Serial killer Simon Riley who goes on a date with his victims and kills them after, who actually chokes u mid sex with an intention to kill but you moan instead thinking he has a choking kink.
And he stops bcs what?
You gasp out, voice hoarse—“S-Sorry… I’ve never really done this before, but… I’m willing to try?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
He stared at you like you were a glitch. You should’ve been dead by now.
Instead, you were flushed and squirming, looking at with all wide eyes.
“Yeah?”
And you breathed. “Is it… is it something you like?”
His head tilted slowly. His gaze slid down your body, back up to your face. He studied you like you were a rare creature.
Then he smirked. A dark, quiet curl of the lips. "Maybe."
You had never asked to be born a King’s daughter, would never have willingly subjected yourself to a life of bejewelled barbarianism and decorated deceit, all under the overwhelming weight of a crown never meant to be yours. But then again, you certainly had never asked to be betrothed to the fearsome knight they call Ghost, either.
or Call of Duty Medieval AU Knight!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Princess!Reader
a darker medieval enemies-to-lovers arc?? anyone??
Simon Riley, the Blackhound, has no illusions about women.
"A pretty face wins a bed. A wet cunt wins an alliance. And if she's got wide hips and a noble name? She can die in childbirth with a tiara on."
That's the extent of it for him. Maybe if he lives long enough, one day he'll take a quiet little thing from the mountains—barefoot and grateful—and fill her belly until she gives him sons with grim mouths and his cold eyes.
And then there's you, neither are you quiet nor are you grateful.
You are the snide little noblewoman with silk under your nails and venom on your tongue. You wear pearls to breakfast. You call him "dog" to his face.
So when the hounds of war or the 141, as they call themselves, breaks your father’s gates and spills wine across marble floors, Ghost is ready to leave you in a locked room for the vultures. But Price—bloody Price—wants you alive. Wants you taken.
"Leverage," he says. "Duke's daughter. Maybe even the prince's favourite from the look of it. Can't waste that."
So now you're his responsibility.
The Blackhound's.
He throws you over his horse like spoils without words or apologies. You sink your teeth into his shoulder, hiss a curse, call him a filthy mutt and he doesn't even flinch.
But you don't beg and you sure as hell don't cry, you refuse to give him that satisfaction.
You sit in the corner of his tent with your back ramrod straight, despite the bruises and dirt and the fact that you haven't eaten in a day. You ask if he plans to ransom you or rape you—and when he says neither, you laugh.
"Then you've no use for me," you spit. "Let me rot, beast."
He should, and to be fair, he wants to.
During dinner, the fire crackles between you and them—four brutish men passing wine between their calloused hands. The leader amongst them, Price, sits like a general god, heavy fur slung over his shoulders, pipe between his teeth. The two other men, Kyle and Johnny, as you've learnt, trade quiet jokes in the background.
And him. The Blackhound, sitting tgere with his godsdamned skull.
You don't sit and you don’t want to eat their filthy food, you take the crust of bread in your hands and toss it straight into the flames.
Kyle mutters, "Stupid girl."
Johnny grins. "She's got fire, this one."
You lift your chin, voice sharp as glass. "Fire's what'll burn you all in the end."
Price exhales smoke through his nose. "We didn't take you for your manners, girl."
You round on him.
"No, you took me like cowards. Four trained hounds looting one house, slaughtering men with quills and books in their hands, not swords. You think yourselves powerful? You're nothing but beasts who whimper for coin. And you—you point at Ghost—You don’t even speak, do you? Did the Gods forget to gift you wit when they handed out strength?"
Johnny lets out a low oooh under his breath.
Price sighs, like he’s tired of babysitting. "Ghost. Take her back to the tent before she gets cleverer."
He rises and walks towards you, grabs your wrist firmly and drags you away from the fire's light. He throws you inside, stands there with arms crossed, "You think you're clever. Think you've lived."
His voice is so cruel it makes you not want to look at him at all. "You grew up behind bloody silk curtains, didn't ya? Callin' men 'servants' and thought that was power, eh? You don't know a damn thing about blood. Or starvin'. Or what it's like to survive without someone holdin' your fuckin' hand."
You smirk, chin up. "And what would you know of hands? Yours are too soaked in filth to ever be held."
He steps closer and you don’t back away. "I've slit open men for less than that tongue," he growls.
"Then slit me," you whisper. "Go on. You've already taken everything else."
you can see every move of self control he's fighting for in those eyes, but he saying nothing, only turns back and grabs the spare cloak from his cot—and tosses it at your feet.
