20 she/they Black & Queer 💕MDNI
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Scootaloo gets adopted by Twilight and Fluttershy in this heartwarming animation!
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Lazy Sunday. Oil, 22x28 inches. Considering offers.
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Never had a thing
Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader
I have no clue how this works the thought process was like: since I'm stuck in the worst writing block of my life why don't I start crossposting on Tumblr so it kind of feels like I've accomplished something while the truth is that I haven't been able to complete a WIP in two months? 🫠 I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3. 18+
Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.
Masterlist 🦊
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”
He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.
Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.
Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.
The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.
Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.
A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.
However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.
DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.
At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.
He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?
He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.
Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.
The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.
It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.
You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.
Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.
“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”
And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.
He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.
You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.
Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun.
Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.
Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.
So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.
Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.
Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.
I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.
And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.
Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.
Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.
He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.
Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.
Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.
Zero Dark Thirty.
“Is it true you use callsigns?”
“Yes.”
“You have one?”
“Yes.”
“What is it, then?”
“Classified.”
“Oh, c’mon.”
“Negative.”
The hurt locker.
“You ever defused a bomb?”
“Yes.”
“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”
“Dangerous.”
“Why thank you for the chat.”
“No problem.”
“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”
“Classified.”
You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”
Apocalypse now.
“You are a bit like Kurtz.”
He gave you a look. “Mental?”
You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”
Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.
He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”
And you laughed.
He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.
Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.
Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.
Until two years became three, and then four.
Until he just kind of… stayed.
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.
He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.
You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.
All too well, because it’s his.
And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.
It's clearly yours, now.
He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.
"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.
Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.
You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"
Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.
He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.
You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.
You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.
That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.
Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.
At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.
He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.
He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.
Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.
You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"
“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.
Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.
You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.
What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.
Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.
"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."
He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.
“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.
He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.
Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.
You are particularly cheery.
"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."
That.
That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.
He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.
“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”
In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.
You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.
You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.
Simon scoffs.
Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.
After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.
The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.
He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.
"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”
Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.
“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”
You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.
"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.
His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.
You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.
Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"
Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."
You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.
Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"
Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.
A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.
His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”
You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.
However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.
It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.
"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."
He scoffs.
“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”
His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.
The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.
"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.
Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.
"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."
“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”
You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.
"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."
He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”
In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.
The selfless angel that you are.
You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.
"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."
Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.
"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."
He mutters under his breath. “Right.”
Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.
He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.
He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.
In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.
Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"
Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.
“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.
You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.
Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.
His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.
He could tell you to drop it. He could.
But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.
And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.
Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.
Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.
Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"
He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin.
He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”
His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.
You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.
Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.
"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”
A low scoff slips past his lips.
He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.
He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.
“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”
Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.
In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him). His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.
"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.
His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.
“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.
While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.
As in, touched you, touched you.
He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.
His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.
It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.
His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.
So many ifs he wants to put to the test.
He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.
Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.
How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.
As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.
Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.
Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"
Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.
Not now.
His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.
“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.
Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.
You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.
Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.
But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.
Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."
“Mhm.”
His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.
Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.
“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.
Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.
After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.
Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.
After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.
There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.
“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.
You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.
“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”
He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.
He’s no better than you are, currently.
So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.
You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.
But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.
Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.
However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.
Not tolerated. Not required. Wanted. Needed.
He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.
Why is he doing this.
What does it mean.
Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday.
Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.
So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking.
He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.
His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.
Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.
Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.
Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.
He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.
“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.
Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.
He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.
You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.
He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream.
And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.
His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.
He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.
“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.
His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.
You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.
You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"
“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.
He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.
You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.
He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.
“Gonna cancel it, then?”
It’s bliss. You look like an angel.
"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."
Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.
He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.
Simon would give you the moon if you asked.
He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.
That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.
Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.
Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.
He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.
“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain
“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.
And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.
“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”
And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”
He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.
And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.
Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.
Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere.
“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”
It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.
And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight.
Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.
He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.
However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.
You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.
Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.
"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."
He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.
Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”
You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.
His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.
"Peachy.” Is your reply.
Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.
He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.
“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”
He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.
Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”
He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.
Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.
But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.
Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.
He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.
When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.
“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.
The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.
Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.
"Not as sweet as I thought."
His lips twitch.
“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”
This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.
And he asks for nothing, but you.
His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.
You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."
He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.
For him.
His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.
“C’mere.”
You do.
He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.
Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.
Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.
Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.
But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.
The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.
He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.
However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.
He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.
“No.”
He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.
He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.
Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.
He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.
Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.
“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”
And he does just that.
It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.
Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.
You look wonderful on it.
But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.
He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.
Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.
You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.
You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.
Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.
His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.
Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.
Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.
“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.
He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.
