Guys I promise you the fanfic I was gonna post was almost done but then it got deleted/not saved.

So uhm… maybe next time guys! 😭 I will try to get the idea back 😔

Simon Riley is the kind of man to show up at functions just to hang out with the dog the entire time

art house

synopsis: simon’s back from deployment after radio silence for months. he comes to pick you up from a bar that you’re wallowing away in. and he’s irresistible.

warnings: 18+, smut, p in v sex, oral (f!receiving), angst no comfort (for now), mentions of alcohol, reader is intoxicated for the first half but is 98% sober when they get down and dirty, both parties consent to sex

cross posted on ao3 !

“y’ gotta stop comin’ to these places alone, love. ‘specially at night,” his words are muffled by the balaclava, but the puffs of breath heat your ear up.

“you know i carry a knife around, simon.”

“‘s not wha’ i mean, and y’know it,” his sigh is so heavy, the puffs from before become a gust. you brace one hand on the bar’s edge as you turn to look at him, squinting; there’s two of him. you can barely handle one.

you squint even more, trying to stop the world’s slow tilt to the left, “when’d you get back?”

“few hours ago. tried ringin’ ya, y’didn’t pick up.”

the face of offense you make must be extremely funny to simon, because his eyes crinkle like he’s trying to hide the smile that’s evident through his mask, “no you didn’t, i would’ve-”

you fumble through your front jean pockets, finding nothing. you finally locate your phone once you reach the back right one; you bring it to your face far too close and the brightness once you click the home button makes you squeeze your eyes shut. why in hell’s name was your brightness up so high? you recover slowly and click through to your call log, finding 5 missed calls and, eventually, 4 missed texts from the man who’s inching his way closer into your space bubble.

“told you.”

“whatever, smart-ass,” he must be made of magma, radiating heat like that is no joke. you feel your body lean closer to him, soaking up the warmth he has; what little he’s willing to share. it feels like you’re there for a good half hour, but in reality, it’s probably only two minutes. time feels like it’s simultaneously egregiously fast and painstakingly slow, all at once. you feel his palm come down on your right shoulder, pushing you closer so that your body falls against his. he bends down to hover his mouth near your ear.

“let’s get y’home, yeah? ‘nough activity f’one night.” you want to shake your head no; push him away, yell ‘fuck off’ and cause a scene in front of the 4 people who are still at a bar on a tuesday at 1:30 in the morning. instead, defeatedly, you nod your head, the heaviness in your body makes you slump to the bottom of his ribcage; your eyes close, the weight of alcohol-induced sleepiness catching up to you. maybe you shouldn’t have had that fifth shot.

you reach for your jacket, disjointedly thrusting your arm in search of your wallet when simon grasps your bicep with the gentleness of someone holding a baby animal. he grabs your jacket and hoists you off the stool; you stumble and collide with him while he wraps an arm securely around your shoulders, steadying you.

you look up to protest, “i haven’t paid yet, si-“

“jus’ did, kit. don’ worry ‘bout it,” you feel goosebumps prickle all the way up your arms to the base of your neck. it’s been at least months, if not a year, since he called you that; your brain becomes so engrossed in repeating the way his voice softened when he said it that you don’t think to ask when he paid. he just maneuvers your body out of the bar with the ease of someone who knows you, inside and out.

your brain seems to be catching up with your body. no longer does it feel as though the weight of your head will make you tumble to one side; your feet aren’t feeling around for solid ground. the world is still slow. the dusting of snow that falls feels like a cruel joke. first snow of the season, and you’re being chaperoned home after soothing your emotions with shots and spirits.

simon stands directly to your left, between you and the road; he’s forfeited his jacket, the pressure of it now resting on your shoulders. you take a peek at him out of the corner of your eye. he’s looking straight forward, focus relaxed but intentional. the silence, an air that’s shared between a disappointed parent and a fresh adult. you’re two years younger than him, what gives him the right?

you stop where you stand, simon following suit after nearly taking one step past you, “you piss me off.”

“i know”

he steps in front of you, standing as still as greek statue. he’s got the figure of a titan anyway. your head lolls back to look at his eyes. a 14 year old boys eyes stare back at you. the swirls of brown of someone who told his story through cold sweats and mumblings in the night. the eyes of someone who has so much baggage but won’t put it down. the eyes that grew up and grew old, beaten down, hardened, lost his faith in the world, lost his faith in others, mostly lost his faith in you. as you stared at the eyes of this man who you had grown to have all the patience in the world for, something in you broke. maybe it was the spirits, maybe it was the cold.

he grasps your hand, clenching it so hard it feels like he’s trying to melt your skin together through your gloves. you heave a barely watery sigh, leaning your head on his broad shoulder.

“i love you.”

you feel his shoulders sag, dipping as he lays his head on top of yours, “i know.”

the silence that follows is full of unspoken emotions, the weight of the relationship between you two forced to the front of your mind.

“thank you for helping me,” the whiskey on your breath is barely noticeable anymore, but you still sway just a bit.

“always.”

you turn back to him and stumble towards him, looking up, “are you crashing here tonight?” he’s already removed his balaclava; in your house, he doesn’t feel the need to hide who he is. he’s already bared himself entirely to you, physically and emotionally. there’d be no point.

he reaches to close the distance between you. he holds your neck, thumbs brushing across your cheeks so gently it feels almost cruel. his eyes say so many things that his lungs won’t let loose. as he leans down, his lips brush yours lightly. they burn as he kisses you, and the inside of your mouth suddenly feels metallic, bitter.

but, you don’t push him away. instead, you throw your arms around his shoulders, your hands meeting between his shoulder blades. his own move down to your waist, gripping harsh as if your soul is already leaving to go to the next world, and if he holds on tight enough, he can bring you back to the physical realm. the kiss deepens, his head tilting and pushing harder against your mouth; it feels like he’s trying to absorb your life force. you think you’re ok with that.

his hands, god his hands are burning. you’re surprised they aren’t wet with sweat, or maybe they are, as he moves them down to grip your hips, barely grazing your ass. you’re pushed so close against his body, as if he’s trying to fuse you together; you’re finally able to wrench your mouth off of his, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek and trailing down, down on his neck. the gentleness turns to something aggressive, you bite down on the exposed column where his neck meets his shoulder, then leave more bites up along him, towards the base of his ear. you feel rather than hear his soft moan. your ministrations continue.

quickly, he reaches down and hoists you into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist. balancing you as you continue to kiss up his neck reverently, he walks both of you to your bedroom, laying you on the top of your mattress. leaning over you with one hand, he uses his other to fiddle with the zipper and button of your jeans. he slides your pants down and off your legs, along with your underwear and shoes.

you sit up, pushing your hands up his stomach, grazing your fingertips across his hardened abdomen; he stiffens but let’s you run his shirt up and over his head before he falls to his knees in front of you. he spreads your thighs apart, kissing up from your ankle to your inner thighs; each kiss feels like a shock of static electricity. you whimper, willing him to continue. thankfully, he goes right where you need him, connecting his mouth to your clit, pressing a kiss there before licking a long stripe from your entrance back up to your clit. you quiver, and he continues, pushing his head as far as it can go into your cunt, sucking and lapping like he’s been deprived of a sugary soda that he’s been craving. he pulls back briefly to look up and push his middle and ring finger into your mouth. you whine as he presses down on your tongue; once he’s satisfied that your saliva has slicked up his fingers enough, he takes them out and presses at your entrance, slipping them inside.

the moan that you release is guttural, the combination of his fingers and mouth are enough to cause your building orgasm to draw within arms reach. he takes breaks from your pussy to suck love bites into your thighs. can you even call them love bites? hickeys. he sucks hickeys into your thighs.

