#simon riley x gn reader

[leyavo]

Somatic healing

Simon stares at you sat on his lap, your hands lightly touching his face. Your pointer and middle fingers massaging the side of his face and the other two behind his ears. Thumbs brushing his cheekbones, leaving tingles in their wake.

He can’t quite look away from you, his breaths slowing and calming as your soothing touch grounds him. The way your lips part as you see the tension slip away from his shoulders. His chest shudders, breaths catching.

“You okay, big guy?” You whisper as if he’s something delicate and breakable by the soft caress of your voice. All he wants to do is wrap his arms around your waist and nudge his nose into your collarbone. He doesn’t know how you manage to make him feel so vulnerable, but safe at the same time.

Your touch like magic.

He grunts, the weight of his tongue heavy and the burning at the back of his throat keeping him from giving you anything more than that.

“It’s okay to cry, let it all go.” Your voice muffled as your palms cover his ears. A circular motion making him close his eyes.

The first time you’d done this for Simon, he’d shoved you off his lap. The built up tension painful and sensitive, his nervous system causing him to snap. To push anything away that caused pain.

He hated himself for it, wouldn’t touch you for days. His trembling hands cupping your face as he apologised, but the steady weight of your gaze and the tone of your voice made him ask you to try again.

Now he asked you. Cried the second and third time, but never since then. Something you did for him a few days after he returns home.

“You’re safe, nothing can hurt you here. Just you and me.” You say lifting your palms away from his ears.

Simon grabs your wrists as your hands and fingers trail down his jaw. Needs your gentle touch and soft skin to stay on him. The floral scent of moisturiser still on your hands, vanilla perfume lingering on your wrists.

A tear rolls down his cheek, your thumb catching it before it rolls over jawline.

“Better?” You ask, leaning back. Of course it is, everything’s been better since he let you squirrel your way into his life.

He tugs you closer, dropping your wrists and wrapping his arms around your waist. Head dipping to your neck, hot breath fanning against the exposed skin.

“Much better,” he mumbles into your neck, arms tightening around you as you comb your fingers through his blonde hair.

[the-palelady]

something something you and ghost get into an argument over a mission, and after that you give him the silent treatment, defying his orders and giving him the cold shoulder.

he finally tries to stop you one day, calling after you, and you turn the opposite direction blatantly ignoring him. you’re speed walking down the hallway, almost in a full sprint but not quite.

and he’s right on your tail

his strides are so much bigger than yours, and he’s chasing after you with purpose, like you’re prey.

you don’t even get a second to register your arm being grabbed, manhandling you into a nearby janitor’s closet. he keeps the light off, and all you can hear is the rustle of fabric before his lips are crashing into yours, one hand grabbing the hair at the nape of your neck while the other holds your face.

[oceantornadoo]

when you first start talking to simon riley, you want to check yourself into an insane asylum.

you like to think you’re cool, you’re chill, you’re nonchalant. but he takes eight hours to text back, sending you a “come over.” text at 7pm like he hadn’t just ignored you the whole day. you complain to your friends, of course, which is a terrible move when they tell you to drop him and if he wanted to, he would! and you think he does (want to), he’s just so insanely nonchalant about it. so the next time he comes over, chinese takeout in hand after not texting you back since 8am, you go a little crazy…

you open the door for him, stepping back awkwardly when he tries to peck your forehead. he practically shrugs it off, toeing off his boots before setting the food down on your table. “got tha’ dish ya like.” you nod, forgetting his back is to you. simon unpacks the boxes with precision from the bag, not stopping until it’s all laid out on the table. you’ve been quiet for a while, unusual since you’re the talker of the bunch, and that creeping feeling that’s been sliding up his skin finally sets its hooks in him. he turns around curiously, brows furrowing at the sight of you still standing by the door, biting your lip with a timid look and wet eyes. “love?”

you shake your head with a watery smile. “can we talk?” simon follows you as you walk to your couch, feeling like he’s been dropped into an op with no details. he doesn’t know what’s wrong, just that you’re hurting and he seems to be the cause of it. “i just…don’t get it. how you’re acting so normal.” you’re twisting your hands together. “somethin’ happen, love? got me confused.” you give him that small, weak smile again and it’s like you’ve stabbed him in the heart. “you- you barely talk to me all day and then you just come over here like it’s nothing. it’s just so hot and cold and i’m wrecking myself over it when it’s so clear you don’t care. i’m just so confused, si.”

simon runs through his memories. he texted you good morning, you texted it back, then he went about his duties for the day until he was finally free to ask about dinner. hadn’t even picked up his phone in the meantime, security risks or just plain busyness being the cause. “‘ve been busy, sweetheart. ‘s why i asked t’ come over when i was done.” you shake your head, biting your lip. “it’s the modern day, simon. everyone’s on their phones. i don’t think you’re as into this as me, and that’s fine, but i just want to know!”

now simon’s the one shaking his head, pulling out his phone. he might not be tech savvy but he does know this move from johnny, the fucker constantly complaining about his screen time. he pulls up the screen time tracker and turns it to you. “not everyone.” you’re a bit shocked to be honest. his screen time is ten minutes for the entire day. a few in the morning when he texted you and nothing until nighttime, when he texted you again. you’ve never seen anything like it.

