#simon riley x reader imagine

[ragingbookdragon]

She huffs lightly when she hears the low growl of the familiar soldier in the room next door, followed by her nurse griping and trying to work with him. Entering behind, she lays a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Go on, Paula, I got him,” she says with a smile and Paula practically screams in relief as she leaves the exam room.

She gives him a fond smile. “Now, Lieutenant, what have I said about antagonizing my nurses?”

He scowls at her. “I don’t like ‘em.”

“I know but I still need you to be kind when they’re simply trying to do their jobs.”

“I don’t like anyone touchin’ me but you.” He’s still scowling behind his mask, holding his side where she can see the black material stained a darker color.

“Well aren’t I special,” she murmurs, closing the exam room door before walking over. “You know the drill.”

He lifts his sweatshirt wordlessly along with the t-shirt he’s got underneath and she sighs at the sight of a cut about four inches long riding up his ribs.

“Do I even want to know how?” She asks.

“Trainin’ with Soap,” he mutters. “‘e’s a slippery lit’le bastard when ‘e needs to be.”

She snorts and goes about pulling on a pair of latex gloves before she begins to clean his wound with antiseptic. He doesn’t make a sound though she knows it stings like a bitch and the only show of irritation from him is the way his muscle ripple beneath her touch.

“I thought I said not to get wounded anymore.”

“Didn’t listen,” he simply shrugs.

“If I had half a mind, I’d assume you did this on purpose so you could come see me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter you’self. I don’t like you that much.”

A laugh escapes her as she checks the depth, ultimately deciding on a few stitches for his wound. “Oh I know you like me plenty, Simon.”

Simon.

She only says his name in privacy when no one can hear them. He hates the way his chest feels funny, sternum scratchy with an itch he can’t get to.

“‘S Lieutenant,” he retorts.

“Of course, of course,” she hums. “My most sincerest apologies, Lieutenant Riley.”

He scowls again but that itch returns when she begins to stitch his wound carefully.

After a few minutes, she sets the clipped thread down and admires her handiwork. “All done, sweetheart,” she says with a gentle smile and wipes it carefully before putting a bandage on it. “Don’t get it wet and—”

“Keep it dry and clean,” he finishes. “I know.”

She laughs and pokes the nose to his mask. “Maybe one day you will learn.”

She watches as he redresses himself before standing, waving off the bottle of pills she hands to him.

“Don’t need ‘em.”

“It’s just some ibuprofen, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t need ‘em,” he repeats with a growl and she rolls her eyes.

“You are so stubborn for no reason,” she says and places her hands on her hips. “And after all the care I just gave you.”

He looks at her for a solid moment before he leans over and kisses her cheek through his mask. “Thank you, love,” he mutters. “For takin’ care of me.”

She goes uncharacteristically quiet, cheeks getting hot and he smirks at her.

“Ain’t got nothin’ to say? Cat got your tongue?”

She glares at him half-heartedly. “Get out of my clinic, Lieutenant.”

As he heads for the door, he pauses and looks at her. “It’s Simon, to you.” He says, and closes the door behind him.

[janasrdhr]

Stay - Simon “Ghost” Riley

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Warning(s): Major Character Death, Explicit Language, Angst

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Ghost signals to proceed towards the fourth floor of the building, indicating it as the final hurdle to overcome.

An eerie silence envelops the surroundings.

Suddenly, Ghost forcefully pulls you downward with a shout, sending waves of pain coursing through your body.

In the midst of chaos, an explosion shatters the floor beneath you.

You find yourself wounded, partially trapped under concrete, as Ghost's voice reaches you amidst the wreckage.

“You stay with me. Don’t you die on me. That’s an order.”

You whimper, your body wracked with excruciating pain, swallowing hard as your eyes glaze over.

Ghost's arms wrap around your body tightly. His touch firm, reassuring. His eyes are locked into yours. He needs to see you holding onto him. To see your eyes and make sure that you're still there. That you're not gone.

He looks at your chest. His hand presses up against it. He needs to see your chest rise and fall beneath the rubble.

“Stay with me. Stay. Please.”

Your hand darts up, seizing his own in a desperate grasp, fingers trembling to match the tremors of his own chest. “I-it hurts,” you stammer, the pain coursing through you like molten lava, threatening to consume you whole.

You're losing strength. He can see your free hand struggling to grip his hand as tightly as it was.

He's silent for a moment, then a short, quick command to no one in particular.

“I need morphine now.”

The rubble starts moving slightly, and you know that Ghost can't move you just yet.

But he's not leaving your side.

“You stay with me dove, yeah?”

“It hurts so much. F-fuck...I can't-” you heave, drawing in air as though each labored breath were a lifeline.

“I need you to do somethin' for me, dove.”

Ghost's voice is firm. Almost an order. But his grip on you is gentle, as if he doesn't want to hurt you more than you are already hurting.

“You're goin' to take slow, deep breaths. And you're goin' to keep lookin' at me. Only me.”

You nod pitifully, your concussed head barely able to comply, your consciousness teetering on the brink.

“Good girl.”

The rubble continues to shift. As the debris slowly gets removed from your body. The morphine slowly enters your system. Pain alleviating, as the world starts to spin.

“I need you to stay awake for me, love?”