"Sleep. Tomorrow, we ride."
been sitting in drafts for bit too long... aight🧍♂️
a little faculty inquiry— asking prof mactavish 🕵️♂️
The group clusters nervously outside Professor Mactavish’s office like a bunch of freshmen trying to bluff their way into a senior seminar.
Anthropology and Conflict Studies, he was weirdly cool, the kind of man who genuinely enjoyed a good academic gossip.
He’s chill… mostly. But who knows what mode he’s in today? Could be laid-back seminar dad, could be field commander with a whiteboard. Total wildcard.
A brunette student, clearly the one they’d sacrificed for diplomacy, finally steps forward.
“Sir? Uh. Random question. Totally hypothetical. Hope this doesn’t sound weird?”
Professor MacTavish blinks at her over the rim of his coffee mug. “Aye?”
Another student jumps in, a guy this time. “Well, since you know Professor Riley best, uh… how likely is he to, you know… read Sylvia Plath?”
He squints. “...Huh? What?”
The group tries to look innocent. One girl’s eyes are darting around and someone coughs suspiciously.
He frowns. “I dinnae think that man reads much more than the back of cereal boxes, honestly.”
Another student jumps in, overly casual. “Just curious. Y’know. Like… academically.”
“Academically,” MacTavish repeats, raising one brow.
A third student jumps in, too eager. “Yeah! Like… his relationship with, um. Literature. You think he’d resonate with Plath’s existential themes? Maybe… romantic symbolism?”
This time he narrows his eyes, probably knowing what this was all about. “Are ye writing a thesis on the man or something?”
Terrible silence.
“No,” says one.
“...Not officially,” adds another.
“It’s more of a… character study?”
“Fieldwork,” someone whispers.
“Fieldwork,” He repeats, lips twitching. “Uh-huh. And are any of ye even in his class?”
“Well… not this term.”
“I was going to be. But the schedules changed.”
“I passed him in the hallway once?”
“I sat in on a lecture. Spiritually.”
“My cousin's in his class,” someone offers weakly. “She said he made a joke about Morrison once.”
He leans back, arms crossed, clearly entertained now.
"So what is this then, eh? You lot conductin a full psychological profile o' Riley or what?”
Dead silence. Again.
“...No comment,” one mutters.
The brunette student, desperate to steer things back on track, blurts out, “But seriously, like, would he read Plath?”
McTavish squints. “Only if she wrote about motorbikes, gun? knives? dunno regret..? Wait... did she write about regret?”
They all stare at him.
"...Aye, actually, yeah. So maybe.”
Then a different student, “Well, what if it’s, like… metaphorical? Like, he’s the type who says he doesn’t like poetry but secretly has a favorite line memorized from something tragic?”
Soap is watching now, clearly amused.
He snorts. “What, is this a love hypothesis?”
Half the group chokes and the redhead drops her notebook.
Another student from the back blurts, “OKAY WELL. Hypothetically. If Professor Riley and Professor y/n were, like… together… would that surprise you?”
Johnny lets out a full-body laugh like he’s been waiting for this.
“You’re only askin’ now? Thought it was obvious.”
The whole group explodes like someone dropped a gossip grenade.
“WHAT?”
“WAIT—WHAT DO YOU MEAN OBVIOUS???”
“Are you saying it’s TRUE?!”
Johnny raises both hands, mock-innocent. “I didn’t say that. But he calls her ‘darlin’’ sometimes.”
There’s a collective screech. Someone drops their pen.
“EXCUSE ME?” the redhead gasps.
He’s grinning now, leaning casually against the wall. “She called him a ‘bastard’ in the break room last week. And he said — I quote — ‘Only yours.’”
Pandemonium.
A girl clutches her chest like she’s been shot. One guy has his hands on his head. Someone in the back is whisper-screaming “SHUT UP SHUT UP”
“OH. MY. GOD.”
Professor MacTavish watches the implosion with the faintest smirk. He sips his coffee, shrugs. “...Or maybe I made all that up,” he says casually.
Then he winks.
And without missing a beat, claps his hands once loudly.
“Right then! Shoo, all of ye. Off you go. Go do some real work or bother Garrick or somethin’, I’ve got emails to ignore.”
He starts ushering them out with dramatic arm movements like he’s sweeping out barn animals.
“Go on now—out.”
And with that, he shuts the door behind them.
