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- My pronouns are she/her! I'm 22 years old, applying for med school, and a huge COD fan :))
Random headcanon I have: Simon gets migraines. Like, the excruciating kind. They’re infrequent, but when they do happen, he’s down for the count for the entire day. They drop him harder than the bullets he’s taken in the line of fire.
You’ll find him curled up in bed, hoodie pulled tight over his face, blackout curtains practically sewn shut. And even at your small whisper of “you okay, Si?,” sometimes, all he can muster is a pained grown in response.
Touch will set him off. Trying to eat or drink is a chore. No amount of painkillers will help.
But at the same time?
This man would rather die than go to the doctors. Seriously, trying to get him to admit he needs a helping hand rather than pure will-power is damn near impossible.
You get him into your general practitioner eventually…but until then, you witness many of the (insane) ways he’s tried to relieve the pain before—and some of them worked too!!
Clipping your claw clip onto random parts of his face until it’s in juuuuuuust the right spot. (He accidentally fell asleep with it on and woke up with horrifying bruises all over his face).
Tying shoelaces around the circumference of his head…didn’t work as well as he hoped.
He once took four shots of vodka after barely being able to eat because…why not? Surprisingly, not as bad as he’d thought it’d make him feel (once he got over the insane tunnel vision first).
He smoked a full pack one time leant miserably over your bedroom window (he damn near threw up right after…actually, he did throw up right after).
But the absolute best method? A frozen bag of mixed vegetables over his eyeballs for at least an hour. And, no, it can’t be frozen potatoes or frozen green beans or anything else, even when those go on sale. It has to be frozen peas and carrots, mixed and cut the way that one company he can’t remember the name of does it, or else the paltry bag doesn’t fit on his fat forehead correctly and only makes the throbbing worse. You’ve gotten that lecture many a time by now.
He forces you to buy 14 bags of the damn things. You literally cannot put anything else in the freezer because of how much space they take up.
He hates peas by the way. Carrots are a close second.
I'm (mostly) a silent follower and reblogger, but I felt like congratulating you!
I have my notifications on for your posts and I always smile when I see your name pop up!
Could I request a blue collar Simon for this celebration?
SIMON "GHOST" RILEY // bluecollar!au, carpenter!simon, f!reader, age gap (I'd say reader is in her early 20s and simon is in his late 30s), fluff
Your parents have long expressed their disagreement with the fact that fifty percent of your room consisted of a large bookshelf, which you had been filling with books for a long time. They told you to get rid of the ones you didn't like, sell the copies that were in good condition, or just take some of them to shelters for those in need.
But you were the one who needed those books. Each of the books was a story that evoked some emotion in you. Whether it's boredom from reading classics that everyone considered a “must read”, anger when reading a romance novel with a completely illogical plot development, or immersion in a fantasy story where you wanted to be in the place of the main female character.
Every book was dear to you, you needed it, and that's why you weren't going to take a single copy out of the house.
But when you finally moved out, which the stable job you found allowed you to do, you proudly packed your entire library into boxes and moved it to your new flat. The problem? There were a lot more books than your old bookshelf could hold.
“Forty-second?”
You froze on the threshold when you opened the door to a knock. Not a bell ring, but a knock. The man you saw was wearing faded jeans and a flannel shirt rolled up in the sleeves, and he was holding a toolbox in one hand.
The man was the carpenter who was recommended to you by an elderly neighbor who lived on your floor, saying that he was famous in the area for his skillful hands and responsible approach to work.
Hands with veins already bulging.
You blinked a couple of times and nodded, stepping aside and finally letting him inside the apartment. His shoulders seemed so wide that even though he could fit into the doorways, you couldn't help but think that he was much bigger than you.
“ 'ere?” He pointed towards the empty wall in the living room and you nodded.
This room was bigger, and your small bedroom clearly wouldn't have had enough space to accommodate your entire collection.
“Yes. I would love for the shelf to take up the entire wall.”
Simon (you remembered his name) nodded and lowered the toolbox to the floor, taking out a notebook and a pencil from behind his ear.
“Up the ceilin'?”
“Yes.”
“Shelves needa be strong?”
“Eh... Probably?”
“What'll be stored there?”