“‘m not a big texter an’ we don’t use personal phones for work, so it’s jus’ a brick i leave at home or lug around. ‘s nothin’ on you. been thinkin’ about you all day, to be honest.” your mouth is open, honestly. any other man would have never shown you their minute-by-minute screen time, would have begged off the “busy” excuse while having been on social media for four hours. simon, by all standards, is genuinely different.

“so, you do like me?” he nods stiffly, gloved hands reaching for you. you slide into his lap easily, tucking your face into his neck to hide your heated cheeks. you’d even shed a few tears over this, how embarrassing. “‘course i like you, sweetheart. an’ im sorry if it didn’t feel like it. let’s have it out, yeah?” you nod into his skin and he takes a deep breath, pulling you closer to his heart.

from that day on, you compromise with phone calls. when he’s got a few minutes and you’ve hit a lull at work, he’ll call you. it’s better than any text in the world - hearing his gruff voice asking questions about your messy coworkers or dinner plans. not so nonchalant as you thought.

-

i wish this was from personal experience but unfortunately for me, it’s closer to the men not responding for days but having a screen time of six hours.

[criminalamnesia]

Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

[dmitriene]

simon riley comes to your room at base when everything feels too much, air in his chambers too suffocating, clogging in his lungs, the sheets seem to be scratching against his skin, making every inch of his body sting, the old scars scorching, palms rubbing at his eyes till the sparkling, flashing dots, the sound of crickets outside the window plugged by the buzz in his ears, annoying like a stuck fly.

he steps over himself as he leaves his chambers, throwing on a rumpled pajama shirt and pants that roll up slightly, exposing his ankles and almost to his knees, as his bare feet carry him away from the too dark, suffocating room to yours, wandering down the wide hallway and shuffling across the floor, before reaching the right door.

simon thinks you're deep asleep, you're limp, slowly breathing form curled beneath the blanket and pressed against the cold wall, he doesn't knows you're awake, keeping your eyes closed but you hear exactly how he closes the door of your room behind his back, stands glued to the spot with huffing, deep breaths, the feel of his gaze on you is withering, studying, before he moves towards the bed.

you stay still, hearing the way he traces your cotton sheets, squeezing them between his long fingers, before pressing a knee into the mattress, crawling carefully before settling himself down fully onto the bed, shuffling until his breath sweeps across your head and down to your face, bed dipping down, as his feet brushes against yours, without shying the contact, intentionally intertwining your legs together, scooping impossibly closer.

simon falls asleep like that, snuggled up to you as much as possible so as not to wake you up, sleep wraps around him quickly enough, lulling him with the settled silence and comfort of someone else's warmth next to his, and you open your eyes only when his body is completely limp beside you, sleepily examining his crooked nose, slightly pouting lips with a quiet snoring, and quivering, translucent pale eyelashes.

he doesn't feel when your arms wrap around him in a careful embrace, cradling the back of his head to your neck, letting his face nuzzle intuitively into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, melting against you in a serene slumber, and there's no buzzing sound, no itch at his body, just warmth, and you.

main masterlist. quidelines.

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

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

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

Y/n:.......

Soap: Y/n. Answer the question, Y/n.

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

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

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

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

Gaz: It takes less than a minute!

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

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

Y/n: Like, 7 minutes!

Soap: *nods*

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

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

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

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

Ghost: Do none of you own a fucking kettle?

Source

[musouie]

cw ⊹ ࣪ ˖ mention of/allusion to watersports

you and simon have this little game where he masturbates above you when he’s really pent up after overtime at the base. he’s on his feet all day, hardly has time to even use the lav, substituting meals for cigs, but the second he gets home all he wants is his sweet, little bird.

he’ll free his heavy cock, force you onto your sore knees, and order you to keep your head lolled back and mouth wide like you “often do” (the cheeky bastard). and then he’ll fuck his rough palm, humping into his hand while panting like a dog, pre dribbling down his thick shaft and into the blond curls at its base — and neither of you know whether he’ll piss or cum on your face :(

(“it’s better that way”, he smirks. “makes it more fun ‘cos you won’t ‘spect it.”)

and he’s bent on having fun, bent on reliving himself, getting lost in you — so if his pretty little bird even slightly closes their pretty little mouth, he’ll pry it back open with meaty fingers. work the rugged things into their jaw until it’s wider than it was before —

“be good f’me, hm? jus’ take it all down this pretty throat. you can do tha’, can’t ya’ … for poor lil’ me?”

and you’ll nod fervently, despite the ache in your jaw, the ever-growing dryness in your mouth. but it’s all worth it when his grip on your face slackens and his hold shifts into something akin to … tenderness.

he’ll cradle your chin, hold it like you’re something precious — something scarce, thumb running across your parched bottom-lip.

“tha’s it … jus’ like that,” he’ll murmur, and without warning, something warm’ll hit your lips, splatter into your mouth and down your chin.

it’s only after you risk a taste that you’ll know what it is.

“poor, ‘ungry baby,” simon’ll coo — all sweet words and a half-soothing tone — whilst massaging the fluid across your face with a dirty, calloused thumb.

he’ll look down at you with hooded eyes, blue turned black as he watches you wipe at your chin. “get back in ta’place, ‘m not finished with ya’ yet.”

masterlist <3

[lay-z]

Simon 🤝 forced orgasms

Given his violent canon background, I’m not sure how I feel about “forced” anything and “Simon/Ghost” in the same sentence—especially not him doing it to you, but how about some good ‘ol overstimulation and premature ejaculation instead, hm? :)

Synopsis: Simon comes home from a mission and needs you to take care of him.

