#Simon Riley x female reader

[dmitriene]

plink inspiration

humping simon riley's cock, you're in your panties, soft, cottony fabric sticking wet with drippy slick to your puffy folds, as you glide across the engorged, thick girth of his throbbing cock, rudy tip spilling pearly precum that soils your underwear and turns his pale skin all tacky, gleaming under the warm light of the night lamp.

he doesn't urges your movements, warm palms holding onto your thighs as you roll your hips tentatively, pressing heavy on simon's erection through every spill of his precum, soaking your already slick stained panties through gruff, grunted moans, fluttering eyes heavy lidded, pale eyelashes sweeping across his cheekbones while he gazes you up and down.

you're both tired, a quick fuck simon offered before the sleep turned in just mindless humping, while you drag your pantied, warm pussy over his spasming, rippling cock, over every webbing, glistening vein, gazing at the reddening crown before you twist your hips, making your clit bump against his swollen, bulbous tip, riding on it with gasping, lazy little moans.

the slow, gliding movements is enough to make simon cum, spilling the thick, milky ropes over his abdomen and soaking in your panties, warm against your fluttering, pulsing cunt as you gush in your underwear, stretching glistening strings from where you were seated on simon's jerking cock, as you shift to slip your panties off your hips, exposing the sight of your pussy.

the fabric rolls down your legs along the dragging of your fingers, while you roll to sit against the pillows, taking the soiled, sodden panties to wipe simon's cum off his twitching abdomen and cock, humming a murmured apology when he hisses at the brief overstimulation, before you drop your underwear off on the floor and curl yourself into his side, nuzzling closer and falling asleep.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[skyrigel]

Simon “Domesticated” Riley is my favourite.

Yes, he would kill for you and he would die for you but his affections and undying love isn't limited to oaths. It's boundless and endless.

He will cook for you, learn because he wasn't taught very good and he wants everything to be good for you.

He will sing for you, because you'd heard him in the shower and couldn't get past to fall asleep without his husky songs to make you fall asleep on his chest.

He will wash the dishes, side by side you. Laughing along as you dry the plates and using his hands at work to your own advantage to play mischief on him.

He will hear you, as you would continue to talk about everything because nothing was out of field, and despite you being a very seducing distraction, he's always trying his best.

He's a “my girlfriend, my wife” guy despite the other Task force guys teasing him about it, he doesn't mind holding your purse, instead he prods on it, he's always on his knees to tie your shoelaces, to help you out from those pointy heels. He doesn't mind being whipped, as Soap christened it, or smitten as Gaz chortled, because he is, as he should.

He's not patronising, despite being raised up to be one. He's gentle and kind and soft for you, and he's working on becoming a better man everyday for you.

He doesn't let his anger that's so unforgiving and terrible get the better of him, he's not a monster despite the blood on his hands as you've always told him so, he would pace around the lawn, sit in the grass, wash his face but he wouldn't let his anger be something you should be scared off, he wouldn't let it get between this holy thing called love.

He talks things out, understands your opinion, values them openly. 

He expresses everything even so it'd become difficult after being told to be stoic for so long, but he tries, always for you. 

He's always startled and flushed when you compliment him and he's trying to learn that you mean every word of it.

Masterlist

[oceantornadoo]

dubcon, objectification, forced (?) threesome, f!reader

they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

ghost finds you ten months after your divorce, nursing a drink in a shithole of a pub. he doesn’t consider himself a good man, licking the tears on your cheeks when he fucks you for the first time, ignoring your whines of how “it’s been a while” and you’re “too tight.” he doesn’t like to keep birds around longer than a night, but something about how you wrap your leg around him in the morning makes him stay a little longer.

he lets you call him simon after you whine that you “can’t fuck him without knowing his name.” it takes a bit, but you get used to sleeping with someone who isn’t your ex-husband. he calls you bird instead of sweetheart, love instead of darling and after a while, the word honey loses its significance. when simon tells you he’s military, you try to leave his bed, only for him to pull you by the thigh, apologizing with his tongue in your cunt. simon doesn’t date and you aren’t ready for it, content to stay in your respective apartments, living for his occasional half-smiles and usual gruff admonishments. its a bit new to simon - he’s used his camera app more in the past weeks than he has in years. always pictures of you: his cum on your tits, the bruises he leaves on your hips, a rare photo of you sleeping. he even lets you corral him into taking a cheesy mirror picture, his arms dwarfing your waist with his face tucked into your neck, your jawline exposed as you turn to kiss his cheek.

it’s two months later when you promise to cook him a meal for the first time, a sunday roast he hasn’t tasted in years. “better not take too long, bird, ‘m starvin’.” simon murmurs in your ear, hands squeezing your stomach and waist as you fumble with your keys. “i’ve had it slow cooking before i left for yours last night. it’ll put us in a food coma.” you finally put the key in the lock, turning it with force before simon decides to fuck you against the door. he dips to bite your neck, sending you into your apartment giggling, swatting him off you. the weight of your divorce is finally off your shoulders, happy butterflies fluttering in your stomach formed by simon’s continuous presence.

the butterflies die when you see a familiar pair of boots at your door.

“stay here.” you order simon, a change from your usual dynamic. you can’t focus on his reaction, set on edge by the sounds of pots clanging in your kitchen. there’s no point in creeping - he knows you’re here. you turn the corner and there he is - your ex husband. “you’re just in time, sweetheart. nice ‘f you to make a roast.”

john’s standing there like he owns the place, like he knows this kitchen he’s never been in. he’s boiling potatoes on the stove, keeping an eye on the slow cooker timer. he’s even poured himself a fucking drink, a scotch he had to have brought since all you have is wine and simon’s whiskey. all smug and entitled in his civvies, commanding the room like he pays your rent. he's still as handsome as ever, darker eye bags the only indication he's been losing sleep.