“Books.” You waved your head towards the boxes that you still haven't unpacked.
Thirty boxes full of books. The loader carried them one at a time, swearing under his breath, and all you had to do was smile awkwardly and tip him a little. You understood that the number was large, that not everyone had a library in their house.
But Simon? He did not condemn. He didn't let out a heavy sigh, didn't grin, didn't ask if it was your grandma's collection.
He just nodded and took out a tape measurer, starting to measure the parameters of the future bookshelf, and you stepped aside, finally picking up a mug with already cold coffee.
You've kept in touch for the next two weeks that he'd been working on your dream project. Simon even sent you photos of the chosen wood color, how he sawed the boards and placed them next to each other, although not screwing them on.
And when day X arrived and his truck parked near your house, you couldn't hide your delight. Towards the end, when sweat broke out on his forehead and back, and he took off his shirt, tying it on his hips, you bit your lip, immediately thinking about the book in which a girl who went to the rural village to live in a house that she inherited from her grandmother falls in love with an unsociable carpenter, who fixes broken things in her house just to be able to see her more often.
“It's beautiful.” You exhaled, running your palms along the shelves, when the bookshelf, fully finished, stood tightly along the wall, still empty.
Simon looked pleased. The cap was finally missing from his head, and you could see his gray temples among the blond hair. He was older, more confident, and knew how to make things with his own hands.
“It is.” He said, leaning on the arm of your couch, not taking his eyes off you.
You smiled shyly, sure that your blushing cheeks hadn't escaped his attention. Then your eyes landed on the box full of thrillers, and an idea pipped up in your head.
“Thank you so much for your work, sir. I'm incredibly happpy with how it turned out. You can take any thriller from the pile, I usually don't give away my books, but you've done such an amazing...”
“Simon.”
You turned your head in his direction when he interrupted you. He straightened up and took a few steps towards you.
“Simon. Not 'sir'.” His brown eyes looked straight into yours, and your heart started beating faster from how close he was.
“Simon.” You repeated.
He nodded.
“Don't needa book. Maybe dinner?”
Dinner.
No matter how much you thought that your fantasies could be just a figment of your imagination and that you've just read too many romance novels, Simon stood in front of you and indeed asked you out.
“Dinner sounds good.”
And he smiled slightly.
omg you have the notifications on! thank you so much for being there and enjoying the words that my hands are typing♡
The second Captain John Price receives credible intelligence regarding his missing lieutenant, accompanied by photographic evidence of said lieutenant’s current condition, he pinches the bridge of his nose and holds it there for a long moment.
Then he releases a sigh so deep and profoundly exhausted that the paperwork on his desk flutters.
There are moments in a man’s life when he reflects upon the choices that brought him to his present circumstances. Price has had more of those moments than most, usually while being shot at, occasionally while filling out expense reports, and once while watching Soap attempt to determine whether a grenade could be used to open a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.
This, however, may be the first time he has seriously regretted not accepting that desk job his uncle offered him straight out of school.
Corporate office. Nine to five. Sensible shoes. Perhaps a retirement party where the greatest threat to his life would’ve been Sandra from Accounts becoming emotional after two glasses of prosecco.
Instead, he is staring at a photograph of Lieutenant Simon Riley tied to a chair in what appears to be a dungeon.
Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.
Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.
Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.
He blinks.
He studies them again.
The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.
“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.
The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”
“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks back at the photograph.
Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.
There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.
“Right,” Price says.
The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.
You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.
Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.
Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.
Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.
Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.
The next report arrives shortly before lunch.
“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.
Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.
“Forensics?”
“Lorazepam, sir.”
“What dosage?”
The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”
Price stares at him.
The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”
“I know what lorazepam is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.
It doesn’t.
“Zero point five.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”
“No, sir.”
“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”
“Yes, sir.”
They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.
The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.
Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.
In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.
Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.
“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.
You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.
You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.
After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.
Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.
Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”
Price says nothing.
“Do you want us to assemble a team?”
“No.”
There is a pause.
“No, sir?”
“No.”
“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”
“Has he?”
The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.
“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”
“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.
He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.
The operator watches him. “Sir?”
Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.
“Captain, what are you doing?”
“Administrative work.”
“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”
Price checks the box beside personal leave.