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x gn!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | established romantic relationship; domesticity; cussing; smut; cum eating; praise kink; aftercare/fluff

It is early evening, when the front door opens and closes again, and you can breathe a heavy sigh of relief—air that feels like you’ve been holding inside your lungs forever since he left for another deployment.

Simon has kept you up to date since he had cell service again, stuck far away in a foreign country and waiting for a plane home; informing you of a mission done, no major injuries, no need to worry, a rushed few texts.

couple more hours luv

give o take

dont stay up fr me

i love you

You’re curled up on the couch, barely paying attention to one of the comfort shows you’ve been re-watching for days now, rather listening to his heavy duffel bag hitting the floor, his muffled grunts and groans as he makes his way down the hallway towards you—not running towards him, flinging yourself into his arms like you used to in the beginning of your relationship, knowing how anxious your excitement has always made him back then.

No, you let him come to you; dragging his sore legs into the living room and making your heart skip several beats when he pulls his balaclava off with a soft sigh as soon as he approaches the couch, leaving his dishwater blond hair dishevelled and crazy, short strands sticking to his sweaty forehead, the buzzed undercut he’d left with now growing out once more.

There’s a lot of non-verbal communication going on as soon as he sinks down into the cushions next to you—leaving an arm’s length of space between the two of you, not wanting to soil you with his stank and muck (his bygone words not yours) as he leans back, head tipping back against the backrest with a low groan, tawny eyes fluttering closed with exhaustion.

He falls asleep within seconds, your quiet presence enough to calm his mind and ease some of the tension, and soon enough his snores fill your ears, making you feel lighter, an adoring smile ghosting over your lips.

You let him sleep on the couch; adjusting his position with practiced manoeuvres, so his neck won’t get stiff. He merely grumbles some gibberish under his breath while you take off his boots and strip off his combat fatigues—to make him more comfortable and do first damage control, tracing fading bruises, green purplish-blues, dotting his pale skin��a Dalmatian pup getting its first spots, though this is way less pleasing.

Still better than a gunshot wound, broken bones or some gnarly cuts.

At 2:39 in the morning, you’re awakened by the sound of the shower stream turning on in the ensuite bathroom, and for a moment you consider joining him before rolling over, stretching with a yawn and deciding against it.

Simon will come to you when he’s ready, and he does not shortly after, drawn to you like an invisible force in the dark; mattress dipping under his weight as he slips underneath the preheated covers—thanks to you.

His skin is still slightly damp, towelled off in a rush, and he’s completely nude when he finally curls himself around your body, spooning you from behind and pulling you impossibly close.

And he knows you’re still awake, when his rough palm snakes under the front of your sleepshirt to press flat against your thudding heartbeat. His breath is minty with freshly scrubbed teeth, a cool puff against the back of your neck, when he brushes his lips over your skin.

“Missed you, pet,” he murmurs gravelly, nosing along your rapidly thrumming pulse point. “Always miss ya s’bloody much.”

As if to underline his whispered confession, he grinds his pelvis against your clothed ass, and you can feel how hard he is already—how hard he’s been since boarding the bloody plane back home. It sparks your own body with buzzing arousal and skin-crawling need—a need to assure yourself that he really made it home safe.

Rolling around in his embrace, you face him in the darkness of your shared bedroom, barely able to make out the silhouette of his chiselled features and massive frame.

“I missed you, too, baby.” You stroke your palm over his pecs, feeling a tuft of coarse chest hair. “So much.”

His skin twitches at the gentle contact, squishy muscles flexing and firming under your fingertips, rough breath stuttering in his throat when you lightly pinch and tug on a tiny nipple.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans, “don’t you fuckin’ stop.”

He rests his forehead against yours; breaths mingling hotly as you slot your leg between his muscular thighs, and Simon knows the drill—starts humping your own thigh slowly, his weeping cockhead leaving a sticky trail of precum on your flushing skin.

The covers rustle when his hand grips your waist, fingers dipping below your underwear with increasing urgency to feel your flesh give under his fingertips when he gropes and squeezes.

“Touch me, pet,” Simon grunts, chapped lips brushing over your temple as he speaks, and it’s more a desperate plea than anything else while his prick leaks heavily. “Need t’feel ya.”

You capture his lips in a slow kiss, tongue delving into his needy mouth, and you feel his heart slam against his ribcage before you caress your hand along his torso, down the planes of pude-covered muscle and scar tissued skin—to cup his heavy sac, full of cum, and feel his hips jolt with a sharp gasp.

“Ngh, please–!” His jaw clicks when his teeth grit together; buff chest heaving with a deep inhale. “Won’t last, lovey, not ah–fuck–not like this–”

“I know, baby,” you coo, “–‘s okay.”

The covers slip and lift as he squirms and the scent of his arousal hits your nostrils—clean skin, fresh linens, and the heady musk of his cum—making your head spin and your own desire pool deep and searing in your guts.

When you do finally swipe your thumb over his sensitive, drooling slit, you bring your fingers back up to lick at the milky essence coating your fingers with a pleased hum before slipping them past his lips, feeling his slick tongue swirl around your digits as you press down on sharp-edged teeth and silky gums.

A guttural moan is muffled and it dissolves into a low whine while he swiftly pulls you closer against the length of his body; hand fisting into the back of your shirt with growing desperation, bed rocking as he ruts against your thigh more fervently while his thick cock drags along supple skin, his ruddy, swollen tip nudging against your soft abdomen.