Ghost's voice is reassuring, comforting, warm. Even with the mask covering his mouth, his eyes are intent - waiting. Waiting to see if you're still there.

“Stay with me.”

Your eyes begin to roll back, struggling as if trying to stitch themselves shut.

“Dove.”

Ghost's tone is urgent now. As if he's going to shake you into staying awake. Into living.

“I need you to look at me. Look at me.”

His grip presses into your hand. Trying to find some semblance of life in you. It must kill him to see you like this. See you suffer.

“Look at me, pretty.”

Your eyes snap open, fueled by the dwindling remnants of your energy, slowly succumbing to the pull of slumber; despite the plea in his usual taut voice.

“That's it,” Ghost whispers, his voice filled with relief.

“Don't you dare close your eyes. Keep lookin' at me. Keep lookin'.”

There's still rubble pinning you to the ground. The EVAC team trying their hardest to free you - and keep you alive.

“Don't you close your eyes again. Ya hear me?”

“...s-so tired...” You stutter, your voice faltering, as weariness grips you like a heavy cloak.

His voice, normally resonant and commanding, now carries a plea, a desolate edge honed by urgency. Each word is measured, and delivered with a staggering resolve. A raw vulnerability that struggles to break free from its jagged, rusty confines, something only you seem to have the key to. It echoes the weight of unspoken fears and the fervent hope of finding salvation amid turmoil.

God, does he push on. For you.

Anything for you.

“Keep lookin'.”

You're slipping away. His grip on you grows tighter as he pleads.

“Don't you go on me. Ya hear that? Don't you go on me.”

It would tear his heart out to lose you. He knows that. He knows just as well as you do.

But you have to stay. You have to stay.

“Ghost,” you stammer, your words catching in your throat like a fish struggling against a hook, “I d-don't think I can...”

“You have to. You get me?”

He's so desperate. So desperate. He can't lose you. Not here. Not now where you lie in a pile of rubble. Where everything is chaos.

There's noise around you, the rubble being lifted, the sound of feet and voices.

Your hand, barely clinging to him, tightens ever so slightly, a silent plea for reassurance.

“I-If I don't make it...you'll miss me, r-right?”

“Don't you dare talk like that, dove.”

Ghost's voice cracks. His grip has tightened to the point that it's painful.

“You're makin' it out of here, and I'm not leavin' until you do.”

His eyes narrow.

“You're not goin' anywhere.”

A solitary tear escapes, tracing a silent path down the contours of your weary face. “I...I'll miss you,” you confess, your voice trembling with emotion, each word a delicate thread in the tapestry of your heartache. “So much...”

“You're not dyin', damn it.”

Ghost hisses the words. The frustration is evident in his voice. The fear and dread, the knowledge of just how close you're to the end of the line.

Ghost can't even begin to describe the emotions he's feeling. The guilt over bringing you to this. The anger over someone else doing this to you.

A strained whimper manages to escape your parched throat. “I-...I had everything planned, y-y'know?” you confess, your voice strained, carrying the weight of stolen expectations. “E-Everything.”

“Shut it.”

It's quiet this time. As if Ghost is trying to deny the truth in those words. As if he can push it back and make it not real.

“Shut up... you're not thinkin' like that. Don't you dare.”

A pause as a tear falls from his eye. A low, grunted curse as his lips tighten under the balaclava.

Your words emerge in fragments, like fragile petals torn from a wilting flower, each syllable a struggle against unspoken desires.

“I...I wanted,” you begin, your breaths strained as if wrestling with unseen burdens. “I wanted to marry you.” you manage to confess amidst the tumult of your emotions, the words hanging in the air like delicate threads on the verge of snapping.

“And...and children...” you choke back tears, the image of a future slipping through your trembling grasp. “I imagined...a home,” you continue, your voice a whispered plea, “filled with love.” But even as you struggle to speak, the words falter, slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“I...I can't hold on,” you admit, weak gasps punctuating the realization of time slipping inexorably away. Tears stream down your cheeks, each drop a testament to the depth of your longing.

“I wanted...so much.” your voice trails off, fading into the silence battered breaths.

“Stop.”

Ghost tries. He tries to block it. The truth. The reality.

You're lying here, barely hanging on. The life within your body slipping away.

“Don't say that. It's...”

There's a pause as he swallows hard.

“It's not slippin' away.”

Another beat as his grasp on you loosens slightly. The fear, the anger, the panic, the pain, the guilt. It's all in his voice. His voice cracking. Breaking.

“A d-destination wedding,” you manage, a dry chuckle escaping your lips, as if dust had settled upon your laughter.

“Italy....Tuscany.” Your voice wavers, painting a picture of distant shores and moonlit sands. “On the beach, m-maybe? Barefoot, under the nighttime sky. Just us and the stars,” Your thoughts drift away by the current of your yearning.

“White roses...everywhere,” you continue, the image forming in your mind's eye like a fragile constellation.

“I love white roses...” you trail off, lost in the reverie of what could have been.

Ghost listens to your dreams. Your thoughts of a future together. A life together.

A faint smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. His eyes narrow more as it's barely noticeable, only if you really look at his face.

“Italy.” Ghost repeats, his voice stronger now. “White roses.”

A pause as he swallows hard. A deep sigh to collect himself.

“What else?”