Group Chat : Please Do Not Spam.
johnny 🧼: told your fan club you called her darling when no one was looking.
also I might've thrown in a cheeky “only yours” for the drama.
Hope that’s alright 😘
simon 💀: you’re dead to me.
you 📚: did you at least deliver it with good pacing and dramatic tension?
johnny 🧼: babe I’m a trained orator.
they were eating out of my hand.
one of them gasped. like actual audible gasp.
simon 💀: was it the curly-haired one who always stares at you like you’re haunted?
i owe her a failing grade for last term. might finally give it.
you 📚: that’s misha. she’s writing her thesis on eco-criticism in indigenous literature
if you ruin her GPA over this i will sabotage your morning coffee again.
simon 💀: you added cough syrup last time. you are a demon.
johnny 🧼: “only yours” — simon riley, 2025
source: trust me bro
you 📚: make sure they spell my name right in the fanfiction.
and make me taller.
simon 💀: no. keep her short. keep it accurate.
johnny 🧼: GOD the two of you are insufferable.
just kiss in the middle of the quad already and end the war
you 📚: we’re academics. we don’t kiss. we repress.
simon 💀: speak for yourself.
johnny 🧼: OH. OH??? 👀👀👀
WAIT
WAIT
STOP
EXPLAIN THAT ONE
simon 💀 has left the chat.
y/n 📚 has left the chat.
johnny 🧼: cowards
well that took forever to come up with 😔 also I didn't know which of you all to tag so I'm so sorry if that comes of as an inconvenience 🙏💕
Rumor has it that war veteran professor Riley from War Studies and the Literature professor are definitely sleeping together.
Or : where you and Simon are definitely NOT dating— but somehow, the entire student body is convinced you are. There's even a fan club for it. On Telegram.
Pt2 🐙
[anonstudent4ever]: guys i just walked past riley's office and guess WHO was in there again.
[bookedandbusy]: let me guess. the lit prof in her lil trench coat and smug aura???
[anonstudent4ever]: BINGO. door wasn't fully closed either. risky little freaks 🏃♂️
[chaoticneutral]: they are so obviously boning it's killing me. my tuition is paying for them to make heart eyes over WWII artillery maps 😫
[hotgirlwithacitation]: update: they sat next to each other at the faculty mixer. she laughed at something he said 😧☕
[jeremyonice]: They shared a coffee in the faculty lounge. We have EYES 🕵️♂️ Stay sharp, team
[tenurethirst]: what could Simon Riley possibly say that's funny. like what's he gonna do. war joke?? "haha remember the Geneva Conventions?"
[hotgirlwithacitation]: ok but she did laugh. she did the head tilt and the arm graze. she TOUCHED HIS ARM.
[proseb4hoes]: You think they trauma-bonded during committee meetings?
[bookedandbusy]: Absolutely. Probably over faculty budget cuts and unresolved PTSD.
[proseb4hoes]: God, I wish that were me😩
New Message from @tenurethirst: BREAKING: Someone in Professor Riley's Tuesday 9AM asked him what he thinks of literature 🫢
[hotgirlwithacitation]: WHAT DID HE SAY
[anonstudent4ever]: "I don't have the patience for fiction. I prefer the truth. But... some people make poetry worth tolerating." 🫢🫢🫢
[chaoticneutral]: HANG ON HANG ON BACK UP!!! BACK UP!!!!! SOME 👏 PEOPLE 👏 MAKE 👏 POETRY 👏 WORTH 👏 TOLERATING 👏
[bookedandbusy]: he meant her. HE MEANT HER. professor y/n, literature dept, first of her name 🗣️🗣️🗣️
[tenurethirst]: Do y'all think he's annotating her poetry like "p. 47 - is this about me?" i'm going to combust💔💔
[hotgirlwithacitation]: i bet she writes vague lines like "a man who speaks in silence, who walks like guilt, who smells like ash" and riley's in his apartment like: fuck
[bookedandbusy]: they're literally literary soulmatesss 👏👏 she gives lectures about metaphors for grief and he is the metaphor for grief
[mutualdestruction]: that's why they work. she's the novel he never thought he'd read. he's the war she keeps writing poems about.
[spiteandprejudice]: Bro.. that was so poetic what the fuck 🥶
[whoiselena44]: do y'all think she calls him "Simon" when no one's around 🥺
[Jeremyonice]: Obviously dude 😵💫
[notyourvalentine]: no. she calls him "riley" like it's a challenge n he calls her "professor" like it's a sin 👀
[proseb4hoes]: imagine he says "say it again" and she's like "Simon" and he's like "no. 'sir.'" ok bye logging out now
[bookedandbusy]: y'all have FICS saved in your drafts don't you?!??