“what the fuck are you doing here, john?” john doesn’t answer immediately, instead using a fork to test the potatoes. satisfied, he takes them off the burner and turns to the sink, dumping them out in a prepared strainer. “‘s our anniversary, sweetheart. thought that’s why you made the food.” you can sense simon still in the doorway, his presence unknown to your ex. it gives you strength, a guard dog at your back, and comfort that he’s letting you run this on your own. “our anniversary ended when we signed the papers. i don’t know how you got in here, but you need to leave.” he frowns at you and it almost tugs at your heart strings. your brain conjures images of his coldness and constant distance, and you shut that down real fast. unfortunately, he doesn’t get the memo. john takes a step closer, hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “honey, i-“ and that’s when ghost steps out of the darkness.

there’s a long pause. it boosts your ego a bit, showing john you’ve moved on, until the silence is so long that you start to worry. you chance a look at simon’s face and find it confused, not at all the guard dog you thought he was. a glance at john’s reveals the same. you’re about to ask your question when they answer it for you. “captain.” “lieutenant.” “what?”

the transformation happens in an instant. both men straighten to their full heights, wiping any emotion off their faces. their brows furrow as they flex their hands to control their instincts. how could you not see it before? simon only mentioned he was military, but the stamp of the SAS is clear as day. it was in the harsh lines he carried, a companionship with death, not unlike the one john had.

john started first, of course, always having to take control of the situation. “you fuckin’ my lieutenant, sweetheart? miss me that much?” you rolled your eyes at his cruel words, inching closer to simon. “whatever we do doesn’t concern you.” you emphasized the “you”, spitting it out with venom. john hums low, making you nervous. you turn to simon, but he's quiet and calculating, communicating silently with his captain.

"didn't know you had a wife, sir." you answer before john can. "we divorced a year ago." john chimes in. "to the day, actually. she served me on our anniversary." simon looks down at you, the man you thought you knew now gone. his eyes are black pits, targeting you like you're prey. "that's cruel, bird." you sputter, backing into the kitchen cabinets. you walk until your back hits the sink, each man on either side of you. john has his arms crossed and head cocked to the side, like you're about to get chewed out by the school principal. simon looks...no longer human. unrestrained. whatever spark you two had has gone out, replaced by sheer loyalty to his captain. "show the captain what he's been missin', love. y've been starvin' him." he moves at lightning speed, picking you up and dropping you on the island counter, sunday roast long forgotten.

"simon?" he doesn't answer, scarred hands squeezing up and down your body as john watches from behind him, arms crossed and eyes searching. your mind is telling you one thing but your body wants another. some twisted part of your brain reminds you that john came to visit on your anniversary, even though you threw him out a year ago. simon's no better, coaxing your sweater off your torso, leaving you exposed in a lacy bra. your nipples harden and john sees, making a clicking noise with his tongue. "warm 'er up, lieutenant." simon obeys instantly, pulling down the cup of your bra to suck on your nipple. he's ravenous, no sunday roast in sight, and he's decided you're his meal instead. he sucks hard, a calloused hand reaching up to pull your other tit out so you're fully exposed to your two men. he squeezes it with reverence, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucks hard on the other one, not minding his own teeth.

it's dirty - watching john watch you. you hadn't fucked in the last months before the divorce. he was always too busy, on base or deployed, and you were so angry you couldn't let him near you. now, your ex-husband moves closer, taking in the sight of his lieutenant feasting. "miss me, sweetheart?" you shake your head on instinct. he sighs at your attitude. you're seated on the corner of the island, perfect for john to come up on your side, one large paw making its way towards your jaw, turning you towards him. "say it." you shake your head again. john sticks a thumb into your mouth, pushing against your teeth. you try to force him out, but simon bites your tit, making you gasp and let john in anyways. you suck his thumb defiantly, gazing at him with all the emotions you can't convey.

you look so pretty like this, john decides. laid out for his lieutenant, taking his orders as well as your emotions will allow. he decides to forgive you for your indiscretions with ghost - at least it was with one of his own men. they're practically an extension of himself. john hooks his thumb into the gap between your tongue and teeth and pulls, forcing you right into his space. "i reckon your cunt's nice an' wet, though. should i check? know she's missed me even if you won't admit it." your eyes go wide, giving him an answer he already knew. simon follows orders well, manhandling you into position by yanking off your jeans. there's a wet spot on the light fabric of your underwear. john can practically see your cunt clinging to it, begging for him to say hello.

"want ya to take 'em off y'self, bird." simon's finally speaking, the glaze in his eyes fading. he looks at you, then his captain, and it makes sense. how you're used to being led but refuse it all the same. how you're desperate for affection but won't date him because he's military. you're scarred from the chains of your marriage, so it only makes sense that he's the one you seek out - the opposite of husband material. more dog than human on his worst days. simon stares at you until you follow his command, meekly lifting up your hips as you take off your underwear. your cunt is sopping, in a way it only does when you’re ovulating, practically begging for it. your ex-husband whistles through his teeth like he’s praising a recruit. “knew she’d be happy to see me. hullo, darling.” you can’t find it in you to cringe. john starts running his fingers through your folds, inspecting, and all you can do is stare. stare at the veins in his forearm. stare at simon behind him, eyes trained on his captain’s movements. stare at the counter where your juices start to gather and wonder how the hell you got into this situation.

“pinch ‘er tit an’ watch ‘er flutter.” simon’s callous with his instructions but john follows them anyway, his unoccupied hand reaching up to pinch your nipple. you can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way your cunt flutters around john’s fingers. he hums thoughtfully. john decides you’ve been good, if not a bit quiet, and presses his thumb against your clit as a reward. he starts rubbing in that pattern that would get you off without fail during your marriage. he fits one finger into you easily as you grip the counter hard, the sudden sensation overwhelming. simon peers over his shoulder like a fucking scientist. “‘f she gets bratty, i pull back the hood til she screams.” like your cunt’s a machine and they have the two pieces of its manual. john’s movements are making you desperate, hips starting to buck against his fingers. he chuckles and adds another, not hiding a smile when you sigh in relief. simon’s hands come to your waist, helping you fuck yourself on price’s fingers. it feels so wrong, having them barely listen to your pleas, and yet being under their watch is the most right you’ve ever felt in your life. that’s what brings your orgasm - not john’s thick fingers on your cunt, his rough thumb in your clit - but two sets of hungry eyes on you, like you’re their last meal. john fucks you through your orgasm, simon not letting you out of his grasp until tears start to form, the embarrassment of your own wetness coming to the front of your mind. john slowly removes his fingers and brings them to simon’s mouth to taste, not satisfied until his lieutenant hums in agreement. the two men turn to you, naked save for your disheveled bra around your waist, somehow making the scene more depraved.