“It s-should be intimate,” you falter, your voice wavering with sincerity, "just family and friends with us.” You pause, gathering your thoughts before continuing with a soft giggle, “I've always imagined Captain Price officiating, maybe even walking me down the aisle too...”

“Price?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. The faintest of smirks pull at the corner of his mouth for a moment.

“No chance in hell is Price going to be our priest.”

It doesn't last long. That faint flicker of joy. Because it's drowned out by everything else.

“Why not?” you pout, suppressing the pain coursing through you as you raise your gaze to meet his.

“Because, believe it or not, Price still has a level of professionalism to him. He's not going to be marrying off some of his best soldiers in the middle of a war.”

Ghost tries to smile. Tries to find some humor in this situation.

“Besides, he wouldn't know how to officiate a proper wedding ceremony. He'd just ramble on about how the relationship is a battle.”

You laugh softly, a melody to him. “I also w-wanted to retire from the military,” you confess, your words weaving a tapestry of aspirations. “Opening a bakery or a floral shop... or maybe both,” you muse, letting the possibilities dance.

“A bakery... a floral shop.”

Ghost's voice is soft, almost a whisper as he speaks.

“I'd buy an entire bakery from you just to try some of whatever you'd make.” he chuckles lightly. A breath as he swallows hard.

“And a floral shop,” His grip tightens ever so slightly on your hand.

“I'd buy that, too. I'd bring you flowers every day. All sorts. Roses. Sunflowers. Lilies. Hydrangeas...”

You shake your head, a wince flickering across your features like a shadow passing over the sun. Almost instantly, you feel the sting of ripped arteries creeping in. “Just white roses,” you murmur.

“...white roses,” Ghost repeats quietly, his grip on you softening.

“I'd bring you white roses, dove.”

Another pause. The silence is deafening.

“White roses. The brightest, most beautiful ones out there.”

Just for you.

You gaze upwards, absorbing the expanse of the skies above, as if embracing the vastness of the unknown that lies ahead. “I'll have to get used to this,” you whisper, the realization settling in like a gentle breeze on a summer day.

“Two kids,” you continue, your voice progressively dimming, “a boy and a girl. Spend everyday t-taking care of 'em, watching 'em grow” With a tremble in your voice, you add, “I'll send you off to work each day, stealing a kiss from you b-before you go.”

“Two kids, I can agree to that. A boy and a girl, definitely. You'll spoil them horribly though.” he teases gently, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

A long pause. The sounds of the world around them finally register. The sounds of the medics working to free you.

“W-wouldn't,” you muse, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “our daughter become a daddy's girl?”

“Our daughter...she'll definitely be a daddy's girl. But our son...” Ghost's voice softens. “...our son would be a mommy's boy. For sure.”

He'd be just as protective of his mother as she is of him."

“What would you name her?” you inquire.

Ghost hesitates for a moment. As if he's trying to pick the perfect name.

“Beth.”

He pauses again.

“She'd be a lovely little girl. She'll have her mother's smile. Her mother's laugh. Her mother's heart.”

“And what name would you give our son, my love?” Simon asked.

You ponder, feeble eyes fluttering.

“Tommy.”

“Tommy,” Ghost repeats. The ghost of a smile is just barely visible under the mask.

Another beat as he holds you tightly. As if by holding you, he can make things right again.

“...yeah. Tommy's a good name.”

You find yourself whimpering more frequently now, each sound a plaintive note in the symphony of your agony as the pain sets in again. “I...I don't wanna die,” you murmur, your words a fragile plea.

“You're not going to die. You're not going to die”

But Ghost doesn't seem entirely convinced with his own words.

The medics are still working furiously to free you.

But the fear and anxiety inside of him is clear. He's afraid that he's losing you. That the wounds you've suffered are irreversible.

He tries to block it. To be strong for you. But he can't deny that feeling inside of him. The dread.

“I don't wanna leave, Ghost,” you sob, the words choked with emotion, longing to remain by his side.

“I know...I know.” He whispers, his words soft.

“I don't want you to go, either.”

Oh, how he didn't.

The medic finally manages to remove a large piece of rubble that was weighing you down.

“Stay with me. Focus on me,” he tells you softly, gently squeezing your hands.

“Look into my eyes.”

You let out a piercing scream as the oppressive weight is finally lifted from you.

Ghost's grasp on you tightens. He holds you tighter, squeezing your hands even harder as if somehow, he can spare your pain.

“Keep lookin' at me, dove,” he whispers.

“Le' me see those pretty eyes.”

You sob uncontrollably, each breath a struggle as if your lungs were drowning in white-hot pain. “Don't leave me,” you plead, your voice a trembling whisper. “s-so scared..."

“I'm not leavin' you.”

His voice cracks. His grip tightens even further so as to try and relieve your own pain.

“I am not leavin' you.”

Another beat as Ghost forces himself to continue. To look at you. To stare into your eyes as if he could somehow spare you from this.

“Just keep holdin' me and everythin' will be okay.”

He tries to soothe your pain, rubbing your shoulders with one hand and squeezing you tightly with the other.

“Yeah? Everythin' will be okay.”

You nod, your grasp on him tightening every so often.

“He should have your eyes,” you murmur, a sentiment blooming between you once more.

“He'd be as strong as you, as brave as you, as protective as you...as s-safe as you are.”

“He would.”

