“Why is she here again?” you muttered under your breath as the influencer clomped through the mud in tactical boots cleaner than your mess kit.
“For PR,” Soap whispered, like it was classified intel. “And because someone hates us.”
The influencer—Tiffany or Tiff or whatever—gave Ghost another lingering look like he was a shirtless firefighter in a calendar. “Ghosty, can you show me how to hold the big scary gun again? Pretty please?” she cooed, doing something horrifying with her eyelashes.
Ghost didn’t look up from checking his gear. “No.
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. She turned her death glare on you like you'd just stolen her ring light.
During drills, she "accidentally" pushed a duffel into your path. You tripped, took a dirt dive, and landed face-first in gravel. “Oopsies,” she said, not sorry at all.
Price barked at you in front of the squad. Ghost glanced your way, jaw tight. You grunted and kept walking. You’d live. Probably.
It wasn’t until the field op that things got serious. A misfired flare caused a small explosion, splitting the team. You and Ghost ended up holed in an abandoned barn with limited comms and nightfall closing in.
“You alright?” he asked, checking your shoulder where shrapnel grazed.
“I’ll live. You?”
“Better now that she’s not here,” he muttered.
You chuckled, the sound low and tired. “You know she sees me as a rival?”
“Figured. She stares at you like she wants to murder you with a glittery bayonet.”
A silence hung between you, thicker than smoke. Then—
Ghost reached out, his gloved fingers surprisingly gentle as they hooked under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The harsh shadows of the barn softened around him, and for a second, the chaos outside completely faded.
With his free hand, he reached up and slowly pulled the edge of his mask up just past his lips. Before you could even register the rare sight, he leaned in, his breath warm against your skin. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, tasting faintly of mint and rain, sending a sharp jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
He lingered there for a heartbeat, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, wiping away a streak of dirt. "I've been wanting to do that since you took that dive earlier," he murmured, his voice a low, rough purr right against your ear. "You look devastating when you're angry."
You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, your breath catching in your throat as you wrapped a hand around his wrist, pulling him just a fraction closer. "Is that a confession, Lieutenant?"
"It’s a promise," he breathed, his hand shifting to cup the back of your neck, you could feel the heat radiating off him. "When we get back to base, I'm showing you exactly what you mean to me. Understood?"
Before anything else could be said, the door burst open. Tiffanie stood there, red-faced and holding her phone.
“I demand to be extracted! This lighting is heinous, and nobody told me there’d be spiders!”
Ghost pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Ma’am, calm down—” you tried.
“I knew you’d sabotage me! You’re just jealous!”
And that’s when she grabbed your vest.
You sighed, pulled out your taser, and shot her square in the thigh.
She collapsed like a diva in a soap opera.
Ghost looked down at her twitching body. “..You didn’t even hesitate.”
“She’s lucky I didn’t set her eyelashes on fire.”
Ghost stared at you, then nodded. “I’ll back your report.”
You shrugged. “Self-defence.”
Then you looked back up at the team who flooded in right at the moment, spoke deadpan. "You saw Nothing".
The squad looked anywhere but at them as the sky suddenly was a lot more interesting. "Must have been the wind.", they said in unison.
KING! Simon Riley x ROYALKNIGHT! FemReader. Part 4. Part 3. Part 2. Part 1.
The kiss was a declaration of war against every boundary you had meticulously built over a lifetime. It was fierce, unyielding, and heavy with the weight of years spent suffocating under silence and duty. His hands tangled tighter in your short hair, anchoring you to him as if he feared you might dissolve back into the shadow of his guard the moment he let go.
When he finally pulled back, both of your breaths came in shallow, ragged rasps. Simon’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his blue eyes searching your face in the dim candlelight, blown wide and dark with a raw intensity you had never seen in him before.
"Tell me this isn't another game," he demanded, his voice a low, rough rasp against your lips. His hands remained firmly planted on your waist, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world. "Tell me you aren't going to step back at dawn, put on that damn cold armor, and pretend this was just another order obeyed."
You looked up at him, the sharp line of your jaw set, but the defensive ice in your eyes had completely thawed. Slowly, deliberately, you reached up and unbuckled the high collar of your leather brigandine, letting the heavy strap fall open.
"I have spent my whole life wearing iron for my family, Simon," you murmured, your fingers tracing the strong line of his jawline, feeling the erratic pulse hammering beneath his skin. "I fought to be unbreakable because I had to be. But I didn't stay at your side for my father, or for my brother's legacy... or for the crown."
Simon’s breath hitched, his thumb gently smoothing over the cheekbone you had spent years keeping carefully blank. "Why did you stay?"
"Because of you," you said plainly, refusing to look away. "Because even when you were driving me insane with your teasing, there was nowhere else on this earth I’d rather stand."