You keep your fingers in his mouth, his strong jaw slack and relaxed now—a loving handler trusting its feral dog to not get mauled—while he drools steadily, spit trickling down your wrist.

His hips stutter, thrusts faltering, and Simon cums with a broken string of whimpers and moans; panting while his fat prick gushes a generous load against your stomach that soaks into the old fabric of your shirt—his shirt—painting your skin where he’d rucked it up to feel you.

It’s a warm, sticky mess, one that will surely dribble down into the sheets if you’re not careful, and it goes on for a moment; cock throbbing and spurting cum that he couldn't get rid of for days, his balls pulsing as the pressure and frustration finally eases some.

You pull your fingers out only to cup his face and seal his wet lips with yours, kissing him with unbridled passion as you rub your thigh against his spend cock, feeling it twitch as his whole body shudders with aftershocks.

“Fuck… fuck, I needed that,” he mutters against your lips, his voice wrecked and hoarse now.

“I know.” Your eyes flutter closed with a soft smile, emotionally satisfied and fuzzy inside, while Simon peppers your face with saccharine kisses, nuzzling into your hairline, hands roaming greedily to explore the curves of your pliant body, branding the feeling of you in his arms into the crevices of his brain like countless times before.

“Gonna make it up to you, pet,” he grumbles, cheeks flushed under his stubble. “Jus’… gimme ten minutes.”

[agender-wolfie]

Y’all need to understand what gender neutral actually means. Saying “This fic is gender neutral and there are no pronouns or descriptors used” then using “pretty girl” or “that’s my girl” immediately after is NOT gender neutral! Stay out of our spaces if you can’t respect us.

[rileyslibrary]

A/N: *leans into the microphone* anybody ordered some non-verbal taunting communication, courtesy of the lieutenant?

———————————————————————

You have all gathered in the tent for a quick briefing by the captain. Today’s drill is supposed to begin before dawn, and without the sun to keep you warm, the breeze shamelessly seeps through the tent’s openings. You sit around the table with the rest of the team and wrap your arms around yourself, trying to focus on Price’s orders.

Ghost stands next to the captain, examining each team member from across the table. He stands with his legs spread, holding his hands behind his back. His eyes move slowly, taking in every expression, every posture, and every movement.

You scan him from his head down to his waist. He’s in full gear all the damn time; mask, scarf, uniform, jacket, tactical vest. Sometimes, you wonder if he sleeps with everything on so that he can be ready to go. Perhaps he hangs his clothes on a chair the night before and puts them on one by one in the morning. If that’s the case, it must take him forever to get ready. You wonder if it’s the layering that makes him look so big or if he’s naturally built that way.

You try to suppress the image of your lieutenant naked and redirect your attention to the captain’s briefing. You look at Price, who is pointing at something on the map, and notice Ghost staring at you from the corner of your eye. His eyes move slowly, from your face down to your arms, and he narrows his eyes at the sight. He unclasps his hands from behind his back, brings them to the front and wraps them around himself, mimicking your stance. He looks back up at you, tilts his head and raises one of his eyebrows.

You immediately drop your arms to your sides and mouth an apology at him. He shakes his head at you and returns to his original position with his hands behind his back. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they are already fixed on the person sitting next to you.

Price continues the briefing, and you try to absorb the information while battling the chill that creeps through your uniform. You struggle to keep your arms to your sides but, your efforts go in vain since you shiver whenever the wind blows in the tent.

The lieutenant, on the other hand, doesn’t let you off that easy. He picks up on every move you make like a fucking sensor. Your shoulders hunch forward, and he throws quick glimpses at you, signalling you to sit up straight. Sometimes, you place your hands in your pockets, and he widens his eyes at the sight, forcing you to put them back on the table. You absentmindedly slip your hands under your thighs one last time, and you see him taking a few steps back and beginning to walk around the table.

You stiffen up. As if the cold morning breeze wasn’t persecuting enough, now you have another—much worse—threat to fear. You follow Ghost with your peripheral vision while trying to focus on Price, but he disappears behind you.

You hear him fiddling with something—the soldiers across from you throw peeks above your head and then at each other. You try to pick up on their expressions. Unfortunately, you aren’t as good at decoding faces as he is.

There’s a hand brushing your chair, tucking something on its backrest. The same gloved hand nudges your shoulder once and points at the back.

You look over your shoulder.

It’s a cloth. You turn your upper body and take a closer look.

It’s a scarf; his scarf.

You turn to look at him, and he gestures for you to drape it over your shoulders as he walks back to the captain. You obey and lift it from the chair. It’s still warm to the touch. You throw it on your shoulders and wrap it tighter around yourself. His residual body heat is still trapped in the garment. It feels like a hug, and you fight the urge to bury your nose in and smell it. You forget the morning breeze, the upcoming drill, and his non-verbal taunting.

Because the morning breeze was there yesterday, and it will be here tomorrow. It is you who pitched a tent in its path.

Because the upcoming drill will eventually end, and you will get to rest. You just need to endure it first.

Because it wasn’t taunting on his part; it was his way of showing concern. And a teeny tiny bit of care.

You turn around and see Ghost taking back his position next to the captain. He doesn’t look at you again for the rest of the briefing. You wish he would. His scarf looks great on you.

