☁️ sayako ☁️ @sayakosama - Tumblr Blog

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🎐 let me introduce myself 🎐

୨୧ name: sayako or saya 🩵

୨୧ age: 18

୨୧ pronouns: she/her

୨୧ location: tokio, japan

୨୧ infj - scorpio (very contradictory, ik)

୨୧ current mood: cozy & spaced out

୨୧ currently reading: jujutsu kaisen

୨୧ watching: frieren, violet evergarden

୨୧ listening to: lana del rey, sting

୨୧ hobbies i enjoy: playing the piano, baking, writing ff, and destroying insecure mistogynistic men in cod 🩵 🫧

☁ minors do not interact

☁ requests are open

☁ be soft, be kind

#first post #about myself #be nice pls #jjk #cod mw2 #lads

willowas519

STOP PUTTING YOUR OC UNDER “X READER”!!!!! I DONT WANT TO READ YOUR STINKY LOVE STORY, *I* WANT TO BE THE LOVE STORY!!!!

grimnaru

“ᴡᴀᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴜʙɪɴᴇ.”

✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦

This artwork is mine. Do not repost it somewhere, or claim it as your own. Reblogs are appreciated!

pika-toru-deactivated20260505

precious.

‧₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡ you work at the convenience store and sukuna works at his family car workshop by its side, which means you guys acknowledge each other daily but never really talk. that is, until he notices you crying while sitting on the curb, capri sun gripped in your hands, and an unusual relationship blooms between you two. a relationship that both of you try to preserve desperately, at some point, but life sometimes has other plans.

contents. sukuna x fem reader! fluff • first times • awkward reader • sukuna is down bad but he won’t admit it • eventual smut • angst • hurt/comfort • eventual after high school -> adulthood timeskip in later chapters • friends to lovers to strangers to lovers?? the art belongs to @/to00fu !!

-> part 1 … or how you and sukuna become friends.

-> part 2 …

pika-toru-deactivated20260505

precious.

the summer had been creeping in quietly, the way it always did in this forgotten corner of the suburbs—longer evenings that stretched the daylight into golden haze, warm air thick with the faint, dusty tang of sun-baked asphalt and overgrown weeds pushing through sidewalk cracks. cicadas hummed earlier each day, their relentless drone seeping through open windows like a promise of heatwaves to come, a persistent soundtrack that seemed to accelerate time itself.

at school, faded graduation banners hung crookedly from the rusted gates, fluttering limply in the breeze like surrender flags. teachers had long stopped pretending anyone cared about final lessons; they just droned through attendance, their voices blending into the chatter of students scrolling phones and trading gossip about post-grad freedom, about escape, about everything waiting beyond these walls.

high school was ending.

and somehow, you were leaving it exactly the way you had entered it three years ago— invisible, adrift, alone, like a ghost who'd learned to walk through hallways without anyone to see.

your family's convenience store sat stubbornly on the corner like it always had, a little box squeezed between the narrow, pothole-riddled road and the low concrete bulk of the auto workshop next door.

it had been there before you were born, would probably be there long after you left— assuming you ever found a way out. its faded sign flickered intermittently, buzzing like a trapped fly against the glass, the letters worn thin by sun and neglect. inside, fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on scuffed linoleum floors sticky from spilled sodas, the kind of place people passed through but never stayed.

the bell above the door chimed every few minutes, a tinny jingle that marked the parade of regulars: weary construction workers grabbing packs of cigarettes and black coffee before dawn shifts, kids on bikes snatching candy bars with sticky fingers, tired mothers with overflowing baskets of instant noodles and cheap frozen meals, their faces etched with the same exhaustion you saw in the mirror.

after school, you worked the register; scanning barcodes with mechanical precision, stocking shelves with cans of off-brand soda and bags of chips that crunched under your fingers, wiping down sticky counters that never stayed clean. you smiled when you had to, a tight-lipped curve of your lips that never reached your eyes, because that's what kept the customers coming back, that's what kept the business running, that's what was expected. you had learned early that performance mattered more than feeling.

and every afternoon, like clockwork, the workshop next door roared to life, shattering the store's dull rhythm.

metal clanged sharply against metal— wrenches dropping, hoods slamming. engines revved with guttural growls that vibrated through the shared wall, sending faint tremors into the soda fridge, making the bottles inside clink against each other like nervous teeth. loud voices carried through the open garage doors, rough laughter and barked orders from the men who worked there, oil-stained shirts clinging to sweat-slicked backs.

the air outside grew heavy with the sharp bite of motor oil, rubber, and exhaust, mingling with the store's perpetual scent of stale air freshener and artificially flavored slushies. it was a smell you'd come to associate with late afternoons, with the dying sun, with the border between your world and theirs.

and him.

ryomen sukuna.

he worked there with his family— his older brother mostly, from what you'd overheard in passing, fragments of conversation that drifted through open doors like smoke— his presence as commanding as the rumble of an engine tearing through quiet streets.

grease was always smudged somewhere on him: black streaks across his knuckles, up his veined forearms that flexed when he hauled tires or torqued bolts, sometimes even a careless swipe along his sharp jawline, darkening the faint shadow of stubble there. he went to your school— same grade, same echoing hallways, same looming graduation— but your worlds never touched. they weren't even in the same universe.

he was a storm cloud moving through crowded corridors, students parting like the red sea: the quiet ones averted their eyes, whispering about fights he'd won or rumors of trouble with cops; the bold ones trailed him like moths, hoping for a scrap of his attention, a nod of acknowledgment, anything. sukuna never looked particularly interested in any of it. his steps were deliberate, shoulders broad under his worn black tees, pink hair tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed and couldn't be bothered to care, tattoos peeking from collars and cuffs— marks that screamed don't approach, don't ask, don't even think about it.

you had never spoken to him, didn’t even want to, although sometimes you were too curious for your own good. you just noticed him, couldn't help it, really. the way he owned every space he stepped into, like gravity bent around him, like the air itself made room. the effortless tilt of his head when he laughed at something crude, the rare flash of sharp teeth that could have been charming if it wasn't slightly terrifying. the way he moved— it was safer to watch from afar, hidden behind the register counter, invisible in plain sight.

