Uh, masterpost ig
Simon × Reader or Simon-centric unless stated otherwise.
Manifest
Sugar, just this once.
Run
Tether
Cigarettes
Like The Sun And The Moon
Home
Read on AO3
Divider by @gildui / @friarslantern

Product Placement
Stranger Things

No title available
taylor price

⁂
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
h
Sweet Seals For You, Always
occasionally subtle
AnasAbdin
NASA
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

#extradirty
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
noise dept.
Mike Driver
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
ojovivo
Cosimo Galluzzi
Monterey Bay Aquarium
seen from Portugal
seen from United States

seen from Sweden
seen from Germany

seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from Lebanon

seen from Taiwan
seen from Israel
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Nepal
seen from Poland

seen from United States
seen from Portugal

seen from Sweden
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@robin-feldt
Uh, masterpost ig
Simon × Reader or Simon-centric unless stated otherwise.
Manifest
Sugar, just this once.
Run
Tether
Cigarettes
Like The Sun And The Moon
Home
Read on AO3
Divider by @gildui / @friarslantern
it's set shortly after MWIII, and after that Riley died too (loose ends) lol
they hate each other bcz they can see their own reflections, but they are both themselves and others so cannot hate entirely one another. himself's the only one who truly understands him right
no guarantee that 22 share the exact same comic setup, but i figured there would be some common ground between them as characters named Ghost
ok sorry for any mistake and let me know if there's some awkward lines... it's hard to translate maybe i should've find someone to review the Eng dialogue i can't stand it
🤨🤨 i like his back
im on 09x22 ghosts stuff btw and im having fun thanks for the vote
WIP Wednesday today yay, expect the world building to make 0 sense because I Don't Have Time Or Attention Span To Research Properly™
cw: sexual themes.
Hockey player Simon who goes absolutely wild in the rink when he sees his pretty, little fans wearing jerseys with his name and number on it. So if he's extra violent, extra aggressive, knocking a few teeth out of his opponents mouths along the way, it's not on him. His female fans' cheers fill his ears, and he can't hear nothing else.
And if after every game he lays in bed and imagines a silhouette in his jersey while he fists his cock, it's really on his fans for going the extra mile: the most obscene edits of him with the filthiest songs, posts sharing what they'd like him to do to them, hoards of girls in his dms begging for him to fuck them as hard as he plays.
But nothing, and no one, comes close to you. It's pathetic, because he doesn't even know your name. Your social media handle is Mrs.Riley, and it gets him going, along with the dirty messages you send him every now and then, probably thinking he doesn't see them. But he sees them alright, reads them while his hand is wrapped tightly around his aching, leaking cock.
You get a little ballsy, a little less shy, because, out of nowhere, late at night, you send a picture of lingerie with the caption: heard black is your favourite colour.
It's not even on your body. The little pieces are placed perfectly and delicately on white bed sheets, but Simon nearly gets dizzy from how fast the blood in his veins gets sucked downwards as his cock swells.
For a long moment, he just stares at the picture, lips parted, breathing heavy, knowing fully well he's at the verge of something that'll piss his coach right the fuck off. He's media trained not to even look too long at the fans, let alone chat with them, so sexting one is definitely out of the question. But he's horny out of his mind. The high class escorts his coach and teammates alike encourage as a way to blow off steam don't do it for him anymore. But just words from you, pictures, sends him barreling straight towards the edge of sanity.
Simon is no stranger to these kinds of messages. His inbox is flooding with them, receiving at an average of ten a day. But the manner with which you do it. Not practiced, not even natural. But personal, very personal. He could only describe it as a wife sending her husband something to get him through a tough day at work, and it is that fantasy that has him spurting thick ropes of cum onto his muscled stomach.
He wants you. As his wife.
@readbads itt8fticitiyvit
This was on a post about how it's ignorant and privileged to wear headphones in public and I fear its already become a part of my vocabulary. Must everything harbor a moral failure.
☠️💀💀💀☠️
Look at it, just LOOK AT IT! 😍
Dallas Stars Ghost…. (referenced ESS 19122023/Jussi Nukari & IS 17022025/Kalle Parkkinen)
HUEHUEHUEHUE
