hi! you can call me starlit <3 i’m 25, and my pronouns are she/her/hers. i’ve been around the fandom block quite a few times, but i’ve always found my love in writing. thank you for being interested in my work, and i’m always always always up for a chat or to answer your questions or to hear your theories! please don’t be shy, drop a reply or an ask!
but, without further ado, here is a masterlist of all the content i've posted on tumblr and ao3 <3
Pacific Rim AU
archangels of the ocean
ch. 1 ch. 2 ch. 3 ch. 4 ao3 link
A/B/O
omegaverse masterpost
in sickness and in health (alpha!simon riley x omega!reader) ON HIATUS
ch. 1 ch. 2 ch. 3 ch. 4 ao3 link
psychopathy (alpha! simon riley x omega!reader - 18+ MDNI)
pt. 1
Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
the kindest devil (simon riley x fem!reader - 18+)
pt. 1 pt. 2 ao3 link
Drabbles
holy water (simon riley x reader - 18+ MDNI)
a bird and an arrow (simon riley x reader - ANGST)
loyalty of a guard dog (sub!simon riley x dom!reader - 18+ MDNI)
pairing — (eventual) simon riley x arya vlahos (female oc)
warnings — mention of past named character death
word count — 2,735
authors note — ahhhh yay so excited to get pt. 4 out! also, this is my first time introducing an oc, so i hope you guys love her as much as i do! thank you for reading, and, as always, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list so you'll know when this gets updated!
masterlist pt. 3 ao3 link pt. 5
By the time all three were fully suited, they were led to the briefing chamber. Leonti stepped aside, waving the men inside. Holo-maps of the world shimmered across walls, tracking Kaiju movements, energy readings, and Jaeger deployment zones. Pentecost stood at the head of the large metal table in the center of the room, arms folded, blue eyes sharp. Price was beside him, leaning slightly on a console, cap low, his presence a quiet anchor.
“This is your world now,” Pentecost said once Simon, Soap, and Gaz were all sitting at the table. “Learn it. Respect it. That’s the only way to survive it. When you step into the Drift, your past experiences, whatever they were, won’t save you. Only your team will.”
Simon felt the weight of the words. Drift synchronization wasn’t just a test of physical skill. It was mental, emotional, psychological. His memories, the ghosts of past missions, past torture, past abuse, could surface at the worst possible moment. He had seen men break under far less pressure, in far less vulnerable positions.
Soap leaned close, whispering, “Guess we’re really in the shit now.”
Gaz didn’t laugh. Simon didn’t reply. They simply absorbed the enormity of the holographic projections before them. Kaiju spawn locations, probable attack vectors, and Jaeger tactical overlays flashed in three-dimensional clarity. Every detail screamed danger and consequence.
Pentecost nodded towards Leonti, who was still standing by the door. She nodded back, a quick thing of affirmation of whatever silent communication just occurred between them. Pentecost’s gaze swept back over the three men. “Other recruits will be joining shortly. Some are new, some have experience. A handful of them are soldiers, just like you three. A group from the United States, some from Italy, Germany, Spain, and one from Greece.”
Simon swallowed thickly. This was quickly becoming something much bigger than he had originally thought it was. From the sound of things, it sounded like a large group of recruits, but from what little he knew about Jaegers and the Shatterdome from the little bits and pieces he could remember from the news on slow days at base, there was a limited number of Jaegers. Twenty, if he could remember correctly.
Slowly, the room began to fill with other recruits. The first group in was the Americans, loudly joking and jostling each other, as if this was just another day for them. Which, from Simon’s limited experience with American soldiers, it just might be. There were eight of them, three women and five men, and they sat at the other corner of the table, away from Simon, Soap, and Gaz. Next came the group from Germany. Precise. Quiet. Three men, all business, movements economical as they took their seats. They acknowledged Pentecost with a sharp nod from each, while the eldest of the three men gave Price a slower nod, one full of recognition and respect.
A few moments later, two women from Italy walked in, their accents thick and smooth as they muttered lowly to each other, their gazes darting over the rest of the soldiers in the room. It was calculating, the way the two women’s gazes analyzed each person as they walked over to their seats. It was almost like they were looking for weaknesses throughout the room. Finally, the Spaniards arrived, a mix of energy and nerves. Two men, one woman. They spoke softly amongst themselves before settling into their own chairs, eyes darting up to the holograms that surrounded the group, as if trying to memorize everything at once.