... actually based on my own fucking class 😭 anyway wtf
do y'all think simon would unironically name his child something stupid bcs he's in a full panic mode. Like u delivered his baby and r out cold unconscious bcs it was a complicated pregnancy. And the nurse asks him, "Sir, what name should we put down for the baby?"
And this 6'4 wall of muscle jusr blinks at her, absolutely fried bcs his fucking wife is unconscious.
“...Name?"
"Yeah. The baby's name, you can ofcourse, change it later."
Simon's brain is empty and static, nothing but a loud buzzing and the echo of your voice in his head saying, "Francis? What about Eugene? No, that sounds like an old man. Simon, come on, help me choose!"
But he can't remember a single one. Not even one syllable.
So he just glances up at the whiteboard in the corner of the room that says August 18th, and goes,
"...August. His name's August."
AND PLEASE IMAGINE WHEN YOU WAKE UP.
Like you’re groggy as hell, throat dry, limbs heavy and all that. It takes you a minute to register where you are—bright lights, the machines, and Simon’s voice.
He’s right there, hovering close, hand clutching yours, “You alright? Yeah? Need water? You want—Jesus, they said there were some complications, I nearly lost my fuckin’ mind—”
You’re half-dazed, trying to nod and whisper something—water, maybe, or is the baby okay?
And then the nurse comes in, all calm and chipper, does a quick check and says, “You’ve got one very healthy baby boy, sweetheart. Born at 8:46 PM.”
You look over—and there he is. In the bassinet. Your son.
So Simon gently, so carefully, lifts him into your arms. "Careful now," he murmurs, helping you hold him. “He’s heavy as a brick, this one.”
And he is. He’s huge. Warm and heavy and so heartbreakingly perfect. You press your cheek to his little fuzzy head, overwhelmed.
Then Simon, still sitting on the edge of the bed, goes, “…Don’t be mad, yeah?”
You blink at him. “Why?”
He looks so awkward like he’s almost expecting to be smacked.
“I, uh… might’ve named him.”
“Yeah? What did you choose?”
“I—look, I forgot everything, alright?” he says, in full-on panic. “‘Cause you were out cold, not respondin’, bleedin’ everywhere—I was shittin’ it. The nurse asked me what we’d decided and I blanked. Didn’t even remember the lad’s bloody gender for a second.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “So I… I said ‘August.’ ‘Cause. Y’know. It is August.”
You just keep looking at him blank faced. What?
Simon shifts, looking nervous. “You can change it later, she told me. I’ll do all the paperwork, swear on me life.”
You narrow your eyes. “You named our child after the month.”
He shrugs helplessly. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been ‘Thursday.’”
And you do pretend to be mad. You give him a full mum-stare, lips pressed together, shaking your head like I cannot believe you.
“You mean to tell me we spent months arguing about names and you went with August ‘cause it was on the fuckin’ calendar?”
And Simon is just sitting there looking like a kicked puppy 🥺
You try to stay mad but it’s no use. He looks so sheepish, so genuinely worried you’d hate it.
So you sigh, lean your head back, and whisper “…Well. Good thing it suits him.”
idk much about baby naming... I googled it but apparently each hospitals have it different so pls pretend this is how it goes 🧎♂️
a collection of stories about captain john price and his pretty, young wife.
cw: all contain 18+ content, suggestive language and content, reader is described as plus-sized/curvier, dubcon elements, reader is a spite-fire, reader is a huge bitch (we love her), john price is a huge asshole, military inaccuracies, angst, smut, dark themes, they are super toxic but super in love so no they won't get divorced, john price has an insane breeding kink
jonathan price owns the ranch that neighbours your family's. you like to trespass. he shows you what misbehaviour will earn you.
tags: modern western AU, cowboy!Price, light sadomasochism, brat taming, spanking, humiliation, chasing, dubcon if you squint
read on ao3
This fic is ongoing - 3/8 chapters
1 - tell me why
2 - cowgirl in the sand
⋆ 3 - the wayward wind ⋆
4 - danger bird
5 - peace of mind
6 - old man
7 - from hank to hendrix
8 - harvest moon
watching a series that ended years ago is so hard, like whenever u wanna search up a cast or anything, you're hit with 7 spoilers in the face bcs the whole world has watched it before u and it's common knowledge by this point 🚶♂️
hey so since i’m in the season of ovulation here is degrading simon riley feeding my size kink. i’m not ok send regrets. 18+
“beggin little whore f’me. not so smart now that i’ve got your brain leakin outta your cunt.”