sometimes he came into the store.

energy drinks, mostly— cans of monster sweating beads of condensation that left wet rings on the counter. once, a pack of spark plugs wrapped in plastic, the kind you'd seen a thousand times but couldn't name. another time, a box of bandages after what looked like a nasty cut on his hand, the skin around the wound angry and red, and you'd wondered briefly if it hurt, if he'd hissed when the antiseptic hit, if anyone had helped him clean it. you'd ring him up in silence, fingers flying over the keys, avoiding his gaze with the precision of long practice.

the total would flash on the screen: 4.50. 12.99. he'd slide crumpled bills across the counter or tap his chipped card, the screen lighting up green. you'd hand back change, quarters warm from your palm, a receipt fluttering down like a dead leaf. neither of you ever said anything beyond the price. a nod, at most. a grunt. that was the extent of your relationship, if it could even be called that: transactional, forgettable, the kind of interaction that left no trace.

until the day everything hit you at once, like a wave you didn't see coming, like drowning in slow motion.

it was after school, the last week before graduation ceremonies and that final, suffocating assembly where they'd call names alphabetically and you'd walk across a stage to shake hands with people who didn't know you existed.

the hallways buzzed with excitement— clusters of students swapping numbers, planning beach trips to the coast, wild house parties with contraband booze, university orientations in shiny brochures clutched like golden tickets. group photos snapped in the quad, laughter echoing as poses turned silly, arms around shoulders, heads tilted together.

promises flew: "text me all summer!" "we gotta do this again before college scatters us!" "i'll visit, i swear, don't cry!" you stood on the edges, backpack heavy on your shoulders, listening to it all with a hollow ache in your chest that had grown familiar enough to almost ignore.

nobody asked for your number and nobody snapped a picture with you and nobody said, "we should hang out before we all leave town."

you didn't even have anyone to say goodbye to. no yearbook scribbles, no tearful hugs, no shared inside jokes to carry into the unknown. when you'd checked your yearbook that morning— the one you'd paid for like everyone else— you'd found exactly three signatures. one from a teacher who'd written "keep up the good work!" in looping cursive. one from a girl in your english class who'd clearly mistaken you for someone else. and one that just said "have a good summer" in handwriting you didn't recognize. three. out of a class of four hundred.

the feeling clung to you like damp clothes after a rainstorm: heavy, embarrassing, stupidly raw. you tried to shake it off during your shift at the store. you restocked the fridge methodically, shoving bottles into neat rows until your fingers went numb from the cold, until the bones ached. you counted change with exaggerated focus, stacking coins into perfect towers, sliding bills into their slots with precision. you smiled at customers— a harried dad buying diapers, an old lady haggling over lottery tickets like her rent depended on it—your voice steady, automatic: "have a good one," "come again," "that'll be $4.87." the words meant nothing. they were sounds you made to fill space.

but when your shift finally ended and the sky bled into deep orange, painting the workshop's open bays in fiery light, painting the oil stains on the concrete gold, it all came crashing down. the weight of three empty years buckled your knees before you could even make it inside the house attached to the store's back, the small apartment where dinner waited and questions waited and life waited in its endless, grinding routine.

you sank onto the curb between the store and the workshop, back pressed against the rough, graffiti-scratched wall that separated your worlds. knees pulled tight to your chest, you clutched a cold capri sun pouch you'd grabbed from the fridge on impulse— straw still tucked in its side, condensation slicking your palms, the foil crinkling every time you shifted. the pavement bit into your thighs through thin jeans, but you didn't care. the cicadas screamed louder now, mocking you with their endless noise.

and you couldn’t help but cry.

quietly at first, hot tears slipping down your cheeks, blurring the cracks in the sidewalk into rivers, into oceans. you bit your lip, willing it to stop, willing yourself to be normal, to be fine, to be anything other than what you were. but the dam broke— ugly, wrenching sobs that made your shoulders heave, your breath hitch in sharp gasps that scraped your throat raw.

snot dripped, your face twisted in that childish way you hated, the kind of ugly crying no one should ever see, the kind that made you look as broken as you felt. you kept your head buried against your knees, hair curtaining your face, praying the evening shadows would swallow you whole and no one would notice.

unfortunately, the workshop next door was still open, floodlights spilling harsh white across the lot, illuminating everything you wanted hidden.

the sound of heavy footsteps crunched on gravel, stopping just a few feet away.

you froze, heart slamming against your ribs so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your temples, in the places where tears still tracked down your cheeks.

you didn't need to look up to know who it was. that presence—unmistakable, like a shift in air pressure—

"…you done?"

you swiped at your face frantically with your sleeve, mortified heat flooding your cheeks as you stared at a grease stain on the pavement, willing yourself to disappear. "i'm not crying."

a beat of silence passed, thick as the humid air, heavy as the weight in your chest.

"you're sitting on the curb holding a capri sun like it's life support," sukuna said, tone dry as the dust kicking up around his boots, flat as the concrete under you. "and you're crying. i saw.”

you squeezed the pouch harder, the plastic crinkling defensively under your grip, the straw digging into your palm. a weak defense. a pathetic one. "it's cold. helps."

you braced for him to laugh or walk away as he stared down at you— either would shatter you and confirm everything you already believed about yourself.

he didn't leave. his shadow loomed, broad and unmoving, blocking the last of the sun. that somehow made it worse, his silence pressing like a thumb on a bruise.

"did someone die?" he asked after a moment, tone completely serious, which only confused you more.

your breath stuttered. "…what? no. god, no."

"you got dumped?"

you shook your head, fresh tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, hot and unwanted. "i've never dated anyone."

"you fail something? exam? class?"

"…no. i passed everything."

he went quiet again, like he was cycling through a mental checklist and coming up empty, and you were a problem he couldn't quite solve. the distant rev of a test engine idled behind him, underscoring the awkward stretch with mechanical rhythm.

you sniffed hard, pressing your damp sleeve to your runny nose, feeling the fabric grow wet, the mess of yourself in every possible way. the words clawed their way out before you could swallow them back, desperate and unfiltered, torn from somewhere deep.