“‘ow ‘bout that roast, love?” simon murmurs gruffly.

good thing john never signed the divorce papers.

[ltash]

Englufed by passion

Slowburn, angst, death..

SimonGhostRileyxfemalereader

In the dance of death, their shadows bled,

Love turned to ruin, a bond misled.

He held her close as her breath grew weak,

A kiss of the blade, no words to speak.

The corset fits like a second skin, the delicate fabric caressing every curve, each tug of its ribbons accentuating the shape you've worked so hard to conceal. The halved top frames your figure, a deliberate choice that hints at vulnerability. Your fingers smooth over the material, lingering on the way it clings to your waist before you force yourself to look away. The clock ticks. Time isn't on your side, but then again, it never is when it comes to Simon "Ghost" Riley.

Your heart beats faster at the thought of him, your enemy, your equal, and tonight, your accomplice. You lean into the mirror, applying a sheer gloss to your lips. The applicator glides smoothly, leaving a subtle sheen that catches the dim hotel lighting. It's a small act of vanity, perhaps even indulgent, but necessary. Everything about your appearance tonight is designed to disarm, to beguile. Not because you think you can manipulate him, you're not foolish enough to underestimate Ghost, but because you want to see if he can be shaken.

The Glock on the dresser gleams under the light, fully loaded and ready. Every bullet is a promise, each engraved with his name in your mind. The thought should steel your nerves, but instead, it stirs something else, a dangerous cocktail of anticipation and dread.

The sound of the door opening snaps your focus back to the present.

There he is.

Ghost fills the doorway like a shadow come to life, his presence overwhelming in the small hotel room. The tactical gear hugs his powerful frame, every strap, and buckle a reminder of the lethal man beneath it. He wears no helmet tonight, just his black balaclava, the skull design barely visible under the muted lighting. His weapon is in his hand, silencer attached, the barrel pointed low but still commanding attention.

His dark eyes lock on you immediately, sharp and unyielding.

"Heard you know Makarov's whereabouts," he says, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn't bother with pleasantries, his tone slicing through the air like a blade.

You inhale deeply, steadying yourself. Vulnerability is your weapon now. Tilting your head, you meet his gaze in the mirror. "I might," you reply, the words soft but edged with defiance.

The silence that follows is electric, the kind that makes your pulse race and your skin prickle. He takes one step forward, just enough to close the distance slightly, and the room seems to shrink around him.

"Five minutes." His jaw tightens beneath the mask, the slight movement enough to hint at his frustration.

Your lips curve into a faint smile, a calculated expression meant to taunt. "So impatient, Mr. Riley." You turn away from him, reaching for the ribbons of your corset. "Do you mind?"

Your fingers work the laces deliberately slowly, tugging just enough to feign difficulty. You catch his reflection in the mirror as you twist back toward him. He hasn't moved, but his eyes burn with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

"I thought you'd be a gentleman," you tease, your voice dipping as you tug again. The corset bites into your skin, a slight sting that you welcome. "Considering we're on the same side now."

"Temporarily," he corrects, his tone clipped.

The air thickens, darkens. It's no longer just tension. It's something heavier, something primal. His gaze doesn't waver as he crosses the room, his boots heavy against the floor. Before you can react, his gloved hands brush yours aside, taking hold of the ribbons himself.

The first pull is sharp, precise, and you gasp as the corset cinches tighter around you.

"Not so tight?"

"Three minutes," he interrupts, his voice firm.

You swallow hard, your throat dry as he works his way down the rows. Each tug of the ribbon draws the fabric closer to your body, the pressure both restrictive and intoxicating. His hands move with an efficiency that is almost maddening, his gloved fingers curling the excess ribbon as he reaches the bottom.

Your breath hitches as he gives one final pull, the force of it sending you stumbling backwards. You collide with him, your back pressing into his chest, his arms steadying you instantly.

"You load those bullets with the intention of taking me out?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

Your head tilts slightly, your lips parting as you struggle to find your voice. "Each... and every single one."

His head dips, his masked face hovering near the crook of your neck. The heat of his breath seeps through the fabric, warming your skin in a way that makes you shiver. You feel his lips brush against you, the mask creating a barrier that only heightens the sensation.

"You shouldn't have melted," he murmurs, his voice a rough whisper against your ear.

You hated him, despised him, but the thought of being undressed by him, manhandled by him, was too much enticing.

Your hands twitch at your sides, instinct urging you to push him away, but you don't. Instead, you freeze as his hands slide over your waist, his grip firm and unyielding. He pulls you closer, his body flush against yours as he begins to move.

"This could be us," he says, his hips shifting against yours in slow, deliberate motions.

Your breath hitches, your head falling back slightly to rest against his shoulder. The words you want to say catch in your throat, silenced by the overwhelming heat of him.

"You can't even speak," he taunts, his lips brushing against your ear. "And I'm not even inside you."

Your nails dig into his forearms as his pace quickens, his movements both calculated and maddening. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, your skin damp with a heat that has nothing to do with the room's temperature.

He groans softly, the sound vibrating through you as his lips trail lower, teasing the edge of your collarbone. Your eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, you let yourself sink into the moment into him.

Your lips part, a faint moan escaping before you can stop it, and his grip tightens. For a moment, you forget everything, the mission, the danger, the hatred you're supposed to feel. In his arms, you feel small, delicate, and undeniably feminine.

But Ghost is nothing if not unpredictable.

Suddenly, he releases you, stepping back and leaving you swaying on unsteady feet. Your palm shoots out to the mirror for support, your reflection flushed and breathless, a stark contrast to the composed woman you'd been minutes ago.

"Lie to me," he says, his voice sharp as a blade, "and it'll be the last game you play."

The door closes behind him with a resounding click, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence.

