kiss4tell

[kiss4tell]

𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊, simon riley.

cw: oral sex (f receiving), mild overstimulation, pussydrunk!simon. wc: 365

Simon’s never quiet when he’s got his mouth on you.

He’s usually so composed, so cold—whether he’s behind a rifle or walking through blood—but that all falls away the second he’s between your legs. That mask of his, so feared and revered, always comes off the moment you start undressing. The only thing he wears when he’s on his knees is desperation.

Right now, you’re sprawled out on the couch, legs over his shoulders, one of his big hands splayed low on your belly to hold you still while the other stays hooked under your thigh. His tongue is relentless. Wide, slow licks, dragging up your slit with obscene wet sounds that echo in the quiet room. Every time he flicks over your clit, you hear the low groan in his throat—gravelly and shameless. Like he can’t help himself.

And maybe he can’t. He’s drunk on it. Addicted. Face buried so deep in your cunt it’s like he’s trying to breathe you in. Messy, moaning, rutting his hips against the cushions just to take the edge off.

You can feel him groaning more—vibrations that shake all the way up your spine. His nose nudges your clit as he dips his tongue inside, and the breath he exhales is hot, damp, shuddering. He mouths at you like he’ll never get another chance. Sucks your clit so gently and then so hard you see stars. He keeps going even when your legs shake around his ears, even when you’re whining, overstimulated and wet all the way down your thighs.

And he just moans. Keeps moaning.

Low, hoarse sounds that build every time your hips grind into his face. Little whimpers that slip from his throat when you tug his hair. And when you come—gasping, clenching, dizzy—he groans into you like he’s the one falling apart.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t lift his head.

Doesn’t speak.

Just keeps licking through your aftershocks, slow now, more tender than before. Like he’s savoring every last drop. His hips twitch against the cushions again, like he could finish just like this, face slick and buried in you, his moans muffled by your pussy and his pride long gone.

[kiss4tell]

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐘, simon riley.

cw: fingering, praise, mild body worship? note: it's been a while since i've had the motivation to write, but i've got something cooking up in my drafts that i might post later.

Simon’s the kind of man who doesn’t do anything halfway, and that includes the way he touches you. When he’s got you spread out for him, thighs trembling and breath catching, he takes his time—not because he’s teasing, but because he’s studying. Watching the way your body reacts to every curl of his fingers, learning you like a weapon he’s field-stripping. He starts slow, rough pads of his fingers dragging through your slick before slipping one in, then another, filling you up inch by inch while his thumb brushes your clit in lazy, deliberate strokes. His eyes stay locked on your face—if you even think about looking away, he growls your name low under his breath, demanding your attention like it’s his god-given right.

He likes the mess. The way your thighs tremble when he goes deeper, the wet sounds echoing in the room, how you whimper his name when he hits that spot over and over like he’s trying to memorize it. And when you’re close—when you’re writhing and babbling, pleading for more—he leans in real close, breath hot against your ear, and says something filthy like “That’s it, sweetheart, come for me. Want to feel you soak my fingers.” And you do, because there’s no resisting him—not when he touches you like he’s worshipping something holy.

[kiss4tell]

i hate how people are becoming so skeptical about others' writing because of ai (use of em dashes, semicolons, etc.) everyone forgets ai uses REAL PEOPLE'S work to create an algorithm.

fanfic writers are constantly taken advantage of because people feel like they can copy and paste without giving credit, assuming the writer's anonymity is a green light to just take their shit. the world we live in is fucking sickening.

[kiss4tell]

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐒, simon riley.

summary: a mission, a warehouse, three minutes. simon decides that's enough time to take what he needs. cw: rough-ish sex, quickie, praise, dirty talk, simon being a nyasty whore, the list goes on. wc: 664 note: i've risen from the dead.

The warehouse is cold, dark, and reeks of dust and rusted metal. You and Ghost are tucked into the shadows, quiet as you move through the space, scanning for anything that might be worth taking back to command. The mission is simple—get in, gather intel, and get out.

But Ghost—Simon—has never been good at keeping things simple.

You don’t hear him coming, not until his hand clamps over your mouth and your back hits the cold concrete wall. You barely have a moment to react before he’s pressing in close, a wall of heat and muscle caging you in. His gloved fingers slip beneath your comms unit, disconnecting the line before tossing it aside.

“Three minutes,” he mutters.