The briefing room felt crowded now, charged in a way that felt as familiar as a pre-op briefing. However, this time, instead of the room being filled with men and women that Simon had spent years working side-by-side with, it was filled with different languages, different cultures, and different histories. As Simon glanced around the room, taking in the people he was now supposed to work with (compete against?) for the foreseeable future, one truth pressed down onto him: the Shatterdome didn’t care who you were, or where you came from, it only cared if you could survive.
Pentecost hadn’t moved from his position at the head of the table, his hands now clasped in front of him as he waited for the murmurs to die down. As soon as it was quiet, Pentecost glanced back at Captain Price, a knowing look passing between them that made the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stand on end.
“There’s one more,” Pentecost stated as he turned back to look at the new group of recruits in front of him.
The door slid open again, the hydraulics hissing.
She entered alone.
She wasn’t loud. She didn’t joke. But, she didn’t hesitate either.
Arya Vlahos stepped in with the measured stride of someone who knew exactly who she was and why she was there. Her neural suit bore subtle signs of wear, with scuffs along the arms and faint discoloration around the joints that proved real use, not anything like the still-pristine black neural fabric that every other recruit around the room was wearing. Her red hair was pulled back into dual braids that fell down her back parallel to each other, and her expression was calm in a way that only came from experience. She stopped moving as she came to the opposite head of the table, nearest to Simon, Soap, and Gaz. She didn’t sit, instead mirroring Pentecost’s own position.
Gaz shot Simon a look, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as his lips pulled down in a frown. Simon didn’t reply, but he felt the shift in the room. Even the Americans went quiet as she stopped moving, their gazes stuck on her.
Pentecost’s voice softened, just a fraction, as his cold blue gaze met Arya’s unwavering green. “Arya Vlahos. Former Airman First Class of the Hellenic Air Force’s spec-ops unit, 31st Squadron. AFC Vlahos has been with the Jaeger Pilot program for the last two years, piloting a Mark-4 named Sirensong.”
One of the American men pushed at his buddy’s shoulder, snickering and muttering something under his breath. His buddy, grinning stupidly at the one who had just pushed at his shoulder, raised his hand. Pentecost looked at him, raising his eyebrows slightly.
The American put his hand down, that stupid grin still on his lips as his eyes slid between Arya and Pentecost. “Hi, PFC Ellison, American Army out of Fort Hood. Last I checked, Jaegers could only be piloted with two people.” He paused, smirking at Arya as his gaze ran up and down her body. “So, where’s your partner, pretty girl?”
Arya’s bright green eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. But, before she could retaliate, Pentecost raised his hand in a silent gesture to stop.
“Her copilot, Eleni Markou,” Pentecost paused, looking at Arya. She had turned her head, looking down at the steel flooring of the briefing room, her jaw working. Pentecost sighed and looked back at the group of soldiers. “AFC Markou died three months ago in a category IV Kaiju breach in the Aegean.”
Simon’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t dare look over at Arya. Instead, he glanced over at Soap and Gaz, his gaze running over both men as he tried to imagine what that would do to him. Gaz’s head was bowed as Pentecost’s revelation washed over the room, and Soap, brave or stupid as ever, was staring at Arya.
Arya, her gaze still locked on the floor, finally spoke. “I piloted that Jaeger alone for seven minutes,” she stated before her gaze locked onto PFC Ellison, her eyes full of a quiet fire. “I survived. They didn’t.”
Her voice was steady, accented but clear. There were no dramatics, no visible grief in her eyes or in her voice. But, Simon could feel it anyways, a thread beneath the iron-clad control she held. It hit him, with unwavering certainty, that the Drift had a way of carving losses worse than any battlefield he had ever set foot on possibly could.
Pentecost let the silence sit for a moment as he looked at every new recruit, letting Arya’s words settle into everyone’s soul.
“Arya is here because she chose to be,” he said. “She understands the Drift. She understands what it costs. And, she’s agreed to attempt re-pairing in a new Jaeger.”