A slow, breathless smile broke across his face—not the arrogant smirk he wore for the court, nor the lazy grin he used to mask his thoughts, but something genuine, warm, and utterly unguarded.
"Good," Simon whispered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Because I have no intention of ever letting you take three steps behind me again."
He shifted, seamlessly lifting you from the desk. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you the short distance to his grand canopy bed, the painted portraits of noblewomen left forgotten, scattered and trampled across the stone floor behind you.
As he set you down amidst the deep velvet blankets, the shift in your dynamic was absolute. The King had secured his throne, but as he settled over you, his fingers intertwining with yours against the dark sheets, it was clear he had surrendered entirely to his knight.
"Tomorrow," Simon murmured, kissing the exposed curve of your throat where your armor had always shielded you, "the privy council will demand an update on my choice for Queen."
You let out a soft, low chuckle, your fingers sliding through his dark hair to pull his face back up to yours.
"Let them," you replied with a sly, dangerous smile. "I'd love to see the look on the Chancellor's face when you tell him."
KING! Simon Riley x ROYALKNIGHT!FemReader. Part 3. Part 2. Part 1
The air in the bedchamber snapped taut. Your wrist remained firmly anchored in Simon’s calloused grip, his broad thumb sweeping slow, dangerous circles over your pulse point. You could feel the frantic, heavy beat of your own heart hammering against his skin, but your expression remained a masterclass in calm defiance.
"No?" you asked softly, slanting a eyebrow upward. "A shame. She seemed... exceptionally suited to the crown."
Simon’s jaw worked, a muscle leaping beneath his light stubble. "You know damn well what you were doing," he growled, the low rumble vibrating straight through his chest. He tugged you half an inch closer, his knees framing your hips, effectively trapping you against the heavy mahogany desk. "Describing another woman like that... right in front of me."
"You ordered me to give my opinion as your childhood friend," you reminded him, tilting your head up to hold his stormy emerald gaze. "I merely obeyed my King. Is that not what I've done since we were children?"
"Don't hide behind your oath now," Simon muttered, his free hand rising slowly. His fingers hovered for a fleeting second before brushing against your cheek, his knuckles tracing the sharp line of your jaw up to the jagged edge of your short-cropped hair. His touch was warm, surprisingly tender against the cold leather of your brigandine. "You’ve used that armor as a shield between us for years. But I see you. I’ve always seen you."
Your breath caught in your throat, the playful banter dying on your tongue. The king had dropped his mask entirely, leaving only the man who had watched you bleed, sweat, and endure in the training yards while the rest of the world looked right past you.
"Your Grace..." your voice dropped, losing its crisp, formal edge.
"Say it again," he breathed, his thumb catching the swell of your lower lip, pressing lightly just as you had done to the portrait. "Say my name like that again, without 'Your Grace' tacked onto the end."
You swallowed hard, the weight of centuries of family duty pressing against your shoulders, warring with the raw, terrifying gravity pulling you toward him. You didn't pull away. Instead, you turned your head just enough to kiss the inside of his thumb—a brief, burning touch that sent a sharp shudder straight through his massive frame.
Simon let out a low, ragged exhilation. In one swift, fluid motion, his hands shifted to your waist, his grip unyielding as he lifted you off your feet and set you down squarely on the edge of the desk, scattering the remaining portraits of noblewomen to the stone floor below.
Before you could steady yourself, he crowded into your space, his hands resting on either side of your thighs. He leaned down until your foreheads rested together, his dark eyes ablaze.
"Let the council demand their political alliance," Simon whispered against your lips, his voice laced with a possessive, reckless heat. "Let them send a thousand more portraits. I don't want a soft duchess, and I certainly don't want a stranger."
He slid his fingers into the short hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back gently.
"I want the knight who guarded my back before I ever had a throne," he growled softly. "I want you."
The room fell dead silent, the crackle of the hearth the only witness to the broken boundary between King and sword. You reached up, your fingers wrapping around his crisp collar, pulling him that final, excruciating inch closer.
"Then you had better be prepared for a Queen who carries a broadsword, Your Grace," you murmured against his mouth.
A rich, breathless laugh broke from Simon's chest—and then he closed the gap, capturing your lips in a kiss that shattered every oath, every rule, and every wall you had built between you.
*at a safe house during Halloween*
Soap, knocking on the door: Hey, let me in!
Ghost: *opens the door*
Soap: Thank you- ... wow... why... why are you wearing THAT??
Ghost, wearing a floor length, giant ballgown: What? It was the only thing that would conceal my gear
Soap:
Ghost: Now, excuse me. I have somewhere to be
Ghost: *reaches down and pulls out a shotgun from under his skirt before he leaves the safe house, sparkly gown flowing behind him*
Soap: ... his confidence is fucking sexy, damn
KING! Simon Riley x ROYALKNIGHT!FemReader. Part 3. Part 2. Part 1
The air in the bedchamber snapped taut. Your wrist remained firmly anchored in Simon’s calloused grip, his broad thumb sweeping slow, dangerous circles over your pulse point. You could feel the frantic, heavy beat of your own heart hammering against his skin, but your expression remained a masterclass in calm defiance.