Your eyes widen, your hands pushing at his chest. “Ghost—”

He reaches up and unplugs his own comms, silencing himself from the rest of the team. The warehouse is empty apart from the two of you, but they’ll notice the radio silence soon enough.

Simon presses his forehead to yours, breathing heavy. “Can’t wait. Need you now.”

There’s no time for you to respond. No teasing, no hesitation—just action. His fingers are already yanking at your belt, ripping it open, shoving your pants and underwear down in one motion until they’re bunched around your thighs. He doesn’t even bother taking them all the way off—he doesn’t have the time.

He spins you around, forcing you against the wall, his boot nudging your legs apart. The sound of his belt unbuckling, the clink of metal, the hurried rustle of fabric—it’s all you get before he’s shoving himself inside you with one deep thrust.

You gasp, hands splaying against the concrete, barely able to process the sudden, overwhelming stretch before he’s already moving.

“Fuck—” Simon grits out behind you, his voice ruined. His hands grip your hips hard, holding you steady as he drives into you with brutal, unrelenting force. There’s no warm-up, no slow build—just pure, raw need.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fucking night,” he groans, breath ragged against the back of your neck. “Couldn’t—fuck—couldn’t focus, not with you walkin’ around like that.”

His hips snap forward, slamming into you, the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the warehouse. It’s filthy, reckless, the kind of desperate fucking that shouldn’t be happening here, not in the middle of a mission, but neither of you care.

Simon hunches over you, pressing his chest to your back, caging you in. “Feel so fuckin’ good, love,” he groans, voice low and wrecked. “Takin’ me so well—like you were made for this.”

His fingers dig into your waist, guiding your hips to meet each thrust, forcing you to take him deeper. Each snap of his hips sends a jolt of pleasure up your spine, your thighs trembling as the coil inside you winds tighter, tighter, tighter—

“Not yet,” Simon growls, voice rough as grit and gravel. His fingers suddenly shift, finding your clit with ruthless precision, rubbing fast, messy circles that send white-hot pleasure surging through you. “Need you to come, love. C’mon—be good for me.”

You whimper, body locking up as the coil inside you snaps, pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your walls clamp down around him, tight, pulsing, and that’s all it takes.

Simon shudders, his rhythm faltering as he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep as a guttural groan rips from his throat. You feel him spill inside you, heat flooding deep, his cock throbbing with each pulse of release.

He pants against your shoulder, forehead pressing to the back of your neck. For a moment, the only sound is harsh breathing, the aftermath of something quick, dirty, and entirely forbidden.

Then—

Simon presses a kiss to your nape. Soft. Contrasting everything else.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice warm.

You barely get a moment to recover before he’s tucking himself away, fastening his belt. He snatches your comms unit off the ground, reattaching it just in time.

Exactly three minutes.

[kiss4tell]

𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑, john price.

summary: after a long day of briefings, price comes home to the comfort of his wife—warm food, soft hands, and a few sweet kisses to remind him what he's fighting for. cw: suggestive content, mild swearing, comfort, domestic fluff. wc: 644 note: haven't written for peepaw in so long i almost forgot how hot he is. prob gonna redo my masterlist cause it's so uh guh ly.

Price’s back ached something fierce.

The damn briefings had gone on for hours, stuffed into a room with stale air and worse company, listening to bureaucrats drone on about operations they’d never have to set foot in themselves. His patience had worn thin before the first coffee break, but somehow he’d kept his mouth shut. Barely.

But now—

The smell hits him the second he steps through the front door.

Rich, savory, and so damn familiar it makes his stomach clench with hunger. His shoulders slump as he sets his keys on the table and toes off his boots. There’s soft music playing from the kitchen, and over the sound of it, he hears the quiet shuffle of movement.

“That you, love?”

“Mm-hmm.” Your voice carries over the music, soft and sweet. “Food’s almost ready.”

Price exhales slowly, his head tipping back. His chest loosens in a way it hasn’t all day.

He finds you standing by the stove, barefoot in one of his shirts—his absolute favorite sight in the world. The hem skims the tops of your thighs, and his eyes drag over your bare legs before settling on the gentle curve of your smile when you glance over your shoulder at him.

“Tough day?” you ask.

He hums lowly as he steps up behind you, hands sliding over your waist. He tugs you back against his chest, pressing his nose into the curve of your neck.