Ghost tries to smile. To imagine the son that he'd have.

“He'd be as stubborn as me, too.”

You break into a soft smile, “You'd be a g-good father, Simon,” you murmur, your words carrying certainty.

The smile falters. The realization hitting him again.

Ghost's grip on you tightens further. This is the only thing he can do to prevent himself from breaking down.

“Yeah," he murmurs. “I-...I'd be a good father. Yeah.”

Two heartbeats.

One irregular, the other irregular too.

“....A-And our daughter?”

“Our daughter.”

Ghost's voice cracks.

“She'd be so beautiful. The light of my life.”

Another heartbeat as a tear rolls down his cheeks.

“Like her mother.”

Your hold on him slackens, as your exhausted eyelids surrender to an eternal slumber. Yet, even in your final moments, a serene smile graces your lips, an enduring emblem of peace. As you draw your last breath, you depart adorned with that same tranquil expression, leaving behind a poignant echo of your essence.

“Like you.”

A pained whimper escapes Ghost. Soon, a sob.

“She'll definitely be like you.”

Another beat before he whispers again.

“But you should live to see her. You should live to see our son...”

Your vision blurs, colours fading into shades of grey as the world around you dims. Sounds muffle and distance themselves, like echoes fading into the night. Surrendering to the engulfing pain, you muster the last of your strength to whisper a fragile declaration: “I love you.”

Another beat before a soft cry hitches in his throat.

Another whisper.

“Don't leave...”

Ghost's grip on you tightens. He whispers one more time.

“Stay...”

Your chest stagnates, trapped in a moment of suspended animation, as if time has folded in on itself. The vibrant hues drain from your once radiant skin, leaving it as pale and lifeless as cold wax. Your body begins to chill, a stark reminder of the journey ahead. Muscles slacken, limbs surrendering to a weighty lethargy. The rhythmic ebb and flow of your chest's rise and fall fades into a profound silence. Consciousness slips away like a whisper on the wind, leaving behind naught but a hollow, silent void.

Ghost squeezes you tighter. Trying to fight the inevitable.

But he can feel it.

He's losing you.

Slowly, your grip goes slack. The rise and fall of your chest stops. Your once warm body growing cold.

The medics are still working, trying to remove the rubble that remains.

All Ghost can do is hold you. Hold you in his arms.

All he can hear is the silence. The void.

“Stay...”

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masterlist - cod masterlist

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[maskedbyghost]

when simon wakes up in a hospital, the last thing you expect is for him to grab your hand, pull you close, and say, “hey, there you are, love.” his voice is so soft, so sure, it leaves you speechless. you stare at him, half in shock, because this is ghost—simon riley, the one person who’s kept every feeling locked up.

“simon, do you… do you remember anything?” you ask, testing the waters.

he blinks, looking at you with confidence. “of course, i remember. you’re my wife.”

you freeze. his wife? this is new, and you’re not sure where he got the idea, but before you can correct him, johnny walks in, taking one look at the two of you and biting back a grin. he leans in, whispering to you, “maybe just… go with it for now, eh?” he’s got that teasing glint in his eye, and something tells you there’s no harm in humoring simon for a bit, if it can be helpful for his recovery.

so, you go along with it. and to your surprise, simon doesn’t act confused—in fact, he’s more open with you than he’s ever been. suddenly, he’s holding your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, always looking for you, keeping you close, calling you “love” or “darlin’�� in front of everyone. he’s even got that soft smile every time you catch his eye, one that makes it hard to remember this isn’t real.

the team’s amused but supportive, playing along with the whole story. simon keeps asking you little things, like what your favorite meal is, or how you usually spend your days when he’s away, as if filling in gaps in a life he believes you share. you find yourself answering with things that feel so genuine, and the way he listens—focused, attentive—feels more intimate than anything you’ve shared before.

one day, you’re patching up a minor scrape on his hand, and he just watches you, eyes soft, like he’s memorizing every detail. “i don’t know what i’d do without you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. it’s so genuine, so open, that for a second, you forget it’s all just part of his memory loss.

then, one night, he pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours, eyes serious. “do you ever think about us?” he asks softly, like he’s trying to get at something just out of reach. “how we’d be if things were… different?”

you’re not sure how to answer because there’s no script for this. “sometimes,” you admit, feeling a pang of something deep and unspoken. and for the first time, you’re almost grateful he can’t remember—because maybe, just maybe, it’s the only reason he’s letting himself be this vulnerable with you.

as the days pass, you start catching little glimpses, small things that make you wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on. he catches you watching him once, and instead of asking why, he just gives you this little smile, one that feels like he’s in on the secret. and just when you’re starting to think this is all some kind of twisted dream, he pulls you aside.

“i know i’m supposed to remember,” he whispers, “but i don’t want this to end. not yet.”

it’s in that moment you realize the truth. he’s been aware all along—he’s been pretending just as much as you, holding on to this fragile, temporary illusion because, maybe, he needs it just as much as you do.