“si’… ngh, ’m gonna-”

“cum for me, darlin’”. that tips you over, your body locking up as you cry out, reaching and grasping for anything. simon looks up and sees your hand searching, so he lifts his own up to firmly hold on.

the shockwaves run through you as he continues to prod his tongue into your hole until you’re twitching. he takes this as his cue to back up; he stands, still clutching your hand as he gives it a squeeze. once your body stops it’s jolting, simon releases your hand and begins to undo his pants, dropping his boxes with them, letting his cock swing up to his stomach. his gives it a few pumps before coming to lay over you again. he runs the tip across your hole, gathering slick to help ease his insertion. he lines up to your entrance and slowly pushes through. both of you tense before he starts making small thrusts to push himself in all the way.

finally, you two sigh when he bottoms out, relishing in the connection. you’re not sure what simon is thinking, but he looks somewhat at peace, at least as much as he can be with a brain as loud as his. he begins to move in and out, pushing his head into the crook of your shoulder and wrapping his arms around your waist.

his shallow thrusts create a delicious friction inside, his thumb brushing over your clit side to side. it’s so much, so overwhelming. he’s huge, not just physically but his presence mentally takes up a lot of space; it’s hard to catch your breath as he rocks into you slowly but deeply.

“you’re so beautiful.” those words shatter something in you; you shiver and your body seizes of it’s own accord. your thighs shake as he continues to thrust deeper into you, brushing that spot inside that sends shockwaves up your spine. it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than trying to force your soul back into your body. you feel simon seize up as a deep groan leaves him, spilling his release into you. passively, in the back of your mind, you’re happy that you still take birth control. finally, it seems that your consciousness is coming back to the center of your brain when you feel simon drape his entire body over you, still inside. it’s hard to breathe, not just because of the weight but you can barely breathe out of your nose. your breathes are small, shuddery and it’s only then that you realize you’re sobbing.

this seems to startle simon as well, as he freezes then lifts himself up to stare down at you. he frowns and it’s the farthest his face has contorted into an emotion tonight; it makes you cry harder. he gently lifts his hand and wipes the tears on your left cheek with his knuckles. you turn away from him, trying to shift so that you’re on your side. the process allows him to slip out as he hovers over you, unsure of how to fix what’s wrong. you curl up even further, gasping for breath as the sobs wreak through you quietly.

he reaches for you again, “kit, what can-”

“go.”

“what?”

“i said GO, simon.” he looks down at you, pleadingly, not wanting to leave you alone but in the back of his mind, knowing it’s because of him that you’re reacting this way.

“just go. please.” you whisper and he hesitates, but not for long. he gets up, slowly grabbing his clothes and slipping them back on. he turns back, balancing a hand on the bed before leaning down and pressing the softest kiss on your cheek that he can. in his hand, your t-shirt, and he tenderly cleans up the mess the two of you made between your legs. he’s already pretty disgusted with himself, he doesn’t want to make you feel worse by not cleaning you up a bit.

“… will ring ya tomorrow.”

and with that, he leaves your room. you hear his footsteps stop in the kitchen and then come back. simon sets a glass of water on your bedside table and leaves for a final time. shortly, your front door clicks.

and you’re left quietly sobbing on your bed. naked, alone and a fool.

a/n: hello! it’s been a long time since i’ve posted but i wanna get back into writing more this year. i don’t know if I really liked how this turned out but y'all can let me know. this was also my first time trying to write smut, hope it turned out ok, thanks for reading!

Truck Driver! Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Theme/s: Change, Flow of life

Warning/s: Might have some errors within the language, 2017 words.

Notes: English is not my first language. This is my first fan-fiction ever.

Truck Driver Simon started his new job a bit after he renewed his driving license for heavy good vehicles. He chose to spent the rest of his life on the roads instead of letting himself rot in his flat. When his 5 year tour of duty ended, he honourably resigned his comission, then got himself re-enlisting as an other rank. Simon wanted to die on the field. But when Price told Ghost’s body no longer fitted for the SF standarts and that he was medically downgrading…his plans for his last saga went down-hill. His pride got hurt. He was one of the best wasn’t he? Did General Shepherd’s bullet ruin his shoulder that badly?

He has gotten used to his new life by now. Sleep was never his best friend so, who would have been a better long distance driver for military goods than him? Ask any heavy vehicle driver how’s their job treating'em, they would not even talk about the day driving. Hours you should not sleep what makes the annual payment worth up to £41k. His boredom and longing for sounds…getting worse though. He almost gets happy whenever a fight emerges between the drivers on the road. Oh and if they ever start to throw punches…Simon’s joining them. He’ll break their argument into peace if he is feeling lawfully good. But he likes to throw his body on'em most of the time.

It was one of these routes which nothing was happening than whatever a default life would serve. Occasional stops because of the morning traffic or ‘cause of the police…y'know? Cause Simon can try to part away from his Ghost persona but Ghost would never leave Simon. His balaclava included. And it is only natural for police to stop a truck drivier leading military goods with a face cover. Simon knows he looks suspicious, but his longing for an interaction is so bad that he knows he won’t ever drive without it. Even if it meant the law enforcement being the other end of the conversation. Simon’s status as an ex SAS officer saves his ass anyway. So what of it?

The route is suppose to last 3 days, from Manchester to Milan. First city stop will be Calais, France. He liked the ferry route. Meant no steering the wheel for half and hour or so. It was as much as entertaintment he could get. A little bit rebellious drinking too maybe. Sounds of people. Yeah, that is definitely meant much more. Not only he would feel a little more like a social creature by making a few acquaintances, but also just by listening every passenger talk between themselves…

It is only natural right? To long for a familiar sound in your life? In the army, the satisfaction of holding a gun and captain’s sermons what made Simon stay on the ground. Before that, he doesn’t think he was on the earth at all…that life is far long forgotten. In his new life…the 90 minutes of eavesdropping on people was his new therapy. His new entertaintment. He wondered if he can end the world here.