"No?" you asked softly, slanting a eyebrow upward. "A shame. She seemed... exceptionally suited to the crown."
Simon’s jaw worked, a muscle leaping beneath his light stubble. "You know damn well what you were doing," he growled, the low rumble vibrating straight through his chest. He tugged you half an inch closer, his knees framing your hips, effectively trapping you against the heavy mahogany desk. "Describing another woman like that... right in front of me."
"You ordered me to give my opinion as your childhood friend," you reminded him, tilting your head up to hold his stormy emerald gaze. "I merely obeyed my King. Is that not what I've done since we were children?"
"Don't hide behind your oath now," Simon muttered, his free hand rising slowly. His fingers hovered for a fleeting second before brushing against your cheek, his knuckles tracing the sharp line of your jaw up to the jagged edge of your short-cropped hair. His touch was warm, surprisingly tender against the cold leather of your brigandine. "You’ve used that armor as a shield between us for years. But I see you. I’ve always seen you."
Your breath caught in your throat, the playful banter dying on your tongue. The king had dropped his mask entirely, leaving only the man who had watched you bleed, sweat, and endure in the training yards while the rest of the world looked right past you.
"Your Grace..." your voice dropped, losing its crisp, formal edge.
"Say it again," he breathed, his thumb catching the swell of your lower lip, pressing lightly just as you had done to the portrait. "Say my name like that again, without 'Your Grace' tacked onto the end."
You swallowed hard, the weight of centuries of family duty pressing against your shoulders, warring with the raw, terrifying gravity pulling you toward him. You didn't pull away. Instead, you turned your head just enough to kiss the inside of his thumb—a brief, burning touch that sent a sharp shudder straight through his massive frame.
Simon let out a low, ragged exhilation. In one swift, fluid motion, his hands shifted to your waist, his grip unyielding as he lifted you off your feet and set you down squarely on the edge of the desk, scattering the remaining portraits of noblewomen to the stone floor below.
Before you could steady yourself, he crowded into your space, his hands resting on either side of your thighs. He leaned down until your foreheads rested together, his dark eyes ablaze.
"Let the council demand their political alliance," Simon whispered against your lips, his voice laced with a possessive, reckless heat. "Let them send a thousand more portraits. I don't want a soft duchess, and I certainly don't want a stranger."
He slid his fingers into the short hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back gently.
"I want the knight who guarded my back before I ever had a throne," he growled softly. "I want you."
The room fell dead silent, the crackle of the hearth the only witness to the broken boundary between King and sword. You reached up, your fingers wrapping around his crisp collar, pulling him that final, excruciating inch closer.
"Then you had better be prepared for a Queen who carries a broadsword, Your Grace," you murmured against his mouth.
A rich, breathless laugh broke from Simon's chest—and then he closed the gap, capturing your lips in a kiss that shattered every oath, every rule, and every wall you had built between you.
Before the heavy golden band ever touched Simon Riley’s brow, you had been the shadow at his heel. Years of grueling drills, endless lessons on tactics, and silent, sun-baked hours in the training yard had shaped you into the crown’s ideal shield—unflinching, unbreakable, and utterly loyal.
Your presence in the royal guard was an anomaly born of grim necessity. Your family’s noble lineage had guarded the throne for centuries, a sacred blood oath passed from father to son. But your brother, the intended heir to that solemn duty, had been born weak-lunged and frail, unable to bear the weight of full plate armor.
Refusing to let the family legacy wither, your father turned his stern eyes to you. He cropped your hair short before you were even out of girlhood—a practical, jagged style you kept straight into adulthood, refusing to let a single lock fall past your jawline—and handed you a practice sword. You learned to swing it until your hands bled, trading soft gowns for heavy iron and the gentle expectations of court for the cold steel of absolute devotion.
When Simon was finally crowned King, the shift was supposed to change nothing. Oaths still bound you—chains forged of blood, duty, and honor.
And yet, the moment the crown settled upon his head, Simon began testing the edges of your resolve with a quiet, deliberate persistence.
During the grand privy council, instead of allowing you to take your usual, invisible place at the far edge of the high hall, he stopped mid-stride and motioned to the grand chair at his immediate right.
“Sit,” he commanded softly, a lazy grin tugging at his lips, his emerald eyes gleaming with a mischief wrapped in gold.
“My place is at the perimeter, Your Grace,” you murmured, fingers tightening on your leather-wrapped gauntlets, every instinct screaming against breaking formation.