——-
yeah. you’ve pushed it. simple as that.
and god, you knew better. you really did. but some might say you’re a sucker for punishment. others might say you’re a masochist.
you think it’s probably a bit of both, when it comes to simon.
maybe it’s because he’s a big mean brute. emotionless. big ol wall of mass and muscle. tough bloke like him don’t feel a thing, yeah? at least in your mind. makes it easy to needle - easy to poke and prod and toss little jabs about his eyes or mask or whatever slivered sign of life he might be displaying that day.
he’s contractually obligated not to kill you, might you add. that brings a level of safety you got comfortable with.
but what you didn’t get comfortable with — what you couldn’t possibly ever get comfortable with, is the size of him in your fucking guts. the growl of him in your ear. the clutch of him around your throat.
even big dead-eyed men like simon have a limit. and by the grace of god, you’d found it. the bottom of this particular mine shaft, if you will—
“y’alright down there?” his voice is slick. fuckin slick with glee. a first for him, you’re sure. “still with me, sweet’eart?”
you can practically feel the smirk barring those teeth to your neck. you try to toss something smart assed back, something to keep it goin, but he’s got your wrists pinned behind your back and his cock stretchin your walls in a way that screams he shouldn’t even be able to fit — yet you’re clenching around him like you’d die without it.
all that comes outta you is a moan.
and he laughs. bastard. fuckin filthy rasp right against your ear. “tha’s what i thought. mm. s’what i fucken wanted.”
your eyes roll. he’s so deep your hips hurt. he presses a palm between your shoulder blades to pin you harder to the floor of his barracks. all that pent up aggressions got you leakin down your thighs. pathetic. humiliating. delicious.
“tha’s it. fucken stunned now, yeah?” he thrusts deeper. free hand smacking your ass til it stings. “always mouthin off. startin shit—fuck—y’knew what this was. you’ve always known what’d it take t’shut you up.”
you hiccup when he hits your gspot. over and over. so goddamn good it hurts. “fuck—fuck you—“
“yeah. y’are.” his hips jerk, hissing against the back of your neck. “feelin every inch of me, aren’t you? go on. fuckin tell me how i feel. wanna hear y’say it.”
you bite your tongue. squeeze your eyes shut. he fucks deeper. harder.
“say it.” another smack to your ass.
“big—“ you gasp, choking on it. “fucking—huge—“
he growls like you’ve fed him. “tha’s right. eight inches buried so deep in your tight little cunt y’forgot how to lie.”
youve never heard him talk like this and all you can do is whimper - the airs gone thin. every inhale is like sandpaper scratching at your throat. every thrust is like being punched open. and when every sound you make comes out as something pathetic you know you’ve lost.
you twist your head to try and adjust for reprieve but he fists your hair to still you. “y’wanna tell me again you can’t take it? huh? wanna tell me m’too big?”
he is. he totally is. but it’s delicious pain. makes your eyes water and your walls flutter. something about you can’t help but egg him on.
“s-shut up—“
he slams forward. breath cuts sharp against your neck. “wrong answer.”
you jolt. cry out. the heat is a wildfire across your skin. “s-si-mon—“
“try again.” he breathes, curling his fingers from your hair to your jaw. “or i’ll just keep pushin till y’feel it in your fuckin spine.”
he makes good on the promise with a bruising thrust. you wail with it. vision blurring blue. “fuck! fuck i wanted this—but you’re so—you’re too—fuck please—“
and it’s that last little word. the syllables that slip past your teeth presenting pleas on a silver platter, that make him moan. fucking moan.
“oh yeah. shit. now we’re gettin somewhere.” he exhales with it, shifting just to drag at your walls and angle deeper. “beggin little whore f’me. not so smart now that i’ve got your brain leakin outta your cunt.”
you long to tell him to shut up, fuck off, goto hell — any other circumstances you might have. but the first fuck with simon riley after months of pushing and prodding ain’t one to be won. you’ll be lucky to walk tomorrow. the monster can only be poked so many times before it wakes with vengeance.
i swear getting wrecked by some big blond bastard that smells like fucking bad descisions might be the only way to realign all my stars and moons back into their orbit
