#awkward simon riley

[littleindulgences]

If he were in the business of being honest with himself, Simon would admit that he was actually kind of nervous. He turns the blank white envelope over and over in his hands, watching you from across the mess hall. You’re sitting with a squad of recruits today, getting to know them for reasons he can’t fathom. Your smile warms him all the way from here.

“Ye just got to do it, LT,” Soap remarks with his mouth full. “‘S the only way to put it to rest.” Simon just grunts. He’s still a little loath to admit that he has a crush on you—it’s childish, and embarrassing, and compromising…

But he can’t help it.

He watches you exit the mess, the recruits trailing after you like ducklings. The envelope twists in his hands.

“She’s got range duty for the next two hours,” John says with raised eyebrows as he takes a sip of his drink. Simon purses his lips under the mask. His team stares at him pointedly.

“Ah, fuck off,” he grumbles, rising from the bench and walking off. “Arseholes.”

“Good luck, LT!” Soap calls after him. Simon flips him the bird. The Scot’s cackle follows him out.

Ghost wanders into the barracks, taking a winding, looping route that doesn’t do anything but make his apprehension worse. He finally forces himself to take Johnny’s advice and just fucking do it, and he marches right up to your locked door and slips the envelope underneath.

There. Nothing more to do but wait.

What the fuck. What the fuck. The note lays flat on your cot, rather unassuming, except for the newspaper-cutout letters and the thick black marker scrawling out a time, a place, and “You’ll Be Mine” with a little heart underneath.

“Well that’s…terrifying,” says Alicia, your bunkmate.

“Mhm,” you say. You’ve been staring at it for five minutes.

You found the envelope on the floor when you came back from training. It was blank except for the puppy dog sticker on the back, clearly intended to mimic your callsign: Watchdog. You’d opened it without a thought and found this, a threat/ransom note of what you think was meant to be a valentine.

“You’re not gonna go, are you?” Alicia asks.

You suck in a breath through your teeth and make a noncommittal noise. Alicia throws her hands up.

“Babe. You will get snatched if you go.”

“Not necessarily! Besides, if I go, then I know who sent this to me and can like…confront them or something,” you defend.

“Or you could take this to Price and report it,” Alicia deadpans, ever the voice of reason. You wave her off. She rolls her eyes and stands, bumping your shoulder. “Whatever. I’m heading out, my girlfriend’s waiting for me. Please try not to get kidnapped?”

“I’ll do my best,” you reply and give her a peck on the cheek.

But there are no guarantees in your line of work, and this is no exception. You narrow your eyes at the note. Bring it on.

You came. Holy shit this is farther than Simon thought he’d get. His palms feel sweaty. Did it get hot out all of a sudden?

“Ghost, you gotta calm down, mate,” Gaz whispers, motioning at him to breathe.

“I’m fine,” Simon snaps. You’re right there, turning every so often, peering into the dark with that look of concentration he loves on you. He can imagine the way your nose wrinkles and the way your tongue pokes between your teeth.

Simon shakes himself. Get it together, soldier.

“Alright, it’s go time!” Johnny whispers, and nudges Simon out of the shadows. “Go get ‘er LT!”

Simon takes one last deep breath and starts across the field to you.

Whoever invited you here is fuckin’ late. You’ve always been of the mind that early is on time and on time is late, which is most people’s opinion here anyway. And the note said 2100 hours! It’s coming up on 2105 now.

The note didn’t even name a meeting place, either, just coordinates that led to the massive oak tree behind the shooting range. Which isn’t suspicious at all. You turn in a slow circle every so often—head on a swivel and all that. While you were all bravado with Alicia earlier, you were a little tiny bit worried that maybe something would happen. You made sure to bring your bear mace with you, in the end. Just in case.

You’re about to call it quits and head back when a huge meaty hand falls on your shoulder.