"high school's ending."

the cicadas filled the uncomfortable silence, relentless and indifferent.

"…and?" he prompted, voice even, but there was no judgment you could detect, just curiosity.

you stared at the ground, throat so tight it ached, pavement blurring anew. "and i didn't make any friends."

the confession hung there, small and pathetic in the open air, smaller than you'd imagined it would sound, more embarrassing out loud than it had been in your head.

"everyone's talking about summer plans," you continued, voice cracking like glass under pressure. "i just stood there, listening to it all week. three years of classes and lunch tables, and nobody even noticed i existed. i was just… there. like background noise. the one kid no one remembered."

you laughed weakly, a choked sound that hurt coming out, wiping your eyes again with a sleeve that was already soaked. "isn't that stupid?"

a long pause stretched, the workshop's clamor fading into white noise, the cicadas seeming to hold their breath.

you risked a glance up, peeking through damp lashes, through the blur of residual tears.

sukuna stood there, arms crossed over his grease-flecked chest, one boot tapping idly on the gravel. a fresh streak of black smeared his forearm, tattoos curling like angry serpents beneath, ink stark against skin. his expression was unreadable— crimson eyes narrowed slightly, assessing, like you were a busted carburetor he was figuring out and he was deciding whether you were worth the effort.

"so make one."

you blinked, brain short-circuiting, “…what?”

"a friend," he repeated, as if it were the simplest fix in the world, as obvious as changing a tire or filling a tank. "you said you don't have one. so make one."

your mouth opened, closed. opened again. "…that's not how that works. you can't just—people have groups already, histories. there's no time to—"

"seems like it is," he shot back, unfazed, cutting through your protest like it was nothing. "you're not dead. start talking."

you stared at him, puffy-eyed and stunned, capri sun forgotten and crushed flatter in your lap, foil crinkling with every small movement.

he stared back, eyebrow arching faintly, as if you were the one making this complicated. you were not? aside from being slightly more awkward than your average teenager, you were normal and perfect capable of being someone’s friend. although the last bit wasn’t proven yet.

the workshop buzzed on behind him— clangs and shouts, the hiss of an air compressor, the rumble of an engine turning over. the evening air hung warm and heavy, carrying faint diesel fumes and the distant smell of someone's dinner cooking. your face still throbbed, nose red, you were a mess, clutching that stupid pouch like a lifeline, like it could save you from drowning on dry land.

before you could talk yourself out of it— before sanity could kick in and remind you who you were talking to— the words tumbled free, reckless and raw, torn from somewhere you didn't know existed.

"…will you be my friend?"

the second they left your mouth, regret hit like a freight train. you wanted the earth to crack open and swallow you, the curb to dissolve, you wanted to disappear into the gravel. what was wrong with you? asking ryomen sukuna— the guy who radiated don't-fuck-with-me energy, the one everyone whispered about like he was a live wire, the one with rumors and a reputation that preceded him like a storm front— to be your friend. while sobbing like a loser and clutching a capri sun like a child.

silence stretched, eternally confusing. your stomach plummeted to your shoes, then through the pavement, then into some infinite void below.

he stared at you, crimson gaze piercing, face unreadable.

you stared back, horrified, heat crawling up your neck, burning your cheeks, making everything worse. "…i mean, you don't have to! forget i said that. i was just—emotional, stupid, i didn't mean—"

"sure."

"…what?"

"sure," he repeated, casual as asking for a pack of cigarettes, shifting his weight like this was no big deal.

you blinked at him, brain rebooting slowly, painfully. "that's… it?"

"what, you want a contract? pinky swear? engraved invitation?" a flicker of something crossed his face— amusement, maybe, or disbelief at your disbelief.

"no, i just—" you floundered, searching his face for the punchline. "why?"

he shrugged, broad shoulders rolling under his shirt, grease flaking off as he uncrossed his arms. "you're here every day. store's right next to the shop. i see you restocking, ringing up idiots, wiping down that counter. might as well make it official."

that… was his reasoning? proximity? convenience? you didn't know whether to laugh, cry again, or pinch yourself to wake up from whatever strange dream this was.

"…so we're friends now?" you asked in a small voice.

"guess so." a ghost of a smirk tugged his lip. “don’t make it weird.”

another pause settled, charged now, electric. he jerked his chin toward the mangled pouch in your hands. "you gonna drink that or just keep strangling it?"

you glanced down— forgotten, warped into a sad pancake, foil crinkled beyond repair. cheeks burning, you fumbled the straw in, stabbing until it punctured, and took a sip. artificial orange flooded your mouth, overly sweet and fizzy, tasting like childhood and sudden, dizzying relief, like something you hadn't known you needed.

sukuna watched for a beat, crimson eyes flicking over you, then he turned on his heel like he was heading back to the workshop's chaos, done with this strange interaction, finished with you.

panic flared hot in your chest— don't go, not yet, please not yet—

"wait."

he paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder, eyebrow quirking, waiting.

you swallowed, voice still small but gaining traction, finding strength you didn't know you had. "…friends hang out, right?"

"…yeah."

"so… do you want to hang out? sometime? i mean, if you're free after—"

he studied you for a long moment, the dying sun catching the pink in his hair, turning it fiery, turning it almost gold at the edges. you held out your capri sun toward him, a pathetic peace offering.

"…we can share this?”

he looked at the pouch, then at you, then back at the pouch.

"…that was just in your mouth."

"…i can get you another one."

he gave you a long-suffering look and sighed, running a grease-streaked hand through his hair, disrupting the already chaotic pink.

"…you're weird."

"…i am? well— kinda—"

"…and you cry on sidewalks."

"it was an accident!"

he stared at you one more second, crimson eyes unreadable, face giving nothing away. then jerked his chin toward the store.

"go get another one."

you blinked, confused, as if you weren’t the one offering a minute ago.

"…get what?"