The derelict warehouse looms in oppressive silence, the air thick with the stench of rust and decay. You slip inside through a broken window, your boots crunching against shattered glass. The Glock in your hand feels heavier than usual, your grip tightening as you scan the darkened space.

He's here. You can feel him.

The faint glow of moonlight filtering through the broken roof illuminates a maze of abandoned machinery and forgotten crates. Somewhere in the darkness, Simon waits. Your chest tightens at the thought, but you push it down. Fear is a luxury you can't afford.

"Running late, love?" His voice rings out from the shadows, deep and taunting.

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. He's close, too close. Slowly, you turn toward the sound, your Glock raised and ready.

"I was starting to think you'd stood me up," he continues, stepping into the faint light. His frame absorbs the room, all sharp edges, and deadly calm. The skull mask covers his face, but his eyes burn through the gloom, locked on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Wishful thinking, Riley," you bite out, keeping your weapon trained on him.

He tilts his head, his posture relaxed but dangerous. "That's not the tone of someone who needs me, darling. And you do, don't you? For Makarov."

Your lip curls, but you don't lower the Glock. "Give me the location, and I'll be out of your way."

"Funny." He takes a step closer, the sound of his boots echoing in the cavernous space. "I was about to say the same to you."

The tension snaps taut as a wire, your breathing shallow as you prepare for what's coming. You know him too well-he won't give up Makarov without a fight.

And neither will you.

The first shot rings out, the sound deafening in the stillness. You fire, but he moves like a shadow, dodging behind a pillar. You curse under your breath, pivoting to track his movements.

"Come on, love," his voice calls out, mocking. "You can do better than that."

You dart behind a stack of crates, your pulse pounding in your ears. He's toying with you, drawing you into his web. But you're not some helpless prey. Not tonight.

You move silently, circling the room as you search for an opening. The Glock feels cold in your hand, a steady weight grounding you. And then, you see him, a flash of black against the moonlight.

You fire again, the shot sparking off metal as he dives to the side. He's fast, but so are you.

The next moment, he's on you, his body a force of nature as he knocks the gun from your hand. It clatters to the ground, and you lunge for it, but he grabs your wrist, twisting it until you gasp.

"Still think you can win?" he growls, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

You don't answer. Instead, you twist sharply, breaking his grip as you reach for the knife strapped to your thigh. The blade gleams as you slash at him, forcing him to step back.

His laughter is dark, almost amused. "That's more like it."

The fight becomes a deadly dance, the blade flashing between you as you trade blows. He's stronger, but you're faster, your movements fueled by adrenaline and sheer will.

You manage to land a hit, the knife grazing his arm. He hisses, but it only seems to fuel him, his eyes narrowing as he steps closer.

"Is that all you've got?" he taunts, his voice thick with challenge.

"Not even close," you snap, slashing again.

But he's ready this time, catching your wrist and twisting it until the knife falls from your hand. You struggle against him, your body pressed against his.

Your body twisted to face him, but before you could react, his hand clamped onto your throat, slamming you back against the cold concrete wall. Your chest heaved as you gasped for air, the pressure of his grip just shy of crushing.

"Game over," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin.

Your eyes burn with defiance.

"Simon," you choked out, your eyes wide with disbelief.

His dark eyes glinted through the mask, unreadable yet charged with something primal. He was close, so close you could feel the heat radiating from him, the rough texture of his gloves brushing against your skin. His free hand moved to his back, drawing a blade with a deliberate, almost sensual slowness.

"You lied," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

The cold kiss of the blade met your abdomen, the sharp tip pressing just enough to break the skin. Your breath hitched, your body stiffening against him.

"Simon," you whispered again, this time softer, pleading.

His masked face tilted, his gaze devouring your desperation. Then, with a sudden, calculated thrust, he drove the knife into your flesh. Your gasp was sharp, cutting through the air like a scream strangled in its infancy.

Your hands instinctively flew to his chest, weakly pushing against him, but he didn't budge. His gloved hand gripped the knife's hilt, and he twisted it, slow and deliberate. Your cry turned into a whimper, your body arching against him, helpless and fragile.

Your vision blurred as the pain consumed you, your breaths shallow and quick. Yet in your fading consciousness, you felt the way his body stiffened, his breaths growing heavier. The act wasn't just an execution; it was something darker, something intimate.

Your trembling hands found his wrist, clinging to him as if he were the only anchor in the storm of agony. Blood pooled between you, warm and sticky, staining the space where your bodies met.

Your head lolled onto his shoulder, your lips parting to speak, but no words came. You shuddered, your body going weak.

As your strength ebbed, your knees gave way, but he caught you. His arms wrapped around you, holding you against him.

He caught you, cradling you as you tremble in his grip. For a fleeting moment, it felt almost tender. "Shh," he murmurs, almost gentle. "It's over now."

You cling to the last threads of consciousness, your vision blurring as you look up at him. His eyes, cold and unrelenting, are the last thing you see before the darkness takes you.

Your final breath escaped as a soft sigh as your body went limp in his arms.

And as your body goes still, his voice echoes softly in the empty room.

"Game over, love."

For a moment, he remained still, holding your lifeless body against him. The blood beneath you was warm. It's a metallic scent filling the air. Slowly, he pulled out the knife from your abdomen, his movements almost reverent.

As he stood, he placed your body gently on the ground, his gaze lingering on your peaceful expression. The fight was over, but the war within him had just started.

[your-highnessmarvel]

cotton candy | s.riley

CHAPTER TWELVE

Pairing: Simon Riley aka Ghost x Original female character

Warnings: language

Chapter Summary: Ghost has never felt the need to protect her as much as he does now.

A/N: There's no much here but the continuation and sort of closure from last chapter. This was more of a transition from where we left off last time (LMAO) to what's next.

Masterlist

Find it on AO3 HERE.

MINORS DNI BELOW THE CUT

When she awoke, Laura wasn't blinded anymore. In fact, she wasn't sleeping against Ghost's form anymore. It was Soap whom she leaned against, Soap that she was curled up on, his hands in her hair, his fingers caressing her jaw.

He was shaking her awake.

The room had darkened when she rose on her haunches, looking around with puffy eyes and brain fog.

