re that close.” And just for the sake of some flare, I flip my hair over one shoulder, taking my bottom lip between my teeth. A vein in his jaw tightens. Triumph blooms in my stomach. I love pissing him off, especially given the circumstances. I slide him a holier-than-thou look as I move to detour around him.

In a flash, I’m pressed between the wall and one hundred and eighty pounds of pure muscle. My mug clatters to the ground and a faint sound of broken ceramics is heard, but I  pay it no attention. Simon’s hands are on either side of my face, closing off any means of escape. His eyes darken at the edges, face inches away from mine. I try not to notice how warm he is compared to the cold bricks against my back. When he speaks, his breath fans over my cheek. “Is this close enough?”

[hahaifolded]

141 x POC!GN Intelligence Operative - Punishment Author's Notes: Imma be honest, I hated that last drabble. Hopefully this one is better Warnings: MDNI, Angst, Depictions of hospitals

“Oi, he’s waking up!”

Price hasn’t felt this horrible after a mission in a very long time. Normally, he’ll come back from an op with sore muscles, bruised skin, maybe an occasional stab or gun shot wound, but never anything too serious. But right now, his body felt like it got hit by a semi-truck…

Well, technically, a rocket, but it all hurts the same. 

One minute, Price is on some remote mountain side, bickering with a Russian brute and the next, he’s on base, clearly in the med-bay, with his entire team hovering over him.

“This has to be hell,” he grumbles as he tries to get up but is quickly stopped by his Lieutenant.

“Don’t. You took some serious damage,” the second-in-command scolds. 

Price just rolls his eyes and waves off Ghost’s concern. “I’m fine. Just needed a few hours to sleep it o—“

“You were out for two weeks, Cap,” Kyle states. Price stares at his sergeant in disbelief. He goes quiet as he recalls his last few minutes of consciousness. John remembers glaring at the Kor-tac lieutenant when a speeding projectile behind the operator suddenly caught his attention and, on instinct, pulling the Russian out of the way before everything going dark. Since he’s still breathing, Price concludes that the projectile must have landed near him. 

“Jesus,” Price groans. “How’s the Lieutenant?” 

“Woke up a few days ago. Him and his men are across the hall.” 

Price hums in acknowledgment. He looks around the curtained room and realizes that there’s a chair missing in his room. “Where have they been sitting?” Kyle, Gaz, and Soap look at their captain confused.

“Who?” Ghost asks. 

John says your name. His eyes haven’t left the three chairs that stand by his bed. He really couldn’t believe his men. He hopes they at least had the decency of offering you a seat when you came to visit. Or maybe you opted to visit on your own to watch over the old man? John won’t admit it but the thought of you keeping him company past visitor hours, maybe holding his hand and begging him to wake up, warms his heart. While still asking for you, he scoots to the left side of the bed so you can sit to his right. 

“There, now there’s space for all of us. Know when they’re coming by?” John joyfully asks. His joy is cut short when he looks up and sees his boys glum faces. “What?” 

The three men throw each other a look before Kyle breaks the news. “Cap’n.” John didn’t like the tone of Gaz’ voice. “They haven’t visited since we’ve gotten back.” 

“Oh,” Price huffs out as a wave of exhaustion overcomes him. He thanks the sergeant for the information and asks the team to take a seat. The entire room goes silent as they note their captain’s fatigue.

However, that silence doesn’t last long.

“Cap’n?” Soap asks. Ghost and Kyle glare at him, annoyed that the Scotsman is interrupting their captain’s rest. John just turns towards Soap and nods his head, signaling the man to speak. “What had you so distracted back there?” Kyle and Ghost turn their attention back to the captain. Neither will admit it but they too are curious for answer. 

John takes in a deep breath as he recalls his dreaded conversation with Nikto. “Gentleman, I made a mistake.” However, before Price can admit his wrongs, his eyes catch a familiar figure.