Before you can blink you’ve whipped around, depressing what has to be half the canister on your attacker. They crumple, and you take the chance to plant your hands on their shoulders and your knee in their balls, sending them into the dirt. You take off running. Your heart climbs into your throat. Holy shit, Alicia was right!

You’re so caught up in your escape that you don’t notice where you’re going until you run smack into a barrel chest. Strong hands catch your arms and hold you upright.

“Woah, woah, lass! What was that?” It’s Soap, and he’s staring at you with a mix of horror and confusion. You see Gaz sprint off in the corner of your eye.

You’re out of breath. “I-I got this weird-ass note earlier,” you try to explain, “and it said to come out here? But it didn’t say who it was from and ‘Licia was worried I’d get kidnapped, and then that creep showed up—”

“That’s not a creep, that’s fuckin’ Ghost!”

“Huh?” You twist, and sure enough, Gaz is helping Ghost’s hulking form off the ground, supporting him as he struggles against the effects of the mace. Fuck.

Gaz and Simon stagger over. “We need to get him to medical,” Gaz says. You bury your face in your hands.

You sit awkwardly on a stool next to Ghost’s cot as the nurses irrigate his face. Price, Gaz, and Soap hover in the corner, talking quietly amongst themselves and occasionally looking over at you. You’d shown them the note Ghost had apparently given you.

Eventually the nurses leave Ghost be for a minute, and that’s when Price jumps in.

“Okay,” he starts, then turns to you. “Watch, you aren’t being stalked. Ghost wanted to give you a valentine rather than actually talk to you, against our advice.” Then he turns to Ghost. “Simon. Why.”

Ghost shrugs and frowns down at his lap. “You all said that valentines are ‘sposed to be secret. I knew she’d recognize my handwriting, so I improvised.”

“And you didn’t think that maybe you could just type something up?” Gaz asks. Simon shrugs again, but you can tell he’s blushing under the mask.

“Soap said handmade ones are better,” he admits quietly. The group turns to Soap. He gapes.

“Oh, like this is my fault,” he grumbles.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” Simon says, addressing you directly for the first time. “I just wanted…” He trails off, glares down at his lap.

“I’m sorry for macing you,” you tell him. “And for kneeing you in the balls.” Price facepalms beside you and you scramble to think of something else. “I—I liked the dog sticker, though!”

“Yeah?” Simon glances up at you. You can tell he’s grinning, and you smile back.

“Yeah,” you say. “Put him in my notebook.” The both of you sit there, smiling at each other like idiots.

“All right, ye two, tone it down,” Johnny chimes in, and Gaz elbows him. Price rolls his eyes and herds them out. You watch them leave, then turn back to Ghost. He’s picking at his cuticles, a rare show of vulnerability.

“Simon?” you say before you can overthink it.

“Mm?” He looks up at you. A stray sunbeam touches his face, turning his puffy, red-rimmed eyes into melted chocolate. You feel yourself flush.

“Would you…maybe want to go to dinner sometime?” you ask. Simon straightens on the tiny cot, and yeah, he’s really smiling now. Your heart kicks up a few notches.

“I’d love to,” he says. “Please don’t bring the mace.”

[theorist-fox]

Can I interest you in some silly sex with Simon? 🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️

18+

Word count: 1k.

CW: nothing really. Just silly sex. Just giggling sex. Just I-need-to-give-this-man-some-humanity sex. Simon is ticklish and you find out, that's the plot.

Masterlist 🦊

You look delectable straddling his hips.

Naked and soft, plump tits sitting prettily in his hands. His thumbs swipe idly around your perked nipples as you ride him slowly, early morning sun peeking through the curtains and lapping at your skin. What a way to wake up, what a sight.

He stares at your lips and how they part for him—something he still has to get used to, though he probably never truly will. How dulcet does his name sound if it’s your voice whispering it, how beautiful your eyes when they take in his face.

Soft hands are pressed on his chest for leverage, and you’re treating him with a view he keeps pinned to the forefront of his brain—gliding your cunt until you’re chock-full of him, stroking yourself until you’re shivering.