He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole.
“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”
Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.
When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”
Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.
But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.
Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.
The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.
In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.
And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.
“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.
And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.
He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.
Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.
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If I stare at someone too long, I start to see the features of the people I love. It hurts because some of them are gone.
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Gaz, the king of consent
Your boyfriend seems to care more about your own wellbeing more than his. He always knows how to check in and never break the mood. His mama raised that boy right, I know she did.
Gaz, who when you were at the end of your first date walks you up to your door at the end of the night and leans against the wall. After giggling together for a moment and expressing your feelings about the date, he pauses and anxiously chews his lip.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah I just…” He scans your face, eyes lingering on your lips for a second too long. “I just really want to kiss you.” He chuckles anxiously, scratching the back of his neck, looking down to your eyes in silent question.
You step forward, interlocking your hands together infront of you. “I’d like that.” You whisper sweetly, your half lidded eyes flicking down to his lips.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Gaz hesitates for a second before cupping your face and interlocking your lips with his. You both close your eyes as he sighs into the kiss. After a few seconds, he pulls back and rests his forehead against yours, bearing the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. He huffs a small laugh in disbelief.
“I’ll see you soon?” You ask, focusing on his gorgeous brown eyes.
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Yeah, whenever you want.”
—
Or what about Gaz, who when you were watching a movie with on his couch for the first time, slides his hand up your thigh. Slowly inching higher as he gauges your reaction.
He leans in, movie completely rejected as he whispers in your ear, “Tell me to stop.”
You squirm slightly as he keeps his place, slowly rubbing the delicate skin between your soft thighs. “Please…”
“Please, what?”
“Fuck- please touch me.” You whine, watching his smile grow as he wraps his arms around you, slowly working his hands up your shirt.
—
How about Gaz, who when you first have sex, whispers praises and small questions as he works his way up your body, worshiping every inch of you.
“Is that good? Yeah?”
“Yeah, you like it when I touch you here, don’t you? What about… here? Shh shh shhh that’s it, good girl.”
“Show me what you need, baby.”
“Oh you like that, huh? You want more?”
“Such a sweet little thing, telling me what you want. So good for me, aren’t you?”
—
Or maybe even Gaz, whose respect for you and your consent goes beyond intimacy and into your normal daily life.
You’re in the kitchen busy making something for yourself? Gaz makes himself known as he steps into the room, not wanting to sneak around and scare you.
He lets you know when he approaches you from behind, whether it’s letting his shoes shuffle on the floor louder than usual, purposefully stepping on that one squeaky floorboard, or announcing his presence verbally.
“Coming up behind you, love.” He says gently with a hand on your lower back as he scoots past between you and the kitchen island.
It’s very domestic. Whenever you’re looking pretty, Gaz always wants to capture the moment to treasure it forever. Whether you’re cuddling with the pet, covered in dirt in the flowerbed, or maybe indulging in one of your many hobbies.
“May I take a photo of you, love? Just for me?” He asks softly as you sip your wine across from him at the table. You smile and nod, watching as he quickly gets his phone out from his pocket, snapping a few photos and showing you to get your approval.
Sometimes, Gaz doesn’t ask first in fear of ruining the candid shot, but instead takes a sneaky photo and checks with you after it’s taken.
“I took photo of you, gorgeous. Would you like to see? How do you feel? Do you want me to delete it?” He asks as he shows you the sneaky photo he took of you playing with your new baby niece, who’s laughing as you throw her up in the air.
—
Finally, Gaz who doesn’t argue when you say no.
Not in the mood for something? “That’s okay love. Thank you for letting me know.” He smiles, squeezing your hand.
Gaz doesn’t continue anything if you’re unsure, he slows or stops what he’s doing immediately if he sees you hesitate even for a second. “Not sure? That’s okay, baby. Take a minute. It’s okay to say no.” He assures you slowly.
Apologising for saying no to something? Nope, he can’t have that.
“Hey, you don’t need to apologise, alright?” He reminds you gently. “You did good. I want you to tell me if you’re not into something. You’re allowed to say no, okay? No one’s forcing you into anything.” He chuckles, hoping to reassure your nerves as he leads you away from the roller coaster that’s too big for your liking. “We’ll go do something that you do like, yeah?”