You walk past without a second glance at Price’s room. The 141 just sit and stare. You’re clearly in a good mood. Your stride has a slight bounce to it as you make your way into another set of curtains diagonal to the 141 captain. A savory aroma hits them after you pass by, probably from the bag you’re holding in your hands. 

None of them say anything as you greet their most recent allies. Nothing had to be said. It’s clear that they all still have feelings for you. However, instead of puffing their chests and sizing the other up, they just resign themselves to the fact, because what’s the whole point anymore? Look at them, they’re all tired and bruised, and none of them have you. What was the whole point of bottling up their feelings if you’re not here with them?

And that realization only makes each passing hour you spend with the Kor-tac boys hurt more and more. Every laugh or groan of your voice made the glaring chasm between you and the 141 clearer and clearer. How did they let things get this bad? 

— — — 

Now with your sides hurting and face aching, you finally call your visit with the Kor-tac boys to an end. Your heart warms as they all groan in disappointment. 

“Duty calls,” you reason. You grab your empty tupperware and give the three soldiers sitting on the bed a small hug. 

“Fuck duty. Just slack off. It’s not like you’re going to be here any longer,” Horangi counters as you two embrace. Bedrest doesn’t stop Nikto from smacking Horangi in the back of the end. 

“Shut it you. No one knows about the transfer yet,” the injured lieutenant scolds. 

You hold back a laugh and shoot Nikto a grateful smile. He’s right. No one, but Laswell knows, and honestly, you want to tell the 141 personally once Price is up and moving again. After a final set of goodbyes, you bid the team a goodnight and leave Nikto’s room.

As you walk down the quiet hall of the med-bay, you think back at Horangi’s words. He has a point. With Kor-tac’s offer, you really didn’t need to work as hard as you have for the 141 anymore. You can just slack off and wait until you give the 141 your resignation. 

However, that’s not you. You’re not a quitter. God knows that’s why you’ve lasted so long here. If anything, you want to show these guys that no matter what, you have never once faltered in performance. That, despite them icing you out, you still have the decency to look them all in the eye and tell them you’re leaving.

Unlike them. 

Maybe that’s why you’re not just slacking off. Because maybe after months of isolation and being the bigger person, you can finally get an answer to why? What did you do to deserve this? Because despite all the reasons you gave them, none of them has come close to explain why they iced you out. And as much as you want to let that go, you can’t. 

You just can’t. 

Because 141 was supposed to be your team. 

They were your team… even if it was just for a bit. 

So much that you subconsciously glance at Price’s room, and instead of seeing an unconscious John, you’re met with those piercing blue eyes. 

“John?”

— — — 

John wasn’t expecting this. 

He didn’t expect you to look over. 

He didn’t expect you calling his name.

And he especially didn’t expect you walking into this room, eyes wide with so many emotions.

“You’re awake,” you observe. You stop just at the edge of his bed, almost refraining yourself from coming any closer. “When did you wake up?”

“A few hours ago.”

You hum as you inspect him all over. 

John Price just stares at you since, for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t have any reinforcements, strategies, or even a back-up plan. 

At this moment, all he has is his heart and one chance to get this right. 

“Sweetheart.” John doesn’t miss the way your body tenses at that. His throat goes dry when your eyes reaches his. Have you always looked this tired? “I—“

“Kor-tac offered me a position.” 

John feels the curtains of his room wrap around him. You can’t leave him. You can’t leave the 141. When Nikto confronted him about how they were treating you, he took it as a warning, a wake-up call, not a full-on declaration of war. He thought he had more time. He thought he would be able to fix his mistake. 

However, before he has a chance to beg you to stay, Laswell and the rest of the 141 appear. Kate walks in while Kyle, Ghost, and Soap freeze by the entrance, shocked by your presence. 

You don’t give anyone a chance to speak to you as you immediately excuse yourself and leave the room. John calls after you but Kate tells him to stop.

“Let them be. We need to talk.”

Word Count: 1426

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