Simon leaned back in his chair slightly, finally allowing himself to study the Greek soldier who was standing beside him. She was short, but she had to be if she was an Airman. Simon knew what kind of planes the 31st Squadron had, from before the Kaijus, as he had worked with them in a Joint Command mission almost ten years ago. He wondered briefly if she had been there. She looked to be about his age, but he couldn’t place her face. However, that wasn’t too surprising. That Joint Command op had been a decade ago, and she had spent the last two years in a Jaeger, which Simon could only imagine how that could change a person.
Two years in a Jaeger meant two years of shared memories, neural overlap, and trust so complete that it bordered on surrender. On top of that, losing a co-pilot wasn’t just losing a partner, especially if the copilot was lost in the drift like Eleni was. It was losing half of yourself.
Price cleared his throat, stepping forward. Simon’s gaze snapped to Price as he sat up straighter. “This isn’t a competition. You’re not here to prove who’s toughest or most experienced. You’re here because the world is running out of time, and you carry the singular gift that can be the world’s salvation. You are able to Drift.” Price tapped the console in front of him and Pentecost. The holograms shifted, highlighting active breach zones. “You’ll be assessed for pairing compatibility over the coming days. Some of you will wash out. Some of you will be reassigned. And some of you,” his gaze lingered on Arya, then swept the room, “will step into a Jaeger again.”
“We don’t have the luxury of time, ladies and gentlemen,” Pentecost added as his hand raised to gesture at the active breach zones. 5 glowing red dots blinked like warning alarms in the holograms. “The breaches are activating faster and faster, and we need pilots.”
“Starting tomorrow, you will begin Drift simulations. We have your drift compatibility scores. There are twenty of you, and each of you are compatible with at least one other person in this room,” Pentecost paused, his gaze meeting Simon’s for a moment before it swept back across the room. “Observe each other carefully. Evaluate your reactions. Control yourselves.”
Simon’s throat tightened. This was no longer a drill. This was the next step: the first true test of whether they could operate as a part of a Jaeger team, whether they could survive when the world itself was being torn apart.
Price’s voice broke the tension, low and gravelly. “Stick together. Don’t try to outshine each other. Trust will keep you alive where training alone won’t.”
Simon nodded. Soap’s grin softened slightly, and even Gaz allowed himself a single, steadying breath. Arya didn’t move, her gaze stuck forward, locked on Pentecost. Simon looked around the room, trying to gauge the others' reactions. The Americans were back to joking with each other lowly, shoving at each other’s shoulders like this was all one big game. The Spaniards, who had seemed so nervous when they walked in, were now conversing quietly between each other, their hands moving with emphasis through their words. The Germans were stonefaced, staring at the blinking Breach zones as if they could hold answers to unknown questions. The two women from Italy looked almost shellshocked, and Simon found himself wondering how much they had been told prior to coming here.
“You’re dismissed,” Pentecost announced as he turned away. Arya was the first soldier to turn away and, without looking at anyone else, she strode out of the briefing room, disappearing as she turned the corner. The other recruits followed soon after, dispersing out to their own rooms.
Soap sighed and slammed his head down onto the briefing room table. Gaz grimaced and looked over at Simon. “Please tell me you caught whatever that was, because I feel like we were just volunteered to die in a massive metal coffin.”
Soap let out a breath, something close to a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so shellshocked. “Did you see her?” He asked, his voice muffled by the tabletop until he tilted his head just enough for one blue eye to peek up at Simon. “The Greek pilot. Vlahos.”
Before Simon could answer, a familiar, gravelly voice cut in. “You three planning on sitting in this briefing room all night, or are you gonna come with me?”
All three of the men turned to find Price lingering by the doorway, his arms across his chest with an unreadable expression. Simon straightened instinctively, while Gaz and Soap turned to look at their captain.
Price jerked his head towards the open door. “Walk,” Price demanded as he turned on his heel, starting out of the briefing room.
They followed him out, boots echoing against the steel floor of the Shatterdome as Price led them through the twisting halls of the base. For a few moments, the only sound was the distant hum of the Shatterdome and their boots against the steel flooring.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Price started as he led the men. “Don’t.”
Soap frowned. “With respect, sir, thinking is kind of unavoidable after that.”
The corner of Price’s mouth twitched as he looked back at his three soldiers. “You’re not wrong,” he conceded as he turned back around. “But, this isn’t the Task Force. Your instincts will get you killed out there if you treat this like a deployment.”