He likes it when he’s on top, sure. He’s used to taking the lead and orchestrating every detail, in and out of the job. 

But when you allow him to sit back and take it? Hell, sign him up. He’d do it every day. Especially when it’s this lazy sex here, in which you’re canting your hips to cum before he does, giving him the blissful chance of feeling you clench around him when he's still hard. 

Goosebumps rise under your nails as they graze down his chest and brush his stomach. Your hands wander blindly on his belly, then his sides, as you clock his eyes with your heavy ones, panting softly, idly—my beautiful, beautiful girl.

But then you inadvertently brush his ribs, and he stiffens—even squirms, and your movements come to a halt.

You blink as conscience returns to you slowly, and the room sinks into tense silence. His cock twitches inside of you when you tilt your head inquisitively, squinting your eyes.

Experimentally, you brush your fingertips against his ribs again, and his biceps flatten to his sides, trapping your hands.

Your eyes widen, and his do the same.

“Don’t.”

You gasp, “Oh my God.”

“Darling, no.” He warns, but you’ve clearly made up your mind already.

Your lips are curled in a smile that promises mischief, and he can only give up, sit back, and count his losses.

“Darling, yes.”

Simon feels your fingers wiggle under the tight press of his arms, but no matter his strength, they're seemingly useless against that playful resolve you're displaying.

His cock is still embarrassingly hard inside you, and Simon reckons it won't soften any time soon. You don’t seem eager to get off him either, thus prolonging the torture with each tiny movement you make.

He inhales sharply and fights tooth and nail to school his expression into neutrality. His eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is locked tight. The only thing giving him away is the flush of his cheeks, getting pinker by the second because he refuses to open his mouth to breathe a much-needed lungful of air. Knowing that if he would, he'd bark a laugh that would proclaim you as the winner of this fight.

He would never.

You roll your hips, then—cheap trick. He unravels with a shaky breath, and his biceps give out enough for you to slip your hands away.

And then, he knows he's done for.

“Cut it out.” He barks, trying to sound stern and miserably failing. He knows because you're laughing even harder.

Your fingers feel like tiny bugs crawling up his sides, and they make his breath catch in his throat.

“Never.” You say, with a grin that scrunches your nose. A smile that would normally make his heart throb, but right now just makes him wish he were a lesser man so he could throttle you.

“Fuckin’-“

You chuckle.

You evil little cunt.

Resistance lasts a few more seconds before he bursts.

It’s not a full laugh that leaves him; more of a wheeze that makes you chortle like a wicked witch. His chest heaves as your fingers frantically tickle his sides. Tries to get you off him by shaking his hips, but that only makes the two of you falter and moan, and then chuckle and catch your breaths.

His shoulders shake in a breathless, choking laugh that pitches upward as you continue with your assault (yes, assault—he is not being dramatic), eyes veiled with tears of frustration and mirth. He shrieks when your hands travel under his armpits—the sound makes you giggle in a way that would have him melt. 

“That laugh’s lovely, baby.” You say with a smarmy grin he wishes he could wipe with a kiss, hands unrelenting against his sides. “Sound like a kettle whistling.”

He tries to glower and push you off, but you’re surprisingly strong when you’re focused. Right now, your only goal is to apparently make him hate you—he'd rather be held at gunpoint than being forced to hold in a laugh that makes his stomach hurt.

Simon now looks shockingly harmless, with his cheeks flushed bright red and his voice an octave too high—wouldn't look dangerous if he tried.

“Tea ready, yet?” You add, batting your lashes, because why not rub salt into the already embarrassing wound marring his pride.

It’s that unfathomably stupid joke that finally makes Simon crack. He barks out a laugh that bubbles up his throat, rippling through his stomach so suddenly that you bounce above him. Your own laugh follows soon after, because each time you manage to steal one from him, your heart vibrates with loving triumph.

But still—he is Simon Riley, isn’t he? Member of Task Force 141. Lieutenant in the UK Special Forces, SAS. The Ghost. There is some pride in there, one he'd like to keep intact.