———————————————————————

[leyavo]

Simon doesn’t need a sixth sense to know you’re having a bad time. He’s known you since he was a kid, lived next door to you and heard the sorts of things that went on in that house. Not that much different to his own.

So when he finished his latest op, he’s going to your flat instead of his. The curtains still drawn as he walked past the window on the balcony, two hanging pots by the front door withered and dry. The colourful pansies you’d planted the last time he visited void of life.

He fished the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. The kitchen dark as he entered your safe place. He slung his duffle bag near the shoe rack and tugged the curtain open to allow some daylight in.

The open plan apartment vacant, but your bedroom door shut. So he rolled up his sleeves and filled the sink with water. Washing and rinsing the plates and bowls piled in there.

Least you’re eating. The thought alone made him check the fridge. A few eggs rolling around in the door shelf and grated cheese. Half a carton of milk, thank fuck. Least he can have a cuppa whilst he wiped the kitchen counters and folded the blanket strewn over the sofa.

He doesn’t mind helping.

All the little things you do for him when he’s away. You clean his flat so he can come home and relax. Sort his mail and make sure that there’s no leaflets sticking out of the postbox. A little welcome home sticky note on the milk in the fridge and a fresh loaf of bread by the toaster. Even a mug on the side with a teabag in.

It’s the least he could do. You were normally the one helping him as a kid. Patching him up, you were too good at it and it didn’t take Simon long to figure out how you learnt it.

Simon’s always saying how much he owes you and that earns him a dig in the arm each time. No such thing as owing me mate you say.

You’re a couple years older than him, a whole lot gentler too. After all the horrible things that had happened, you were still kind and gentle. That in itself is impossible for most. So Simon does what he can to help you just like you did, when you had it just as bad back then.

Simon even hoovered the flat, knows that it’s like waking the dead. The bed could get stolen beneath you and you’d still be asleep. All thanks to those sleeping pills, the ones he has to remind you to take on and off.

The door creaked as he nudged it open. He set a cup of tea on the bedside table and he crouched in front of your lumpy duvet. His hand slipped under the layers, finger prodding your nose, your cheek. Nothing.

His failed attempt has he reassessing. Rising from the floor he climbed over you and settled behind you, the room too small to have the bed in the middle. So his back is pressed against the wall, curtain skimming his back.

The mattress dipped with him, he reached back and opened the curtain. Sunlight spilling in, he ripped the duvet away from your face and you gasped. Eyes squinting.

“Uh Riley,” you grumbled, tugging the duvet that he held in is grasp. You couldn’t look at him too long, the sun burning your eyes as you turned your back on him and faced the other way.

“Afternoon,” he scoffed, finger tracing the baggy T-shirt he’d given you when you last stayed the night as his. The tour dates on the fabric peeling away.

Simon draped his arm over you and you huffed, your fingers lacing with his. A smile pulled at his lips as you sat up.

“Riley, are you wearing outdoor clothes on my bed?” You yelled, flinging his arm back at him. “Get. Off.”

He sunk back into the pillow, hands tucked under his head. “Yeah, same ones I’ve had on since the base and the plane ride.” Anything to get you up.

You grumbled as you rolled out of the bed, stripping the pillow from the cases and snatching the one beneath his head.

“I’m gonna have to wash the lot, you bastard,” you muttered, slapping his arm as he got up from the bed. “Take a bloody shower too, fucking brute.”

Simon pecked your cheek, “I’m gonna use all that fancy shower gel,” he teased, but you stopped him before he could enter the en-suite bathroom.

Your gaze trailing every inch of his body, eyes falling on the gash on his throat. The same look you used to give him whenever you patched him up. You’re both still the same kids looking back at each other sometimes.

“We’re alright.”

[the-palelady]

You were a nurse at what could barely be called a clinic, simply a little office inside the just as meager town hall. However, you still took your job seriously, tending to your patient’s one by one, never allowing any of them to step outside of the clinic until they were glowing like the afternoon sun sitting high in the sky when it was right at its peak.

You didn’t hear the trudge of his boots, and the jingle of his spurs when he first stepped inside your corner of the building. Your focus was settled on the woman before you, one palm resting idly on her swollen belly whilst you went about the regular check of her vitals.

“How are you doing besides all this?” you asked her with a smile, grabbing your notes, and tapping them on the table beside you.

“Everythin s’alright. Just can’t wait for this little stinker to hurry on out.” You and the young woman giggle together at her statement, your hand pressing against the hand sitting on her belly.

“Any day now and they’ll be with us. Just take it easy, and leave the heavy lifting to that husband of yours, hm?” Joining hands, you help her stand while she lets out another laugh. The two of you exchange a few more words before she bids you goodbye.

The office was now silent save for the tap of your pen meeting paper as you wrapped up the rest of your notes, and your hushed murmuring.

But when you turned to face the rest of the office, the dark figure sitting on a chair in the corner of the room hardly registers to you.

First you do a double take, then you squeal. The book that housed your notes clambers to the floor, bouncing once and then lying open on the wood floors.

"How...How long have you-"

"Not long, ma'am."

Ghost he called himself. Fitting since that is how he showed up in town; metastasizing from nothing, joining the daily squabble of the little town you called home as if he had lived there his entire life.

Now here he sat in your office, handkerchief wrapped around the palm of his hand, the tanned fabric fading into a dark shade of red.

You barely paid any mind to his words, your brain solely fixating on the wound that he had lazily wrapped. Your feet moved with a mind of their own, leading you to the sterile needles and thread that sat on the doctor's surgical tray.