He did not have to. He met you. Simon has not been with anyone ever since…well…the mission in Trabzon Airport a few years back. And even that was not a 'meaningful’ one. Just a local he managed to have common intentions with.

You were on a busniess trip. Funny word, slave outdoor-entrapment would have been better. These French patrons of yours really like the northen wind, chit chatting their ears off into 15 minutes by now. That is more than enough to get the redness rush up into your face. You never smoked once in your life. But now you were really thinking if it can heat you up if you do.

So, you ask for a cigarette. Your boss pats on your head jokingly, congratulating you for breaking your vir-cig-inité. Your own smiling scars cringe at that wordplay. They gave you one. You walk away a bit after shooting an excuse. It is only a second later you realise you need a lighter to warm that bitty string up. You do not want to go back to your boss and his circle though. Hence the search for another smoker on the deck starts. Hugging into your coat and life-saving jacket, your eyes go along on the faces of passangers on board. Champanges clicking together in another business circle, a family is really passionate about some kind of relative-gossip, few truck drivers watching the sea…

And a burly, giant of a man smoking alone. You hope he knows English.

“Excuse me…goodnight, sir. Do you have lighter?”

Did the music had to change into I Don’t Want to See Tomorrow by Nat King Cole at this very spesific moment where the said burly man looks at you with the most pretty honey eyes you have ever seen? The half way rinsed up balaclava on his face did not even registered in your vision.

“Sho, he'e.” Simon pulled out his silver lighter, lighting it for you. You’ve seen how people smoked, you ain’t that dumb, so you lean for the fire. Pulled fast enough to not let the smoke get into your mouth though.

“Thank you.”

“Yer welcome.” His cig was between his lips, boy were they dry. Scruffy facials above them, covering only a bit of the odd scar parting his upper lip on the right. To any citizen with a healthy mindset, this man was a potential jailbreaker. He reminded you of men like your dad through. Big…protective aura and all.

“…” you did not say anything else. But not left his side neither.

“Yer from tha busniess folk?” he asked in that throaty tone the blue collar men would have.

“…yeah. I work for them.” you really not smoking that cigarette. “You?”

“Truck driver.”

“Pleasant.”

“Appropiate word. Fo’ sometimes.”

“I cannot imagine the nights.”

“Most can’t. Not blaming ya.”

“How you do?”

“I survive. How you do?”

“…I survive.”

Simon smiled, looking at the black sea. Then at you, “Name’s Simon.”

You say yours back with a small smile. The interaction messed with your mind a bit, you accidentally smoked that cig. In a wrong way apparently because the coughs followed along pretty fast. Simon patted your back to make sure all that smoke went out, “Yer alright, luv?”

“Yeah- AHEM-…uff…yeah, yeah I am okay.”

“Yer first time or something?” his chuckle was as pretty as his accent. He held out a water bottle from his pocket.

“…” you take it after a small thanks.

“It is, ah suppose.”

“…thought it would keep me warm. It’s hella cold.”

“Don’t let the smoke get into your lungs. Puff it away.”

“Puff it away?”

“The word didn’t come into my mind.”

That got a chuckle from you. You tried the way he demonstated. Soon enough, you found yourself tolerating this new substance. “…how long have you been smoking?” you ask.

“Hm…been at least 25 ah guess. ”

“…that’s a long time…how old even are you?”

“39 tomorrow.”

“Really? Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

“How you gonna spend it?”

“I’ll sleep it away once the ferry arrives at Calais.”

“…hm.” you know when a mind pushed you to do something you never would? And even though you know for sure you are saying something way bigger than you… “What if I brought us a cake right now?” …your body will just do it. Consequences are for tomorrow people.

“For a stanger, you would?” he does not believe you would.

“I know your age. That’s enough, no?”

“You would wish a longer life for a man you have never met before?” he smiled, fuck'em pretty eyes.

“Why not, let’s get it.” you were in fuck it mood, feeling a little whimsy about this pretty default conversation too, so you lead him off of the deck and get inside. The ferry offers a sweet cafetaria on it’s second floor. Various small cakes shown under a delicious warm light. You tap on the glass, buy that small strawberry cake that got Simon’s eyes light up. You ask for a small candle too, if they have it. He insists on buying the drinks at last. On the flowery corner table you both sit, it almost looks like a romantic little rendezvous. You would like that. You mutter out the happy birthday song, and genlty clap a bit without making a noise. That one little candle you lit up blowns away with Simon’s breath. “What did you wish for?”

“I’ll tell ya if it happens to be come true tonight.”

“Oh…short distance wishing…” you are amused, also really curious now that he wished for something to be happen tonight. You do want to push him into saying it…but you are not a rude one. So you’ll change the topic instead. “…are you from Manchester?”

“…Yeah. Is the accent that heavy?”

“It is. But Mancunian is pleasant to hear. Rubs a very spesific spot in my brain.”

“Is that so?” he had a grin saying that, his balaclava still up on his nose.

“…that so. Definitely better than Saltburn.”

“Oh…you know that far.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I thought people would prefer a posh sound better.”

“Not me and people with good taste. I like it rough.” what you said did not really came out like you planned it to.

“…that so?” he said while his grin grew.

“No! No. No…”

“…really?”

“…okay. Okay. Take it however you want champion.” his following laughter made you ease into chuckles too. Soon enough the topic changes towards your personal lives. You learn his previous job, his new life on the roads, friends he misses, places he’ll never come back…You cannot help but think how people’s lives contantly evolving while yours was always been the same. It drives you melancholic a bit. Simon notices, his voice gets more gentle. Creates a comfortable silence for you to say whatever bugs you in the head. You contunie “…Are you stable now? Like…do you like… ” you try to fidn your words. You are not really sure of anything. But with the man you are conversing with, you do not feel the rush to end your question. “…is this new life…of yours…makes you…despise the change you had to go into?”

“…I am alive. And…all I think nowadays…is that. That I am alive.” he still does not sound like he solved the meaning of life problem. But he sure does sounds alive. “And…I like that…change means I am alive. That is good. For me.”

You have tears on your eyes, you are sure of it. “Do you suggest a change to…anyone?”

“…I dunno. I don’t know anyone.”

“…think I want that though. Change.”

“Into what?”

“If…I don’t know actually. And…I think I want to like the fact that I do not know. Yeah.” you nod, mostly to yourself. You look at the window, you cannot see your patrons from this angle, but you know they are there. Your phone is in your pocket. This dreadful peace you are having right now could be disrupted at any given moment. Are you going to change that? “Yes.”

“I want that change Simon.” you said that with such determination right after looking at him. To you, this was literally the start of an epiphany. To Simon, this seemed like the most honest conversation he was ever having right now. So, same thing.

“How may I…assist then?” he whispered. You are not surprised. Truck drivers lead goods after all.