“It’s… customary,” he lied smoothly, resting a heavy, ringed hand on the back of the carved chair.
You hesitated, feeling the weight of a hundred watching eyes. But duty demanded obedience. Suppressing a quiet sigh, you stepped forward, the soft clink of your brigandine cutting through the tension as you slid into the seat beside him. The courtiers immediately erupted into subdued whispers behind their velvet sleeves. At the far end of the table, the Queen Mother merely chuckled into her wine, well aware of her son's long-standing obsession.
The castle garden at midnight soon became his favorite stage. “A King should not walk alone,” he declared one evening, stepping out into the cool night air without his ceremonial guard.
You fell into step a half-pace behind him, as you always had. While every rustle of the rose hedges and every shifting shadow had your hand resting vigilantly on the pommel of your broadsword, Simon had no interest in assassins. His gaze lingered on you, tracking the sharp line of your jaw, the brief glint of starlight on your short, dark hair, and the unwavering discipline in your posture. He walked like a predator savoring the slow, deliberate chase.
And then came the wine.
He insisted you taste every draft before it touched his lips—a ritual framed strictly as security, yet executed like a slow-burning game. Sitting in his private solar, the firelight washing over his broad shoulders, he pushed a heavy silver goblet toward you.
“Test it,” he purred.
You lifted the heavy chalice, your expression stoic as you brought it to your lips. You felt the bitter, rich tang of the vintage against your tongue, swallowing smoothly while Simon leaned forward, a smirk twisting his sharp mouth as if he could taste your reaction through the rim.
When you finished, you casually drew a clean linen cloth from your belt and carefully wiped the edge of the goblet before handing it back, deliberately denying him the proof of shared contact.
Simon’s smirk collapsed into a faint pout, a sulk so comical on a man of his dangerous stature that it was almost maddening.
“I was looking forward to that,” he muttered under his breath, his low voice for your ears alone as he took the goblet, his fingers deliberately brushing over yours as he reclaimed it.
The court saw it, the servants gossiped about it, and even the cold stone walls of the keep seemed to hum with the unspoken tension between you. He teased; you obeyed. Always. Yet beneath the weight of your armor and the ghost of your family's sacrifice, the King’s dangerous amusement was slowly wrapping itself around your unbreakable stoicism, making every act of duty feel dangerously intimate.
KING! Simon Riley x ROYAL KNIGHT! FemReader Part 2 Part 1
The days that followed only brought a deeper, more agonizing kind of torment. Simon’s playful antics escalated from quiet garden strolls to subtle, public acts of provocation.
During morning sword practice, he would insist on adjusting the leather straps of your pauldrons himself, his bare thumbs brushing against the exposed skin of your nape. When you stood guard at the feast, he would intentionally drop his silk handkerchief near your boots, waiting with that insufferable, expectant smirk to see if you would bend to retrieve it—or if you’d let your composure crack.
You never cracked. You were a knight of the realm, trained in iron and silence.
And then came the summons to his private bedchamber late one evening.
When you stepped past the grand oak doors, you found the room bathed in the soft, flickering light of a dozen candles. Simon was not tucked into bed, nor was he lounging by the hearth.
He sat atop his massive mahogany writing desk, his long legs dangling off the edge, his royal cloak discarded over a chair. Spread across the dark wood before him were dozens of painted portraits—miniatures of young, ethereal noblewomen from every allied kingdom.
"Ah, you're here," Simon purred, pouring a small splash of dark liquid into two glasses. "Come. I require your expertise on a matter of urgent state security."
You stepped forward, your boots heavy against the rug, and glanced down at the array of faces. The women were undeniably stunning—flawless skin, soft cascading curls, delicate hands untouched by steel.
You quickly crushed it beneath years of ingrained discipline, keeping your face a cool, unreadable mask.
"The council insists on an heir," Simon continued, picking up a portrait of a golden-haired duchess and tossing it carelessly back down. "They’ve sent me an endless parade of prospects. As my premier guard, I need you to choose one for me to marry."
Your jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched beneath your ear. A sharp, unexpected knot tightened deep in your chest. A hot spike of quiet jealousy, bitter as unrefined poison, flared behind your ribs. You forced your hands to stay still at your sides.
"With respect, Your Grace, I am your knight, not your grand advisor," you replied, your tone crisp and flat. "Arranging royal marriages falls outside my oath."
Simon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, those mischievous blue eyes catching the candlelight. The playful smirk returned to his lips. "I am not asking my knight," he murmured, his voice dropping into that dangerously low register reserved only for you. "I am ordering my childhood friend. The girl who used to steal apples from the orchard with me. Choose my Queen."
He thought he had you. He thought he’d finally pushed past your stoic armor to catch a glimpse of the flustered, reluctant girl beneath.