every reader-insert you have ever read has been crafted from someone's love, creativity, and effort ; sometimes they are part of the writer themselves. who are you to openly complain? you do not have to read it. it is SO easy to move on but instead you criticize it and ridicule it and tag multiple fandom x readers to make your distaste known. i hope no one ever treats your creations that way.
...do you?
cw: sexual themes.
Hockey player Simon who goes absolutely wild in the rink when he sees his pretty, little fans wearing jerseys with his name and number on it. So if he's extra violent, extra aggressive, knocking a few teeth out of his opponents mouths along the way, it's not on him. His female fans' cheers fill his ears, and he can't hear nothing else.
And if after every game he lays in bed and imagines a silhouette in his jersey while he fists his cock, it's really on his fans for going the extra mile: the most obscene edits of him with the filthiest songs, posts sharing what they'd like him to do to them, hoards of girls in his dms begging for him to fuck them as hard as he plays.
But nothing, and no one, comes close to you. It's pathetic, because he doesn't even know your name. Your social media handle is Mrs.Riley, and it gets him going, along with the dirty messages you send him every now and then, probably thinking he doesn't see them. But he sees them alright, reads them while his hand is wrapped tightly around his aching, leaking cock.
@readbads i am frothing at the mouth
simon tree trunk thighs riley
Stay frosty❄️
A study of two Ghosts, two vibes.
cw: strong language, sexual themes. part 1.
After a mission that lasts for three weeks, Simon shows up at your door with flowers.
He used to get you flowers all the time when your casual dating turned into something serious, then that little tradition stretched well into the first year of your marriage. He loved the look you gave him every time, how you found a home for the flowers much like how you found a home for him in your heart. And you took good care of them, much like how you took good care of him; cut the dead ends, changed the waters every day, pressed a couple of them between your books.
And then one day, he stopped. At first, it was because he forgot, or was too tired, or it was too late, or it was raining. That's the thing with excuses. He can always find one if he looks. And he could always count on you to brush it off, cut him some slack. The familiarity bred laziness, and laziness grew claws and tore through his marriage.
The last flowers he got you died, and the vase remained empty until you stuffed it with newspaper and wrapped it up to take to your new apartment, alone.
That was, perhaps, one of the most devastating sights he’s ever witnessed. The emptiness of the vase matched the hollowness that ate through the chambers of his heart.
When you agreed to give him a second chance, one of the first things he vowed to himself is, as long as he lives, that vase you love so dearly will never be empty. So here he stands now, ringing your doorbell, a bouquet of flowers in hand.
You open the door and your eyes drop immediately to his hands. "You're back," you say, then look at him. "Why didn't you text me?"
"Wanted to surprise you." He lifts the bouquet towards you. "For you."
You stare at him for a moment and then take them. "They're pretty," you say, a prettier smile on your lips.
Simon scratches the back of his neck. Christ, he's as nervous as when you started dating. Which is ridiculous, you've been married for three years about a year ago. Your eyes snag on the pale, underside of his bicep, and it just makes him even more nervous, never mind the fact that you've already fucked in every position man invented.
He didn't think winning his ex wife back would be this nerve wracking.
"Oh, it's good you're here, something's wrong with the toilet flushing thingy."
Simon grins and follows you inside. Yes, please, he'll fix your toilet flushing thingy, and kiss the ground you walk on, and eat your pussy everyday of the week and twice on the weekends if you just look at him like you did right now: glad to see him, like he's useful to you. And that's all he ever wanted to be. Useful to you. Use him. Yes, please.
His cock twitches and throbs in his pants, and he has to focus on the task at hand to distract from the raging boner pushing against the front of his pants.
You peek through the door. "Nearly finished?"
In his pants? yes. "Uh yeah."
He puts the lid back on and takes a moment to compose himself before joining you. The sun is low outside the kitchen window, drowning the room in its last orange shine. Even so, the weather is warm, and you opted out of wearing pants, perhaps thinking Simon has seen you naked enough times to be unaffected. But, if anything, the distance, the lack of touching, of feeling, has left him even more depraved. The sight of your bare legs sends shocks of arousal right into his gut, straight down to his cock.