Though, change surely does not have to be drastic. But your fuck it mood wanted to just do that. So before you can stop your mind and body -and well, time- two of you end up on the make-shift bed in Simon’s truck. Small space covered with a matress behind those high up seats of the vehicle, now under your weight. You on the other hand, under his.

You’ll quit that job tomorrow morning. Simon will take you with him to Calais. Then to German borders. And at last, Milan. You’ll change not because you felt the need to. It just cause you fucking wanted it man.

Ghost x Newbie Reader — “When the Sunshine Dimmed”

Summary:

A sunshine-bright, talkative newbie joins Task 141 and instantly clashes with Ghost’s cold, closed-off personality. Her constant attempts to break through his walls only seem to push him further away, and their growing tension reaches a breaking point after a mission goes wrong.

_______

You were the newbie who never stopped talking.

Tapping your fingers on tables, humming between breaths, telling jokes so stupid Soap and Gaz nearly cried from laughing.

It was how you survived stress.

How you kept the darkness away.

But Ghost never laughed.

Never smiled.

Barely ever looked at you.

Cold.

Shrug.

One-word replies.

Still… you kept trying.

You tried so hard to be on his good side that it hurt sometimes.

_______

You and Ghost were off-sync again.

The silence.

The tension.

The lack of communication.

It led to failure.

When you got back to base, Ghost ripped off his gloves and snapped:

“Maybe if you just shut your goddamn mouth, things would’ve gone better for everyone.”

Your whole body went still.

The one thing that had never gone still before — your voice — died instantly.

You didn’t argue.

You didn’t smile.

You didn’t tap.

You just nodded once, lips trembling…

and walked away.

Ghost watched your back disappear down the hall.

His stomach dropped.

He regretted it the second the words left his mouth —

but too late.

_______

You talked only when needed.

Smiled only when someone looked at you.

Your jokes were gone.

Your tapping was gone.

Your eyes were duller.

It hurt him.

More than he expected.

He tried to talk to you all day… but you kept drifting away, polite but distant.

By night, he couldn’t stand the emptiness anymore.

______

Ghost walked quietly through the corridor until he stood before your door.

He hesitated — something he almost never did.

Then he knocked.

“Come in!” you called brightly…

but your voice shook just a little.

He opened the door —

and froze.

You were sitting on your bed, head bowed, hair long and loose down to your chest.

He had never seen it down before.

Different than he has ever seen.

Just… quiet surprise.

A slow, soft shift in his eyes.

A flicker of something warm, something aching — like he was seeing a version of you he never earned the right to see.

He swallowed.

He couldn’t seem to look away.

And when you finally lifted your head and noticed it was him, your expression dimmed slightly.

“Oh… Ghost. Hi.”

It stung more than any bullet.

He cleared his throat softly.

“…May I come in?”

You hesitated.

Then nodded.

______

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him gently — almost cautiously, like he didn’t want to scare you any further.

You kept your eyes down, hands clasped tightly, hair falling forward like a shield.

The guilt in his chest twisted.

“Listen…” he started, voice rough, “I owe you more than just an apology.”

You stayed silent.

He took a breath — deeper than usual.

“You get inside my head.”

A pause.

“You make me feel things I don’t know how to handle. And instead of dealing with it, I pushed you away. I shut you out. I took it out on you.”

Your breath hitched softly.

He continued, quieter,

“When you stopped talking today… it felt wrong. Like someone turned off the light.”

A beat.

Then,

“You brighten everything. Even me. Even when I pretend you don’t.”

Your eyes lifted at last — hesitant, shiny.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate.

“You didn’t deserve what I said,” he murmured. “And I’m… I’m sorry.”

You nodded, voice small but sincere.

“…I forgive you.”

His shoulders relaxed — real relief, raw and unguarded.

He looked at you like you were something fragile and beautiful and dangerously important.

Then gently — almost with reverence — he reached forward and tucked a loose strand of your long hair behind your ear, fingers brushing your cheek.

The softest touch.

The warmest breath.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, the word melting into something tender.

And then he left.

Quietly.

Slowly.

Barely breathing.

Leaving you sitting there with cheeks burning, heart racing, and butterflies fluttering so hard it hurt —

while he stood outside your door, hand on the wall, eyes closed…

…because he hadn’t realized how much he needed you

until he saw the light leave your face.

_____

What the Heart Refused to Forget

Simon ghost Riley x Original character (Ivy Torris)

Summary:

You and Simon were a military couple fighting against a world that was too dangerous for the two of you to stay together. When he pushed you away to protect you, everything in your life shifted, forcing you into choices you never wanted and emotions you weren’t ready for. But on the day everything was supposed to end, fate twisted in a way neither of you expected, pulling you and Simon back into each other’s lives at the exact moment your hearts were breaking the most.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

The base had always been noisy. Engines roaring, metal clanging, orders being barked across the yard.

But between Simon and Ivy… there was nothing.

Just a painful, unbearable silence.

Ivy stood in front of him, hands trembling so badly she had to hide them behind her back. She tried to find his eyes behind the mask, tried to see even a flicker of the man who once held her like she was something worth protecting.

“Simon,” she whispered, her voice already breaking. “Please… talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He stood stiffly, like hearing her voice hurt him. Because it did.

He finally exhaled, a shaky, quiet breath that already sounded like goodbye.

“It’s too dangerous,” he muttered.

Her heart stuttered. “What is?”

“This. Us.” His voice cracked, just once, before he forced it steady. “You being with me—it puts a target on you. I can’t let something happen to you. Not because of me.”

She stepped back as if the words physically shoved her.

“So your answer,” she whispered, tears gathering but refusing to fall, “is to cut me out? After everything?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t take her hand.

Didn’t fight for her.

“Ivy,” he forced out, “go.”

And there it was.

The final blow.

She bit back a sob so hard her throat shook. “Fine,” she whispered, her voice trembling like it was made of glass. “If you’re choosing fear over us… I’ll leave.”

She turned around quickly, because she knew if she saw him for one more second, she’d fall apart right there at his feet.

He watched her walk away.

His mask hid everything,

but inside him—

something tore.

He told himself it was for her safety.

He told himself he had to let her go.

But when the door closed behind her, Simon pressed a hand to his chest—

and felt the first tear he’d shed in years burn down his cheek under the mask.

⸻

Her parents thought she came home for rest.

They didn’t see the swollen eyes she hid behind sunglasses, or the quiet way she moved like every breath was painful.

They brought up the arranged marriage again.

Normally she’d argue.

This time, she barely had a voice.

“Alright,” she whispered weakly. “I’ll do it.”

Her mother hugged her in happiness.

Ivy hugged back in silence.

The moment her door closed, she collapsed to her knees. Her hands covered her face, but it didn’t stop the sobs from tearing out of her. It wasn’t just crying—it was grief.

Real grief.