“He’s been missing for two days.”
Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.
“Sir.”
Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.
The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.
Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.
“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”
the handcuffs were a gag-gift that fell way to the bottom of your nightstand years ago, fuzzy and hot pink. they resurfaced a few days ago after some reorganizing and john, somehow, now finds himself with both wrists locked to the headboard above him.
the cuffs are funny, sure. but there’s really nothing funny about the way he looks right now. broad and bare-chested and already flushed down his throat, the same color blooming across his chest like a sunburn, hair mussed where you dragged your fingers through it getting him settled. the pink fluff sits absurdly against the thick bones of his wrists — you realize he could very easily break them.
“comfy?” you ask.
“bit snug,” he grunts, mouth twitching at the corner. “s’pose you planned that.”
they’re actually on the loosest notch, but, he doesn’t need to know.
you settle astride his thighs and watch the increasing rise of his chest, the swallow that rolls down his throat, the way his stomach tightens under your fingertips. there’s a sheen on him already, sweat beading in his collarbone and at his temples, dampening the edges of his hair. you drag a finger down his sternum, through the coarse hair there, and he pulls against the cuffs, the links rattling against the metal bars.
“ah-ah.” you lift your hand off of him and gently grip his jaw. ”struggling only makes it worse.”
he goes even redder, and you can feel his heart thudding, faster, harder.
“you’re enjoying this a bit too much,” he manages, voice rough, wiggling his jaw loose.
“says the man who’s already hard and i’ve done nothing yet.”
“i wouldn’t call this nothing,” he grumbles.
you lean in until your lips brush his ear, until you can feel the heat radiating off of him, and slide your hand down to palm him through his boxers.
the sound he makes is ruinous; punched out of him, half a growl, humid against your neck.
“love.” a warning strained through clenched teeth, his hips lifting into your hand. “when i get out of these…”
“if you get out of these.” you squeeze him, and his head thumps back against the headboard, breath wet and ragged. “big if, captain.”
he does get out of them. ten minutes later, one sharp pull and a sad little clink of cheap metal, and before you can even laugh you’re face down into the mattress, him bullying his cock into you, talking about the real cuffs he’s got for you in his duffle.
Simon Riley x the Loudest, most Chalant woman possible.
She talks loud and laughs even louder. She beams at things she likes on the streets, compliments strangers freely, wears all her favorite colors, tries to pet just about every dog or cat that crosses her path, is one of the first on the dance floor when her favorite song comes on, and cries at things as silly as sad TikTok edits. She fills rooms without trying.
And Simon Riley. The definition of an unremarkable man outside his uniform (if you’re not counting the scars from his service). He wears jeans and a blank shirt everyday. He likes what men usually like— a few pints, Manchester United, good weather, the nice burn of a good work out— at a normal volume. He has just about two or three sentences to say about anything, maybe four if he’s really passionate.
He thinks that people don’t really get it. Your family and friends. He’s sure they think him a bore, doesn’t know why you insist he’s the best man for you. He thinks that maybe it would be the same if people who know him met you too. Would say that someone that burns so brightly, sings so loudly would grate on Simon.
Johnny gets it. Simon asks him over to help him move your stuff and his to a bigger apartment (says he’s not having you help him carry the sofa up two flights of stairs). He watches you fall into step next to Simon after. Hears Simon say something to you that Johnny can’t remember and you’re cackling like a loon, bent at the waist and holding onto Simon’s arm for support. And Simon’s mouth ticks up into something smug and happy before he says something else that has you off again.
Johnny thinks there might be nobody better in the world for each other.
You’re curled up against Simon beneath the heavy comforter, your cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his toned chest. One of his arms is wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close. The other hand moves lazily along your back, fingertips tracing slow, absentminded patterns through the thin fabric of your shirt. Every touch is gentle, warm enough to melt the last bit of tension from your muscles.
The apartment is wrapped in that late-night stillness that only settles in after midnight. Somewhere in the distance, rain taps softly against the window, and the muted glow from the bedside lamp paints everything in soft gold. His thumb drags lightly across your shoulder before his voice finally breaks the silence, low and rough with exhaustion.
“Wanna hear a joke?”
You already know he’s going to tell it no matter what answer you give. That alone makes the corner of your mouth twitch.