“Fucking miserable,” he mutters, voice rough.

You smile. “Poor baby.”

His hands tighten on your waist as you tilt your head to give him better access to your neck. He presses his lips to the sensitive skin, sighing when you hum softly.

“How long ‘til it’s ready?” he murmurs, voice low and dark. His hand drifts lower, fingertips teasing the hem of your shirt. “Because I’ve got other things on my mind right now.”

You huff a quiet laugh, swatting at his hand. “Give me ten minutes.”

Price nips at your earlobe. “You think I can wait that long?”

You turn in his arms, and his hands fall naturally to your hips. You rest your palms against his chest, rubbing slow circles over the firm muscle beneath his shirt.

“You’ll survive,” you tease.

Price smirks. His eyes drop to your lips, and he leans in close enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth.

“Give me something to tide me over, then,” he murmurs.

You tip your head up, pressing your mouth to his. Price groans lowly as your lips part beneath his, soft and sweet. His hand slides up your spine, fingers threading into the back of your hair as he deepens the kiss. Your little sigh against his mouth makes his chest tighten.

When you pull away, your lips are pink and swollen. His eyes drop to them, his thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth.

“Good enough?” you ask breathlessly.

Price’s gaze darkens. His thumb presses into your lower lip. “Not even close.”

You smile. “Dinner first.”

Price sighs, head tipping back. “You’re killin’ me, lovie.”

You laugh, giving his chest a playful shove. “Go sit down. It’ll be ready soon.”

Price grumbles under his breath but obeys, settling onto the couch. His eyes track you the whole time, watching the way his shirt shifts over your hips as you move. He stretches out with a heavy sigh, arms draped over the back of the couch.

You bring him his plate a few minutes later, settling beside him with your own. Price hums appreciatively when he tastes the first bite, and you smile at the sound.

“Better?” you ask.

“Almost,” he replies. His hand finds your thigh, thumb brushing over your skin. His voice lowers. “Could be better if you let me have dessert early.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you.

“Eat your dinner, John.”

He smirks. “Yes, ma’am.”

[kiss4tell]

𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐈𝐃, simon riley.

summary: simon’s not supposed to call you in the middle of a mission, but how could he not when you’re the only thing keeping him sane? cw: yearning!simon, mild swearing, masturbation. wc: 1k note: since you guys loved my last yearning simon so much, i might as well indulge. i also wholeheartedly believe simon is a complete minute-man the minute he gets babied.

He really shouldn't be doing this.

The phone feels heavy in his hand as he leans against the cold tile of the bathroom stall, his back pressed to the metal wall. His head tips back, the ceramic edge of the stall digging into the base of his skull. He breathes through his nose, trying to steady his pulse, but it’s already racing beneath his skin.

The photograph is crumpled from being folded and unfolded too many times, but he smoothed it out earlier—before slipping away from the barracks under the pretense of needing to “take a piss.” His gloves are off, the rough pads of his fingertips brushing over the edge of the polaroid.

Dark blue lace. His favorite color on you.

You’d handed him the pictures so casually before he left. Just slipped them into the pocket of his duffle bag and kissed his masked cheek with a soft, “For when you miss me.”

As if he wouldn’t miss you the second he was gone.

Simon closes his eyes, the weight of the photograph resting over his chest as he raises the phone to his ear. His hands are steady, but his heart is hammering. He knows this is reckless—knows the risk if someone catches him making an unauthorized call in the middle of an op. But right now, that doesn’t matter. Right now, all that matters is hearing your voice.

It rings once. Twice.

His breath stutters when you answer.

“Si?” you sound sleepy, voice soft and thick from sleep.

Fuck. His eyes squeeze shut. His forehead rests against the cool metal of the stall as relief crashes over him, as if just hearing your voice is enough to loosen the knot in his chest.

“Hey, love,” he murmurs. His voice is low, almost gravelly.

“Simon.” There’s a rustling sound on the other end of the line. He imagines you sitting up in bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “What time is it over there?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t care. His eyes drift down to the photograph between his fingers. The dark blue lace barely covers you, hugging your curves just right. He remembers the way you’d blushed when you handed it to him, mumbling something about how you “wanted him to have something nice to look at.”

You have no idea what you do to him.

“Did you get the pictures?” you ask, teasing, as if you already know.

His throat tightens. “Yeah.”