He tries to recollect his breath, sniffling, and his arms shoot out to wrap around your waist. He rolls onto his side, taking you with him.

It’s then that you find yourself in a position of utter disadvantage, on your back with your big brute of a boyfriend holding you down. You’re wide-eyed and still smiling with barely contained giggles, and he’d be lying if he said it doesn't make his heart soar.

Sure, he’s panting, still proper flushed and apple-cheeked, with shivers wrecking his spine and unshed tears in his eyes—but he takes great pride in having won yet another fight (again, not overreacting at all, if you ask him).

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.

You fix him with a look. “Simon, no.”

Before you can add more to your complaint, he rams his cock into you until your chest stutters, your lips mouthing around a shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

He fucks you into the mattress, then—once, twice, until the remnants of laughter vanish from your face and you’re trembling in bliss, eyes rolled back under heavy eyelids.

He places a sloppy kiss down to your collarbone.

“Simon, yes.”

[bi-writes]

thinking about being the new addition to tf141. you are an asset given to laswell by the CIA, a timid little thing but your aim is always on target, and you are quiet, tech savvy, and you do as you're told. (18+, dark)

just how lieutenant riley prefers. he dwarfs you. the first time you meet, your eyes nearly come out of your head from how wide they go. he's so large, and you feel so tiny compared to him, and even though he does nothing but a disinterested once over, it is obvious to the rest of the team that you might just be his favorite.

it's most obvious in the subtle touches. when you're getting ready to jump, ghost comes up from behind and tugs on your parachute, nearly topping you over making sure it's secure. when you're getting ready in the back of the humvee, he reaches over and buckles your thigh holster for you when he notices the strap is coming loose. you nearly choke when you feel his big hand between your thighs, and you stare up at him with wide eyes when his pinkie moves up the seam of your zipper when he tugs his hand away.

and then the way he's on your six is unlike anything else. like glue, chest pressed to your back, his gloved hand squeezing your waist as he moves you every which way he pleases because you're so small to him, so easy, and he growls under his breath when he touches the curve of your hips or the fat of your ass.

maybe you might enjoy it if he wasn't so fucking awkward about it. if he didn't stare at you without blinking. if he didn't adjust his cock in his jeans right in front of you. if he didn't grip you by the back of your head, tugging you any way he wanted as if scolding a kitten using the scruff of their neck.

you think the team would notice by now--that they would step in, tell ghost to back off, but they turn a blind eye. they tolerate this behavior, and you don't know if it's because ghost is so good at his job, they don't want to, or that they are so afraid of him, they refuse to say anything.

or maybe they approve. maybe it keeps ghost at bay. maybe it keeps a lion in his den. a spider in its nest. maybe indulging ghost in his fucked form of flirting and socialization is what keeps the foundations of this team right where it needs to be--and you realize, slowly, that maybe that is why you're here.

because ghost likes them soft, and they need to put a muzzle on their dog.

so when you feel him in the dark, slipping a gloved hand under the blanket that keeps you warm at night, he is pleasantly surprised to find you awake. and even more surprised to feel your hand slipping the soft lace of your panties right into his fucking pocket.

"they teach y'that 'n basic training? how ta give y'r knickers to y'r lieutenant, eh?"

"no," you whisper, and when you meet his eyes in the dark, he looks so hungry. he's untamed, no training, he's used to getting what he wants with no resistance. you turn over in bed, and you don't get to see the way he sucks on his teeth when you let your knees fall, revealing the pretty place between your thighs, soft and puffy and wet, just waiting for a good mutt to eat her up. "but i learned other things."

"tha' right?"