"We're cleared to go out," Soap was saying, but Laura was looking for Ghost.

She groaned, reaching for her pants, and standing up to put them on.

Soap stood, watching her with a corner smirk. "You okay?" he asked when she lost her balance with only one foot in her pant leg.

She sighed, straightened, and slowly put her other foot through, pulling her pants back up. She hadn't noticed how sticky her panties were, and it made her so uncomfortable to put her pants over it.

"I'm okay, just tired, and I want to shower."

Soap grabbed her wrist gently, looking out towards the door as if someone would come bursting in.

"No I mean..." he trailed off, searching her eyes. She kept them averted, looking at his feet, the floor, the cot where everything had changed between the both of them. The three of them.

He gently brought her face to his with his thumb on her chin, dragging her eyes right back to his baby blues. "Are you okay?" he repeated, much slower, much more emphasized.

She swallowed hard, feeling her face flush with embarrassment. "I'm just... what do we do from here?"

He smirked, cockiness etched onto his features. "That's all up to you, lass," he answered, gruff. "But right now, let's get you back to the RV, back to Laswell, and then a shower!"

---

Alejandro and Price were both pacing in opposite directions of Laswell's small office. The lights had been dimmed, the screen of her computer turned off. Laswell kept appearing in glimpses, between the interlacing bodies of Alejandro and Price, as they paced back and forth, meeting in the middle.

She was sitting at her desk, hands clasped together, her chin rested on top of the net her fingers made. Her eyes were huge, glassy, dissociated.

"How many?" she asked--again.

"Eight," Price confirmed.

Eight members of staff dead. Nineteen injured. Twenty six shadows identified--Twenty dead, six missing.

All for Laura.

Ghost's insides felt like hot spaghetti, twisting and slipping around under the skin of his belly. Churning. He could picture it, piss yellow noodles in a pool of his blood, angrily coiling into each other, stretching and pulling at his sides.

It was hot, burning, scalding--his anxiety. It was so unbearable that he had to bend over in his chair, elbows on his knees. It made him tense, like his stomach was made of lead, like he was physically sick.

It made him hypersensitive to all the sensations in his body--this anxiety. The way his t-shirt was scratching at his chest. The way it was too tight on his shoulders. His neck seemed to itch, but it wasn't an itch, more of an oversensitivity.

He suddenly got up, the chair scraping against the linoleum.

Laswell looked up suddenly.

With two feet planted on the ground, Ghost faced his team. Price stopped pacing near the wall. Alejandro right near Simon.

"We know exactly who did this," Ghost said. "We know exactly who ordered this hit on Laura, on us."

Everyone remained quiet. Ghost was stating the obvious.

"And we know where his safe houses are. We know where his businesses are. We can hit him where it hurts, draw him out like venom in a snake bite. We can track his convoys, his trade offs, and show him we're watching him."

Laswell breathed in through her nose, then sighed loudly, shaking her head. "I like the enthusiasm, Ghost, but Alvarez will just go underground. Right now, he thinks we don't know where he keeps his guns, his drugs, his women. He thinks we have no idea where his men lay their heads at night, where they shit, eat, shower." She got up, putting her palms down on her desk.

Ghost could see her visibly tense.

"That's how we can track him. Because if he knows we have the coordinates to eight of his safe houses, hell, if he knew we even had intel on his next run--he'd vanish right under our noses."

Ghost bit his tongue.

Price put up his hands like he was stopping two bulls from butting heads.

"I understand there's a...good reason why you want to jump right on the gun, Ghost." He could've just said her name. "But there's a reason why we do these operations covertly. Because it works. And guys like Alvarez are slimy. He's making good money here, and that's why he's still here. But if he gets a whiff of us anywhere near his shit, he'll pack up. He's the kinda guy who would rather risk losing some money and build a new operation elsewhere than get caught."

Ghost wanted to scream. None of this was helping him--or helping the angry soup spaghetti in his belly.

"So what's next?" he asked. His eyes met Laswell's. "What are our orders?"

She sighed, the tendons in her neck visible ridges under her pale skin.

She looked at Price with a cautionary glance.

"What?" Ghost asked, his voice tense, brimming on the edges of a scream.

"We have one of them in custody," Price answered, tucking his chin to his chest.

Ghost's eyebrows shot up under the mask.

"You have one of Alvarez's men in custody!?" His voice all but bounced off the walls of the room. "What are our orders, Laswell!?"

"Alejandro and Price will interrogate the prisoner," Laswell said, eyeing Ghost cautiously. "I have Gaz on the dead shadows, trying to piece together their identities. They had some electronics on them, so he'll go through each and every one of them to get any information."

"What about me?" Ghost asked. "Soap?"

Laswell nodded. "This position has been compromised." She looked at him dead on. "Laura's position has been compromised. Alvarez knows she's here, with us. And right now, he thinks he has the upper hand. He thinks we have no idea where he is, where his men are. And he thinks he knows where Laura is, and that he will just come and get her."

"He'll never be able to breach these walls again," Ghost answered.

"Maybe, but that doesn't mean he won't try again. And we can't have that."

Ghost shrugged. "So what are my orders, Laswell?"

She straightened, jutted her chin. "You and Sergeant MacTavish will be put on a special, undercover operation, starting in three days. You'll be tasked to transport Laura to Pattaya City, in the Gulf, where we'll have you evacuated to Singapore. You'll be assigned new identities under the guise of employees of the LHA Armada."

A helicarrier?

"I'll be on the boat, as will the boys." Price stepped into Ghost's vision. "We'll be the decoy. Once Alvarez and his men are on our tail, you'll leave with the kid."

Ghost swallowed his worry. "Three days?" he asked.

"You'll have to be prepped and ready to leave Friday, 0700 hours," Laswell confirmed.

Ghost nodded. "Yes ma'am."

"Get your team ready as well."

"My team?"

"Sergeant MacTavish and, well, Laura."

Ghost shook his head. "Laura is a civilian. She's not part of any team."

Alejandro snorted. "She's is now, Ghost," he said, crossing his arms. "It will do you and her some good to have her trained in combat, weapons, and tactical."