You stared at him for a quiet beat. Then, slowly, the tension in your shoulders melted away. Two could play this game.
A slow, deliberate smirk of your own touched your lips as you stepped right up to the edge of the desk, invading his personal space. Simon’s smirk flickered, a momentary flicker of surprise washing over his features as you reached out and deliberately bypassed the women he had been eyeing.
You picked up a portrait near the corner—a stunning miniature of a raven-haired marchioness with striking violet eyes and full, dark lips.
"If it is my honest opinion you seek, Your Grace..." you began smoothly, holding the portrait up to the candlelight. You turned your body just enough so Simon had a clear view of both the painting and your expression.
Slowly, you traced the pad of your thumb along the delicate curve of the painted woman's cheekbone, down to her exposed collarbone.
"This one," you purred, matching his low, sultry tone. "Look at the arch of her brow—so sharp, so commanding. And her eyes... intoxicating. A woman with a gaze like that would rule a court with absolute grace."
Simon’s posture stiffened. The playful glint in his eyes began to dim.
You didn't stop. You let your finger trail further down the portrait, lingering over the woman's painted figure. "And her form... exquisite. Elegant shoulders, a waist sculpted for the finest silks, and a posture that speaks of fiery passion behind closed doors. A truly breathtaking woman. I imagine any person would find themselves entirely captivated by her presence in their bed chamber."
You glanced up from the portrait, meeting Simon’s gaze directly.
The King was no longer leaning back with a lazy, triumphant grin. His broad jaw was set tight, his eyes narrowed into dark, stormy green slits, and his hand—resting on the desk—had clenched into a tight fist, the knuckles white. The smug satisfaction he had worn moments ago had completely vanished, replaced by a raw, burning jealousy that radiated off him in waves.
"She would make a magnificent Queen," you added softly, holding his furious glare without blinking, leaning in just an inch closer. "Shall I call for the scribes to draft the marriage contract, Simon?"
For a long, tense moment, the only sound in the bedchamber was the crackle of the hearth and the heavy, deliberate rhythm of Simon’s breath.
Slowly, without taking his eyes off you, Simon reached out. His large, calloused hand snatched the portrait right out of your fingers and tossed it facedown onto the mahogany desk.
And before you could step back, his hand moved again—wrapping firmly around your wrist, his grip warm and unyielding, tugging you forward until you were standing flush between his knees.
"No," Simon growled, his voice thick and rough, his dark eyes searching yours as he pulled you closer. "I don't think she'll do at all."
Before the heavy golden band ever touched Simon Riley’s brow, you had been the shadow at his heel. Years of grueling drills, endless lessons on tactics, and silent, sun-baked hours in the training yard had shaped you into the crown’s ideal shield—unflinching, unbreakable, and utterly loyal.
Your presence in the royal guard was an anomaly born of grim necessity. Your family’s noble lineage had guarded the throne for centuries, a sacred blood oath passed from father to son. But your brother, the intended heir to that solemn duty, had been born weak-lunged and frail, unable to bear the weight of full plate armor.
Refusing to let the family legacy wither, your father turned his stern eyes to you. He cropped your hair short before you were even out of girlhood—a practical, jagged style you kept straight into adulthood, refusing to let a single lock fall past your jawline—and handed you a practice sword. You learned to swing it until your hands bled, trading soft gowns for heavy iron and the gentle expectations of court for the cold steel of absolute devotion.
When Simon was finally crowned King, the shift was supposed to change nothing. Oaths still bound you—chains forged of blood, duty, and honor.
And yet, the moment the crown settled upon his head, Simon began testing the edges of your resolve with a quiet, deliberate persistence.
During the grand privy council, instead of allowing you to take your usual, invisible place at the far edge of the high hall, he stopped mid-stride and motioned to the grand chair at his immediate right.
“Sit,” he commanded softly, a lazy grin tugging at his lips, his emerald eyes gleaming with a mischief wrapped in gold.
“My place is at the perimeter, Your Grace,” you murmured, fingers tightening on your leather-wrapped gauntlets, every instinct screaming against breaking formation.
“It’s… customary,” he lied smoothly, resting a heavy, ringed hand on the back of the carved chair.
You hesitated, feeling the weight of a hundred watching eyes. But duty demanded obedience. Suppressing a quiet sigh, you stepped forward, the soft clink of your brigandine cutting through the tension as you slid into the seat beside him. The courtiers immediately erupted into subdued whispers behind their velvet sleeves. At the far end of the table, the Queen Mother merely chuckled into her wine, well aware of her son's long-standing obsession.
The castle garden at midnight soon became his favorite stage. “A King should not walk alone,” he declared one evening, stepping out into the cool night air without his ceremonial guard.