"yeah," you say softly, and you turn over onto your stomach, pushing back onto your knees right in front of him. he bends, leaning over until he's pushing his masked face right into the seam of your cunt, and you grip the sheets tight when he inhales deeply, a rumble following as both of his hands grip either side of your ass and spread you open for him. you're drooling, wetting the nylon fabric, and you gasp when you feel the wet, warm muscle of his tongue suck on your folds through the mask. it's lewd, and you're wetting the material so much it sticks to the strong lines of his face, but he continues, tilting his head to the side as he laps at the pretty slick that dampens your thighs.

"what'd y'learn then, swee'eart?"

not how to fuck your lieutenant. but...you did learn to keep them happy.

"h-how to be a good girl."

and you think you feel him smile.

[simonbrain]

simon being delusional and pretending he's in a relationship with you because he has no game and can't work up the courage to approach you. maybe you're someone average and unimportant—like the waitress at the pub he frequents—but you've caught his attention, and he can't stop thinking about you.

he hasn't really interacted with you because he's always sitting at the bar with the rest of the boys, but you're sweet and polite, and he can't help the flurry of daydreams that rush through his mind.

he thinks about taking you home after your shift and nodding as if he's listening to you ramble about your night, but really he's concentrating on the soft rumble of your voice. he thinks about cleaning your tired face in the bathroom while you're perched up on the sink, a hand cupping your face to keep you upright while he quietly admires your pretty features. he thinks about dragging you into bed and holding you close to him, offering all the warmth you deserve as you curl up against his side.

he's got his head so far up his arse that when you actually approach this intimidating man who's been boring holes into your head to ask if he's alright, he kind of just short-circuits because you're actually speaking to him? there's no way his perfect girl is right here in front of him. he must be dreaming.

he doesn't realise he's just staring until you clear your throat and nervously say if he should ever need your help, to just ask. and then you're speed-walking off, praying he doesn't take you up on your offer. meanwhile, he's mentally playing russian roulette with a fully loaded gun because how did he fuck that up?

[soapcloth]

Corporate office worker!Ghost. The big guy huddled over the computer in the cubicle next to you muttering to himself, fingers too big to reasonably use the allotted keyboard, always in and out of HR because every time he opens his mouth at the water cooler he’s spouting a new morbid joke, but his work speed is unmatched and he’s incredibly competent so they can’t get rid of him— you’re almost sure he’s losing his mind and every lunch he’s staring at you across the break room through hollow, tired eyes like you’re the thing he really wants to eat.

[just-some-user-hunny]

Knight!Simon Riley helping you feed his horse because you're timid of such a large beast, but he's such a tender thing. Nuzzling his velvet mouth into your palm to lick up the oats your knight nestled in your cupped hand, guiding you closer with gruff reassurance and patience. It's alright. He won't hurt you. I'm right here princess, nothing will happen. See? He likes you.

Smiling with glee as the horses whiskers tickle your skin as he eats, missing your knight's heavy stare of dark irises swallowing up the colour of his eyes. Hoping maybe you'll remember this exact scenario that played out when you were both wide eyed children, his own hand guiding yours just like before. When he was just a gentle stableboy covered in bruises and cuts, and you were a teary eyed little thing. Always so curious but frightened of the horses, yet always keening to him. He had smelt of sun and hay and hard labour, older than you by a few years, tender and guiding. Maybe you'll remember next time.

[gomzdrawfr]

shake that booty

[ghcstao3]

bringing ghost home to a family gathering has soap worried only because there’ll be an abundance of niblings, and he has no idea how ghost is with kids.

and, well. it doesn’t necessarily go good or bad, more just… unexpectedly. soap notes a few things.

babies are a no-go for ghost. too small, too fragile, too sticky. those are something for someone else to deal with.

toddlers he can manage just fine, still too sticky. it’s funny, watching ghost talk to them like adults as he’s handed toys and forced to play pretend, sipping from an empty tea cup and mimicking biting into plastic food.

everything up to pre-teen is no sweat for ghost. they haven’t yet adopted the usual anti-adult teen attitude, so it’s easy enough to entertain them and answer questions because hey, ghost is knowledgeable, and he might as well share. he’ll let the kids ramble on about their interests and primary school drama, listening intently like he does whenever soap’s on a tangent.

as for the teens, soap isn’t surprised ghost gets along with them. for all his stoicism, the man is a terrible gossip, and he can certainly hold his own against (mostly) lighthearted insults with his quick wit any day of the week. those interactions are probably the most entertaining for soap, listening to ghost dole out advice to teenage girls as if he’s some guru in dumping boyfriends and dropping fake friends.

so, overall, safe to say that the niblings need not be of concern. adults on the other hand, well. that’s another story entirely.