You let out a sleepy hum, somewhere between a groan and permission.
Simon shifts slightly beneath you, like he’s preparing to deliver the greatest punchline of the century.
“Why did the scarecrow get promoted?”
A soft sigh escapes you as you bury your face further into his chest, already bracing for impact. “Why?”
“Because he was outstanding in his field.”
The terrible joke is followed by his own quiet snicker, you can feel the vibration of it beneath your cheek.
You groan softly, nudging him with your knee. “Go to sleep, Simon.”
cw: afab+f!reader, potentially overlooked beach sex. two freaks in love and on holiday in ibiza. 1.5k words.
"love, where th' fuck did you get that bikini?" simon's voice cuts across your silence just as his frame cuts across your sun, casting a shadow over where you're sprawled out on a beach lounger.
you glare up at him from behind your sunglasses.
"you're in my sun." you pout back. "and uh, from one of the little shops in town here. why?"
"because i want to buy you ten more. yer tits look crackin'." he deadpans back, before dropping into a plastic beach chair tucked under the shade of the umbrella next to your sun lounger. "they're the best thing about this fuckin' holiday. can't believe i let you talk me into this."
you roll your eyes, "didn't see you complaining last night when you bent me over the balcony post pina colada consumption."
"never gonna complain when i'm inside you now love, am i?" he shoots back. "but… ibiza. we're in ibiza. the 'ome of fucking twenty year olds doin' too much molly at club nights."
you reach over and swat him, actually swat him, palm connecting with the skin of his calf. "simon!" you admonish. "we're going to a vine yard on thursday. and a fucking UNESCO heritage site. don't shit talk ibiza. there's… culture as well as parties. you sound like a grumpy old man."
his nostrils flare, but he doesn't argue.
he does sound like a grumpy old man.
there's a pause as you adjust your sunglasses in your nose, relaxing back against your lounger. "but we are going to a party tonight. starts at 11pm. no molly required. but i'll buy you more cocktails."
simon groans. "fuckin' 'ell, pet."
the club is everything simon hates.
dark except for the glow of neon, ever changing lights; packed with sweat slicked bodies moving against each other. no clear exit routes. limited cover.
but the cocktail complete with little umbrella in his hand almost makes up for it.
and the way you're moving your hips to the sound of the slow baseline that's currently shaking his bones definitely makes up for it.
you're just over an arms reach away from where he's leaning against a wall, right at the edge of the crowd; body wrapped in an outfit that he's going to make sure to find an occasion for you to wear again.
and he's mesmerised.
by you.
with the way you have your arms thrown in the air and your head tilted back; heartbeat thudding in time with the music just under the skin of your throat. he could watch you do this forever. watch the way your lips curve in the corners and your eyes go glassy under flickering lights; the way you lose yourself, let yourself just feel.
it occurs to him that the only other time he sees you this free and relaxed is when he's fucking you. a thought that makes his cock twitch in his jeans and his ears go red at the tips; before he promptly shoves it to the back of his head - for now, anyway.
then suddenly you're turning to face him fully, looking up at him through lowered lashes, holding your hands out in an invitation as your hips sway.
he blinks once. shakes his head.
you pout. eyelashes fluttering. fingers waggling.
he sighs, downs the rest of his drink, and closes the distance between you.
even he can't argue with that.
he spins you, presses your back against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you pressed close; his free hand finding your hip, body slowly swaying with yours.
"i fuckin' hate dancin'." he mutters, breath hot over the shell of your ear.
you tilt your head, eyes finding his in the neon flashing lights - and for a moment his breath catches in his throat almost painfully at how alive you look. he ducks his head enough to catch your words over the music, uttered with the smugness of a woman that knows she's right: "yeah, but you love me."
he doesn't answer right away, just tightens his arm around your waist and allows his body to follow the slow movement of yours; trying to find his feet literally and figuratively. then finally he sighs, "yeah. i do love you."
you smile, triumphant, and push back against him; grinding in a lazy circle that has his fingers digging into your hip. every time you arch or sway he follows, face tucked into your neck; breathing in the scent of the perfume you picked up at the airport and the sweat accumulating on your skin from the heat of the lights and the crowd. you grind back against him again and he groans softly, ducking his head lower to nip at the exposed skin of your shoulder. "keep doin' that and we're not makin' it back to the hotel petal."