You fell into step a half-pace behind him, as you always had. While every rustle of the rose hedges and every shifting shadow had your hand resting vigilantly on the pommel of your broadsword, Simon had no interest in assassins. His gaze lingered on you, tracking the sharp line of your jaw, the brief glint of starlight on your short, dark hair, and the unwavering discipline in your posture. He walked like a predator savoring the slow, deliberate chase.
And then came the wine.
He insisted you taste every draft before it touched his lips—a ritual framed strictly as security, yet executed like a slow-burning game. Sitting in his private solar, the firelight washing over his broad shoulders, he pushed a heavy silver goblet toward you.
“Test it,” he purred.
You lifted the heavy chalice, your expression stoic as you brought it to your lips. You felt the bitter, rich tang of the vintage against your tongue, swallowing smoothly while Simon leaned forward, a smirk twisting his sharp mouth as if he could taste your reaction through the rim.
When you finished, you casually drew a clean linen cloth from your belt and carefully wiped the edge of the goblet before handing it back, deliberately denying him the proof of shared contact.
Simon’s smirk collapsed into a faint pout, a sulk so comical on a man of his dangerous stature that it was almost maddening.
“I was looking forward to that,” he muttered under his breath, his low voice for your ears alone as he took the goblet, his fingers deliberately brushing over yours as he reclaimed it.
The court saw it, the servants gossiped about it, and even the cold stone walls of the keep seemed to hum with the unspoken tension between you. He teased; you obeyed. Always. Yet beneath the weight of your armor and the ghost of your family's sacrifice, the King’s dangerous amusement was slowly wrapping itself around your unbreakable stoicism, making every act of duty feel dangerously intimate.
KING! Simon Riley x ROYAL KNIGHT! FemReader Part 2 Part 1 Part 3
The days that followed only brought a deeper, more agonizing kind of torment. Simon’s playful antics escalated from quiet garden strolls to subtle, public acts of provocation.
During morning sword practice, he would insist on adjusting the leather straps of your pauldrons himself, his bare thumbs brushing against the exposed skin of your nape. When you stood guard at the feast, he would intentionally drop his silk handkerchief near your boots, waiting with that insufferable, expectant smirk to see if you would bend to retrieve it—or if you’d let your composure crack.
You never cracked. You were a knight of the realm, trained in iron and silence.
And then came the summons to his private bedchamber late one evening.
When you stepped past the grand oak doors, you found the room bathed in the soft, flickering light of a dozen candles. Simon was not tucked into bed, nor was he lounging by the hearth.
He sat atop his massive mahogany writing desk, his long legs dangling off the edge, his royal cloak discarded over a chair. Spread across the dark wood before him were dozens of painted portraits—miniatures of young, ethereal noblewomen from every allied kingdom.
"Ah, you're here," Simon purred, pouring a small splash of dark liquid into two glasses. "Come. I require your expertise on a matter of urgent state security."
You stepped forward, your boots heavy against the rug, and glanced down at the array of faces. The women were undeniably stunning—flawless skin, soft cascading curls, delicate hands untouched by steel.
You quickly crushed it beneath years of ingrained discipline, keeping your face a cool, unreadable mask.
"The council insists on an heir," Simon continued, picking up a portrait of a golden-haired duchess and tossing it carelessly back down. "They’ve sent me an endless parade of prospects. As my premier guard, I need you to choose one for me to marry."
Your jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched beneath your ear. A sharp, unexpected knot tightened deep in your chest. A hot spike of quiet jealousy, bitter as unrefined poison, flared behind your ribs. You forced your hands to stay still at your sides.
"With respect, Your Grace, I am your knight, not your grand advisor," you replied, your tone crisp and flat. "Arranging royal marriages falls outside my oath."
Simon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, those mischievous blue eyes catching the candlelight. The playful smirk returned to his lips. "I am not asking my knight," he murmured, his voice dropping into that dangerously low register reserved only for you. "I am ordering my childhood friend. The girl who used to steal apples from the orchard with me. Choose my Queen."
He thought he had you. He thought he’d finally pushed past your stoic armor to catch a glimpse of the flustered, reluctant girl beneath.
You stared at him for a quiet beat. Then, slowly, the tension in your shoulders melted away. Two could play this game.
A slow, deliberate smirk of your own touched your lips as you stepped right up to the edge of the desk, invading his personal space. Simon’s smirk flickered, a momentary flicker of surprise washing over his features as you reached out and deliberately bypassed the women he had been eyeing.
You picked up a portrait near the corner—a stunning miniature of a raven-haired marchioness with striking violet eyes and full, dark lips.
"If it is my honest opinion you seek, Your Grace..." you began smoothly, holding the portrait up to the candlelight. You turned your body just enough so Simon had a clear view of both the painting and your expression.
Slowly, you traced the pad of your thumb along the delicate curve of the painted woman's cheekbone, down to her exposed collarbone.