"capri sun, loser," he said, like you were slow. "grape."

your heart stuttered, skipped, restarted.

"…that's a yes?"

he turned, already walking back toward the workshop, toward the noise and the grease and the life you'd watched from afar for so long. you scrambled to your feet, knees protesting, capri sun crushing further in your grip.

"wait—!"

he stopped, half-turning.

"…what."

you clutched the crushed pouch to your chest, feeling your heartbeat through the foil. "…hi. i'm—"

"i know," he cut in, flat and certain. "i read your nametag."

your mouth opened and closed uselessly. "…oh."

and then he walked back into the workshop, swallowed by the noise and by the world you'd never been part of.

you stood there on the curb, staring after him, watching the space where he'd been, feeling the evening air warm on your skin.

your eyes still stung and your face was still puffy and your life was still a mess, still uncertain, still terrifyingly empty in so many ways. but for the first time all day— you were smiling.

just before he disappeared completely, his voice carried back to you, low and steady,

"i get off at eight."

and just like that, your summer started. not with parties or plans or promises from ghosts. not with numbers in a yearbook or invitations to beaches or group chats you'd never be part of.

but with him, with the hum of cicadas and the promise of eight o'clock ticking closer, with the taste of artificial orange still sweet on your tongue and the weight of a crushed pouch in your hand.

part 1 -> part 2 -> [ chapter index ]

sayakosama

thinking about husband!simon, who pays for everything his wife’s heart desires

husband!simon, who regularly checks up on his bank account, only to see what kind of stuff his wife bought now.

The most unhinged thing you had ever paid with his card was probably, if Simon had to guess, his own present of a car.

Yes, you had decided to buy your husband a new car as a birthday present, with his own money

Safe to say, he was a little bit taken aback when he saw a brand new dodge in his driveway, a big red bow on top of the hood.

Taken aback, but not surprised, nor shocked, because Simon knew when he signed up for the lifelong relationship with you called “marriage”, that you would always find new ways to make his life exciting.

And right now, you were in your “spending-era”, as you liked to call it.

At that, a question formed in Simons head; had there ever been a time, where you had not been in your “spending-era”?

Simon didn’t remember a single date where you had to pay, all the groceries were paid by him, expenses and bill charged to his card, decorations and furniture for the house billed to his name.

Of course, he wasn’t mad, he always encouraged you to save the money you made with your own job for yourself.

In case, you know, something happened to him.

In his line of work, everything was fast paced, life could be over any minute.

He wanted you to be able to provide for yourself, even if he wasn’t there anymore to bring home more than ten grand each month.

But giving you gifts, being able to see the smile on your face when you bought your sixth set of tableware and matching decorations for your themed dinner parties, Simon thought of himself as the happiest man alive.

Seeing you admire a painting you bought from some bloody artist because you said it matched the “energy and vibes” of your living room, even though Simon was sure his talented wife could have done that for a lot less money, then so be it.

When going out shopping, Simon never complained. He’d stand at your side, like a silent guardian, only waiting for you to ask him questions like “wouldn’t this fit perfectly with the throw pillows in the guest bedroom?”

He’d nod, hum and say “Absolutely, luv”, all while watching a radiant smile grow on your beautiful face at his response.

Occasionally, you bought things Simon deemed a little bit useless. Like a lawnmower robot. He was very much capable of doing that himself, and you knew that. He felt a bit hurt in his pride as the hardworking man he was, but as soon as you gave that thing a name and he realised how convenient that thing truly was, he was immensely thankful for your immaculate shopping ability.

It all took a turn though, when one day, a package was delivered to your door step. Simon looked at whom it was addressed to, of course it was for you.

He put in on the living room table, waiting for you to get home.

While checking his bank statements, he realised, that you didn’t order anything in the last few days, so either this package just so happened to come belatedly, or you had the audacity to pay on your own.

Confusion simmered in Simon, and when you got home, he immediately asked, if you thought him poor.

“What, no? Why?” You looked at him in disbelief, shoes just kicked off while you were still standing in the entryway of your shared home.

“A package came in today, but I didn’t see anything on my card that matches” He explained, hanging up your coat for you and taking your heavy handbag from your hands.

“Oh, wait, it came?” Suddenly, your voice grew giddy, as if you had been waiting a long time for this.

That must be it, Simon thought. Just a slow shipping process.

However, he realised he must’ve been wrong when after dinner, you sat him down on the table, told him to close his eyes and wait. He heard you opening the package, seemingly get frustrated when it didn’t open as easy as you wanted it to.

“Luv, do you need my help-“ “Don’t you dare open your eyes, Simon Riley, or I will gauge them out myself!” Your voice was threatening, making Simon laugh to himself. All while sitting at the head of his dinner table, eyes closed, looking like an absolute idiot.

After a few minutes, you were finished.

Your hands covered Simons eyes, heartbeat loud in your ears.

“Okay… you may open your eyes now” Your voice was carrying excitement. You took a deep breath, mentally prepared and then pulled your hands off of his eyes.

Simon blinked a few times to adjust to the light, gaze falling onto the basket laid out before him.

“You’re pregnant?”

sayakosama

part 2 right here

enjoy 🩵🩵

#simon riley fluff #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #simon riley smut #simon riley call of duty #simon ghost x reader #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley #simon ghost cod #husband simon riley #sayakos dreamscape #simon riley drabble #simon riley fanfic #simon ghost fluff #simon ghost x you

pov: husband!simon accidentally calls his wife “fat”

tw: talk of reader being of a certain body type (simon “calls her fat”, then he says she is far from it), proceed with caution if you have any issues with portrayed body imagery <3

part 2 to this drabble (i highly recommend reading part 1 first)

︶⊹︶︶𖥔 ︶︶⊹︶︶𖥔 ︶︶⊹︶︶𖥔 ︶︶⊹︶︶⠀𖥔

“You’re pregnant?”

All the giddiness your face had just been radiating left it just as fast as it came.

“Are you calling me fat?”

Simons heart stopped beating for a second. His eyes went wide, his hands started trembling.

This is it, he thought.

This is the end.