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Poly TF141 x Fem!Reader
This is a really self indulgent little fic! Pronouns for reader are she/they. Reader is also caribbean (I am reader lmao)
A very self indulgent little writing piece bc I'm sad and woke up alone today :( (my family was out for work and it's been a hard week for me aaaa) its unedited so probably filled w a bunch of mistakes lmao
Story below the cut! :)
You wake up, the heavy fog of sleep still pressing you firmly to the mattress. Even though your eyes are open, squinting at the dim lights of the room, you make out the voices and silhouettes of your loved ones. Price, or at least whatever sounds like him, was in the kitchen, talking lowly to someone. His voice was still gruff with fatigue but he sounded calm and content. You could hear the static of the TV from the living room, some sort of sport channel was playing. A stifled voice hissed over the noise of the TV, "keep it down, you'll wake them." That had to be Kyle. He was always so worried about you. "Sorry." That was Johnny. You heard the creaking of the couch, then the ruffling of pillows and blankets. "Oh shit!" A loud clatter on the ground, then the groaning of the couch shifting beneath Johnny's weight. "Hope you didn't break the remote." Kyle snickered. "Bah...it'll be fine. Nothin a little duct tape can't fix." The couch creaked again as more weight was added to it. The Hum from the TV soon got quieter.
"See? It's fine." Johnny again. You could practically hear Kyle rolling his eyes. Suddenly, a high pitched squealing caused your heart to stutter. You opened your eyes, only to then recognize the noise to be the sound of the Kettle. Simon's brewing tea most likely. You heave out a sigh, placing a hand on your chest to feel the beating of your heart slow down again. That sound was enough to wake you. You sighed and rolled over, tightening the sheets around you. The mattress beneath your body heaved out an angry creak from the shift of your weight. Suddenly, footsteps and a knock at your door. The hinges creaked as the dim light from the living room flooded your dark bedroom. "Morning sleeping beauty." You could hear the smile in Price's voice.
Lifting the covers off of your head, you turned to peek at him within your nest of blankets. His smile then turned into that signature grin, the one that makes him look like a big soft teddy bear. Walking toward your blanket burrito, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before grabbing the hem of your Bonnet and sliding it back down onto your hair. "Left your breakfast on the stove. You can heat it up when you're ready." Wrapping his arms around your big cocoon, he gave you a tight squeeze before exiting the room. "Princess is up?" Kyle asked. "Might need a minute or two to rest. Best you boys leave her be for now." You could hear price grunt and the Crack of his back as he leaned down to press a kiss to either Johnny or Kyle. Honestly, maybe both.
You rested for about 10 more minutes before lifting yourself out of bed. Shivering at the cool air of your room, you reached for a nearby sweater. Pulling the hoodie over your head, you realized that it was Simon's. He probably forgot it in here when he kissed you goodnight. You then reached over your bed and grabbed your favourite plushie, snuggling it close to your chest before stepping out your room. Johnny and Kyle were snuggled up on the couch and greeted you both with soft smiles.
"Mornin, Hen. You sleep well?" Johnny's voice was soft. He opened his arms for a hug. Approaching your boyfriends, you then kneeled on to the ground and wrapped your arms around their waists. Resting your head in Kyle's lap, you then looked up at Johnny with a smile. "Yeah..I slept good.".
"Glad to hear it, babygirl." Kyle leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head before reaching down to affectionately squeeze your shoulder. The three of you stayed like that for a while, enjoying the warmth of one another along with the hum of the TV.
Johnny let out a yawn, stretching his arms and groaning at the quiet 'pop' of his shoulder. "Price and I tried to make ackee and saltfish. I think it turned out pretty okay. We left you a plate for breakfast." You felt your mouth water at the thought of breakfast. You weren't really hungry the night before so you skipped on dinner. "You mean to tell me, your pasty Scottish ass combined with John's British self, both tried to make a Caribbean dish?" You laughed. "Emphasis on tried." Kyle added, a small snicker of his own. "Well...I thought it was okay..." Johnny looked a bit sheepish. "We did end up burning the bake though...But you can't fault us! Its hard as shit to fry dough in oil.". You laughed, getting up off the floor and holding your stuffy close, "Well, I haven't even tried it yet. I'll be the judge of if you disgraced my culture or not." leaning down, you press a kiss to both of your boyfriends before walking toward the kitchen.
The aroma of ackee and saltfish filled your nostrils along with....Chocolate tea? At the table, Price sat with a mug of coffee and a few papers from an overdue report. Simon stood at the kitchen island with two mugs of tea. "Hey, lovie." He smiled, lifting his balaclava over the bridge of his nose to take a sip of the tea. You made your way over to Price, hugging him from behind and pressing a kiss to his temple before walking over to Simon. "Didn't know you like chocolate tea." You smiled, grabbing the cup next to his and taking a sip. The warm flavours of cinnamon, nutmeg, and chocolate hit your pallet, filling your belly with that fuzzy feeling of comfort and nostalgia. "Didn't know either till today. Price and I stopped by a Caribbean market earlier this morning. Saw it on the shelves and thought to give it a try." he shrugged before taking another swig from his mug. Setting your cup down, you then walked toward him and pressed your face into his chest. Your own lazy way of giving him a hug. He laughed before setting his own mug down and wrapping his arms around you, lifting the hem of your bonnet to smother your forehead in kisses before pulling it down over your eyes.