[celenawrites]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, after years of active duty, has no idea how to court a woman normally.

Does recon (*cough* stalking *cough*) at his new date’s place sound normal - taking note of your daily routine, watching you go through mundane chores in skimpy little t-shirts that barely covers your ass as you bend over to take out the laundry from the washer and watching you enjoy a cup of earl grey (a woman after his heart, he says) normal? No, it isn’t.

But, is it normal for your date to come into your apartment when you call to take a rain-check on your date because your bathroom pipes burst open at the worst possible time and you need a plumber to help you stop them or you’d run out if water, only for Simon to offer his help and fix it, discarding his plaid shirt and distracting you with his biceps in that good-for-nothing wife-beater he has on (the one that makes you almost clutch your pendant in comfort as you try to call for takeout as you don’t try to fantasize about his big, muscly arms to have you in a headlock as he fucks you dumb)? Also, not normal.

But, Simon is not exactly a conventional man and after he fixes your pipes, being normal is quite possibly the last thing in his mind as he makes you cum on his thick cock for the third time in an hour, his fingers rubbing at your clit as you bite the pillow and make your back arch in a way that makes your ass grind against his pelvis and he cannot resist the urge to give it a good smack, laughing throatily as he hears your muffled whine at the sting.

Point to be made, nothing has exactly been normal when it comes to Simon. But that’s fine, he can make do with that - or so he believes as he sees you demolish the already cold takeout you both had neglected earlier for your lovemaking. Now, he has a date to plan for as he slowly enjoys the cold noodles from the takeout box and watches the shitty tele with you.

[gazspookiebear]

Mmm, thinking about Ghost going on a date with reader after not having been in a proper relationship in years

He was never one for hookups, and he could never keep long-term relationships. Most lasted about a month at most before he backed out.

Fast forward to now, he's been invited out by you. He figures it'll be like most other dates, a quick dinner at a noisy restaurant before he gets overwhelmed and leaves.

To his surprise, it isn't. You kept his comfort in mind and suggested a walk by the bay instead.

When he walks beside you in silence, you don't seem to take offense. In fact, you don't seem to mind at all. You fill in his silence with easy conversation, keeping it focused on you and not trying to pry into his personal life.

You don't hesitate when he responds with one word answers, instead taking the opportunity to discuss an interest of your own. By the time it's long past dark out, you offer to take him home, apologizing for not acknowledging the time sooner. He didn't want to stop listening to your voice

When he declines your offer, you smile. You tell him to stay safe, to rest well, and to text you when he gets home.

At his apartment, he can't stop thinking about you. About how polite and kind you were. About how you actually cared about his feelings, how you weren't off put by him.

He glances at his phone.

You receive a text at 1 in the morning. A simple 'Back safe.'

[tanked-up]

Ghost: I’m about to bust this window down-

Soap: How bout’ ye bust th-

*Ghost proceeds to push him soft enough yet causing Soap to stumble*

Soap: Woah…

Ghost: This is awkward

[awkward-fink]

Sleep Positions with Them. (I)

Price: - He lays on his back, one arm around your body, holding you securely to his side in a gentle but firm hold. - only wears sleep shorts and his dogtags to bed. His thighs are too thick for normal sleeping pants and he gets way too warm in those anyway. Also he loves that he can feel your skin on his when you tangle your legs with his own. - loves when you are draped half over him, your fingers curled into his chest hair, one hand of his covering yours. One of his fingers is laying on your pulse point, feeling the steady thrumm while his thumb lazily traces over your knuckles. - he doesnt need a blanket. And you dont either. He is a living furnace, even in winter you are always cosy warm.