"She can't possibly be expected to learn and remember all the training we took years to learn in just three days." The spaghetti soup was swirling madly in his belly again.

"Three days is better than no days, hermano," Alejandro sighed.

"And she has some hand-to-hand training, as I've been told," Price added.

"And she's smart," Alejandro continued, his voice lower. "We're lucky we got a target whose got a head on her shoulders and knows how to use it."

Ghost felt the spaghetti in his insides melt. "I'll go warn my...team," he said, and headed for the door.

Everything on base was different now. There were security checkpoints everywhere, and Ghost had to give his DoD numbers eight times before he made it back to the RV.

When he saw the lights on, he could physically feel the angry, churning mess inside him seep out of his intestines, pool down his legs, and collect in a puddle beneath his feet.

He saw her shadow in the kitchen window. She was sitting at the table, directly in front of another shadow with a mohawk.

The hinges on the RV door squealed to life when Ghost entered.

Laura perked up, her cheeks reddening when she watched him come in, closing the door behind him. Ghost wanted to drink that in, the look on her face, that innocent, round, doe-eyed look.

Her dark ponytail, the sweet roundness of her cheeks, the way her t-shirt clung to her shoulders.

But he only had three days.

"We leave in three days," he said.

Soap's face hardened. "L.T?"

"We're evacuating Laura to Pattaya. And then we're waterbound to Singapore."

Laura frowned, looking between the two men. "Wait what?"

Soap sighed. "You heard him, lass," he muttered. "We have three days to get you ready. And then we're walking all the way to Pattaya."

Laura looked up at Ghost with those big brown eyes of hers. Ghost felt his insides harden, and suddenly, overwhelmingly, the need to protect her climbed up and took residence between his ribs.

[lovelyghst]

simon’s not a virgin by any means, but the first time he sinks his thick cock into your tight, sweet little cunt, he absolutely loses it.

the sugary tone in which you gave him permission to fuck you after he asked, begged you so nicely, like he was even deserving of it.

how he has to bite down on the rugged knuckle of his fist when he presses the head of his cock to your soaked cunny, failing to stifle down his groans but already too fucked-out to care whatsoever once he bottoms out (or at least as much of his cock he’s able to fit in).

the way his name spills from your puffy lips when he finally starts to move, just barely an inch in and out with each ‘thrust’ because you’re just so fucking warm and welcoming and he doesn’t want to separate from you for even a split moment.

how your fingertips lightly graze between the divots of his flexed, pronounced abs, nails raking over his skin with a softness no one has ever shown him. he’s turning greedy for you; needs more and more.

you turn dumb in a matter of seconds. so dumb, in fact, you haven’t even noticed he finished inside you the instant his cock was fully sheathed within your tummy, and how he’s already coaxing out his second load to join the first one fucked deep into your womb.

and you can’t even blame him, considering he was fucked utterly stupid from the moment he set eyes on you :(

[evilgwrl]

SIMON IS PRACTICALLY FERAL FOR YOU

Wherever you go, this man is next to you, one hand always touching you.

You’re showering? Ok so is he. It’s not his fault you’re pushed up against the glass, ass flushed against him as he pounds into you from behind, hands clawing at your flesh as he grunts.

You’re watching a movie? This man is lying flat on you, groping at your tits before he takes them in his mouth. He has a hard time concentrating and he promises this helps him.

You’re working from home? Let him help you. And by help he means, cock-warm him while you work and every time you complete a task he’ll fuck up into you as a reward!

You’re going to bed. You already know he’s fucking you to sleep, eating your gushing pussy before he’s denting your gummy walls with the outline of his cock, fucking against your sweet spot as you make a mess of the sheets, desperate pussy clenching around him as he fills you up.

“This pussy’s always ready for me, I fuckin’ love you, sweet’art.”

[dmitriene]

sending simon riley a pic of your new underwear, except, it's on you, while you lay on the comfortable, cotton sheets of your shared bed, surrounded by the soothing smell of fabric softener, with a sweet, sharp curve to your pretty spine that let's him see the fabric of your lacy, skimpy panties, hiding your plump asscheeks just slightly.

the round swell of your breasts hold up by the frilly, lacy cups, decorated with beautiful patterns and looking right in the camera, your smooth, tender skin calling for him just from the picture alone, making simon feel the drool that builds up in his mouth, a coy, little message with a bright, teasing heart where you ask him if he likes this new underwear pair you got makes his cock chub beneath the pants.

he thinks about your soft, beautiful smile all the week, about this naughty spark in your lidded eyes that looked right in the camera while you took the picture, the small videos you sent him to rile him further, where you twirl, snap the fabric of your panties so it would make your round asscheeks jiggle, his fingers itching to touch, counting days to when he'll come home.

your underwear barely survives simon's homecoming, bra coated in a layer of drool from where he slobbered over your perky, gorgeous nipples, swelling and warming under his twirling, ravaging tongue, your panties sodden with strings of your slick and his precome, soiling the pretty lace, marking you, where his spasming, rudy cock lodged in your split pussy.

pooling and dripping steadily, glistening rivulets of slick that coats every inch of his veiny, throbbing girth, while your body thrashes on the sheets, from the feeling of his coarse hair rubbing against your puffy clit, while simon holds his fingers around your ankles, spreading your legs to carve himself deeper, his spilling tip jutting against your gummy spot.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[skyrigel]

Simon's the guy who is nonchalant and a no-nonsense attitude, he's the man who doesn't care and absolute zero fucks and that's until missus comes along.

Now Simon's running around the house, bickering how you shouldn't skip breakfast and he's absolutely frowning when you side your greenies before he's holding your jaw and spooning them in, “Now be a good girl for me, won't ya' cupcake.” is all he says, tapping twice under your chin.

He's fussing over you, tucking you in scarves and caps and buttoning your coat because it's cold outside, “Can't see my pretty girl sick.” is all he says, bumping your nose.

John practically snorted when Simon pulled out your sneakers from your purse that he has been carrying, because he knew you're gonna whine about your pointy heels later, “Dance all you like babygirl” is all he says, bending down and removing those evil heels, then massaging your red ankle before he's sliding in your sneakers.