Blood was no stranger to you. This was the west. People came and went with wounds of different calibers every week, so a simple gash to the palm of someone's hand was nothing.

You go into autopilot, paying no mind to the curious look Ghost gives you when you pull up a chair in front of him, grabbing his wrist with a delicacy you gave all of your patient's bleeding or not.

The wound itself was still bleeding, however not as much as it clearly had been before. It was a nasty, deep cut that made even you wince at the sight.

"I'm going to clean this up as best as I can. Just be still. It might sting a bit." You peeked up from under your lashes, not expecting him to already be staring at you, his dark gaze forcing your skin to heat up a few degrees.

"Do what ya need to do, doc."

A breathy laugh left you, "Hardly a doctor. I'm just a nurse. The doctor's out doing house calls at the moment."

He hums in response, and observes you silently while you go about tending to the gash. You've done this long enough that it doesn't take much time for you to get the wound cleaned up and sutured, wrapping gauze around the width of his hand.

"Work just s'well as a doctor. Maybe faster."

His words pull you from your haze, a deep rumble that has your grip on his warm hand loosening.

"O-Oh...I've just done this a lot." You bite the inside of your cheek at the sound of your stuttering.

The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable, but it's unwelcome. You can hear the blood flowing in your ears, your brain working overtime to get you to speak up. Your painfully aware of his hand that is still resting in the palm of yours.

"Thanks for the patch up," Ghost stands, and that's when the words finally find you.

"No need to thank me," your movements match his, coming to your full height, "just make sure to keep it cleaned. Try to avoid doing anything that'll open the sutures. If it does open and starts bleeding again cover it with these."

You press some gauze into the unwounded hand, and he gives you a simple nod.

Taking a step back your able to fully see him, his amber colored eyes that were once so easy to see now hidden by the shadow of the hat that rested on top of his head. The rest of his face was obscured by a black bandana, the fabric dirtied from a long day of work.

"Well then," you start, "if you need anything else feel free to come back in. I'm sure the doctor would be more than happy to help you."

He considers your words for a moment, arms crossing over his chest as he looks down at you.

"And what if it's not the doctor I want help from?"

[codnasties]

bull rider!ghost 👻

having an uni bestie that's from a small rural town as someone who was born and raised in a city has it's perks, like getting to experience things you had never experienced before. and i'm talking about going to a rodeo.

crowd roaring as a new rider sat on an angry bull and got tossed into the air as the animal bucked fiercely. the first few wild dudes that you had seen were interesting. you know, the attraction of something new that you had never really seen before. but after a handful of them it started getting a bit boring, but your friend was cheering on so loudly and seemingly enjoying that so much it would probably be rude to tell them that you weren't having so much fun.

trying to find some kind of entertainment, you told your friend you were going to go and get a drink, because at this moment a beer looked like it would bring you some semblance of entertainment.

but you were wrong, because as you make your way back to the rodeo grounds, your eye caught a rider that was different. he had a commanding and charming aura to him, something that impelled you to look at him. well, maybe it was more that just the way he carried himself.

it was the way those jeans seemed to hug those thick thighs of his, how, with the help of the chaps he was wearing, they left little to imagination, giving you a perfect view of his ass. and oh what an ass! and his shirt... the way his strong and built muscle seemed to flex and ripple with each movement that he made.

when you finally made it back to where your friend was sitting - which took you longer than the way to the bar because of adoring such a man -, this mysterious dude was now on the chute, lowering himself onto one hell of an angry bull.

while the rest of the riders had caught your eye, there was nothing but anticipation inside of you to see him try to tame that ton and a half bull. and he did not disappoint, the beast beneath him bucking trying to get him of.

it wasn't just the way he has holding on or how long those eight seconds seemed to last when it was him on the arena. it was the way his hips swayed trying to follow the bulls movements, the way the bicep of the arm he was using to hold on became impossibly bigger with the tension, the veins that were proptinding on the hand he had up in the air, the glimpse of tattoos on his forearm as the sleeve of his shirt got pulled by his muscles.

before you ever realised, the buzzer had sounded, indicating that the time necessary was over and that he could now get off the bull. and when he did, you became even more intrigued by him and how fucking tall he looked and how he, amazingly, had managed to keep the hat he was wearing on his head the whole time.

seeing how entranced you were by this one specific rider, your friend immediately gave you that information that you were unknowingly desperate to know. "his name is simon riley, but they call him ghost"

"ghost?", you asked them back.

"yup, because of the way he rides, breaks records and then fucking vanishes. the public doesn't really know much about him or his personal life. and it's also a know fact that is hard to even get to meet him and talk to him" they explained. "oh, an also he ghost every single person that he fucks'

"hmm interesting", you hummed, starting to get into your head that as much as this 'ghost' seemed attractive and got you horny just from looking at him, he was quite unreachable and maybe a bit of an asshole.

"yeah, the man's a beast at what he does", they exclaimed, cutting your thought process.

"i can see, you don't need me to tell me twice", you uttered back.

"and he's actually a cousin of mine! let me introduce you to him'" they gave you further explanation.

you couldn't help the immediate 'oh' that left you. because you actually had a chance to talk to this man an maybe, maybe try to cham your way into those tight jeans of his. because an asshole has his charm, you know?