The kind that shakes your whole body.

The kind that leaves you gasping.

The kind you feel in your ribs.

She cried until the carpet beneath her was damp.

Until her eyes ached.

Until she had nothing left but the empty space he once filled.

She didn’t say yes because she wanted a future with someone else.

She said yes because the one future she wanted…

had already walked away from her.

⸻

Simon stopped talking to everyone.

Even Soap.

He buried himself in missions, drills, reports—anything to drown out the memory of Ivy’s voice cracking when she said “fine.”

He moved like a ghost.

Silent.

Mechanical.

Empty.

The others whispered that he was colder than ever.

They didn’t know that every night, when the base finally fell quiet, he’d shut himself in his room, sink onto the edge of the bed, and cover his face with trembling hands—trying to breathe through a pain he caused himself.

Every tear he didn’t let fall the day she left now came back with interest.

He told himself she was safer without him.

But he had never felt more alone.

⸻

THE WEDDING DAY

Ivy’s mother zipped the back of her dress slowly, carefully, as if she were dressing a porcelain doll.

The fabric was beautiful—flowing, shimmering when the light hit it.

But Ivy… Ivy looked like someone dressing a ghost.

Her eyes were empty.

Her lips barely moved.

Her hands shook so violently she dropped her bouquet twice.

She turned to the mirror.

And the girl staring back didn’t look like a bride.

She looked like someone standing at the edge of something she didn’t want to jump into.

She swallowed a sob. “This… was supposed to be with him.”

She blinked hard, but the tears slid down anyway, running down her cheeks, falling onto the white dress she never wanted.

She wiped them quickly—didn’t want wet stains in the photos.

Even though the photos meant nothing to her.

⸻

Soap ran in breathless.

“Ghost—listen. Ivy’s getting married. Today.”

Simon’s world stopped.

His chair scraped loudly as he stood. His heartbeat roared in his ears.

“No…” he whispered, voice cracking. “No—”

Soap shoved him the address.

Simon didn’t even take his mask off.

Didn’t take his gear off.

Didn’t think.

He ran.

_______

Rain slammed against his body as he rode at reckless speed.

The wind roared past him.

His breath came in sharp gasps, the panic settling in his bones.

Every image stabbed him—

Ivy in white.

Ivy holding someone else’s hands.

Ivy whispering vows that should’ve been his.

He gripped the handlebars so tightly his knuckles ached.

“Please…” he begged into the storm. “Please don’t let me be too late… please…”

His tears mixed with the rain.

He didn’t wipe them.

⸻

When he reached the venue, the lights were out.

The guests gone.

The hall empty.

He staggered inside, water dripping off him, breath shaking so violently he could barely stand.

He fell to his knees.

“What have I done… God, what have I done…”

Then—

A sound.

Soft.

Broken.

A sniff.

He stood instantly. “Ivy?”

He ran toward it.

There she was.

Sitting on the cold floor, knees pulled to her chest, her wedding dress pooled around her like crushed silk.

Her makeup ruined.

Her eyes swollen.

Her breaths sharp, desperate, trembling.

She turned her head slightly when she heard him.

Tears were rolling endlessly down her cheeks—

the kind of tears you don’t wipe because they don’t stop coming.

She looked destroyed.

And Simon felt something inside him break so loudly he swore he heard it.

He knelt in front of her.

“I know it’s too late,” he whispered, voice raw. “But I need you to know… I’ve always loved you. I never stopped. I just wanted to keep you safe. And now… I wish you all the best.”

Her lips trembled.

Her chest rose and fell unevenly as she tried to breathe through her sobs.

“How could you…” she whispered, almost choking on the words.

Simon lowered his head. “I’m so sorry—”

But she cut him off, voice breaking apart:

“I didn’t marry him, you idiot.”

Silence.

Simon froze.

Then his breath burst out of him like he’d been underwater for months.

A wave of relief crashed into him—so strong his shoulders sagged and he nearly fell forward.

His eyes filled, burning behind the mask.

“Thank God…” he whispered. “Ivy, thank God…”

He reached out, gently touching her face with shaking hands, wiping her tears even as his own finally fell.

Their foreheads touched.

Their breaths trembled.

And then Simon pulled her into him and kissed her—

slow at first, then desperate, then full of everything he tried so hard not to feel.

Ivy grabbed his jacket, knuckles white, kissing him back with every tear, every heartbreak, every hope she thought she’d lost.

The bouquet lay forgotten on the floor.

He swallowed hard, voice barely holding together as he whispered,

“I love you, Ivy Torris.”

She froze — then a small, soft smile formed through her tears.

She bit her lower lip gently, trying not to cry all over again as she looked at him.

⸻

Summary: You’re an introverted medic in Task Force 141, comfortable talking to everyone except Ghost — who somehow makes you so nervous you can’t look him in the eyes. Ghost secretly finds it adorable.

=================================================================================================================================

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Introverted!Reader — “Eyes Up Here”

You were never shy—at least, that’s what you told everyone.

You just preferred quiet. Preferred not being the center of attention. Preferred slipping into the background where people didn’t look too closely.

It worked with almost everyone in 141.

Soap? Easy. He talked enough for three people. Gaz? Chill, easy-going, made conversations feel like breathing. Price? Respectful, calm, fatherly.

Ghost?

…Ghost was the problem.

Not because he ever did anything wrong.

But because every time he stood near you—silent, broad-shouldered, cold eyes watching—you forgot basic human functions.

You could chat comfortably with the squad, but the second Simon Riley stepped into the room your eyes would immediately find anything else: the wall, your boots, the table. Never his face.

And Ghost noticed.

He always noticed.

Today was no different. Everyone was gathered around the briefing table, exhaustion thick after a long mission. You stood beside him only because Soap shoved you there when Price called for everyone to squeeze in closer.

You risked a glance up—only for your gaze to stop somewhere at his jawline.

Ghost raised a brow behind the mask.

“My eyes are up here, y’know.”

Your heart stopped. Your voice completely abandoned you.

You swallowed, cheeks burning, and looked away without saying a word.

Ghost’s stare lingered for a long moment—long enough that Soap nudged him.

When the meeting ended and you escaped the room like your life depended on it, Ghost watched you leave.

“Cute,” he muttered under his breath.

Soap turned. “What was that?”

Ghost immediately cleared his throat. “Nothin’. Focus on the brief, Sergeant.”

Soap smirked. He knew exactly what he heard.

Later in the base…

Your room was your sanctuary.

After patching up 141 all day, you showered, changed into soft pyjamas—tank top, loose shorts—and finally let yourself breathe.

Music played softly through your speaker.

Venus – Bananarama.

You loved this song.

Knew every beat, every little hip movement. So you danced. Freely, confidently, alone—spinning, shaking your shoulders, mouthing the lyrics with a grin.

For once you weren’t medic of 141.