The constant traveling of blood, up and down, up and down, nearly makes him dizzy every time he comes over, but Christ, he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it.
You're drying a couple of plates when he comes up behind you, purposely standing too close.
"Finished," he whispers. He can feel the warmth of your body radiating towards him, and he's sure you can feel his, too. Beads of sweat roll down the valley between his shoulder blades, gathering at the waistband of his jeans.
Your breath catches in your throat and you freeze for a second. "Want some tea?" you ask, voice small, breathless.
Simon places a hand on the counter, barely a centimeter away from your hip, and leans towards you. His clothed cock presses against your ass, and he exhales, eyes fluttering. "Not really in the mood for that right now."
You put the plate down and bring your hand next to his, pinkie brushing his thumb. It's enough to send a jolt of electricity down his spine, and he shudders, cock rubbing against your ass. You feel it, too, because you take a single step back, and it's enough to have him fully pressed against you. He hisses, hand on the counter curling into a fist, knuckles turning as white as the white of his eyes.
"Fuuuck," he groans, head dropping forward. His other hand grips your hip, rooting you in place. "Please, for the love of god, don't move."
"Si-"
He bends down just enough to rest his forehead on your head. "Bad time to be saying my name like that, luv."
"Like what?" you breathe out.
"Like you me to fuck you on this counter."
You shake your head a little. "That's not..."
The door bell rings. Simon steps back from you, but perhaps wretches himself away from you would be a better description, because it physically pains him to put any amount of distance between your body and his.
You stay where you are for a second, breathing heavy. Simon watches you.
"Do you want me to open-"
"No, I got it." You wipe your hands on your shirt and go to open the door, then remember you're pant-less and do a little run to the bedroom to put on pants before opening the door. Simon just watches from the kitchen, a wet patch on the front of his pants. He really should've worn jeans instead of whatever this thinner material is. It's apparently no match for how much you make his cock leak just from rubbing your ass on it.
You come back, cheeks flushed, looking everywhere but at him. "I got a package."
Simon feels this isn't the right time to say me too. "Right."
You put the package on the kitchen counter and stand back, arms crossing under your chest. He watches, eyes dropping to the outline of your tits against the thin fabric of the shirt.
"Thank you for, um, fixing my toilet."
"You're welcome," he says, forcing his eyes upward. "You can call me anytime, you know that, luv."
You nod, shift from one leg to the other, nervous and embarrassed. Fuck, he loves when you suddenly get all shy on him, like he hasn't fucked you before in the filthiest ways ever. It makes him want to fuck you now, get you all moaning and drooling into the bed sheets.
These thoughts don't help calm the raging boner he has at all.
As if you can read his thoughts, your eyes slip to his crotch and then quickly glance away, cheeks aflame. "And thank you for the flowers," you say, looking out the window as if it's the first time you see the outside world. Or like you want to jump out of it.
"You don't need to thank me for that either, luv."
"You know I can fix all these things by myself."
He walks over to you. "I know, baby," he says softly, cupping your cheek. "I don't want you to. I love being useful to you. Don't want you to ruin those pretty hands, yeah? Mine are ruined already."
You look up at him with those wide eyes, nearly your whole face resting in the palm of his big hand. "Your hands aren't ruined. I like them the way they are."
Simon smiles, gentle, warm, but the thoughts in his head are anything but. He wants these fingers deep in your pussy, curling in and watching with satisfaction as your eyes roll to the back of your head. He still remembers the way you like to be fingered, the pace and the spots that if he touched just right, you turn into a moaning mess, pussy drooling all over his hands, these hands that you like, that you think aren't ruined.
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you can get extra four nsfw chapters here if you'd like!
cw: sexual themes, strong language.
Sometimes it feels just like how it used to be when in reality, a lot has changed.
He still comes around. More often than the average ex husband. Still fixes your creaky doors, your leaky faucets, your congested toilet. Repaints the peeling cabinets doors, takes your car to maintenance, checks and rechecks your locks and security system. Makes sure anyone who's not supposed to be there isn't there.