A pause. “Did you like them?”

Simon breathes out sharply. His free hand brushes over the photo. His thumb traces the outline of your body, down the curve of your waist. His mouth feels dry.

“Too much,” he rasps.

There’s a soft laugh on the other end of the line. “Too much?”

He swallows. His pulse throbs behind his ribs. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

“Yeah?” Your voice drops a little, softer. Sweeter. “Poor baby.”

He groans, pressing his palm to his eyes. Fuck. You always know exactly what to say to undo him.

“Hard to focus when all I see is you,” he admits. His hand drifts to the hem of his shirt, pressing into the bare skin of his stomach as heat curls low in his belly. “Just you. In that fuckin’ lace.”

“Simon,” you breathe.

He shudders at the sound of his name on your lips. It’s almost too much. The quiet intimacy of it. It makes his throat ache.

“Wish I was there,” he murmurs. “Wish I could touch you.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, just the sound of your soft breathing in his ear. Then—

“Do you need me, Si?”

Fuck. His eyes flutter shut. He bites his lower lip, head tipping back as his hand slips beneath the waistband of his pants. His fingers curl around himself, breath hitching when his thumb brushes over the head.

“Yeah,” he breathes. His voice is low and strained. “I need you.”

“Wish I could touch you,” you whisper. “Wish I could take care of you.”

His chest rises and falls sharply, teeth sinking into his lower lip as his hand moves, slow and deliberate. He breathes through his nose, trying to stay quiet. The last thing he needs is someone hearing him through the thin walls of the stall.

“You always take care of me,” he says, voice breaking. “Don't deserve you.”

You hum softly, and his eyes roll back. He can picture the way you’d look at him if you were here. That soft, sweet smile that makes his heart stutter.

“You deserve it, Si.”

A low groan rumbles in his chest as his grip tightens, pleasure building beneath his skin. His free hand curls around the phone like a lifeline. He needs you—needs you so bad it’s almost painful.

“I love you,” you murmur through the receiver. “Come home to me.”

His breath shudders. His muscles tense, and he comes with a low, strangled sound, head falling forward as his hand slows. His eyes squeeze shut as his release spills over his hand, hot and sticky beneath his fingers. His chest heaves. His heart pounds painfully beneath his ribs.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his head dropping back against the stall. “Fuck.”

You’re quiet for a moment on the other end of the line, just the soft sound of your breathing filling the silence.

Then— “You okay?”

A shaky exhale leaves him. His heart is still racing, but the sharp edge of tension that’s been sitting heavy in his chest for weeks has dulled. He feels steady. Grounded. Because of you.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Better now.”

You laugh softly, and the sound makes his throat tighten. He swallows past the ache.

“Get some sleep, love,” he says quietly. “I’ll call you soon.”

“Promise?”

His mouth twitches. “Promise.”

He hears you yawn. “Night, Si.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He lingers there for a moment after the call ends, head tipped back, his chest rising and falling in the heavy silence. His hand drifts to his side, the polaroid still clutched between his fingers. His thumb brushes over your smile, and he exhales softly.

[kiss4tell]

wish i could wake up with a boner and not a crime scene all over my sheets. god had to nerf me somehow i guess, sigh.

[kiss4tell]

𝟓𝟎𝟓, simon riley.

summary: simon always finds his way back to you, even when he’s convinced he shouldn’t. 505 isn’t a place—it’s you, and it’s the only thing that feels like home. cw: angst, emotional vulnerability, explicit sexual content, facial finishing. wc: 1.1k note: FACE FAWKIN GLAAAAZED!!!!! thank you all for 500.

He’s not sure when it started—this feeling like he’s always running toward you. Or maybe it’s that he’s running away from everything else.

Simon’s not the type to get attached. He knows better than that. Knows what happens when you give someone a piece of yourself. It’s not something you get back when they’re gone. It’s just an open wound, left to fester.

But with you… it’s different.

505. That’s what it feels like. A destination. A place his mind wanders to when the world is too sharp, too loud, too much. He’s not even sure when he started calling it that, not even sure if it’s the number of your apartment or the time his plane lands back home. He just knows that’s where you are, and where you are feels like home.

He tells himself he’s not coming back this time. The last mission was too close. He’s too close. He can’t afford to let you be another weakness.