You were just… you.

You didn’t know the door had cracked open.

You didn’t hear the quiet chuckle.

Ghost leaned on the frame, arms crossed, mask slightly lifted in amusement you never got to see.

He watched you—watched you—absolutely owning your little private performance.

He hadn’t expected this from you. The shy one. The one who could barely look him in the eye.

But damn… you were adorable.

When you twirled with a little dramatic pose, he bit back a real laugh.

Then he stepped away, shaking his head with a soft grin.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself. “Didn’t know she had that in her.”

_______________________________________________________

You were half-asleep, rummaging through your cupboard for your period meds.

You’d made the brilliant decision to store them on the highest shelf—higher than you could ever reach.

You cursed quietly.

Stretched.

Jumped.

Failed.

And then—

You sensed it.

A presence behind you. Heavy. Silent. Looming.

Your instincts took over.

You spun—

And kicked straight forward.

A deep grunt exploded behind you.

“F— bloody— hell—”

Your eyes widened.

“Ghost?! Oh my god— I’m so sorry—!”

He cupped himself, bending slightly, groaning through his teeth.

“Love… remind me to never sneak up on you again.”

Love.

Your brain short-circuited.

He straightened slowly, stepping closer until your back touched the table.

His palms pressed on either side of you, trapping you in place without touching you.

Dark eyes locked on yours.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmured, voice low enough to melt steel. “Didn’t think you’d try to kill me.”

“I—I didn’t— I mean— you— I—”

Your hands flew up to hide your burning face.

Ghost leaned in, voice dipping even lower.

“You’re adorable when you panic.”

Your soul nearly ascended.

He glanced up at the cupboard, then back at you.

“What’re you lookin’ for?”

“period meds…”

He huffed a small laugh, reached up effortlessly, and grabbed the box. He placed it gently in your hand.

“Here.”

“Oh— right— thank you.”

He turned to leave… but paused in the doorway.

“Oh— and one more thing.”

You blinked. “Yes?”

“I liked the dance.”

Your stomach dropped. He saw you?

Before you could combust, he stepped forward and softly—

booped your nose.

A gentle tap.

Light. Teasing.

Then he walked away, not even hiding the smugness in his voice.

“Night, love.”

he’s still here. (s.r.)

cw: smoking, inspo

natalie would creep out of her room at night and find simon’s cigarette packs and throw them away. she’d hide them around the house. she hated seeing her daddy smoking.

natalie and simon sat together on the sofa, watching the muppets. she was curled up in his lap, snuggled close to him. suddenly, he started coughing violently, turning his head away as he coughed into his fist, his other hand holding her in place. her litte hand gripped his shirt as she watched him with wide, worried eyes. as his coughs subsided, he relaxed into the sofa once more.

“are you okay, daddy?” she questioned, little hand resting on his cheek.

“jus’ fine, swee'art, watch y'movie,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. she turned her attention back to the movie.

natalie approached her mother one evening.

“why does daddy smoke so much?”

her mother was silent for a moment.

“it…relaxes him,” she replied softly, hoping it would satisfy natalie.

“but what if daddy dies?” natalie inquired, tears welling in her eyes.

her mother quickly gathered her in her arms, holding her close.

“daddy will be just fine, he’s strong,” she insisted softly, words unsure, as if she was attempting to convince herself and her daughter.

that night, after simon tucked natalie into bed, he raided the house. every cigarette, every cigar, anything related to smoking was destroyed and thrown out. he would not let his little girl live in fear that he would die. it was not fair to her. he was supposed to be her superman, someone she never had to worry about. not someone she feared would die soon.

from then on, he started buying nicotine gum rather than cigarettes. and he had gotten one of those herbal smoking things that gave the same hand-to-mouth motion and mouth feel of the smoke without the damage of the chemical filled smoke. after a few months, he managed to quit nicotine. sure, he had headaches more frequently and his body ached more, but it was worth it.

he had sworn the moment he had found out his wife was pregnant that he would see their child’s every key experience, and he did.

he watched natalie graduate highschool, he watched her graduate nursing school, he drove her to the hospital and home on her first, he walked her down the aisle, he held her and his grandchild after she gave birth.

he answers every call no matter the time, voice still gruff from that past habit. but he was still there for his wife, his daughter, and his grand daughter.

this is short bc im working on a pt2 of another post of mine but i still wanted to post something

simon riley who gets acne from wearing the balaclava that you know he doesn’t wash as often as he should. also simon riley who doesn’t wear the balaclava when he isn’t at work. he doesn’t like the way people stare at him at the grocery store when he does. but also simon riley who does wear it to bed when he’s back in his dingy, one bedroom apartment. it reminds him of the times when he’s not so alone.

LMAOOOO

instead of leather jackets i see simon as a warhammer nerd who’s primary sense of style is a warhammer t-shirt and the same jeans he wears for work

.

ty @sleepyconfusedpotato for the tattoo png <3

°‧Simon Has Peircings~ °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

CW| Contains Sexual Themes

-> I headcannon that Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley does indeed have peircings down there!!

One-shots⋆.࿔*: ¡MDNI!

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

• Simon has a whole ladder im telling you! His veiny pink cock with the shiny silver peircings lining up the whole thing? ABSOLUTELY!
• He got a small peircing down there originally after losing a bet, but later decided to get the whole thong done bc of how many girls liked it
• Know that he has you, he appreciates that you absolutely go feral for it.
• The way they pop out from your weeping hole
• The way they drag over your sensitive walls
• He’ll drag his cock over your pussy to tease you, the way they metal repeatedly runs over your nub has you squirming
• When Simon creams inside of you, he’ll pull out really slowly to let them run over your walls over again, has you cumming twice in a row!
• When he pulls out, his dick covered in cum and bodily fluids, he will make you clean it
• “Gotta keep the peircings clean luv~”
• He says with his cock down your throat, the way they metal runs up and down, stimulating your tongue -> BRAIN DUMB
• Giving him a tit job too! He runs the peircings on your nipples, the cool metal burning your sweaty skin!!!
• “You should get your tits done too”
• Simon, after seeing how feral you are for his peircings, wants you to get your own for him
• After you eventually do get them all pierced and healed, he finally understands what your all feral for
• Pretty sure your tits are never not being played with by Simon when you two are at home
• The two peircings clashing when he rubs his cock over them. The sound has him entranced!

˚˖𓍢ִִ໋🌊 🫧 ˚˖ -> Sorry about the rambling!! Kinda going feral today, and I just love peircings!!! PLEASE DROP SUGGESTIONS IM BORED AND OVULATING 🙏

(╬ ಠ益ಠ)

Imagine small talk with Simon the morning after he finds you from Johnny’s hidden clues.

It’s softer than you would have expected after the way he manhandled you the night before.

Maybe reserved is the right word.