Oh, and yes he's gonna burn the whole fucking world if it meant to keep you warm, because he fucking cares only about missus.

Grim Reaper! Simon

Masterlist

[oceantornadoo]

simon riley AND reader who are absolutely terrible at dating.

he ghosts you after the first date. you thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime connection with unmatched banter and crackling physical tension. guess not. you lose a couple of nights of sleep over it and chalk it up to men ain’t shit and move on.

simon who can’t stop thinking about your date as he gets shipped out the next day. runs through an op quicker than ever, barking at soap more than usual, toeing the line of unprofessional. every day that passes is a day he can’t touch his personal phone, leaving your text thread abandoned.

you get a text a month later. “you around?” have to check the thread to remember who it was, finding yourself absolutely shocked, struggling to remember the hulking mass of a man who made you giggle so much over that one dinner.

simon shows up to your picnic date with apology flowers and a new leather jacket. explains why he was gone without prompting, a gruff monologue as you find yourself getting distracted by the new scratch on his eyebrow and the scruff on his face. unconsciously, your fingers brush it barely, wanting to make sure it was real.

simon stops mid-sentence, gripping your wrist in an iron hold. the shock of what you did hits you, profuse apologies spilling from your lips as you try to explain and tug your wrist back. he won’t let you though, keeping it in place, your soft skin against his worn calluses.

“‘s okay, love. jus’ ask next time. still jumpy from work.” you finally snatch your hand back, embarrassment warming your body as you nod your head in acknowledgment. he thinks about letting the awkwardness settle and take roots, adding a string of failed dates to his black book.

instead you make the choice for him, attention catching on a nearby curious toddler. you give the little bugger a wave with your biggest smile, sticking out your tongue to make the kid laugh. simon decides then and there that he’s going to keep you.

[zvdvdlvr]

imagine ur bd being out of the picture and your little girl running up to si ☹️🤍

   “Daddy!”

   Simon looked down, eyes wide at the little girl wrapped around his right leg. Johnny eyed him carefully. He was thankful none of the other café patrons paid any mind. “I���m not your daddy, love,” Simon said. He tugged his leg away gently but the strength of a child is hard to match.

     “Annalise, get off that man,” a woman cried. In the blink of an eye, she knelt near Simon’s leg and tugged the child away.

     “Dada!” She shrieked. Annalise’s chubby hands reached out for Simon’s. “Is dada, mama!”

     You shook your head. “I- I’m so sorry, sir. Her dad was in the military. Anna thinks everyone in fatigues is dada… Do you want me to get either of you a coffee to pay you back? I’m truly sorry.”

     Soap discreetly elbowed Simon harshly in the side. “‘M quite alrigh’ lass. Simon, here, would take a coffee if your serious. If you’ll excuse me, I got to go. Bye, little lassie,” the Scot rushed, face lightinf up at the way Annalise giggled as his parting.

     Annalise was still cooing and reaching for Simon. You just shifted her on your hip and rubbed her back. “Simon, yeah?”

     “That’s me, ma’am,” Simon nodded, feeling suddenly extremely exposed without the balaclava he had decided not to wear for one single occasion. “You don’t have to pay me back-“

     “Nonsense. I would feel like a bad person if I just let my kid latch herself onto your left and call you dad and then just swoop her up and leave,” you said, reaching for your wallet before walking over to the ordering counter. “What can I get you?”

     Simon ordered a small of his usual, watching you pull the money from your wallet without glancing at how much it costed. He observed you in that split second- a beautiful baby girl on your hip who thought any man in camo was her dad. So he had been in the service… Simon watched you smile kindly at the teen behind the counter who fumbled for your change. You murmured a quiet, “It’s quite alright, take your time.” A well-mannered, well put-together individual who was also very attractive. Simon knew what Johnny was doing when he left and Simon would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought you were a catch.

     “I seriously appreciate the coffee, ma’am, but it was unnecessary,” Simon said as you tucked your change back and waited for the drink. “As long as the kid’s alrigh’, I don’t need anything in return.”

     You smiled. You smiled at Simon and he swore his cold heart jumped in his chest. Clearly your bright smile disarmed Annalise as much as Simon because she let out a bubbly laugh and put her hands on your cheek. “What if I said I wanted to?” You asked coyly.

     Simon watched Annalise play with a baby hair near your face. “Then I’d say it’d be a cruel thing to tell a gorgeous woman no.”

[graphicpepsi]

salvatore (nsfw, mdni)

Ghost taking his mask off during sex for the first time.

He doesn't even mean to- but with the way you’re riding him like that, the slap of your ass against his strong hips bucking up into you-

he can't stop his hand from pulling off his hot balaclava, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. you're so fucking tight around him- your shaking legs sending pulses up his body.

"Si-Simon," Your mouth falls agape at the sight of the man before you, his blue eyes rolled back, lips parted as he watches you bounce up and down on his dick.

His hands grab the fat of your hips, red hand prints forming underneath them.

"Fuck luv, 'jus like that,"

He bucks his hips up into you before flipping you on your back.

"Simon-"

He snaps his hips into you hard, the tip of his dick pushing into your cervix, gummy walls pulsing around him like fucking heaven.

"Fucken 'ell,"

His eyes fall to the bulge in your tummy, his jaw going slack.

Your pussy stretched to its brim around his thick cock- you were so good for him, almost splittin yourself in two.

"Simon, wanna cum," You whine, blinking back the tears in your eyes.

"I know luv, me too,"

You scratch at his back with your nails, leaving pretty red lines for him to admire the next morning.

He snaps into you harder, placing a warm hand over the bulge in your tummy, pushing into it.

God, he was pretty.

You came around his cock shakily, shuddering into him. You love this feeling, love being stuffed full of his girthy dick.

You pull the hair at the nape of his neck and that's all it takes for him to cum inside of you.

Moments later you're sprawled over his bare chest with his arm thrown around you. You're playing with the hem of his discarded balaclava with your fingers. His hand strokes your arm lovingly.

"Handsome," You murmur, eyes flicking up to the curve of his jaw.

...