But then he’s standing outside your door again, heart hammering painfully in his chest as he raises his hand to knock. His breath shudders in his throat. He’s still wearing the mask. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t—

And then the door opens, and there you are. Bare feet and sleepy eyes, wearing one of his shirts, the hem falling just below your thighs.

“Simon?” your voice is thick with sleep.

He’s undone.

You open the door wider, and he steps in before he can stop himself. His hands find your face, tilting your chin up as his thumbs brush over your cheeks. He leans down, presses his forehead to yours. His breath stutters against your skin.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs. His hands are trembling.

You don’t say anything. Just lean into him, your hands curling in the fabric of his hoodie.

“I keep telling myself I’ll stop,” he breathes, his voice low and rough. “But I can’t. I can’t stay away from you.”

Your lips part, a shaky exhale leaving you. “Then don’t.”

His mouth crashes against yours before the last word even leaves your lips. It’s messy, desperate. Teeth clashing, breaths lost. His gloved hands slip down to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. You melt into him, arms winding around his neck as he backs you toward the bedroom.

The door clicks shut behind him, and he pulls away only long enough to rip off his gloves and tug his mask over his head. It falls to the floor at his feet as he crowds you against the wall, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes—dark, desperate—lock with yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

You don’t.

Instead, you tilt your chin up and press your mouth to his again. His hands grip your thighs, lifting you as your legs wrap around his waist. He carries you to the bed like you weigh nothing. His mouth trails down your jaw, over the pulse hammering beneath your skin.

“You don’t get it,” he breathes against your throat. “You… you ruin me.”

You tug at his hoodie, fingers brushing bare skin beneath it. He shudders. His hands slide up beneath your shirt, rough palms dragging over soft skin.

“You’re all I think about,” he murmurs. His voice cracks. His hands are trembling against you. “Even when I’m gone—especially when I’m gone—you're the only thing that feels real.”

You push him onto his back and climb into his lap, his hands settling on your hips as you straddle him. His breath hitches when you kiss him, slow and deep, guiding his hands beneath your shirt.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur against his lips. “Not leaving you.”

His hands tighten on your waist. His eyes darken.

“You promise?”

You nod. “I promise.”

He pulls you down into another kiss, and this time there’s no hesitation, no lingering doubt. Just you and him, in this moment, the only place he’s ever really wanted to be.

You roll your hips against him, and he groans into your mouth. His hands slide down to your thighs, dragging you closer until you can feel how hard he is beneath you.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You trying to kill me?”

You smile against his mouth, grinding down again until you feel him twitch beneath you. His hands tighten on your hips, his breath going ragged. You lift his hoodie over his head, and he sits up to help you, mouth immediately finding the soft skin of your throat once it’s gone.

“Simon,” you sigh, tilting your head to give him more room.

His hands slip beneath your shirt, tugging it up and over your head until it joins the growing pile of clothes on the floor. His mouth trails down, lips closing around one nipple as his hand kneads your other breast.

You gasp, fingers threading into his short-cropped hair as he sucks and bites at the soft flesh. His other hand slides down between your thighs, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear.

“You’re already wet,” he breathes against your skin. “Been thinking about this, huh?”

You whimper when his fingers find your clit, rubbing slow circles that make your thighs tremble.

He pulls your underwear down and you help him shove his sweatpants off. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip.

“Come here,” he murmurs, guiding you over him.

You sink down onto him slowly, feeling every inch of him stretch you open. His head falls back with a low groan, fingers digging into your hips as you bottom out.

“Christ,” he hisses through his teeth.

You rock your hips, and he makes a wrecked sound deep in his throat. His hands slip up your back, holding you close as you roll your hips. His mouth finds yours again, all tongue and teeth as you ride him slow and deep.

“Fuck—fuck, that’s it,” he groans, voice breathless. His hands move to your ass, squeezing and guiding you.

You speed up, the sound of skin on skin filling the room along with his low, broken moans.

“I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasps.

“Come for me,” you murmur, brushing your lips over his ear. “Come on, Simon.”

He groans, pulling you off him at the last second. He sits back, stroking himself furiously as you kneel in front of him.

“Open your mouth,” he breathes.

You part your lips, eyes heavy as you watch him. He curses, his head falling back as he comes with a low growl, ropes of it painting your lips and chin.

“Fuck,” he breathes, opening his eyes to see you licking it off your lips. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. He kisses you, tasting himself on your tongue.