Simon held his breath.

This was how he was going to die.

At the hands of his own wife, he’d find his sweet demise, the ending of a life fulfilled.

Strangled, he soon be nothing but decomposing in a grave.

A grave in the backyard of his own home, the backyard that he landscaped with his own hands.

His dog tags resting on her night stand, a silent evidence of who once lied beside you.

Would you burn his clothes? Would you donate them?

Simon was not so sure.

In fact, Simon wasn’t sure about anything right now, it seemed.

Was all that time, effort and money wasted because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut? Because he so deeply insulted his own wife, the most important thing to ever exist?

At this point, he was sure he deserved it.

He was ready to die at your hands for the sin he committed.

Closing his eyes, he waited. He counted to ten.

He was sure he felt the earth moving.

He sucked a breath in when your voice reached his ears again.

“Did you just call me fat?”

Oh no. You were really mad. And you were going to let him feel it.

He would leave this earth, while his wife would be mad at him.

Simon was sure, you being mad at him and him not having the time anymore to apologise properly was the greatest punishment one could order upon his earthly existence.

You being mad at him for all eternity was worse than death itself. Hell, even you being mad at him for a fraction of a second was worse than death.

“And now he doesn’t even disagree, you hate me, don’t you? You want me to disappear from your life forever, it’s best if I just die, right?” Your voice grew louder, accusations heavy in the room as your temper became evident.

Simon saw only one way to fix this.

In a moment, so fast you could have missed his movement if you blinked, he was on his knees, grasping the back of your thighs.

“My love, my dear, sweetheart. Dove, my one and only. Mrs Y/N Riley, the light of my life, dearest. Luv. I do not hate you, I do not think you as fat, and if you disappeared from my life, whether through death or else, you’d take all the light and joy and colour with you” His eyes grew pleading. He was really pushing his brain to its limits here to form such words, cut him some slack.

“Oh, so you think I’m not fat, but in reality I am?” You were offended, and very obviously, not cutting him any slack.

Damnit

Simons expression grew more and more desperate by the second, his frustration and regret were so apparent, for a man normally so stoic, so emotionally unavailable.

“Please, luvie, forgive me for being so dumb and not speaking correctly; you ARE not fat, nor will you ever be, you have the perfect size, your body is the most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes on, may I be please be forgiven?” His face grew pleading, dark eyes staring up at you from where he knelt.

This had to be one of the top ten moments of Simon being emotional.

“Hmph” You looked to the side and crossed your arms.

Simon swore he heard his heart shatter in his chest.

“My dove, please. Anything. Do you want a new car? New clothes? Anything?”

That made your head whip back around to look down on him.

“Oh, so you’re saying I’m fat and that I need a new car because I’m too lazy and fat to walk, and that’s why I’m fat? Are you saying I gained so much weight that my old clothes don’t fit anymore? That I look-“ You took a deep breath.

“Too fat in them?”

Simon was speechless.

How did he fuck up this badly?

It all started with him being a little bit outraged on how you had the audacity to pay for your own stuff, with your money, like, be for real, how could you?

Simon had felt so utterly betrayed in that moment, only for him to later realise you wanted to surprise him.

I mean, how would he know, the birthday present of a car he got from you, was paid with his card. You normally weren’t that big on keeping a secret a secret.

I mean, you were married, bloody hell.

There was nothing you needed to hide from him.

So why has turned something that was supposed to be something he does with your good and wellbeing in mind, into this?

This hunk of a man kneeling in front of your much smaller (and definitely not fat) stature, defeated and looking like a kicked puppy.

That man had killed people with his bare hands, and what brought him to his knees, was his darling wife, who could simultaneously be the nicest and cruelest person he knew.

Simon did not know what to say. This situation was so bizarre, even for your standards.

I mean, you cried over the coaster at the bottom of the stack once, because -and he quotes- “it must feel so alone down there and so unlovable and undeserving of being used and so useless, I am so sorry”.

Yeah, that was a pretty bizarre situation.

He only used that coaster from then on, by the way.

But this?

He didn’t know how to fix this.

He looked at you, puzzled look on his handsome face, mouth slightly open. Even like this, brows pulled together with rage and something that he couldn’t name, you were the most beautiful woman to ever grace this downright devilish earth.

Suddenly, your eye started twitching.

Uh-oh. Simon thought. She truly is going to strangle me.

All of a sudden, you burst out laughing.

Toppling over, you hold your stomach and scream while laughing.

“Oh- Fuck, Si-“ You couldn’t get the words out, always interrupting yourself by laughing more, louder, while Simon sat there, still on his knees, all confused.

“Oh- Oh shit” Tears escaped your eyes as you tried getting it together but ultimately failed.

Simon did not understand what was happening, at all, but he still felt himself smiling at how your laugh echoed through the room, how gorgeous you looked while laughing, how much you glowed.

Catching your breath, you sat down on the chair next to the one he had previously been sitting on until he started begging for your forgiveness.

“Si- Oh, wait, let me breathe for a second” You reached for your glass of water to take a big gulp. “Okay, okay. Whew. Simon, baby, it was a prank!”

That left Simon even more confused.

“What?” He stood up, sitting back down on the chair to look at the basket again.

“The ‘did you just call me fat’-part.” Now you were serious again, your full on grin being no more than a small, nervous smile now.

After your spontaneous prank on your husband you were now taken back to reality. The basket in front of your man confirmed just that.

His breath hitched as he took a closer look.

Ultrasound pictures, a small plushie in the form of a little green t-rex, a black t-shirt that read “LIEUTENANT DADDY” in bold, white letters. And of course, a pregnancy test, wrapped in a plastic bag. Three, to be exact.

Simon felt his heart clench. You had gone through so much effort, all to be able to surprise him like this.

His eyes felt wet all of a sudden.

“Simon?” Your voice was soft, almost trembling, as if you were scared. And you were. So, so scared.

Simons past and his job left little to hope, almost nothing to love and almost no love to give.

You were scared he’d abandon you because he couldn’t take on the burden of another, another weakness of his.