"This one," you purred, matching his low, sultry tone. "Look at the arch of her brow—so sharp, so commanding. And her eyes... intoxicating. A woman with a gaze like that would rule a court with absolute grace."
Simon’s posture stiffened. The playful glint in his eyes began to dim.
You didn't stop. You let your finger trail further down the portrait, lingering over the woman's painted figure. "And her form... exquisite. Elegant shoulders, a waist sculpted for the finest silks, and a posture that speaks of fiery passion behind closed doors. A truly breathtaking woman. I imagine any person would find themselves entirely captivated by her presence in their bed chamber."
You glanced up from the portrait, meeting Simon’s gaze directly.
The King was no longer leaning back with a lazy, triumphant grin. His broad jaw was set tight, his eyes narrowed into dark, stormy green slits, and his hand—resting on the desk—had clenched into a tight fist, the knuckles white. The smug satisfaction he had worn moments ago had completely vanished, replaced by a raw, burning jealousy that radiated off him in waves.
"She would make a magnificent Queen," you added softly, holding his furious glare without blinking, leaning in just an inch closer. "Shall I call for the scribes to draft the marriage contract, Simon?"
For a long, tense moment, the only sound in the bedchamber was the crackle of the hearth and the heavy, deliberate rhythm of Simon’s breath.
Slowly, without taking his eyes off you, Simon reached out. His large, calloused hand snatched the portrait right out of your fingers and tossed it facedown onto the mahogany desk.
And before you could step back, his hand moved again—wrapping firmly around your wrist, his grip warm and unyielding, tugging you forward until you were standing flush between his knees.
"No," Simon growled, his voice thick and rough, his dark eyes searching yours as he pulled you closer. "I don't think she'll do at all."
Before the heavy golden band ever touched Simon Riley’s brow, you had been the shadow at his heel. Years of grueling drills, endless lessons on tactics, and silent, sun-baked hours in the training yard had shaped you into the crown’s ideal shield—unflinching, unbreakable, and utterly loyal.
Your presence in the royal guard was an anomaly born of grim necessity. Your family’s noble lineage had guarded the throne for centuries, a sacred blood oath passed from father to son. But your brother, the intended heir to that solemn duty, had been born weak-lunged and frail, unable to bear the weight of full plate armor.
Refusing to let the family legacy wither, your father turned his stern eyes to you. He cropped your hair short before you were even out of girlhood—a practical, jagged style you kept straight into adulthood, refusing to let a single lock fall past your jawline—and handed you a practice sword. You learned to swing it until your hands bled, trading soft gowns for heavy iron and the gentle expectations of court for the cold steel of absolute devotion.
When Simon was finally crowned King, the shift was supposed to change nothing. Oaths still bound you—chains forged of blood, duty, and honor.
And yet, the moment the crown settled upon his head, Simon began testing the edges of your resolve with a quiet, deliberate persistence.
During the grand privy council, instead of allowing you to take your usual, invisible place at the far edge of the high hall, he stopped mid-stride and motioned to the grand chair at his immediate right.
“Sit,” he commanded softly, a lazy grin tugging at his lips, his emerald eyes gleaming with a mischief wrapped in gold.
“My place is at the perimeter, Your Grace,” you murmured, fingers tightening on your leather-wrapped gauntlets, every instinct screaming against breaking formation.
“It’s… customary,” he lied smoothly, resting a heavy, ringed hand on the back of the carved chair.
You hesitated, feeling the weight of a hundred watching eyes. But duty demanded obedience. Suppressing a quiet sigh, you stepped forward, the soft clink of your brigandine cutting through the tension as you slid into the seat beside him. The courtiers immediately erupted into subdued whispers behind their velvet sleeves. At the far end of the table, the Queen Mother merely chuckled into her wine, well aware of her son's long-standing obsession.
The castle garden at midnight soon became his favorite stage. “A King should not walk alone,” he declared one evening, stepping out into the cool night air without his ceremonial guard.
You fell into step a half-pace behind him, as you always had. While every rustle of the rose hedges and every shifting shadow had your hand resting vigilantly on the pommel of your broadsword, Simon had no interest in assassins. His gaze lingered on you, tracking the sharp line of your jaw, the brief glint of starlight on your short, dark hair, and the unwavering discipline in your posture. He walked like a predator savoring the slow, deliberate chase.
And then came the wine.
He insisted you taste every draft before it touched his lips—a ritual framed strictly as security, yet executed like a slow-burning game. Sitting in his private solar, the firelight washing over his broad shoulders, he pushed a heavy silver goblet toward you.
“Test it,” he purred.
You lifted the heavy chalice, your expression stoic as you brought it to your lips. You felt the bitter, rich tang of the vintage against your tongue, swallowing smoothly while Simon leaned forward, a smirk twisting his sharp mouth as if he could taste your reaction through the rim.