“You okay?” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours.

You nod, smiling up at him. “More than okay.”

His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you close. He kisses you slow and deep, his breath still ragged as he pulls you into his chest.

505.

Home.

[kiss4tell]

UMMMM WHAT???? THE LOVE IVE BEEN GETTING IS ASTRO-FUCKING-NOMICAL 💋💋💋

and in honor of my following being 505, guess what song i’ll be basing my next work on….

[kiss4tell]

Hi!

Silly request, wondering if you could write about Simon thinking reader hates him because they're always always ignoring them. Maybe reader works in medical or something, but it bothers Simon to no end ,so finally he starts stalking them. Breaking into their room, rooting through the drawers thinking they're a spy because of all the small batteries. Only to discover that they're not ignoring him or a spy, reader is hard of hearing or deaf and because Simon always wears a mask and reader cant see his lips to talk to him.

So dark and brooding Simon corners them in sick bay and removes his mask to talk to reader. Something sickly sweet and overly ridiculous like Simon surprising reader by signing them something the next time they're all getting food.

Having a hard time with your own hearing bullshit and could use a little Simon.

Ps. Love your writing! Keep writing what makes you happy!

summary: simon thinks you’re avoiding him—never responding to him, never acknowledging him—until he finally corners you in the sick bay and realizes you’re not ignoring him at all; you’re just hard of hearing. cw: mild stalking behavior, hard of hearing user. wc: 598 note: lovely ask, it's anything but silly! it gave me something to do on a friday night that isn't bedrotting and playing the sims. hope you enjoy, anon <3!

It starts as a slow burn of irritation.

Simon isn’t someone who demands attention, but he notices when people go out of their way to avoid him. And you? You’re a damn expert at it.

At first, he thought he was imagining things. But it keeps happening. Over and over again.

He’ll say something—short, to the point—and you don’t react. You don’t even glance his way. You brush past him in the hall like he isn’t there, turn the other way when he enters the room, and never—not once—acknowledge his presence unless absolutely necessary.

Soap gets a grin from you when he cracks a joke. Gaz gets a playful nudge when he teases you about something. Even Price gets an exasperated sigh when he reminds you to check in for your own medical evaluations.

But Simon? Nothing.

The more it happens, the more it grates on him.

What’s your problem?

Did he do something to piss you off? Did you think you were better than him? Were you hiding something?

The last thought festers, turning suspicion into paranoia. He watches you closer, notes the way you interact with the others, how you always position yourself just right—where you can see people’s faces clearly.

And then, one night, when you’re out of your room, he does something reckless.

He picks the lock and lets himself in.

What he finds isn’t anything unusual—neatly folded uniforms, a book on your nightstand, a half-empty cup of tea gone cold. But then he notices something else.

Batteries. Small ones.

And for some reason, that’s what makes his gut twist.

So, he corners you the next day, irritation brimming, needing to figure you out once and for all.

It happens in the sick bay. Everyone else is gone, leaving just the two of you, the antiseptic scent of the room thick in the air. You’re standing by a supply cabinet when he steps in, boots heavy on the floor.

“Look at me.”

You don’t. Not at first.

He gets closer. “Look at me.”

You turn then, your brows furrowing as you meet his gaze, eyes flicking down to his mask—like you’re searching for something.

And suddenly, all his frustration, all his suspicions, crack and crumble into nothing.

Because when he gets close enough to see—really see—he notices them.

The small, barely noticeable hearing aids tucked behind your ears.

Shit.

Everything clicks.

You weren’t ignoring him. You just… couldn’t hear him. At least, not unless he was close. Not unless he was louder.

His stomach twists, shame curling in his chest, but before he can say anything, you exhale sharply, shaking your head.

“You thought I hated you, didn’t you?” There’s something amused in your tone, but not unkind.

He doesn’t answer, jaw tight.

You huff a laugh, tilting your head slightly. “You mumble. And you always wear the mask. I can’t read your lips when you do that.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. Of course.

Before he can think better of it, he lifts a hand, tugs the mask up just enough to expose his lips. “That better?” His voice is quieter this time, careful.

Your eyes widen, lips parting slightly, and for a moment, there’s just silence between you.

Then, you nod, something softer in your expression. “Much better.”

It isn’t an apology—not outright. But later, when you sit down at the mess hall, Simon surprises you.