He tucks you into his side, and pulls your hand over his heart as he presses his chin to the top of your head as if he wants to drop a kiss there but doesn’t know how.

He had no trouble kissing last night. Pulled you right in as soon as you opened the door, fingers tucking around your neck as he lifted his mask and thumb tilting your jaw to draw your lips to his for the deepest first kiss you’d ever had before grasping your hips and lifting you with ease to move you back into the entryway so he could clear the door, kicking it closed behind him.

He was bigger than Johnny in every way: height, hands, chest, cock.

The connection was instant. A little disconcerting but not enough to turn you off. Turn you out was more like it.

Where Johnny was patient and wormed his way under your skin and into your desire, Simon just took your want as a given. After all, you called to him first. Who was he to deny you.

It was one thing, though, to bare your soul in a shared altered consciousness. Quite another to find yourself wrapped around a tree of man, gasping for breath and never wanting to come up for air. You had an inkling Simon would be just as adept as Johnny at finding all your trigger spots.

What you didn’t count on was how much more demanding Simon was on his way down your front hall and into your bedroom. He had plans for your body, places he wanted to touch, shapes he intended to mold you into. He wasn’t interested in small talk in the moment.

But now, here, eyes blinking open as you slumble back to consciousness, you can feel him slip into the silent giant Johnny warned you about. Sense he’s gonna wanna run if you push too hard on any of his scars, so it’s “early, huh?” and “can you stay long?” and “light bite or full breakfast?” instead of the “i love you” bubbling at the back of your throat.

He’ll get there.

there

Little NSFW blurb before bed.

Simon and Price get a bit… Competitive when it comes to you.

Simon is a nasty motherfucker.

He goes through one of those industrial sized jar of lube in a month, the workers at the sex shop knowing him by first name. Doesn’t really need toys, though, a simple vibrator doing the trick quite efficiently most days. His skills overpower the need for any accessories to be entirely honest; a fact that even your neighbours are aware of (quite unfortunately) due to the constant squeals that you bestow upon their poor ears at varying times in the day. The walls are pretty thin, too, and anyone could hear the low cadence of Simon’s voice cooing at your fucked out body if they tried hard enough.

“Yeah, baby-is that it? That’s the spot? Wanna squirt for me? Show me how pretty you spray?”

“Fuck, yes, I love how tight your throat gets when you’re gagging. No-no, baby, don’t run away, come on. This is where you belong, isn’t it? Choking on my cock? This is how you wanna die, huh? Yeah? Nod for me, baby.”

“Your asshole winks so perfectly at me when you’re fucked out, sweetheart, you know that? No no, don’t whine- you’re the prettiest fucktoy I’ve ever had. ”

But he’s always the nastiest when he’s got something to prove. Especially when it’s in front of his boss.

It’s borderline abusive how sore he leaves your pussy after goading Price into eating you out, a slightly toxic banter flowing freely between them. You were so embarrassed when John lapped at your wet cunt as Simon whispered absolute filth in his ear; too low to make out the words properly but just enough to know it was driving John crazy. He humped the bed wildly, still fully dressed, as both your legs encircled his neck in a near-fatal chokehold. His tongue drew tight circles around your clit, thumb pulling the hood back slightly so he could attack with military precision. Alternating between flattening it out to lave at your cunt, and pointing it, sharp and deadly, to lash at your clit, he left no stone unturned to make you scream and beg and cry for relief.

“Is this doing it for you, baby? My senior making you cream over his tongue? Is this what you think of when you’re fucking me? Big, bad, John with his huge dick, just breaking you open? Am I not enough, baby?

"No-no, no, no, Simon, no, fuck, no, I don’t - i don’t think of anyone else, baby you have to believe me, fuck!”

“Yeah? Then why are you coming and squirting all over his face, baby? I thought you only came for me? Is that not true?”

You vehemently shake your head but Price just huffs at your cunt and curls his fingers in a way that makes you devastated and your body betrays you, again.

You’re coming with a guttural scream deep from within your chest and it makes Simon’s eyes roll in the back of his skull at the sight. Your body is wracked with tremors as Price grips your thighs tighter and doesn’t let go of your clit, much like the dog that got the bone. It seems like it goes on forever, John licking and pumping into you, Simon with his nasty words talking you through the strongest orgasm you’ve had in your life, and your soul snatched from your body and witnessing the entire ordeal from a safe distance.

Once you’re down into your body, and can feel your limbs again, Price releases your poor clit with a pop and smacks your wet folds with his entire palm, a little thwack to bring you back to him faster- he hasn’t got all day. You jerk at the contact to your overstimulated clit and you think you’re going to die again, when you look down and see Simon in between your legs instead of John.

When had they switched?

“Ready to show him who really owns you sweetheart? How sorry you are for squirting for another man? How much tighter you get when it’s me who’s fucking you?” Simon coos in faux sympathy as he palms his cock and rubs it in between your folds, making your tummy cave in with the sensitivity. Price smirks as he lays down beside you on one elbow as his fingers coated with your slick come up to your lips and he shoves them deep into your mouth, making you gag and tear up. He comes close to your ear and snarls, “If you come harder than you did with me, love, you’re going to get punished, yeah? Does that dumb little fucked out brain understand me? Yeah?”

You don’t think you’re going to survive this.

I’ve never played the COD games so I thought it was so super cute that universally and unanimously we named Simon’s dog Riley like that’s so fucking cute man but imagine my disappointment when I saw that it’s a canon thing and he does actually have a dog called Riley. Like, okay. I’ll stop having joy and whimsy from now on.

woof woof

This is a request for 🐻!

Purebred!reader x Mutt!Simone

Omegaverse, Alpha x Omega, Simone being an asshole, Rough doggy 🫦 , p n v sex, Simone calls reader a bitch (but not in a disrespectful way in a doggy verse way lol), MDNI, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, repost welcomed please!

• 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 🐻

Everything has been going perfectly for the last couple of months. Price and Soap feeling way better about getting you mutt to guard you. You seemed to be happy and loving the new attention so the feeling of sizzling fear that something bad was going to happen had been non existent.

Mutt!Simon seemed to be taking his job very seriously. He didn’t like anyone other than Price and Soap around you and even then that came with restrictions.

He didn’t like it if you have any ones scent on you other than his, he didn’t like if Soap or Price pampered you to long. He would always sulk and whine at the door when they had to groom you. Even growling and banging on the door until one of them caved.

Purebred!reader was always oblivious to Mutt!Simons over protective ways. His dominance always seeping through his pheromones make the little pup ditzy, swooning and ready to roll over to be mounted.

Soap and Price came over one day saying how they were going to be having a play date with some of your old gal pals with an addition of a new Doberman breed.

It was a fun evening. Mutt!Simone lazing away not to far while his little bitch enjoyed her play date.

It wasn’t until the Doberman kept making advances that he didn’t like.