When you finished, you casually drew a clean linen cloth from your belt and carefully wiped the edge of the goblet before handing it back, deliberately denying him the proof of shared contact.
Simon’s smirk collapsed into a faint pout, a sulk so comical on a man of his dangerous stature that it was almost maddening.
“I was looking forward to that,” he muttered under his breath, his low voice for your ears alone as he took the goblet, his fingers deliberately brushing over yours as he reclaimed it.
The court saw it, the servants gossiped about it, and even the cold stone walls of the keep seemed to hum with the unspoken tension between you. He teased; you obeyed. Always. Yet beneath the weight of your armor and the ghost of your family's sacrifice, the King’s dangerous amusement was slowly wrapping itself around your unbreakable stoicism, making every act of duty feel dangerously intimate.
KING! Simon Riley x ROYAL KNIGHT! FemReader. Part 2.
Before the heavy golden band ever touched Simon Riley’s brow, you had been the shadow at his heel. Years of grueling drills, endless lessons on tactics, and silent, sun-baked hours in the training yard had shaped you into the crown’s ideal shield—unflinching, unbreakable, and utterly loyal.
Your presence in the royal guard was an anomaly born of grim necessity. Your family’s noble lineage had guarded the throne for centuries, a sacred blood oath passed from father to son. But your brother, the intended heir to that solemn duty, had been born weak-lunged and frail, unable to bear the weight of full plate armor.
Refusing to let the family legacy wither, your father turned his stern eyes to you. He cropped your hair short before you were even out of girlhood—a practical, jagged style you kept straight into adulthood, refusing to let a single lock fall past your jawline—and handed you a practice sword. You learned to swing it until your hands bled, trading soft gowns for heavy iron and the gentle expectations of court for the cold steel of absolute devotion.
When Simon was finally crowned King, the shift was supposed to change nothing. Oaths still bound you—chains forged of blood, duty, and honor.
And yet, the moment the crown settled upon his head, Simon began testing the edges of your resolve with a quiet, deliberate persistence.
During the grand privy council, instead of allowing you to take your usual, invisible place at the far edge of the high hall, he stopped mid-stride and motioned to the grand chair at his immediate right.
“Sit,” he commanded softly, a lazy grin tugging at his lips, his emerald eyes gleaming with a mischief wrapped in gold.
“My place is at the perimeter, Your Grace,” you murmured, fingers tightening on your leather-wrapped gauntlets, every instinct screaming against breaking formation.
“It’s… customary,” he lied smoothly, resting a heavy, ringed hand on the back of the carved chair.
You hesitated, feeling the weight of a hundred watching eyes. But duty demanded obedience. Suppressing a quiet sigh, you stepped forward, the soft clink of your brigandine cutting through the tension as you slid into the seat beside him. The courtiers immediately erupted into subdued whispers behind their velvet sleeves. At the far end of the table, the Queen Mother merely chuckled into her wine, well aware of her son's long-standing obsession.
The castle garden at midnight soon became his favorite stage. “A King should not walk alone,” he declared one evening, stepping out into the cool night air without his ceremonial guard.
You fell into step a half-pace behind him, as you always had. While every rustle of the rose hedges and every shifting shadow had your hand resting vigilantly on the pommel of your broadsword, Simon had no interest in assassins. His gaze lingered on you, tracking the sharp line of your jaw, the brief glint of starlight on your short, dark hair, and the unwavering discipline in your posture. He walked like a predator savoring the slow, deliberate chase.
And then came the wine.
He insisted you taste every draft before it touched his lips—a ritual framed strictly as security, yet executed like a slow-burning game. Sitting in his private solar, the firelight washing over his broad shoulders, he pushed a heavy silver goblet toward you.
“Test it,” he purred.
You lifted the heavy chalice, your expression stoic as you brought it to your lips. You felt the bitter, rich tang of the vintage against your tongue, swallowing smoothly while Simon leaned forward, a smirk twisting his sharp mouth as if he could taste your reaction through the rim.
When you finished, you casually drew a clean linen cloth from your belt and carefully wiped the edge of the goblet before handing it back, deliberately denying him the proof of shared contact.
Simon’s smirk collapsed into a faint pout, a sulk so comical on a man of his dangerous stature that it was almost maddening.
“I was looking forward to that,” he muttered under his breath, his low voice for your ears alone as he took the goblet, his fingers deliberately brushing over yours as he reclaimed it.
The court saw it, the servants gossiped about it, and even the cold stone walls of the keep seemed to hum with the unspoken tension between you. He teased; you obeyed. Always. Yet beneath the weight of your armor and the ghost of your family's sacrifice, the King’s dangerous amusement was slowly wrapping itself around your unbreakable stoicism, making every act of duty feel dangerously intimate.