He taps your shoulder, waits until you turn to face him, then lifts his hands.

And signs: Hello.

Your face brightens, something warm blooming in your expression, and it hits him deep in the chest.

[kiss4tell]

вℓαѕρнєму│simon riley au masterlist.

SIMON RILEY 𝑥 FEM!OC

TAGS: graphic violence, gore and mutilation, religious extremism and abuse, psychological trauma, paranoia and hallucinations, trauma bonding, sexual tension/situations, murder and death, psychological abuse, corruption, age gap. NOTE: this will be a story with multiple parts (expect slow updates cause your girl is busy). i'm taking a step out of my comfort zone writing this simply because i don't tend to write dddne content. however, if i want to broaden myself as a writer, i should be taking those leaps.

Blasphemy follows Eulalia Mandíbula, a woman haunted by a past steeped in religious fanaticism and abuse, as she tracks down the cult La Sombra Divina in the ancient city of Santiago de Compostela. This cult, believing that suffering and sacrifice are the only path to divine favor, has been carving a bloody trail across the city. Task Force 141 is dispatched to investigate, but their methods clash violently with Eulalia's—she's spent years unraveling this sect, and she's unwilling to let the military tarnish the work she's begun.

As Eulalia and Ghost are forced to work together, their mutual distrust slowly becomes an inevitable bond. In the shadows of the cult's horrific rituals and grotesque sacrifices, Eulalia's mind fractures, plagued by the echoes of her past. The closer they get to unraveling the cult's mysteries, the more the line between reality and nightmare blurs for her. What started as a mission becomes a spiral into madness, where trauma, guilt, and death interlock, and the true horror is not just in what's seen, but in what's felt—and buried.

MOODBOARD (pinterest link).

PLAYLIST (spotify link).

WATTPAD (this is where you be able to read in a more organized manner instead of bouncing around. i'll also be making an a03).

[kiss4tell]

have y’all ever been so hungry that you feel like a famished victorian child, cause that’s where i am right now.

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𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓, simon riley.

summary: behind closed doors, simon isn't the hardened soldier everyone assumes—he's soft for you, utterly pliant beneath you, content to let you take whatever you want from him. cw: fem!reader, riding, soft bottom!simon, praise, mild teasing. wc: 862 note: sorry this took so long. twas a bit busy this week, i fear.

People assumed Simon Riley was always the one in control. His presence alone commanded it—the broad frame, the intimidating quiet, the sharp cut of his words. No one in their right mind would believe he ever let anyone else take the lead.

And yet, here he was.

Splayed out on the couch, head tipped back against the cushions, half-lidded gaze heavy with something thick and dazed as he watched you sink down onto him. His hands rested on your hips, fingers twitching like he was holding himself back from gripping too tight, from guiding your movements.

He wanted to. You knew he did. But Simon never took unless you let him.

“Christ,” he muttered, voice already wrecked, his head tipping forward so his forehead nearly brushed your collarbone.

You exhaled a slow, shaky breath, taking a moment to just feel him—thick and heavy inside you, stretching you open inch by inch, filling you perfectly. Your hands smoothed over the broad plane of his chest, feeling the way it rose and fell beneath your touch.

“You okay?” you murmured, rolling your hips experimentally, relishing the way he sucked in a sharp breath through his nose.

His hands flexed against your hips. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, just—fuck. You feel good.”

You hummed, a smug little smile tugging at your lips. “I know.”

A quiet huff of laughter rumbled through his chest, but it dissolved into a low groan when you lifted yourself just slightly before sinking back down again, setting a slow, teasing rhythm.

Simon all but melted beneath you, his hands tightening against your hips, guiding but still not leading, letting you take whatever you wanted from him.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured, breath warm against your throat. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

Your heart swelled at the reverence in his voice, at how utterly gone he sounded. You cupped his jaw, tilting his face up so you could press a lingering kiss to his mouth. “Only for you,” you whispered against his lips.

A low, desperate sound rumbled in his throat, and then his hands were sliding up your back, pressing you closer until your chest was flush against his. His lips trailed along the curve of your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping lightly before his tongue soothed over the same spot.

The slow, deliberate pace was maddening, the steady drag of him inside you, the warmth of his breath against your skin, the way his hands roamed your back, your waist, your thighs like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you most.

“Simon,” you murmured, voice breathy as you shifted, planting your knees more firmly against the couch cushions for leverage.