Ghost: - curled around you, holding onto you tightly. - always sleeps closest to the door, its instinct, dont question it. - on bad nights he will sleep on top of you, his head firmly positioned on top of your chest, ear firmly pressed against the spot where your heart beats underneath layers of skin and flesh. Its his most favorite lullaby. - would sleep in his tactical gear if you hadnt forbidden it, so he wears a long shirt and long sleeping pants to bed. - will wake when you move or twitch and check if everything is alright before falling back to sleep - forget going to the loo in the middle of the night alone. What if you fall? Or stub your toe? And he isnt there to protect you from the corner of the shower? No way. He is sleepily stumbling right after you, only alert enough to fall into bed after you and curl around you, again. - only needs a light blanket when sleeping with you, because you are clingy (as if he is not!). And needs a weighted blanket on nights when you are away on business.

Soap: - no fixed sleeping position. He starfishes, noodles around, and planks on the bed. All at once. Though, he never pushes you out of the bed, again. Once was one time too many and the *Look* you gave him after that scared him for life. - falls asleep with you in his arms as the big spoon. wakes up in a double spiral, flat salto mortale with you on top of him, his legs wrapped around you like a monkey. And no one knows where the blankets have gone to! - would sleep naked but you wont allow it, on every night. He starts with a boxershort and a shirt and wakes up with one article of clothing missing. - is a sleep kisser. Kisses your fingers, your shoulders, your chest and if he is lucky, your mouth in his sleep. Also cant get enough contact. - loves when you card your hands through his hair when he had a bad day, or a nightmare. Calms him down real quick. If you speak gaelic, he will literally start drooling in his sleep - all the blankets and then no blankets - nights with Soap are wild. In more ways than one.

Gaz: - has a strict routine before coming to bed - loves to have you at his side when falling asleep, your head on his shoulder and his nose buried in your hair. Its calming for him. - sleeps like the dead. Or a stone. Or a field of stones. You could play hardcore metal with screeching violins and that man will only twitch a finger. - *has* to have contact with you while sleeping. Doesnt matter if its a hand, a foot, a leg or even your head, NEEDS contact. If there is no contact, he will wiggle in the bed to search for you, and he will be asleep while doing that - has a whoe ass pyjama, which looks like a suite or at least fitting together like those checkered Ones made out of cotton. Filthily comfy and wont let you burrow them. - Needs at least two blankets and you to rest in comfort. - Listen! Has the most wild dreams and will talk to you in his sleep, wont remember anything in the morning though

Bonus! Roach: - loves to sleep with you in the bed - has a blanket only for you, and a pillow and even wants you to sleep in his shirt. - you understand, that he can fall asleep better if he can have something smelling of you, when you are not with him - loves to curl his fingers around yours, watching you sleep, your legs tangled and your foreheads touching. - lazily signs one handed against the palm of your hand, silly little things, his feelings, sweet nothings, just wants to feel you. - has the best sleep when your breaths mingle, your hands intertwined, his leg hooked around yours. - loves to wake up and the first thing he sees is you. (has literal heart eyes!) - has one oversized blanket for you both to share - loves to kiss you lazily, lips just brushing over yours chastely until you both fall asleep. Holds one of your hands to his heart if he can get away with it - wears a very ol shirt and some old shorts to bed

[tojisun]

!! smut - minors dni; this is what 'illicit affairs' could've been (toxic relationships); posted bc of this ask; angst ^v^

simon holds you close, his touch so gentle it leaves you breathless. he presses kisses along your shoulder blades, his words muffled on your dewy skin, and you whimper, hoping he'd sound them out louder.

simon never really does, still lost in his own mapping – his hands, his lips, the slide of his chest along your back. you mewl, chest heaving at the euphoric feeling of being the centre of his blazing attention.