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hii!! i'm backkk!! send some requests plsss, byee <333

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving

[beloveds-embrace]

Telling Ghost/König you are too heavy for him to pick up or sit on his face, and he doesn’t say anything at first so you think he just accepted it even if your heart kinda twinged a little in pain because you know you are just not skinny enough-

Only for him to send you a video the next day: in the gym, looking mighty hot in a compression shirt and sweatpants just a touch low on his hips, and lifting a bar with ease. On a closer look? The weighs attached to the bar weigh far more than you do. And he so easily maneuvers and controls and manhandles it…

Between the heat curling in your stomach, face pink and thighs clenched shut, you almost miss the incoming text.

Never too heavy for me, doll.

[oceantornadoo]

simon riley AND reader who are absolutely terrible at dating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[nighttimealone]

Cw: Nsfw (consent somno)

Sleeping with Simon means you might wake up from the tingling yet comfortable feeling coming from your breast, still disoriented from the slumber, letting out a sleepy whimper as the pleasure keeps coursing through your spine like tiny lightnings.

“Morning.” Simon doesn’t even detach his lips from your nipples as he greets you, lapping lazily and rolling the little peaks with his hot tongue.

“Simon…” Your fingers card through his locks to encourage him, he’s always extra horny in the early morning, but the eagerness in his movements is more evident now than the other days, practically burying his face in your breasts. “What got you so worked up today?” you ask him between the moans caused by his antics, his intentional sucking on one of your sensitive buds makes you unable to hold back a whiny cry of bliss.

“Wake up and see you sleeping in my arms, safe and sound…” Simon huffs out a laugh when he gives your nipples a nip, eliciting a yelp on you “You wearing my shirt, leaning against my chest, just the right angle for me to peek in the collar and see those cute nipples of yours…”

“It’s not my fault, you told me to wear one of your shirts last night.” Your pouty facade can’t be kept on for long, not when he finishes taking good care of your now fully hardened nipples, peppering kisses on his way downwards, as if memorizing your body and claiming his territory again with those pink love bites.

“And you’re the one who chose the thinnest and loosest shirt, ain’t you?” Taking your clothed clit between his lips, he smirks as he dart out his tongue, pressing down forcefully at your core and toying it skillfully, so you’ll throw your head back on the pillow and grind your needy pussy against his lips, begging for more with those sugar-coated pleas. “Fuck, all greedy and soaked just from me worshipping your tits, sweetheart? Who’s the eager one now, eh?”

“Just…Just pull down the panties already, god…” Not enough, your mind screams for more, yearns for his lips directly touching your wet folds.

“Bossy.” He chastises you, like you’re an impatient girl craving for candies, but he won’t deny you—or deny himself, from tasting what he’s been wanting since he woke up this morning.

Pulling down your panties and let it pull around your ankles, not even sparing time to take it off properly, he dives back between your thighs, wet tongue gliding through your core, drinking down those nectar as you reach out and push his face down further, the crook of his nose nudging your clit so good that you roll your hips to meet his consistent onslaught.

“Bloody hell, princess…smells so fucking good.” He groans, a low and half-growling one which only worsen your insatiable desires. Even when he lifts his head slightly to speak, his hands immediately move in, sliding two thick and long fingers into your dripping cunt, pumping and pressing the correct spots to make you scream out his name.

“Trying to wake the neighbors up with those cute moans, huh? ‘m not sure if they’ll feel grateful.” Thumbs spreading your pussy lips, he latches onto the now-exposed clit, bringing you another level of joy by sucking that twitching little thing.

“Simon! Si- oh, gonna…” You try to warn him before you get pushed over the edge abruptly, liquid gushing out and smearing his face, only for him to moan contently and make sure not to miss any drop.

“What a sight…” Straightening up and looking at the pool of mess staining the bedsheets, before his gaze travel to you face, eyes still blurry and cheeks tinted with rosy red, panting and quivering after squirting so hard for him, Simon smacks your pussy teasingly, earning another delectable whimper from you. “Squirting all over the sheets, will have to change it later.”

“Can’t go another round, baby…” You look down at him the moment his lips touch your puffy folds once again, big eyes meeting his dark ones with satisfaction and tiredness, but your protest is cut off by a soft smack on right on your trembling clit, and further words are replaced with moans when he ducks down to resume devouring his favorite meal, pressing a reassuring kiss to your pussy and croon. “Won’t stop until you squirt again for me, you can do it, love, and you will do it.”

[joonieskinks]

simon ghost riley is sometimes a little blunt (warning: smut)

You adore him for who he is, but it still unnerves you with just how blunt he can be at times.

It usually happens privately with just you:

“In about 5 minutes, I’m gonna eat you out.” He says as you are in the middle of The Goblet of Fire on the couch. You almost choked on your popcorn.

Or you’re doing laundry in the morning. “We need pineapple juice next time we’re out, want you to enjoy swallowing next time you’re suckin me off.” Jaw dropped.

He does it in front of the team too- and sometimes it’s even worse:

You accidentally dropped your lip balm onto the bar floor while fishing it out of your purse and bend to pick it up.

“Haven’t seen that angle in a while, dove. It’s been too long since we done doggy.”

It’s a never-ending series of eyebrow raises when Simon decides to open up his mouth and you’re around, needless to say. You brunt all of the embarrassment and the deep blushes, Simon couldn’t give a shit. He didn’t even clock it when John, Johnny and Kyle would all give him shocked looks. Man just owns it. Completely unbothered.

“Youre wearin the skirt you wear when you wanna get fucked. That your goal?”

“Simon!” You hiss, you can feel the red hot heat rush to your face.