But all your worries were useless, you realised; Simon was crying.

The second time in the years you have known him.

First on the day of your wedding.

And right now, silent tears slid down his cheeks, getting caught on his shiver of a beard.

His lower lip was slightly trembling, so light you almost missed it.

“Simon-“ You were interrupted, his strong, thick arms wrapping tightly around you, crushing you to his plush chest.

“I love you so bloody much” His tears wet your shoulder as he craned his neck to buy his eyes in the safety of your collarbones.

Suddenly, your eyes started burning too.

Feelings of relief, excitement, fear of what was to come, love for the man infront of you, everything all at once, it washed over you. It was overwhelming in the best sense, your own arms coming up to wrap tightly around your husband’s shaking body, as if you were clinging to him.

His fingers were buried deep in your sweater, yours gripping his t-shirt with such a force, a surprise it hadn’t ripped apart yet.

So the both of you kept standing there, confining each other in your own embrace, bodies shaking with tears, tears of joy, joy of being able to give something so precious to the world, together.

The both of you. And nobody else. In that moment, it was just the two of you.

And you two were elated to soon be sharing that privilege with a third.

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･**･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･゜ﾟ･**･゜ﾟ･*

a/n: hope you liked it 🩵 feedback in the form of likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!! (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)

@ancientbeing10 thought of myself as so fucking funny, just had to write that down immediately 😝😝

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley cod #simon riley x reader #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #sayakos dreamscape #husband simon riley #fluff #pregnancy #simon riley fluff #simon riley call of duty #simon riley imagine #simon riley drabble #simon riley fanfic #simon ghost fluff #simon ghost x you #simon riley angst #simon ghost cod

galaxy-stardust

Simon Ghost Riley x you

The tub spicy

You get home exhausted.

The kind of tired that sits behind your eyes and makes your shoulders ache. Your bag slips from your shoulder the second you step inside, and all you can think about is your couch, your blanket, and the oversized hoodie waiting for you.

“Simon?” you call out, toeing off your shoes.

No answer.

You frown slightly and move further inside - and that’s when you hear it.

Water.

A soft, steady sound from the bathroom.

You blink.

Simon… in the bath?

You walk toward the door, confused and a little concerned. He never takes baths. Showers, quick and efficient. Baths are… indulgent. Unnecessary.

You knock lightly on the doorframe.

“Everything okay?” you ask. “You sick or something?”

There’s a pause.

Then his voice drifts out, low and calm.

“No.”

Just that.

axzybrevz

Ryomen Sukuna

Biker Sukuna

Creds to mochikuyo

noarmour

cw: strong language, sexual themes.

Simon is having the best time of his life.

For the last couple of weeks, he's been deployed away from home on another grueling mission where he was more machine than man, more weapon than human, and there's nothing that helps him relieve stress more than when he's like this, sprawled out on his bed, the laptop next to him playing one of his favourite productions on full volume.

He's lost in his own imagination, the sounds coming from the small speakers amplifying the scenarios playing behind his closed eyes. His eyebrows furrow, sweat rolling down the valley between his wide shoulders, lips parted, bicep flexing with every-

A sharp, loud knock cuts through his concentration. The image in his head scatters like puzzles, and he groans, loudly, in frustration. The knocking doesn't stop. He pauses the video and tips his head back, staring at the ceiling for a moment before he forces himself up, replacing his earlier thoughts with thoughts of kicked puppies and sad kittens.

When he opens the door, you blink up at him, seeming just as confused by this interaction as he is, as if you're not the one to initiate it.

"Uh, you're loud."

"Was I?" He says, slightly out of breath. "I'll keep it down."

You nod, shifting from one leg to the other, cheeks flushed. "I have work early in the morning, so just for tonight..."

He quickly nods. "I got you, don't worry, luv. I didn't realise I was being so loud."

"Thank you..."

He swallows, trying very hard to keep his eyes on yours instead of on your bare legs. It's not the first time he sees you. He often runs into you when he's off duty, either when you're on your way back from work or shopping or running errands, but god, he'd be lying if he said this isn't, by far, his favourite look of you: hair a mess, oversized, sleeping shirt barely skimming your thighs, eyes half lidded from sleep and, his favourite part, a little spark of annoyance in your gaze.

His cock twitches in his sweatpants.

"Your, um, lady friend, too," you add.

Simon blinks down at you, confused for a second, and then it hits him. You thought he was in there fucking someone. As much as he wants to correct you, the truth is far more embarrassing.

He smiles, all neighbourly and polite like he wasn't just imagining dicking you down mere seconds ago. "I'll let her know, luv. Need anything else?"

You give him a slow once over, and Simon is actually glad he didn't think of putting on a shirt before opening the door. His cock presses against the soft fabric of his sweatpants, hard and throbbing just from that little up and down look you shot him.

"No," you say, already turning to leave. "That's all."

Simon tilts his head and watches you leave. He's painfully hard now, and seeing your behind doesn't help at all. What it does help with, however, is providing more scenarios for him. He shuts the door and goes back to his room, putting on headphones this time. As much as he likes the echo of the moans and whines in his bedroom, mainly because he imagines you're with him and the sounds are coming from you, he's a gentleman. He wouldn't want you to miss on precious sleep just because he's deprived and downright filthy.

This time, he doesn't take off his pants. He stuffs his hand inside and imagines you're jerking him off hard and fast, little fist wrapped mercilessly around his leaking cock as you gaze down at him with that familiar spark of annoyance in your eyes.

And as much as Simon loves the idea of you resting, sleeping as much as you want and waking up refreshed, it also means he doesn't get to see you again. Not until a few days later. And even then he doesn't see you. You just text him it's a girls' night and you'll be out late, so he can do his thing.

Simon stares at the text, certain you got his number from the obligatory tenants group chat where the landlord keeps saying the elevator is out for maintenance every few weeks.