the first slide of his cock in your heat is given to you with the same softness. it was so tender that you almost thought of this as simon making love to you. as simon spilling the unsaid affections he carry for you in this moment.

you feel suspended in the air, floaty with the yawning of your desire.

you reach back, hoping to grasp his hands, and your breath hitches when simon willingly returns the gesture. he lets go of your hip, snaking his arms until one of his hands lays atop of yours, the other rubbing at your pebbled nipples.

you moan, a whispery thing, your head thrown back to his shoulder. simon noses your temple, kissing your cheek, and even amidst the silence – the room full of nothing but quiet rasps of air – you feel his reverence.

"so good, baby," he grunts in your ear, the gentle slaps of his thighs meeting the back of yours acting like a muted background noise. "so good to me. so beautiful."

you clench around his length, overwhelmed by the praises rolling off of his tongue. tears trickle from the corners of your eyes, the mewl lodged in the back of your throat transforming into a warbled sob.

"si-"

the whispered drawl of his name is smothered by simon's own call.

a call that isn't your name.

"erin- fuck-" simon rasps out, voice petering into a blissed out hiss. "so tight 'round me, sweetheart. missed this. missed you."

the fiery passion inside you was snuffed out instantly, leaving nothing but cold and stuttering silence to fill you up.

"simon," you say, no tremors and no languid whispers. "stop."

simon does, pulling out without question. you get off the bed, snagging the discarded pieces of your clothes from the floor and rushing to the bathroom without looking back at him.

you hear him ask you what's wrong. you hear him call out your name – something he apparently remembers, anyway – in worry but you ignore him, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you wipe yourself clean and pull your clothes back on.

he's standing by the bed, dressed in only his boxers, when you leave the bathroom. you grab your bag from the loveseat and make your way to the door, ignoring the way he follows you.

"where are y'goin, kid?"

oh. so it's 'kid' this time, huh?

"what's goin' on?" he asks again when you continue to give him silence. "at least jus' tell me if y'r alright."

you slide into your shoes and slip your coat on, feeling winded, your chest heaving as you try your best not to cry, but it is futile. simon curls his hand around your wrist, gentle and tentative, as though showing you that you still have an out.

you breathe in deeply before finally looking back at him, and you don't know what simon sees in your eyes but it makes him straighten up, worry buzzing tenfold.

"i'm not erin, si."

your voice was barely louder than a whisper, still, simon lets you go quickly as though he's been burned.

you leave him then, your nose flaring as the tears prickle the back of your eyes, wanting to be let out.

it is only when you're in the hotel elevator that you finally allow yourself to cry.

this is for @tomiesdiet tbh. blame her!!

[penelopepine]

Imagine Ghost, Soap, and Gaz have an awkward sibling photo shoot, and them putting the photos up all around Price's office.

[silkenwinger]

semi-historical (? like 50-60s lol) small city AU… by that i mean reader and the girls walk through the city center in one direction, and the boys (141 of course) in the other so you can send each other charged looks and gossip about. you’re definitely making the eyes at johnny, charming and chatty as he is, but your friends keep telling you his tall, blonde, scary silent friend totally likes you. you kinda have to grimace at that and move on. when you go to do some groceries for your mother, the butcher shop you usually go to isn’t manned by the usual old man, but instead you find the blonde guy. you awkwardly buy his meat, and you both speak in total five words. you don’t even remember him from school. when it’s time for another weekly get together, you’re elated when you see johnny make a beeline for you, only for him to say ye met my mate simon yet, bonnie? he’s a proper lad! stubborn, you refuse to go further than basic pleasantries with the guy that sooo likes you but won’t speak to you in the first place.

simon is a man of actions more than words though. he has all the time of the world to win you over. (this is going to take years, much to soap’s chagrin)

[machveil]

Simon shadow boxing in doggy LMAO imagine looking over your shoulder and catching him mid punch 💀

I’m so happy everyone is loving that post, I felt so evil writing it lmfao