Gaz spoke up as he crossed his arms over his chest. “And what if we don’t like what the Drift dregs up?”
Price chuckled lowly and shook his head. “Then you deal with it. With your copilot. That’s where most people fail.”
Simon stepped up beside Price. “And… what about Vlahos?
Price turned his head to meet Simon’s eyes and held his stare for a long moment. “What about her?”
“She’s already been in a Jaeger. She’s already lost a copilot. Is she… safe to go back into the Drift?”
Price’s expression shuttered, and he turned away from Simon. “AFC Vlahos has already earned her place ten times over in this program. If you end up paired with her, or with anyone else in that room for that matter, you give them everything. No walls. No secrets.”
Simon swallowed. His entire life was made up of walls and secrets, of hiding. The closest he had ever come to being open with another human being was with the three men that currently surrounded him. But, even they didn’t know everything.
Soap sighed and ran a hand over his face before he cut in. “That’s a tall order, sir.”
Price nodded once. “That’s why not everyone makes it.”
Silence fell between the four men as they continued to walk through the corridors. Simon’s mind kept wandering back to Arya Vlahos.
Seven minutes alone in the Drift.
He’d been briefed on the theory of the Drift: the neural load of a Jaeger was designed for two minds, two anchors to distribute the strain. Piloting solo wasn’t just dangerous, it was damn near suicidal. The fact that she’d survived at all spoke volumes. But, the fact that she’d volunteered to do it again spoke louder. Simon’s fingers flexed at his sides. He knew about echoes. He knew what it was like to carry voices that weren’t there anymore, memories that surfaced uninvited. The idea of sharing those memories, of having someone else see them, feel them, made his stomach tighten.
Price stopped in front of a door and he turned to face his three soldiers. “Here are your barracks. They’re temporary until you’re placed with your copilot. Get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll all find out what you’re really made of.”
As Price walked away, Gaz let out a breath. “Well. That was comforting.”
Simon didn’t answer. His thoughts were already looking ahead, towards neural handshakes, shared memories, and a Greek pilot who had survived losing half of herself.
Tomorrow, the Drift would decide what it took next.
You’ve never done silly little trends or pranks you watched on TikTok with Simon. Truth be told, you were slightly worried about his reaction to things. Not because he was scary— but because that man is mentally so old that you’re not sure he’d understand it was some joke even after explaining it.
But today, all you kept seeing on your For You Page was the trend where they say “things my husband and I have stuck in our butts. Me, none.” Then, it switches over to their partner naming tools.
Something about that trend made you giggle a little too much that you knew you had to try it out.
You had a small following on your TikTok, mainly friends and family. So you figured that no one would see the post even if you published it.
So there you were, in the bathroom so Simon couldn’t hear you. “Things my husband and I have put in our butts. Me, nothing,” you say in front of the phone. Quickly, you opened the door and ran downstairs to see Simon sitting at his desk, filling out paperwork. “Si,” you call out for him. He looks over his shoulders with the same neutral expression he always wore. “My work is doing this thing where we have to ask our partners what kind of things they use for work and their favorites,” you tell him, holding your phone up. “Gotta record it. Part of a presentation.”
An awful lie. But Simon wasn’t about to question you.
He turns around in the swivel chair, crosses his arms over his chest and looks up at the ceiling for a moment before responding. “Mos’ly comms— walkies or radios. Anything I can hold onto,” he begins, staring at you then at your phone. “Pry bars; they come ‘n handy when i need t’ get’in fast.”
You let out a snort— one that Simon catches but doesn’t say anything.
He does give you a quick look before he continues. “M16, optics— ones that zoom and zeroes in well. Black Hawks… I let the capt. control that though.”
You bit back a grin, humming along as Simon continues to list things out.
“Helmets ’course. Need protection so I always wear a helmet. Pistols, mags, y’name it,” Simon finally finish listing everything. Before he could even ask you what the presentation was about, you had already let out a ‘okay, thanks!’ and ran upstairs, leaving him in the same position for a solid minute before he slowly turns around and goes back to his work.
It wasn’t until a few hours later that John had texted him.
“I let the captain control it though.” Really, Ghost?
That caught Simon by a surprise. What was he on about? Was he listening in? Was there a secret camera in his home?
Quickly, Simon types back a reply.
What do you mean.