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

hope y'all enjoyed that, i just pulled this out of my pussy.

no smut just pure hornyness. anyways, save a horse ride a cowboy or sum

[criminalamnesia]

the 141 x reader fic that you did was so yummy!!! pls make them suffer the wrath of reader and make 141 realise how much they need them when they leave,

your work is so amazing btw and your way with words is simply ✨chef’s kiss✨ (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))♡

thank you!! here’s part 3 :)

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

angry didn’t even begin to describe how you felt as you slammed the door to price’s office behind you.

you were tense, muscles taut and poised to fight. your fists clenched at your sides, blunt nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt. your jaw was clenched, teeth grinding together as you resisted the urge to march back in there and unleash your fury.

no. not like this. not when you weren’t a hundred percent. not when they would still look at you like you were a wounded doe, stumbling around on broken legs.

in the back of your mind, you can hear that psychologist saying ‘this anger will eat you alive if you let it. you need to let it out somehow.’

you inhaled, unclenched your fists, and made up your mind. you pulled the iv from your arm, wincing at the pinch of the needle.

you left the iv pole standing there as you made your way to the gym.

the gym was empty when you arrived, which made sense for this time of day. many would be occupied by drills or in the mess hall. others would be sleeping off long nights. you had the place to yourself, and you were grateful for the absence of watchful eyes and sweetened tongues.

you were tired of those who knew nothing acting like they knew something. of those who apologized or asked if you were okay. word spread like wildfire around base, and the subject of your ‘betrayal’ had been front-page news since the start of the witch hunt.

the gym door clicked shut behind you, and you surveyed the room. you knew your doctor would have a fit once you returned to the infirmary, and that she probably wouldn’t let you out alone again, but you didn’t really care.

you needed to let off some steam, and the best way you knew how was with your fists. either you start swinging at a bag or at a certain someone’s face. the bag won’t be condescending, and that makes your choice easy.

you approach one of the bright red punching bags in the corner. it’s scratched and taped from where someone had busted it open. scars that didn’t go away, that wouldn’t— just like yours.

you huffed. it didn’t do any good to start feeling sorry for yourself. you hadn’t done anything wrong. your team had.

you stretch your arms out in front of you, fingers interlocking to pop your knuckles. you catch sight of your severed finger, still healing. they’d recovered what had been chopped off, but hadn’t been able to save it.

just another permanent reminder, something to make sure you didn’t dare forget. you didn’t think you ever would regardless.

you shook out your hands and rolled your shoulders back. fists raised, you angled yourself towards the bag. feet spread, shoulders squared, thumb tucked under your fingers instead of inside. a stance that was second nature after years of sparring and hand-to-hand drills.

the bag was firm when your fist connected with it. you would have been lying if you said it didn’t hurt. you punched with the other hand— same results. the time you’d spent confined to an infirmary bed had done a number on you. muscles had atrophied, bones had weakened. the leg you’d suffered a bone-deep cut to shook under your weight.

you didn’t care. you kept punching, your breathing picking up as your emotions guided you. sweat dripped into your eyes and rolled down your back. you felt weak, physically and mentally. you hated feeling this way, and so you punched harder.

“slow down,” a voice grumbled from behind you.

you ignored him, continuing to punch the bag. you hadn’t heard the door open, nor heard the sound of him approaching, but you would have been surprised if you did.

simon always had a penchant for sneaking up on people, intentionally or not.

“gonna pass out if y’don’t stop,” he said after a minute. you could feel his eyes on you. you ignored him again.

you didn’t need to turn around to know he was standing there with his arms crossed, eyes full of something unreadable.

“stop,” he says firmly, and you sense his movement as he surges forward. his hand lands heavily on your shoulder, pulling you back from the punching bag. you heave in a breath before spinning around and punching him in the nose.

simon stumbles back a step, eyes widened slightly. for someone who prided himself on being so observant, he clearly didn’t see that coming. it made you feel the tiniest bit smug that you’d caught him off guard for once.

you dropped your hands to your knees then, squeezing your eyes shut as a wave of nausea washed over you. damn the bastard, he had been right. you shouldn’t have even been in here in the first place, let alone exerted yourself as much as you had.

your hands were shaking as you tried to pull yourself together. you opened your eyes to see drops of blood on the gym floor, by your feet. you had split your knuckles open.

there were also drops of blood at simon’s feet. you looked up then, slowly straightening your posture. he’d removed his mask, his face bare as he stared at you. blood dripped from his nose.

“gonna have to hit harder than that if y’want to break it,” he says, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“did you follow me in here?”

“no.” he says, and you’re giving a mirthless laugh.

“oh, please. im sure price sent you, yeah? you’ve always been his little lap dog. he says ‘jump’ and you say ‘how high,’ isn’t that right, lieutenant?”

your tone is tense, angry. you throw his title in his face, seeing as he’d been so quick to remind you of yours back in price’s office.

simon watches you, and you want to tackle him. he had always been quiet, always stoic. you’d been with him for years, but you still didn’t think you’d broken down all of his walls.

he was so good at masking his thoughts, his feelings. you weren’t. soap had always called you an open book. whenever you were mad or upset, everyone knew it.

no one knew anything about simon unless he wanted them to. it drove you mad then, and it was sure as hell driving you mad now.

“you need to get back to the infirmary,” he tells you. he wipes the back of his hand under his nose, smearing red across his skin. for a moment, you want to chastise him, reach up and wipe the remnants from his face.

you quickly shake that thought from your head. what is it they say— old habits die hard?

these habits would die if you had to strangle each one with your bare hands. anything you harbored for the four men on your team, for the one you’d called yours, was dead and gone.