your lips curve upwards, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, tilting your head to give him better access, "promise?"
a low, almost pained, sound rumbles from his chest as he presses an open mouthed kiss against the pulse hammering under the skin of your throat. he straightens, eases his grip slightly - but doesn’t let go completely. “c’mon. before i do somethin’ that gets us thrown out.”
you let him pull you through the crowd of bodies towards the exit; out into the cooler air that's carrying a tinge of salt from the ocean. simon keeps you close as you start the walk back to the hotel along a quieter stretch of beach, sand soft under your shoes.
halfway there he stops.
you turn, a question already half formed on your lips; but when you see the expression on his face your jaw slams shut.
want.
that's the only way to describe it.
before you can blink your back is pressed against sand tucked away behind a low wall, his mouth on yours - hungry, tasting of the last cocktail he drank. his hands are everywhere; cupping your tits through your dress, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they pebble under fabric, then lower - pushing your dress up over your hips and dragging your underwear across so he can drag two fingers over your slit. he hisses through his teeth when he finds you warm and soft and wet. he doesn't push inside, just gathers wetness with the pads of his fingers before dragging them higher to glide over your clit until your hips buck.
"i love seein' you dance." he mutters. "you always look like… like yer free." there's a brief pause as his lips quirk, "an' it makes me 'ard."
you grin, capture his mouth with your in a kiss that's all heat and fire and love, reaching between you to pop the button of his jeans, shove them down around his hips. he frees himself; drags the swollen head of his cock through your folds once before pushing into the tight heat of your cunt in one long stroke that knocks the air from both your lungs.
"simon-"
"i know, love." his voice is wrecked, one hand bracing in the sand next to your head. "i fuckin' know." he starts to move; deep, steady strokes that fill you completely with every thrust. the sound of the ocean is loud enough to cover the sound of skin on skin and the broken sounds you're both making. he fucks you like he’s been wanting to all night - like the club and the dancing and the way you looked under the lights snapped something inside him.
you roll your hips up to meet every stroke, his fingers find your clit again, press hard enough that you whine; a broken sounding noise that's lost to the sound of waves crashing.
"c'mon petal. reckon you can come for me? even though someone might 'ear?" he murmurs, lips twitching into a smile that's almost a taunt. the thought, the words, the relentless drag of him inside you - it all crashes together. you clench down around him, pleasure rolling through you in waves, muffling the sound you make by biting into your own forearm. simon follows a handful of thrusts later, burying himself inside you as his whole body shudders.
for a long moment neither of you move. there's just your breathing. the sea. the distant thump of bass. simon's forehead resting on on your shoulder.
eventually he pulls put, puts your knickers back into place - tugged tight against where he's leaking out of you like he's trying to trap the evidence of your little tryst on the beach. he tucks himself away, pulls you to your feet, presses a kiss against your forehead, face softer around the edges when he looks down at you. "hotel." he mutters, "before i decide that the sand is comfortable enough for round two.
you laugh, tangle your fingers with his, tug him in the direction of the hotel. "round two's in the shower. pretty sure there's sand in my fanny."
his shoulder shake with silent laughter, "aye. shower then. unless you want t' give the sea a go?"
könig buried to the hilt inside of you, your legs bent and pressed to his chest. his body keeping you pinned against the mattress while he has a vibrator on the highest setting pressed against your clit as he whispers “one more, liebling, give me one more.”
before he’s coaxing and talking you through yet another orgasm that has you spinning and tears rimming your eyes. he’s made you cum 3 times without a single thrust , whispering “this is all about you, schatz. you feel this?” as he flexes his dick inside of you, making you whimper.
“this is all yours. remember that, maus. this is yours to use.” before he’s slowly rocking his hips against yours, bringing you to one more orgasm before his breathy moans fill the room and you’re spent—absolutely exhausted. “don’t worry, schatz. i’ll clean you up.”
before his head is in between your legs, lapping up both yours and his arousal and humming like the sick fuck he is because he just can’t get enough of you. all he wants is to be buried between your legs, watching as he’s the reason you’re seeing stars.