He hummed, eyes fluttering open to meet yours, dazed and hazy with pleasure.

“Touch me,” you pleaded, and that was all it took for whatever restraint he had left to snap.

A deep groan rumbled in his chest as his hands slid down to your ass, gripping firmly as he helped guide your movements, lifting you just enough before pulling you back down onto him, forcing him deeper.

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, pace picking up as you rocked against him faster, chasing that molten heat coiling low in your stomach.

Simon was unraveling beneath you, his breath coming in short, uneven puffs, his grip tightening like he was barely holding himself together. His head tipped forward, burying between your breasts, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses against the swell of them, teeth grazing before he sucked lightly, leaving faint marks against your skin.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice barely more than a rasp. “M’close.”

“Me too,” you breathed, rolling your hips just right, angling so the thick drag of him hit that perfect spot inside you, making pleasure spark white-hot through your veins.

Simon was a mess beneath you, hands gripping desperately, breath ragged, murmuring a litany of praises against your skin.

“That’s it, love,” he panted. “You’re fuckin’ perfect—feel so good, so fuckin’ good—“

His words sent a sharp pulse of heat straight to your core, and then you were falling apart, pleasure washing over you in a dizzying wave. Your back arched, nails raking down his chest as you gasped his name, body trembling with the force of your release.

Simon wasn’t far behind. The moment your walls fluttered around him, pulsing and squeezing tight, his breath hitched, and then he was gone—gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a broken moan muffled against your chest.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the harsh, uneven pants of your breathing, the faint rustle of the couch cushions beneath you as you slumped forward against him.

Simon was the first to break the silence, a quiet, breathless chuckle vibrating against your skin. “Y’tryin’ to kill me, love?”

You grinned, pressing a lazy kiss to the top of his head. “Maybe. But what a way to go, huh?”

His chest rumbled with laughter, and then he was wrapping his arms around you, holding you close, perfectly content to stay just like this for as long as you’d let him.

[kiss4tell]

which should i write next?

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mane, wdym i have to write ten pages minimum worth of notes on othello🙁? pls send help and rations.

[kiss4tell]

𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑, simon riley.

summary: simon’s monthly trip to the dog shelter takes an unexpected turn when he meets you, the kind-hearted volunteer who makes him feel just as seen as the dogs he comes to visit. cw: none, just fluff. wc: 401 note: extended version of this hc.

Simon isn’t the kind of man who does things for recognition. No one knows about the hefty bags of high-end dog food he lugs through the shelter’s front doors every month, or the way he crouches in the back kennels with the dogs who’ve been deemed too “difficult” for adoption, patiently sitting with them until they trust him enough to nuzzle into his palm. No one’s ever asked why he does it, and he’s never felt the need to explain.

Until you.

You’re new. He notices the first time he comes in after a long rotation away, sees you bent over one of the front desk drawers, rummaging for something. And you notice him, too.

“Oh, you must be Simon,” you say, straightening up with a bright smile. “They told me about you.”

Simon stops, brow twitching beneath his mask. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, stepping out from behind the desk. “The guy who hauls in a month’s worth of food like it’s nothing? Who sits with the dogs no one else will?” There’s something warm in your gaze as you study him, as if you’re trying to piece him together. “You’ve got a reputation around here.”

That’s new. He wasn’t aware anyone had noticed.

Simon clears his throat, adjusting his grip on the bags in his arms. “Not much of a reputation,” he mutters.

You tilt your head, amused. “If you say so.”

It takes time, but over the next few weeks, you start appearing wherever he is. When he kneels in the back kennels with a particularly anxious dog curled in his lap, you’re there, sitting beside him, whispering soft reassurances. When he carries in the food, you’re waiting at the door to help. He doesn’t know what to make of you at first, but you’re persistent, chipping away at his guarded silence with easy smiles and genuine curiosity.

One evening, as he lingers by the kennels a little longer than usual, watching you scratch behind the ears of a sleepy pit bull, you glance up at him with a grin.

“Y’know, Simon,” you muse, “for someone who doesn’t talk much, you say a lot.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That right?”

“Mhm,” you hum. Then, softer, “I like it.”

And for the first time in a long time, Simon feels something shift in his chest, something warm and unfamiliar. He doesn’t fight it.

[kiss4tell]

i can’t stop playing the sims.