[euno11a]

it is proven that majority of women can’t orgasm from intercourse alone. So imagine reader who can’t make herself cum, no matter how she touches her swollen little bud.

it’s becoming more annoying as you keep trying, different speeds, pressures, and angles, but nothing seems to work for you! It’s gotten to the point where you’ve quite frankly given up on even touching yourself. You’ve tried for so long, yet always get nothing.

so imagine telling Simon when he asks you, oh so kindly when on deployment, to touch yourself with him to make you both feel good. The silence over the phone when you say you can’t.

“What?”

“I just can’t. I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t work for me.”

“‘Ave ya-?”

“I’ve done everything, Simon! I can’t, okay?”

it was clear that this was something that you weren’t comfortable with talking about. It made you upset that you didn’t “function correctly” like other women. So the night Simon came home, he greeted you with a soft kiss. There wasn’t any harsh underlying emotion, just soft and sweet love. His large and calloused hands would cup your cheeks and look at your eyes, watching the slight confusion slip into your gaze.

now laying against his sturdier chest, looking at yourself in the mirror with him behind you, you knew what was happening. He gently pulled down your sleeping pants, taking his time to let his fingertips brush against every inch of your thighs, all the way down to your ankles. And soon enough, off came your panties too. He started by admiring the slight glistening of your slick right by your entrance, using his fingers to gently dip into the fluid that he loved. Dragging his fingers upwards, he brought his fingertips to the side of your clit, letting your slick be the lube for his fingers.

Simon looked at you through the mirror, keeping eye contact as his fingers pressed onto your clit. The gasp that left your lips was sudden, almost reaching down to grab his wrist, but stopping when he gave you a stern warning look. Everything felt different - his touch felt electrifying, while yours felt like watching paint dry. Why was it so different? Your eyes fluttered shut, head resting on his shoulder when he started speeding up his small circular motion. Your thighs spread a little more, shuddering when you felt a build up in your lower tummy. That burn you never felt unless you used a toy, the burn you got before you were clouded with euphoria; it was coming. You let out small squeaks and whimpers as your hips lifted and you came undone. Usually that’s when you’d stop, let your body just relax, but Simon kept a firm hand across your torso, using his leg to keep yours pinned down so he could still rub you till complete satisfaction.

once his movements slowed and he was panting along with you slightly, he pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder, looking at your eyes through the mirror again.

“I don’t care what time of day it is, if ye need t’cum, y’tell me and I’ll help, love. Alrigh’?”

you mustered a small nod, droopy eyes falling to the wet and sticky mess between your thighs, and the lovely hands that helped you along the way.

[lovelyghst]

poor simon settling for just the tip with his pretty girl late at night, having just gotten home from work and finding her sleeping soundly in their bed. he gently coaxes you awake, going against every nerve in his worn out body to let you rest, and he asks you so, so nicely.

begs, more like it, and you simply can’t refuse.

with your sweet permission, he slicks up his cockhead and eases it into your little hole with some effort from the both of you, his eyes fluttering shut as he fights to maintain his promise. just the tip.

and he shows such good restraint for you! moaning through his clenched jaw as he slowly fucks the tip of his cock in and out of your pretty pussy, whining when the exposed length of his dick pulses from neglect. he’s sat back on his knees and heels with your hips pulled into his lap, not trusting his tired muscles enough for missionary. still, he can’t keep his hands off of you.

he may be desperate, but he couldn’t bring himself to hurt or force anything onto his princess. that would be the true death of simon riley. he even runs a gentle thumb over your swollen clit to make you melt into the pillows, urge those lovely little noises from your lips, the same ones he’s been hearing in his daydreams while he’s at work.

they make his dick throb, the seasoned soldier’s hand trembling as it soothes over your lower tummy. gosh, he missed you so much.

and you read it all on his face; how much he respects your wishes, but also how badly he needs relief. the slackened jaw, panting chest, droopy eyes heavy beneath furrowed brows. it makes you frown.

“simon,” you whine out softly, and his eyes snap up to meet yours. the look on your face makes him stifle a choked moan. “c’mere…”

you reach up as he leans forward for you and, to his surprise, you tug him in by his neck for a needy kiss. you wrap your legs around his lower back as best you can, locking them tight in the divot of pure muscle, and you reel him in closer.

consequently, the rest of his cock fully sheathes inside you and the sudden stretch makes you whimper out, him groaning loudly like a whore as he buries his heated face in your collar. christ, he fucking came just from one stroke of tight, wet warmth. and it feels so good, too good for him. he works hard, you think, he deserves it.

you giggle as you hold your baby close, let him catch his breath and grasp his settings before he rolls over, you held clasped in his arms.

he falls asleep in the matter of seconds, with his face in your chest and his dick in your cunt, like a good soldier. probably mutters some strained apology in between, even though you couldn’t be happier.

[musouie]

sending simon a “care package” while he’s on deployment, but in lieu of non-perishable food and toiletries, you send him erotic photos and his favourite pair of your lace knickers.

he thanks you the following afternoon with a string of blurry videos of him jerking off in his bunk, muffled moans escaping clamped lips and a massive, veiny hand pumping his flushed cock.

when he comes, his meaty thighs tremble, as does the camera. you don’t see much, save for the splatter of white against his skin as he groans and sighs — a bestial thing ripped from his throat — and your knickers wrapped around him.

and when he returns from deployment, with pallor skin and sunken eyes, he leaves no room for you to question what could be wrong — because the second he enters your home, he’s forcing you against the wall and fucking your starved cunt for as long as he can manage, making up for all those precious months lost :(

masterlist <3 . . . newest feral!simon

[evilgwrl]

Simon Riley watching you shower.

Calloused hands are wrapped around his spit-covered cock, anticipation leaking from his tip as he ruts forward.

Your body is so soapy and wet, glistening under the light as you scrub yourself, bending over to reach your legs.

He almost cums instantly when you grab the shower head and switch the setting, holding it to your clit as you moan, tits jiggling as your body shakes.

Poor Simon, it was too much watching your foamy tits bounce as you orgasmed, a cry leaving your lips as he spills himself all over his hand, letting out a groan as you look.

You quickly squeal, attempting to cover yourself before he’s running down the hall like a madman, slamming his door shut.