Immediately, John had sent him a TikTok that you made. The moment Simon heard your voice and what the video was about, he let out a quiet sigh and turned off his phone without even bothering to pause or exit the video. “Dove,” he calls out and stood up from his chair.
By now, you had long forgotten the silly video you had made. You came into the living room, happily walking in with a smile, “hm?” you hum out, watching as Simon strides over slowly.
His stare doesn’t waver as he makes his way over. “Never stuck anything in ya’ arse, yeah?” he calmly says. So low that you knew this meant trouble.
Simon didn’t have TikTok downloaded. Claims it was for children and people who enjoy their brains rotting. Which meant— you knew someone on his team would’ve had to send it to him. “What?” you ask, laughing nervously.
In one swift movement, Simon had picked you up by the hips and threw you over his shoulders. You let out a surprise gasp, hitting his ass as he walks up the stairs. “‘ll give y’something you can put up your arse,” he says with the flatest expression.
pairing — (eventual) simon riley x Arya Vlahos (female oc)
warnings — none for this chapter
word count — 2,575
authors note — oh my gods, wow, look at that, TWO whole updates in one day??? that's crazy.
anyways, i'm super excited for next chapter, to see how these boys react to their trainings to find their drift partners, and all that fun jazz. and, as always, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list so you'll know when this gets updated!
(also, super stoked to introduce you guys to my oc soon. hopefully you love her as much as i do!)
masterlist pt. 2 pt. 4 ao3 link
Simon swallowed, heavily, as his gaze fell on the two men. He felt Soap and Gaz stiffen next to him as recognition flared through the other two.
The first man was tall, posture rigid, his uniform immaculate despite the wind tugging at the hem of his coat. Simon recognized him instantly, everyone did. Stacker Pentecost, Marshall of the Pan Pacific Defense Corps. The man who once held the line alone in a Mark-1 Jaeger and lived to command the world’s last line of defense.
Beside him stood a familiar figure. Weathered and unmistakably out of place in this new metallic world, stood Captain John Price, arms crossed loosely over his chest, cap pulled low, jaw working around the edge of a well-chewed toothpick. He looked like he’d been born on a battlefield and simply wandered into a world of Kaiju afterward.
Soap let out a low, quiet “Huh.” Gaz shot him a warning look, but Soap just grinned, even as an anxious tick belied his own internal conflict. “Just didn’t know Price was gonna be here. Lt, did you know?”
Simon shook his head, little more than a twist of his chin as he felt something else twist low in his gut. Not exactly nerves, not exactly dread, but something weighty. Final. Like stepping off a cliff and trusting the fall to be worth it. “No,” he murmured lowly, the word almost lost beneath the slowing roar of the engines. “I didn’t.”
Before either of the sergeants could respond, could question, Pentecost’s voice cut clear across the tarmac, firm and resonant. “Lieutenant Riley. Sergeants MacTavish and Garrick.” Not a question. Not a greeting. A recognition. As if he’d expected them down to the minute.
The three soldiers descended the ramp, following the call from Pentecost, their training as soldiers kicking in before thought could scream at them to hesitate. Each footstep thudded on metal as one, echoing like a drumbeat.
When they reached the bottom, Pentecost’s gaze swept over them, sharp and measuring. It lingered half a second longer on Simon. Just long enough for Simon to feel it, like a knife pressed directly into bone. It made Simon’s spine tingle, forcing him to wonder what, if anything, Pentecost had read in his file. How much of that dark, unflinching history was sitting behind the Marshall’s calculating stare.
Price, in contrast, gave a slow, easy nod, though Simon caught the flicker of appraisal in his eyes. “Welcome to the Shatterdome,” Price said, voice low, rough around the edges, but still carrying through the din of the base. “Hope you lads got some rest. You won’t be getting much for a while.”
Soap shot Gaz a pointed look, an I told you so written all over his expression.
Pentecost stepped closer, boots clicking sharply against concrete. “You’ve passed your drift compatibility testing. That alone puts you above ninety percent of the candidates we see.” His gaze flicked between the three of them. “But compatibility is only the first step. What you do here determines whether you will become effective pilots… or just another tragic name on a memorial wall.”
Gaz swallowed.
Soap straightened almost instinctively.
Simon stood unmoving, but his pulse kicked once, hard, then steadied.