"Hey!" you playfully scolded, lifting it back up to your forehead. Simon took a playful swat at your ass before walking over to the stove and grabbing your plate of food. "Take a seat, I'll warm your breakfast."
Pulling out the chair next to Price, you then sat down and leaned your head against his shoulder. "Glad to see you up and about, love." Price smiled, wrapping an arm around you. Simon came back and placed your heated plate of food in front of you, "Enjoy." he smiled, leaning down to quickly peck your cheek and kiss Price before heading to the living room.
You shut your eyes, enjoying the smells and soundscapes that filled your home. From Price flipping through the various pages of his reports to the grumbling of Simon, telling Johnny to "move his thick ass over." on the couch. you felt content. You felt at home.
#poly 141#reader insert#fem reader#tf 141 x reader#tf 141#captain john price#johnny soap mactavish#simon ghost riley#kyle gaz garrick#fluff#domestic fluff#soft girl#task force 141#call of duty#call of duty x reader#x y/n#cod mw3#cod mwii#polyamory#black reader#caribbean#caribbean women#self indulgent#price x ghost#soap x gaz#ghoap#black girls of tumblr
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Okay little pet peeve of mine.... In fanfiction and romance literature where two characters kiss, WHY ARE THEIR LIPS ALWAYS DESCRIBED AS BEING DRY AND CHAPPED BY GOD PLEASE PUT ON SOME LIP BALM AHHHH! I know we're boycotting Vaseline BUT THAT DOESN'T EXCUSE YOU FROM HAVING A CRUSTY ASSS MOUTH. GO PUT ON SOME BEESWAX CHAPSTICK OR COCONUT OIL OR SOMETHING LMAO
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Again thinking about ghoap bloody and stumbling into a corner store at like midnight, and just raiding the medical section, the freezer aisle, and snacks and candy. They invade the small bathroom in the back and patch themselves up. Ghost needs stitches, soap needs his shoulder reset. They both need ice. And water. And sugar in their blood. And a nap. But they're alive. Mostly. And this is where they are.
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Some out of context, unused takes from our recording session with Anairis Quiñones, who is voicing Aika in the pilot!
Can't wait for y'all to hear more than just this one line. And also what this one line is for in context haha.
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TLDR:
Cod/reader and non-fandom asks, prompts, ideas are open!
It's been a real rough week for me :( I'm glad that you guys have been enjoying my little blurbs of writing though!!!! Its been very encouraging! Please lmk if there's anything in specific yall would want me to write for cod or even a non-fandom concept!!!! I've really been leaning deep into puppyspace and petere as of late (complicated to explain but I just feel safe and comfy with it) so any prompts related to that is cool too!!!! Asks are always open :)
#call of duty#puppy#puppygirl#task force 141 x reader#task force 141#puppy space#pls call me good girl
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Boys?!? Girls?!?!? Enbies?!?! PLEASEEES I am a very pretty girl in need of soft kisses and cuddles and attention! I am literally just a princess who's waiting for her knight! I am literally just a soft sweet cutie pie who wants to ramble about video games and art! I am literally such a sweetheart! I just wanna be swept off my feet broooo why is romance so hard aaaaaaaaaa 😭😭😭😭
what must i do to feel a boy hug me so closely from behind? to feel him rest his head on my shoulder? maybe even a few soft pecks on my neck? really, what do i need to do?!
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Thank you to everyone who got me to 50 likes!
Aaaaa!!! Woof! If 50 people walked into my room, said "that's neat!" To the stuff I do, and then gave me a high five or a head pat, I'd literally start crying (from happiness! Maybe fear...what are 50 people doing in my room!??) Again, thank you so much!!
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TF 141 boys reaction to you calling them "pretty"
GN reader
Tooth-rotting fluff (with a hint of spice)
Lmk if I should make this a series?