He's not supposed to be there. He knows that. Simon, who is cold, detached, blunt like a trauma to the head, finds it hard to let go of you, to accept the change that has happened so suddenly. Simon, whose hands are scarred with everything that struggled to live under his palms, struggles to understand that this, too, this marriage, struggled to live under his palms.
The first time you brought up the divorce, you said it wasn't his fault, but he knew better. All the arguments that led to the inevitable end revolved around the same issues: his struggles with prioritizing, with finding time, with remembering (birthdays, anniversaries, date nights). The worst part, for you, wasn't even the forgotten milestones. It was the lack of romance, the absence of trying from his part.
The slow shift from married to roommates that occasionally fuck was the final nail on the coffin.
And perhaps his greatest mistake was his readiness to expect that it was over. It solidified your belief: he doesn't love you anymore.
But the divorce wasn't a quick signature because Simon doesn't care, but because he was raised to believe his feelings didn't matter. They were a hindrance, an annoyance, and he believed he had caused you enough misery.
By nature, Simon is reserved, quiet, collected. Never raises his voice, never raises his fists. There isn't much that shakes him, except when you casually drop that you have a date later that week. Simon knows you. Knows the casualness of it is forced. You're testing the waters, gauging his reaction. He takes a sip of his tea, glances at you, the protective walls rising behind his eyes. Doesn't say much, just murmurs, "hopefully not a loser," with a half smile.
You force a smile. "Doesn't seem like it."
"That's how they get you." Perhaps a dig at himself.
"That's the point of a blind date."
Simon pauses. "A blind date? So you know nothing about this bloke?"
You can't meet his eyes. You look at everything but him, focus on a chipped spot on the wall behind him. "I know enough."
"Yeah?" Simon watches you, finger tracing the rim of his now empty mug. "What's his name?"
"John."
"Last name?"
"Smith...or something."
"John Smith?" He levels you with a deadpan look. "Sounds fictional."
"Or something. I don't remember."
"You don't remember his last name? Do you know anything about him other than his first name?"
You bite your lip and turn away from him, pretending that rinsing your mug is a task of utmost importance. "The whole point of a blind date is to get to know the person."
"If they exist."
"He exists!"
"What's his foot size?"
You turn, surprised and a little embarrassed, if the flush on your cheeks is anything to go by. "Foot size doesn't matter."
Simon shrugs.
He agonizes over it when he's alone. Not just over the fact that you're back on the market. But also about how weak and stupid he is when it comes to you. He shouldn't be still clinging to you with every fiber in his being. He picks up all your phone calls, answers all your messages, rushes to help when you complain about a leaky faucet or a faulty door lock. And he blames himself for that. Not you. He should've gone no contact. Cut you cold. He fooled himself into believing he just needed a little more of you before quitting, now he's three knees deep in whatever the hell is happening between you two. You call it friendship. Fuck that.
The next time he sees you, you tell him the date was nice. John or whatever the fuck was the bloke's name showed up with flowers, opened the doors, said all the right things, but there were no sparks. As much as Simon feels bad for the guy, he's actually twice the amount relieved. But he can't do anything with this failed date. You treat him like a friend.
The next week, he's fixing your leaky kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, while you complain about work. He looks at you just to look at you, and you're staring at his arms, rambling on and on like you're in a trance. Your eyes have always been so expressive, so telling. It was one of the things he loved about you. It's one of the things he loves about you. He draws in a shuddering breath, a little more of his resolve crumbling.
He takes your car for a maintenance check before he's deployed. He helps you build furniture, paint the walls of your apartment, change the tiles in your bathroom. Once, twice, three times. Change cabinet doors. He's helping you move on while your hand is still around his throat. But fuck, he can't help it.
He can't help it but he doesn't touch you. Gives you a side hug, sure. But no unnecessary lingering touches. He respects your space, doesn't think just because his chest is bubbling and overflowing with lingering feelings, he has the right to just touch you, like it means nothing to him.
So when you touch him, it feels a lot like a short circuit in his brain, and any thought that was in his head dissipates.