“fuck off,” you tell him.

“why are you so damn stubborn?” he says then, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him start to crack since everything had happened. emotions are beginning to leak through his stony exterior, whether he means them to or not.

“you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. none of you do,” you say, and you take a step forward then, eyes blazing as you stare up at him. “not after what you did.”

he doesn’t speak for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. his eyes never leave yours.

“it shouldn’t have happened like that.” he tells you. you scoff.

“like that? you mean the four of you torturing me? tying me up and mutilating me like I was just another fucking target?” your voice was rising as you took another step forward, shoving a finger into his chest.

“if I’d treated you like another target,” he said, tone even. “you would’ve been dead.”

“so you showed me mercy, is that it?” you bared your teeth, a hollow laugh escaping your throat. “oh, thank you simon. I really felt that fucking mercy when you cut off my finger, and when you cut through layers of skin to get to bone.”

you inhaled before continuing. “I should be grateful then, right? is that what you want from me? for me to recognize your fucking ‘mercy’ and take you back? take you all back?”

he just stands there. you can see his jaw clench, but he makes no move to speak. you find it funny that he hasn’t even tried to apologize. john, your ever prideful captain, had swallowed his failure and pleaded for your forgiveness.

johnny and kyle would surely have done the same if they’d had the chance to speak to you, even if they only had a minute.

but simon? simon doesn’t. he doesn’t outwardly admit his wrongs. he doesn’t apologize. doesn’t seem sorry, even. you don’t know what’s going on inside his head, but you find yourself not really caring to know.

the fact that he can’t bring himself to admit, in blunt words, that he had astronomically fucked up and that he felt even the slightest bit of remorse, told you everything you needed to know.

cold, stoic ghost. you hadn’t been afraid of him when you’d first joined the squad, and you weren’t afraid of him now.

but back then, you’d wanted to break down those stone walls of his. you’d wanted to be someone he felt safe around, someone who knew him inside and out.

now, you’re packing your time with him into a box in your mind and dumping it into the trash. simon riley means nothing to you now.

“take your mercy and shove it up your ass,” you tell him. you step back and drop your hand, your eyes still locked on his.

“and by the way,” you say as you start towards the door. he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move an inch. it’s as if he’s rooted to the spot.

“you should’ve just killed me.”

author’s note:

not really sure how I feel about this one tbh. I have plans for a part four, but I’m not quite sure how long I’ll be making this series.

and as for simon— I want to write an extra part about his thoughts/feelings about everything. let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in!

anyways, let me know your thoughts please :) (I honestly may end up deleting this and rewriting it when I’m not tired lol)

taglist: @preeyansha @igotmajordaddyissues @nanatheoaktree @aesthetic0cherryblossom @oceanicexolorer @soph121212 @liv2post @cupid-eclipse @angels-despair18 @k4marina

[dmitriene]

experience of period leakage is uncomfortable, waking up through the grogginess that lingers on your eyes, making them glassy, bloated stomach wrenching with cramps that knot in the lower area of your abdomen, making you bent with muffled whine, trying to relieve the pain as your spine flexes with your movement, when you feel something sodden beneath.

oozed blood, staining the twitching skin of your thighs as you shake from the weakness, sheets beneath you now a darkened burgundy color, seeped out from where your panties now have the same rudy stain as the duvet, making your eyes swim with annoying sting, before it rips out of you with bubbled sob.

it's wakes simon up, stirring beneath the blanket that pooled at his hips as he propped himself up, one hand rubbing at his darkened, lidded with sleep eyes, ears picking at the small sound of distress immediately, and he sits up through cracking bones to see your shaking, twisted form.

noticing the reason of your distress as well, brushing his hand along the dried spot of blood beneath, no doubt soaked in the mattress by now, and the thought makes your fingers curl at the sheets in sadness that morphs itself in the anger, to the way you feel, to what you endure, buzzing in your ears along ragged sobs that make simon's heart knot in sympathy.

you didn't even noticed that he woke up, jolting lightly at the sudden touch that envelops the side of your body with comfortingly seeping warmth, until you're being scooped between two burly, spread legs and slotted gently against sturdy, rumbling chest, the cooing hoarseness of his voice suddenly overcomes the distressing buzz in your ears, calming your senses.

you melt against him, letting simon cradle you against his chest with gentle touches, and despite that you feel uncomfortably dirty because of the smudged blood on your panties, you cuddle closer with little sniffs, curling yourself in a ball, as his lips brush against your temple, nose catching at the salty wetness of your tears.

simon will take care of everything, fill the bathtub with warm water so you'll be able to wash yourself up so slipping into the clean underwear and one of his shirts would feel even more comfortable, as he'd change the sheets and dump them to washing machine along with your panties, hell, he'd even buy a new clean mattress, anything, just to not see you upset again.

you come back to the room not on your legs, but nuzzled against simon's solid chest as he carries you to the clean bed, adorned with a dark shade of sheets in case something will happen again, as he settles you beneath the softness of the blanket and lays behind you, cloaking your form with his, moving his palms to rest them on your tummy, rubbing twining, lulling circles on your relaxed skin.

main masterlist. quidelines.

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

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

Y/n: What?

Simon: I had a bad childhood.

Y/n: Oh. Yeah, I know.

Simon: You know?

Y/n: I mean, look at you.

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

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