While this piece is SFW, my account is 18+ please MDNI
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
First night Kyle's home from deployment is strictly dedicated to snuggling
Sure the two of you miss sex but for the first night he's home, he really just needs to hold you
He missed your warmth and soft kisses the most :(
As the morning sun rays shine between your room's curtains, you let out a small groan, blinking as the light hits your eyes
Sitting up in bed, you yawn, feeling the brisk morning air against your skin
Kyle's still fast asleep, cuddled up against your side
His head rests on his favorite spot to be, right above your heart
He's mentioned this a few times before but the sound of your heartbeat brings a profound sense of safety to him
Sure he's a soldier who's experienced his fair share of conflicts and violence, but at heart, he's a soft boy who seeks safety and love
Kyle groans, nuzzling his face further into your chest as he feels you sit up in bed
Still asleep, he doesn't notice that his bonnet's starting to slip off
You let out a soft chuckle, reaching your hand over to pull it back down on his head
That's when you start admiring your sweet boy's face
The way his soft brown skin practically glows in the morning light, his pretty lips formed into a sleepy little pout at your sudden movement, his brows furrowed as he sleepily grumbled
You smiled and held the side of his face, gently stroking his stubble with your thumb
"Goodmorning, pretty boy." You smile
Kyle yawned, slowly opening his soft green eyes to look up at you
The sleepy pout on his lips turned into a soft smile
"G'mornin, beautiful." He replied, a certain softness behind his eyes.
Leaning down, you plant a small kiss to his forehead
"You're so gorgeous, you know that?" You smiled
He let out a small huff, a sleepy smirk spreading on to his face
"I know. And I have a partner who's equally as gorgeous" wrapping his arms around you, he pulled you back down to lay next to him.
"Now get your *pretty ass* back in bed. I'm not done cuddling just yet."
Simon "Ghost" Riley
The two of you were on your way home after an event
In the car (with Simon driving ofc) the windows are down and the breeze gently tossles his soft blond locks about
Brown eyes are locked on the road, glancing at you on occasion
As you stare at him, you can't help but smile
As he continues to check his peripherals of you, he finally quips
"Youre staring. Something on your mind, lovie?"
As his words pulled you out of your trance, you blink a few times, the smile on your face growing big and goofy
"No...just lost by how pretty you are."
He huffs, his eyes returning to the road ahead
Even though he has his black surgical mask on, you can tell he's struggling not to smile by the way the corners of his eyes crinkle
He gives your thigh an affectionate squeeze at the next red light, his own special way of saying "Thank you"
Johnny "Soap" MacTavish
You sit quietly in bed, tablet in hand, as you search for the juiciest smut on tumblr to read
It's late, you've already went through your whole night routine, save for getting your goodnight kiss from your boyfriend Johnny
You knew he was out late at the gym but you just can't sleep until he's home
You were soon interrupted from your thoughts as the sound of the door handle to the shared bedroom jiggled
Soon enough, Johnny stepped into the room, gym bag slung over his bare shoulder as he wiped his brow with the sweat-soaked t-shirt in his hand
"Hey, bonnie. Didn't think you'd be awake this late."
His smile was equally as soft as his voice. despite his his loud, energetic, and puppy-like tendencies, he knew to keep it down after hours
"Couldn't sleep without you."
You muttered, setting your tablet down
His smile turned to a lopsided grin as he dropped his bag and threw his tee into the hamper
"Such a sweetheart, aren't ya?"
Approaching the bed, he then leaned down to give you a quick peck on the forehead
As he stood straight again, his attention then shifted to your tablet
"Mmm? Wha's this?"
He smirked, grabbing the tablet and skimming the page you were on
Your cheeks flushed with warmth. Not that erotica is anything new to the relationship, but you weren't exactly planning on getting caught reading it tonight
"Bah...ya dinnae have to bother with tha love. Least not while I'm around."
Crawling on to the bed, the smirk on his face grew mischievous as he began to press kisses to your neck and Jaw, littering you in soft nibbles along the way
You couldn't help but giggle at the sensation of him on your skin. Falling back onto your pillow, you looked up at him breathless and cupped his face in your hands.
"Johnny?"
"Yeah?"
"You're *so* pretty. You know that?"
His brows furrowed in confusion for a moment before he sat up
"Pretty? Here I am topless with you laying flat under me and youre callin me pretty? Wha happened to hot? Did hot leave the room?"
He continued to sulk for the rest of the night
AAAAAA TUMBLR HATES ME AND KEEPS DELETINH MY SHIT!!!! I PROMISE TO GIVE YALL ONE FOR PRICE JUST PLEASE BE PAITENT W ME WHILE I FIGHT TUMBLR
#cod mw2#cod mw3#simon ghost riley#johnny soap mactavish#kyle gaz garrick#call of duty#task force 141#task force 141 x reader#captain john price#gn reader
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Barkbarkabr grrr woof awooo!!!
You know what I mean????
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