But he just stares back at you, waiting for your response. You can hardly believe how composed he is when his Captain is right there glaring at him.

“So?”

“I need another beer.” John excuses himself, he can’t even look you in the eyes right now. Kyle joins him shortly after making a run for it, but you’re left with a quiet Johnny patiently waiting for you to respond. Eager, almost. Joy.

“You can’t just say things like that in public, especially not in front of your friends!” You lecture, pulling down your skirt in the process.

“Why? If you wanted to fuck, you could’ve just said so, love. Give me 2 to down this pint and I’ll meet you in the toilets, yeah?”

“Simon!” You smack his thigh.

“Can I watch?” Johnny asks excitedly.

“No!-“ “Fine.”

Johnny’s face lights up while yours gives Simon a death stare.

“Do you want it or not?” You roll your eyes and throw your purse over your shoulder.

“You two are ridiculous.” And they watch you walk away.

Simon only shrugs, pounding back his beer before coming after you. Doesn’t make a difference to him if he fucks you here and now or at home and later.

“… so is that a no?” Johnny asks with puppy eyes.

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

Simon Riley who has got it BAD for seeing you wearing his dog tags.

Something utterly primal within him awakens whenever he sees his tags dangle from around your neck, dipping in between the valley of your breasts. You like wearing his tags? He’s fucking done for.

Absolutely fuckin adores when you ask to wear them. Won’t have to ask him twice. Hell, he wont even let you ask. He’ll just throw the chain around your neck the second he’s home from deployment.

No matter how innocent you try to play it, anytime he sees you wearing them his cock hardens in his pants almost painfully.

Will almost beg you to ride him in bed, aching for the sight of you on top of him- aching to see his tags slapping off of your bouncing breasts.

Loves to yank the chain, either pulling you in for a deep searing kiss as he rams himself up into you, or railing you from behind as his tags slowly imprint their mark onto your neck.

Will always stare at you in awe, your breasts covered in his cum with his dog tags falling lazily across your chest. He’s got more mental images of that particular sight in his brain than Simon will ever care to admit.

He hardly ever gets himself off, but when he does, you better believe it’s to the picture of you lying naked in bed with his tags on you. It’s his absolute favorite fucking picture.

Needless to say all rational thoughts go out the window the second his tags slip over your head. Just wear the damn tags for him… okay?

[skyrigel]

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

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

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

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

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

Grim Reaper! Simon

Masterlist

[ragingbookdragon]

Whoever decided to ring her doorbell in the middle of a midnight thunderstorm was either a serial killer or a poor soul stuck out in the rain. Either way, she still felt sorry enough for whatever poor bastard was stuck outside and decided to open the door, but her expression dropped into annoyance when she saw the man leaning against the doorframe.

“Hey,” he murmurs, gazing at her. “Long time no see.” She starts to close the door and he sticks his foot in it. “Wait, please, don’t close me out.”

“Like you did to me,” she retorts, opening the door. “What do you want, Simon?”

He glances back towards the rainy street and hefts his rucksack higher on his shoulder. “To stay the night.”

“Seriously?”

“Please?” He begs and she pauses—Simon Riley wasn’t a man who begged often.

She gazes at him a moment longer before sighing and opening the door. “Clothes and shoes off at the door. Mask too. You’re soaking wet.”

“What gave you that ‘int? The rainstorm?”

Turning, she shoots him a glare. “I’m letting you stay the night despite you breaking my heart. I’d be a little less sarcastic.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, starting to strip his clothes as he shuts the door behind him. He hands her his clothes, standing in his boxers, then cups the front of himself and asks. “You wouldn’t happen to have any of my clothes shoved in the back of your closet…would you?”

“Bottom drawer in the chest of drawers.”

“You kept my clothes? Aw, you still car—” he falls silent when she glares at him. “Going now.”

As she disappears into the laundry room, she calls out, “What did you do, walk here from the base? You know Birmingham has cabbies, right?”

“I’m not wasting money to drive twenty minutes when I can walk within an hour.”

“You know you’ll get sick from this.”

“Wive’s tale. Can’t get sick from the rain.”

“Smart-ass,” she retorts, shoving his clothes in the dryer.

He comes around the corner, leaning against the doorway with a hand towel thrown over his shoulder, short blonde hair sticking up in all directions, evident he’d dried off with it.

“That is a decorative towel, not for use.” She glares at him. “You know that too.”

“You moved the other towels.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” she mutters, then looks at him, eyes trailing down to where the sweatpants hung low on his hips. “Put a fucking shirt on, floozy.”

“I couldn’t find one,” he replies with a small smirk. “You must’ve used ‘em for fuel for the fireplace.”

She stands up straight and walks up to him. “Why are you here, Simon?” Her voice is quiet, calm, waiting.

He looks down at his feet, shifts his weight and murmurs, “Missed you.”

“You left me.”

“I know.”

“You start going to therapy yet?” She asks and he purses his lips.

“SAS doesn’t exactly offer therapy, y’know that, right? Not exactly ‘ow we operate.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “You know I asked that friend of yours, what was his name? Soap? He said that the SAS offers routine psychiatric care and therapy. He also happened to mention you conveniently manage to get out of it every single time.”

Simon lets out a grunt and pinches his brow. “Soap can’t mind ‘is own fuckin’ business.”