He blinks down at you. "What's that, luv?"
"I asked if that's a new scar?"
His hand instinctively lifts to touch his lower lip. A nasty punch from his last mission, but your hand around his bicep (barely) is more painful. "Uh yeah, it's nothing. Doesn't hurt anymore."
"It looks fresh," you murmur, inspecting his face closer. He wants to run away, but the gentle hold you have on his arm is enough to keep him in place, like a leash around his neck. Pathetic, but the idea of being leashed by you makes his cock throb.
He clears his throat, the tips of his ears warm. "Don't worry about it," he says, voice husky with want.
But you're hard to shake off. Always has been, when it comes to these things. Stubborn to a fault about his well being, and what a relief it is that you still are. Part of you still cares about him, and that's all he can think about as you lead him to your small, cramped bathroom and point to the lidded toilet seat.
He sits without a word, barely fitting in the space, so massive everything around him shrinks down and away. You rummage around in the cabinet on top of the sink, standing on your tiptoes. He watches, eyes on your ass, gaze tracing the sliver of skin as you stretch and your shirt lifts.
His lips part, pink tongue peeking out, a tortured exhale wretched out of his throat. His fingers flex, muscle remembering what skin long ago forgot: the feel of you in his palms, the softness of you, the warmth. How you break and melt under him, how you sound when he's deep-
"This is a good excuse to use my med kit," you say, interrupting his thoughts. You walk up to him and press his legs open with your knee. To you, it's a harmless gesture. To him, it's torture. His cock swells and pushes against the zipper of his pants. You're too focused on him to notice the very obvious sign of arousal, even though your knee is close enough to brush against his dick. And all he can do is focus on his breathing, and resist the urge to put his hands on your hips and pull you closer.
"You have any more dates lined up?" he asks, feigning nonchalance, as he stares up at you with needy eyes. The words come out like he intended for them to be: casual, like he's asking about the weather, not the love of his life and the woman he fantasies about every time he's got his fist around his cock if she's entertaining any other men.
"Shhh," you murmur, cleaning his cut with gentle fingers. "Don't talk."
But he wants to know. Desperate for a confirmation that no one else does it for you like he does, so he grabs your hand, holds it millimeters away from his mouth.
"Do you?"
You look down at him and he can see, in your eyes, the moment you become aware of your proximity. Or lack of, therefore.
"Why do you ask?"
He swallows and, fuck, your eyes dip to his throat, stretched out for you with his head tipped back like this, for you, to look at you and only you, like you're the sun, the center of his existence.
He opens his mouth, closes it. Coward, he tells himself, because he can't say the words on his tongue. Too raw, too real. "Just curious," is what he settles with.
Your shoulders dip with disappointment. He knows. "Is that all?" you ask, still hopeful despite everything.
Fuck, if only he wasn't such a coward. He stabbed men, was stabbed, looked death in the eye and recognized it's just his reflection in the mirror and yet, yet, this is the scariest thing he's ever done. To want something so violently. It bothers him at times how want is not enough. He has to show it in a way your understand. He has to love you in a way you understand.
"No," he murmurs. "I'm jealous."
You search his stormy eyes. For what? He doesn't know. Isn't what he said enough? Christ, isn't words enough?
He knows they're not. His own father was a big fan of words: I'll change, I'll never hurt you again, I'll get help. And what did that accomplish? Nothing. What did it cost his mother, his brother, himself? Everything.
He brings your hand to his mouth, kisses your fingers, bunched in his hand like a handful of sticks. "I hate the idea of your being with other men," he whispers into your palm, looking up from under thick lashes, eyes locked with yours in reverence. "It's torture."
"Simon," you say calmly. "You know why we divorced. We don't work well together. I-" you sigh, pushing a hand through your hair. You leave your other hand in his. A small mercy. "I have different needs from what you're willing to offer."
"I can change." He hates how he sounds so much like his father. It grates at his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. "I will change."
"What are you asking of me?"
"A chance," he says. "Give me a chance to win you back."
--------------------------------
Part 2
if you want to read the whole nsfw fic (5 extra chapters) without waiting for updates, you can find it here