The Doberman was a cocky fellow. Thinking he was the best in the room. Even when he tugged at your fluffy ears and constantly sniffed you to see if you’d been marked and taken.

Mutt!Simon hadn’t marked you yet. He was waiting till you were ripe for the season but the Doberman was making Simon consider doing it now to get the fucker to back off.

He well himself over getting up to check on what was going on because all we could hear was your squealing every two seconds. When he runs up on the couch, rage fires up inside of the door trying to pull down fluffy hair. It’s getting me to roll over.

The Doberman was trying to get you down to mount and possibly mark and Simon wasn’t having it.

Viciously mutt!Simon beings to growl and tear at the Doberman. Everyone of the of pups sitting and watching the battle take place.

It wasn’t really my children, Simon was raised to be a fighter so this was something he was used to versus the Doberman, who has been spoiled from the moment he came out the room. No scratches, freshly painting his coat while he wailed from the pain Simon was causing.

A few of the new pups were screaming at the scene, raising their behinds and presenting for the alpha in the room even you.

“Hey hey hey! What the fuck is going on here!” Soap, Price and a few more of the owners saunter into the room with panicked expressions.

“You fucking mutt! Simone! Heel! Shit..”

They were able to pull him off, a little blood and spittle forming at his mouth.

“Stay away from her of I will fuck you up Doberman!” Simone was very angry. He couldn’t believe someone would try his precious gem. She was his in his alone, made to submit to him and all his dominance.

In the background, both soap and price were apologizing to the other odors about the little fiasco and that guard dog for your protection and he hasn’t adapted to his new conditions.

Little did they know it wasn’t That Simon wasn’t adapted. It was more so he was very territorial over his omega. He wasn’t just her guard dog. He was hers indefinitely. He was going to be the one to fuck tons of litters in you and no one else.

To him, that show dog shit was done for. No more trying to match you up to breed with another pure bred.

After he was scowled for his behavior. Price and Soap took you both back to your home. Ridding Simon of the blood he had splatter over him. None of it his.

“You can’t be doing shit like that Simon! They can try to make us put you down if you caused serious damage.”

He only shrugged. “Next time till him to not try and fuck my bitch and we won’t have a problem.”

This made them shut up.

Clearly they can see that Mutt!Simone had grown attached to the purebred he was supposed to be guarding but Price knew it was inevitable.

After both men got them cleaned up and ready for a night, they both left and sauntered over to the main house on the estate.

“ I think we fucked up Price.”

“Why do you say that?” Soap had an idea but he wanted to see if Price was thinking the same thing he was.

“I think we paired her with a fucking Alpha mutt.” He swiped his face sighing. “Yea, I think we fucking did too.”

•

Your body was spent. Mutt!Simon practically had you up all night, only allowing you to take small naps before he started over again.

He was fucking you vigorously. His thick cock swelling and ready to knot you and knock you up. Your mewls rang out into the morning.

Simons sharp teeth never letting up on the blade of your shoulder. Marking you as his territory. As his omega.

You would forever carry his scent even when he wasn’t near and soon you’d be carrying his litter of pups.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck!” He growled. His not swelling while he stuff you full. You scream. The pain of your body catching his knot as his nut glazed your walls.

Then and only then did he release your nape from his locked jaws.

What a surprise it was for Price and Soap to see you locked on his knot. Stuck in doggy position.

They wanted to help you. Wipe your tears and clean you up. You had marks and bruises lingering on your hips and neck. Simon couldn’t even be bothered with them at the moment. He just sat up with you both still connected. He tried his best not the move but when he did you would cry more from the tight feeling.

Behind you, you could hear him flick a lighter before taking a hit of his cigarette while wiping his face from the sweat.

“That show dog shit is over.” He tells them all.

“Now get out so I can breed my little omega.”

I’m so hungry I could eat Simon Riley.

Imagine being a reputable dog walker and having a last minute client added to your route with a note of urgency. Imagine knowing the company is getting triple-rate, not due to timing but rather the extra care required for the service, and that a predetermined (and genrous) tip was already waiting for you, too.

Imagine learning the initial behavior command to be stated upon entry, insistently identified as the “one thing you do not want to fuck up” since it’s the only thing that will prevent bodily injury to you. Imagine the intricate and highly detailed, medically necessary feeding plan consisting of three separate course and plenty of ingredients to measure and mix (‘no bone dry, over processed, burnt brown kibble for this magnificent beastie’ you say to yourself as you tap through to the pet photo of what has to be the goodest boy ever) and list of walk cues that include “step” for the 14 year old, blind German Shepherd named Riley.

Imagine clocking the true the size of the dog ('ooh, beastie doesn’t quite do it justice, does it?’) whose initial measured snarling has quieted as you repeat the ally-introduction command to be sure he heard it before you stand still and wait for him to find you, sniffing around your shoes and pants and fingers as he scents the other animals you’ve walked already today. Imagine not having to bend at the waist at all to get your fingertips into the fluffy coat along his back for some hello scritches.

Imagine noting the meager furnishings in the one bedroom apartment. No wall art, one dining table chair, a well worn sofa with a milk crate in place of an end table, heavily pad-locked military trunk as coffee table, practically nothing in the fridge besides the non-shelf stable feeding ingredients. All in stark contrast to the Maserati of dog beds in the corner by the window, surrounded by a pile of chew toys. An expensive looking custom made crate along the other wall, next to a raised water and food bowl stand.

Imagine the chat from your employer as he asks almost as soon as you’re done with the service if you’re free to take the job on full time at twice your normal pay for the next week.

We’ve gone through six walkers already and cannot lose this new client. You’re the only one who hasn’t immediately noped out after the intro walk and he’s delayed returning from service.

Imagine meeting Riley’s owner five days later when he returns home earlier than expected, just as you’re cuing his best friend up the stairs at the end of your last walk of the day. Brain short circuiting as you calculate that 'yeah, this masked man is definitely Riley Riley’s owner’. They do say pets and owners tend to end up looking alike.

i think that simon riley is afraid to get to close to people, not just because he’s scared to lose them, but because once they get past the hard shell to that soft squishy soul of his, they have the ability to rip what’s left of his humanity away from him. if he lets anyone in to see the man who does care for others but doesn’t know how to show it, the one who wants validation for doing things because he didn’t get it enough in the REAL way he needed it, if that person who’s been let in decides that they can’t/don’t/won’t SEE him, then he may as well be the walking corpse he is on the field. thats why i think if you were to get through all the rough exterior, everything that he uses as a shield to save himself from the torment, he won’t know what to do if you decide to leave. you sink your claws in the essence of his very being and he feels as though would die without the love and care and patience you show him; that his already mostly empty shell would then become a husk. he is desperately desperately broken but patience and consistent care and validation, proof that you love him and that you don’t ever intend to hurt him, then he’ll really shine