“He’s your friend. And he was also drunk.” She waves a hand. “Regardless, you haven’t done the one thing I told you that you would have to do if you wanted to come back—no, when you came crawling back.”

“I don’t need therapy. I just want a second chance.” He shifts to his full height, looks at her with a pleading look. “Things were good between us, love. You know they were.”

“Sure, when you weren’t shutting down when you were hurting emotionally or running off to God knows where when you had a mission and didn’t leave me a notice.”

Simon sighs. “I was protectin’ you. I didn’t wanna drag you into all the shit I ‘ave to deal with on a daily. I didn’t want you to have to put up with…all of…”

She gives him a hard look. “Simon Riley, what part of me gave you the notion that I ever need to be protected or sheltered from what you do?”

He swallows thickly and gazes into her eyes. “Love…you’re too pure for me. What I do…you don’t need to know the horrors I’ve committed. You’re…you’re too beautiful for such things.”

“You mean how you kill people with no emotion? How you’ve taken lives with your bare hands? How you shove so much of yourself down into the black hole until there’s no humanity left but ‘Ghost’, the hollow killer?”

Simon stares at her, throat bobbing as he replies, “I can’t drag you to hell with me, it would kill me, love. What if—”

“Do you know the moment I knew I was in love with you?” She interrupts and he falls silent. “I was sick that one day a year ago, bad sick. And you told me not to go into work, but I didn’t listen and when I came home early, I could barely walk straight.” She places a hand on her hip. “And you helped me into the bathroom. Ran a bath in the dark, lit a few candles and you bathed me. Washed my hair. Took care of me. You were so gentle and so loving. Like a priest tasked with cleaning his alter, you cleansed me and made me feel safe.”

He shifts uncomfortably but his body language is anything but repulsed; it’s soft. “You started cryin’ when I was washin’ your hair. Thought I got soap in your eyes. But you said you just felt so loved.” He smiles then. “You were like a kitten really. Could barely lift your head. So tired and weak.”

“Mhm. And then you tucked me into bed and crawled beneath the covers with me. Laid up beside me, never once acted sexual. Just…caring.” She looks at him. “Do you remember what I said to you before I went to sleep?”

“No,” he mutters but he looks up at the ceiling and she knows he’s lying, it’s his tell-tale sign.

She gives him the benefit of the doubt and closes the distance between them, lays her hands on his chest, and says, “I said, ‘This is the real man beneath all that coldness. The real Simon. The one I knew I loved more than anything. No matter what.’”

Simon shudders beneath her touch, feels weak in his knees like he might drop to his and worship at her feet, beg for forgiveness like a sinner in confession. His chest aches, tightening as the words tear violently at his chest, a reminder that he left one of the only good things to ever come into his life, all because he was too afraid to let the walls come down, too afraid to be vulnerable, too afraid to risk being hurt—because if she hurt him, he’d never come back from it. In the end, he’d felt like a fool trying to protect a damsel who never needed saving in the first place; and he was left with the realization that she’d been protecting him the entire time.

“I know what you do, Simon. I know it’s hard, even if you don’t think it is. I know that no matter how you push your humanity down into that hole that it’s still there. I know killing someone takes something from you every time but, Simon, I’m not your enemy. I love you.” Her eyes are calm, but her voice is firm. “And I will not stand on the outside of the lines under some guise of protection. You either be upfront and honest with me about everything or you leave, and you don’t come back.”

Simon knows she’s asking him to choose now, and he feels that creeping anxiety rise in his throat like bile until he manages, “Can…can we talk about everything in the morning?”

She sighs and pulls her hands away. “Yeah, I guess so. Sheets and blankets are in the hall closet. You know where the couch is.”

“You’re not going to let me sleep in the bed?” He sounds incredibly offended.

“Couch, Riley.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, but he can’t help but smile when she sets the bedding out on the couch for him. “Goodnight, love,” he murmurs as she passes, and her shoulders tense and she waves a hand.

“Goodnight, Simon.”

He sits on the couch for a few moments, watches the rain splatter against the window, the clock ticking on the wall, before he pulls out his phone and simply types, “I love you,” and sends it.

It’s quiet for a solid ten seconds before he hears, “You absolute bastard!” From the bedroom followed by, “Get in here!”

Simon gives a victory dance as he clears his throat and attempts to look innocent as he steps into her bedroom; she glowers and points to the other side. “You’re on that side.”

“You can make me,” he retorts and crawls into the middle of the bed, groaning when all the bones in his body snap and pop.

She rolls her eyes and goes back to her book, but after a moment, she shifts against the headboard, getting comfortable again. Simon lifts his head, watches her, then he moves and lays his head in her lap, his arms wrapped around her hips under the pillows behind her. Her eyes rise to the wall in front of her and she stares unamusedly at it before she switches the book into her other hand and rests her right hand at the back of his neck, gently thumbing the juncture of his spine and skull. He groans beneath her touch, shifts himself so that she has control over moving him, body going slack when she scratches her nails into his scalp.

“You’re like a cat,” she mutters, feeling his lips turn up against her thigh.

“Meow,” he mimics, and she snorts, feeling him move until his head is pressed into her stomach, face turned so she can see the right profile.