He can do his thing without bothering you. He'd much rather be doing you. But he can't. He tells himself it's complicated, but he knows better. He doesn't have the faintest idea on how to approach you. Your interactions can be counted on one hand, your conversations even less, but it was enough for Simon to be intrigued. You're almost introverted to the point of being antisocial, but you seem to open up a little when he's around. Twice he helped you take the groceries up to your apartment and you asked him to stay for tea, and on one of those occasions he got to catch glimpses of you smiling and laughing. It was enough to have him think about you, curious, and then, a few weeks later, fantasize about you, hard.

Much like he's doing right now, fist wrapped around his cock, porn playing loudly from the speakers of his laptop. He groans, panting, eyes screwed shut as he imagines you on your knees, lips sliding past the tip of his cock.

Pleasure shoots up his spine, biceps flexing as his hand moves up and down in a brutal pace, his hold vice-like, stomach contracting as-

Someone inserts a key in the door to his apartment. Or at least, they try to, unsuccessfully. Anyone else would have missed it, the small sound drowned out by the porn still playing on his browser, but Simon is not anyone. He's trained to isolate these small sounds because they're the ones that matter in life and death situations.

His hold falters and he reaches over to his laptop, pausing the video.

The rustling of keys and spitting of curses continues.

Simon tips his head back and exhales in frustration. The one time you're out and he gets to do this the way he likes it, someone is trying to break into his apartment.

He gets up, puts on his pants, and goes to open the door.

You blink up at him, keys in hand.

"What are youuuuu doing in my apartment?"

You're drunk. And you think this is your apartment.

Simon's body is still thrumming from nearly cumming all over himself just thinking about you, and now you're standing in front of him, an alcohol induced flush covering your cheeks. He's never seen you like this, all dolled up, and his cock gets rock hard in less than two seconds.

"It's not your apartment, luv."

You frown, eyebrows knitting together. He can't help but watch every expression you make closely. It'll feed his delusions later, and he finds everything you do quite endearing.

"3B is my apartment."

"That's correct," he says with a patient smile. "It doesn't say that on the door now, does it, luv?"

He watches as you look at the door, frown deepening, and then look back at him. "No, it doesn't."

"That's right, luv."

"I'm drunk."

"I can see that."

"I feel like I'm going to throw up."

Simon sighs, but it's not out of irritation. It's something akin to fondness, something soft he never thought he'd be capable of feeling. "How about you come in? I'll take care of you."

You eye him for a second and then step past him into his apartment. He catches a whiff of perfume and something else, a scent that's entirely just you. Perhaps your shampoo or your body wash, because he always smells it when you're around, and it doesn't help his aching cock. But even with the inconvenience of being horny to the point of desperation, he focuses entirely on you. Helps you out of your jacket, leads you to the bathroom, gathers your hair and holds it in a makeshift pony tail in his fist.

You groan into the toilet. "I'm never drinking again."

"Wise decision."

You don't puke. He leads you to the bedroom, shoves his laptop away, offers you a comfortable shirt and sweatpants to change into. You start stripping before he leaves the room, and his dick starts twitching again.

He flees to the kitchen, mainly to give you privacy and partly because holy fuck. He pours himself a large glass of water and downs it in one go. Then he fills it again and takes it to you.

You're in just his shirt, laying on his bed, the sweatpants abandoned on the floor. He swallows, hands clenching, then loosening when he remembers he could easily shatter the glass.

"Drink up."

With some difficulty, you open your eyes and take the glass from him.

"Didn't like the pants?" He asks.

"Too big."

You take two sips of water, lips glistening. Simon watches, enthralled and barely breathing.

"Why are you hard?"

He snaps out of his trance. "Huh?"

You point to the bugle in his pants.

The tips of his ears feel warm. He works his jaw, trying to find a fitting answer. With the way you're looking at him, sitting so close, on his bed, in his clothes, he can hardly think of anything else.

"Because you're in my apartment," he says.

You raise a brow. "You're that easy?"

"Just when it's you."

That sobers you up. He can see it on your face. Your eyes focus in on him, appearing less dazed. He doesn't like that. He was hoping you were drunk enough to brush away his words and chalk them up to alcohol induced delusions the next morning, but alas.

"Why?"

He shoves his hands in his pockets so he could clench them without your notice. "You're hot."

"Such high standards-"

"And interesting." With a soft grin, he adds, "and you don't interrupt me when I'm speaking."

"What do you find interesting about me?"

Christ, straight to business. He exhales. He was not planning to pour his heart out to you tonight. His plans were pretty clear actually: fuck his fist while fantasizing about you until he falls asleep.

"You're drunk," he says, a detour to a different topic.

You scrunch up your nose. "That's what you like about me?"

He grins. "Who said anything about liking you?"

That spark of annoyance appears in your eyes again and his dick starts hardening. He had gone semi soft when you started interrogating him, mostly because he was panicking on the inside, but now that you're looking at him like you want to strangle him, or kiss the grin off his face, all blood starts rushing down, fast.

Your eyes dip then snap back up to his. "Is my annoyance turning you on?"

"Yes."

"You won't even try to deny it?"

"There's no point, you can see the evidence yourself."

"Don't you have a lady friend?"

"Why do you call her that?" He asks, amused. "You sound eighty."

"What would you like me to call her then?"

"My laptop."

You stare at him.

"I watch...stuff. No lady friend."

"On full volume?"

The last thing Simon wants to do is discuss the ins and outs of his alone time with you, no pun intended. He'd much rather you'd join in and he'd show you, but he won't suggest that, not when you got alcohol in your system.

He approaches the bed and lifts the covers, pulling them over your thighs. "Go to sleep."

You study his face with curious eyes. "Why?"

"Because it's night."

You huff but don't argue, which is a small mercy Simon is endlessly thankful for. If you were to argue with him, he wouldn't be able to say no to you, not when you're looking like this: hair slightly a mess, the flush from the alcohol finding a home on your cheeks, lips glistening from the water.

You blink up at him. "Sleep next to me?"

Fuck.

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

I dunno how I feel about this one. I don't like it much but here it is. Might delete it later or rework it. Let's call it a warm up

naomiiocha

FRAT!JO!!! FRAT!KUNA!! FLASH US!!!!! (Definitely was not an excuse to draw abs)

valentines day with husband!simon

The day you met Simon was also the day you spent your first ever valentines day without a date.

You had been determined that you did not need anymore dates with guys who couldn’t cover the entire bill and satisfy you afterwards, no. That belonged to the past.

Thus, you and your girlfriends decided to spend “galentines” together, first eating lunch together, a themed meal that thoroughly fed you, instead of the salads you usually ate when going on a date. Afterwards, your group hit the pub.

Getting shitfaced hadn’t been on your agenda that day, but when your eye caught onto the big, burly, hunk of a man sitting at the bar in between to others of the same stature, you knew you had to drink on a little bit of courage.

Well, that little bit of encouragement turned into downing roughly six shots back to back, while continuously sipping on your friend’s jacky coke.

That was how Simon met you. Not how you met Simon, because you didn’t remember anything the next day.

Disregarding your smudged lipstick, and the way you giggled at everything and anyone, Simon thought you were the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.

Seven years later, you had been married for four years, thus now spending your seventh valentines day in a row with him.

The day of love usually consisted of you hosting a themed dinner party, the tradition of “galentines” still going strong, while Simon kept busy in the kitchen, mixing mimosas and lillet berry for you and your girlfriends, taking care of the dishes while you spent at least half an hour standing in the entryway of your shared home, with the premise of saying goodbye to your girlfriends and then end up remembering a conversation you had yet to finish. Most of the times, it was about some juicy gossip one of the girls had picked up, or a story about how Simon caught the guy in medbay cheating on his wife with the way too young apprentice.

Then, after you finally finished every bit of your conversation, you usually go upstairs to get ready, putting on a nice outfit, jewellery, makeup, heels, you name it.

This year, it was a chanel dress Simon had bought you for christmas, the black fabric hugging your curves just right, jewellery accentuating your natural glow. Your makeup brought out the beauty of your facial features, truly a sight to look at, if you were to ask Simon.

Heels in hand, you made your way down the stairs, your husband already waiting, hand in the pocket of his dress pants, the other holding his suit jacket over his shoulder.

His eyes grew wide with adoration and love as you descended down the stairs, his gaze catching onto the glittering collier that was sitting prettily atop your collarbones. He had gifted it to you on the occasion of your fifth anniversary after overhearing how you told your friend that “diamonds are a girl’s best friend”.

“Bloody hell, dove, you look… magnificent”

You giggled, lashes fluttering as you looked up at him while stringing your arms around his broad shoulders.

“Magnificent, huh? You don’t look too bad yourself, Mr. Riley” You said, leaving a small kiss on his freshly shaven jawline.

A rumble akin to one’s chuckle emanated from your husband’s chest, the sound making your heart skip a beat and your stomach release butterflies.

“Come on, let’s not miss our reservations.” With that, he led you to sit on the bench in your entryway, already kneeling on one knee to put on your heels for you.

His fingers were gentle, making sure to not do them too tight, caressing your ankle in the process.

You looked down, and suddenly you got flashbacks; him, on one knee, proposing to you with the most beautiful, stunning ring you have ever seen. You have yet to find a more impressive one.

The day you officially became Simons fiancé must’ve been one of the happiest days of your life, right after the day of your wedding ceremony, of course.

“I like that look” You said, threading your manicured hand through his short hair.

“Wot, me on my knees?” The question was accompanied by a lopsided grin”

“That too, yes, but this in particular reminds me of you proposing”

A laugh reverberated through the room at your statement.

“I was so bloody nervous that day, I almost tripped when I getting down, you know that?” He looked up at you, staying in that position for a bit longer.

“You already told me, like, five times, but I still think it’s funny to think about; you, a man of your size and status, being nervous and having a mental breakdown on the inside” You giggled behind your hand, accepting his as he finally got up to help you stand up as well.

“Yeah, yeah. You just continue to get a laugh out of it. I was sweating bullets that day, luv” A calloused hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his hardened chest.

“And yet, here we are” You whispered, slowly inching closer to him until your lips touched his.

“And yet, here we are” He confirmed. “I wouldn’t change a thing about it. If I could, I would marry you over and over again” His admission made shivers travel down your spine and heat pool in your belly.

One of Simons hands traveled up to your face as a sound of content escaped him, his arm snaking tighter around you.

“Mhh~ Si, we’re going to be late!” You exclaimed as you tried to fight yourself free from the comfort of his arms.

“Yer probably right” Simons voice was coarse as he spoke before capturing your lips in one last passionate kiss.

You turned away with a shy smile on your face, biting your lip as you picked up your purse.

After Simon held your coat for you to put on, he slapped your ass and followed you out through the door.

The ride to the prestigious restaurant was filled with promises of good food and wine, reminiscing of older days and memories that have come from a long, happy and fulfilling marriage.

While sitting in the car, waiting at a red light, you noticed, how satisfied and content you were in your life, a man who lived for your happiness at your side.

You looked at his side profile, his sharp jawline, the stubble on his cheeks that already grew again, even though he had just shaved this morning, his darkened eyes.

To you, Simon was the epitome of attractiveness. He made you feel safe, wanted, you knew you had struck gold with this man.

“I love you, you know that?” A small smile was gracing your face as you spoke, looking at him with such love, it made his heart swell with pride (and love) for pulling you.

“I love you, dove. And I will continue to do so as long as the world turns” He took your hand in his and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, closing his eyes just for a second to breathe in the scent of your perfume you had dabbed on.

For Simon, there was no greater good in the world than being at your side, no better place than in your arms and no better sight than to see your smile everyday.

This man was happiest with you, and even the darkest pit of hell or his job could get his mind off of his beautiful wife.

Simon loved you, everyday, not just on the day of love.

a/n: heart divider by @purefantasia

enjoy your valentines day with this little drabble that i wrote while insomnia kicked lat night <33 likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated, if you have any feedback, please feel free to let me know!!

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley cod #simon riley x reader #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #simon riley fluff #husband simon riley #valentines day #simon riley imagine #simon riley drabble #simon riley call of duty #sayakos dreamscape