He watches until she puts the book down on her nightstand and turns into him; they gaze at each other, and his eyes gently shut when she cups his face, thumbs brushing over his features.

“You know I’m giving you another chance, don’t you?”

Simon swallows the lump in his throat and nods. “…yeah.”

“But we’ve gotta change. Or else we’ll end up back where we were before we broke up.”

“I know.” He opens his eyes and looks at her. “I’ve missed you, love.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she murmurs, bending down to press her lips to his forehead. “Doesn’t feel the same without you haunting my apartment.”

His lips turn up in a smile as she pulls back and lays on the pillows; Simon rises and crawls up her body, his nose brushing hers as he whispers, “I’ll do better for you. I’ll change. I swear it.”

“Yeah?”

His gaze turns solemn in a way she’s never seen before as he replies, “On their grave, I will.”

She smiles softly at him, pulls him down so his face is tucked in her neck, and replies, “Get some sleep.”

“I love you,” he mutters against her warm skin, arms tucked safely around her, body weight comfortably on her. “I love you more than the world.”

“I love you,” she says back, reaching up to turn off the lamp on the nightstand.

[maskedbyghost]

i keep thinking about an arranged marriage with simon. maybe it’s for a mission or something that benefits both of you, and neither of you is making a big deal out of it. once you get what you need, you'll get a divorce, no strings attached. but as soon as simon signs those papers, he’s already thinking about baby names, and the house he’ll build for you both to grow old in. and what do you mean, lovie, you want separate rooms? don’t you see the ring on your finger? turn around so he can be a big spoon. a man’s flirting with you? wait in the car, he just needs a quick word with him. don’t worry about his bloodied knuckles once he gets back. of course, it’s all for professional reasons, but he still calls you his wife, missus, even behind closed doors. you made dinner just because you felt like cooking? what a good wife you are. now spread your legs on the table, he’s craving something sweet now, he just wants to thank his wifey properly. and when the mission’s over and you finally get the green light to divorce, you feel a wave of relief when he lights the papers on fire right in front of you. he’s won, but you don’t care anymore, you've never felt this kind of bliss, not until you were with him. you’re back in your shared room, and he’s reciting his vows between your thighs, exactly where he belongs, like a real husband should.

----------------------------------------------------

i want him. that's it.

[beloveds-embrace]

Imagine 141 moving into a quaint little town post retirement and you’re the only baker in town. You love making sweets, breads, and desserts and own a cute bakery to show for it, know everyone in your town so these four new men who come early morning to try your breakfast deal immediately excite you because- new perspectives and tastes and opinions! It’s become a habit of yours to share bites of whatever new item you plan on adding to the menu, so the more diverse opinions the merrier in your opinion.

And you are glad you didn’t let their demeanor- big gruff men, especially the one with the black surgical mask- scare you away because they are sooo nice, calling you sweetheart, doll, birdie, and bonnie. So many nicknames, it has you blushing the sweetest pink shade. And they are all too happy to help taste-test for you, giving you lots of praise.

(Though you never quite notice their immense disappointment at seeing the little ring on your finger.)

Still, at the very least one of them comes over to your bakery once a day. Sometimes they come together, sometimes only two of them- but they come anyways and tip you every time despite you insisting otherwise. It’s a lovely friendship you build with them. But they do note you never mention your partner much.

Until Simon drops by one day, intent on buying one of your apple pies and maybe fluster you enough to turn the same shade as an apple, and he sees the bruises that peek out just so from your sleeves and the collar of your outfit. Puffy eyes, more makeup than usual, your smile not quite there…

And he understands. He knows this all-too-well. And the fact that it’s happening to an embodiment of sunshine like you? Unfair. Unbelievable. Unacceptable.

Simon gently takes your hands, squeezing them so lightly. “Everything’ll be well, luvie. Promise.” And that’s all he says.

And maybe it’s cruel of you to be happy when you receive a call a few days later, the sherrif of the town telling you your husband was found mauled to death by one of the bears that roam around the woods occasionally, but you just… don’t care.

A week later, when it seems appropriate enough, you open up the bakery again and your smile is blinding as you greet the 141 men and tell them for today, everything’s for free.

part 2

Other works + help me choose a title for this 😩

[oceantornadoo]

simon riley with a very american girlfriend who gets very flustered at every british endearment he throws her way.

“yeah, love?” youre a puddle in his lap, even when you’re just telling him about your day. you tuck your chin and bite your lip to hide the embarrassment but he’s always too cognizant of you, tilting your chin up so he can see the look on your face. “like tha’?”

“here ya go, sweetheart.” all he’s really doing is feeding you a bit of pasta but you moan anyways, the sound going straight to his cock. your tongue peaks out to lick the sauce on your bottom lip, giving him doe eyes. “i like when you call me that.”

“alright, cheeky” he likes calling out your attitude, especially when you’re on your period. knows calling you cheeky will get you to stop talking back as your cheeks warm with a combination of embarrassment and arousal. you’re tucking your face in his neck to hide your feelings as he chuckles, pulling you in further, never letting you go.

shoutout to @peachetteprice who’s been teaching me british (LOL)😌

[konigbaby]

I'M FOAMING AT THE MOUTH | via vhenan_virabelasan on insta এ

[zvdvdlvr]

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

   “Daddy!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[euno11a]

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“‘Ave ya-?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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