Pentecost uncrossed his arms, but kept his gaze fixed on the three men in front of him. “We’ve been tracking your unit for a while. Your operational history. Psych evaluations. Casualty rates.” He said it without judgment, without accusation, just fact. Pentecost shifted his head just enough to glance at Price for a moment before turning back to look at Simon, Soap, and Gaz. “PPDC thinks you have potential. I think you have grit. But the Drift will tear that all open, one way or another.” His blue eyes then slid to Simon, cool and steady. “Especially you, Lieutenant.”
Simon felt as if ice had been poured down his back.
Soap’s head snapped toward Simon, as concern flickered beneath his own sharp blue gaze. Gaz shifted subtly closer, not touching but present. Protective, in a way that was bred only through years of working side by side in TaskForce 141.
Pentecost didn’t miss the movement. “Good. You stand together,” he said with a curt nod. “You’ll need to. Your acclimation starts immediately. You’ll meet your prospective Drift partners within the hour.”
Prospective partners.
Simon almost frowned. He, Soap, and Gaz had passed the test separately, sure, but they had always worked together. Why would they–
Pentecost must’ve seen the confusion cross Simon’s eyes, because he added calmly, “Teams of three are rare. But not impossible. Shatterdome leadership wants to observe all potential configurations. You’ll be run through individual pairing simulations as well as trios.”
Simon felt something cold and sharp lodge in his chest.
Soap muttered under his breath, “Brilliant.”
Gaz didn’t say anything at all, jaw tight.
Pentecost gestured sharply to a waiting aide. “You’ll be processed, outfitted, and briefed. Captain Price will oversee your integration. I expect professionalism. Efficiency. And above all, trust.”
He paused.
“Dismissed, gentlemen.”
As Pentecost turned away, Price stayed, unmoving as his gaze ran over the three men that he had once, years ago, handpicked to protect the world from an entirely different threat. Price’s heart clenched in his chest, just for a moment, as he took in the sight of his three most prized soldiers now in a unit so foreign to what they had been trained for. Even then, his gaze was warm, approval coating the warning falling from his lips. “Stick close,” he said. “Shatterdome’s a beast of its own. It’ll eat you alive if you try to take it on alone.”
Then, before Simon, Gaz, or Soap could reply, let alone ask what he was doing here, Price turned on his heel, following Pentecost through the labyrinth of the Shatterdome, away from them. The three men stood there, watching Pentecost and Price walk away, their boots striking the ground with the assured rhythm of men who had weathered more wars than most people had years.
Simon exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath for the entire descent.
Soap nudged him gently with his elbow. “Well,” he murmured, “nothing like jumpin’ headfirst into the deep end.”
Gaz huffed out a humorless laugh. “Deep end? Mate, we’re in the bloody Mariana Trench,” he muttered back in reply.
In the space where Price and Pentecost had just been, an aide stepped up. She was much shorter than the three men, blonde hair cropped short, brushing just past her ears as she looked up at them. She shifted slightly, looking down at her clipboard for a moment. Without a word, but not without an appraising glance, she waved them forward. A silent command to follow as she turned on her heel and started to walk.
Simon glanced once at the retreating figures of Price and Pentecost.
Then he looked at Soap and Gaz. His sergeants, his unit, his last tether to anything familiar.
The Shatterdome loomed ahead, humming with metal and promise and danger.
Simon took a step forward, towards the aide’s retreating form. Always the point, the leader. “Let’s get to it.”
As the three men fell into step behind her, the aide finally glanced over her shoulder. “My name is Leonti Roza. I am the head integration officer, and will be overseeing your acclimation along with your commander, Captain John Price.”
Simon blinked as the words washed over him. The Russian tilt of her words was a shock, but he tried not to show it. This wasn’t a battlefield, or a dingy warehouse where he had been tasked with taking down an arms trafficking ring. This was different than anything he had ever had to do, so he forced the hard-bred instincts down. She was Russian, didn’t mean she was a threat.
Soap, instead, piped up. Always the charismatic one, always with something to say to try and lighten the mood. He leaned forward, a grin coating his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So, this is it, lads. First stop, mechasoldier boot camp. Sounds cozy.”
Leonti’s eyes flickered over him, unamused. “Do not speak. Move.”
Soap’s blue eyes flashed with surprise, but his jaw clicked shut. Gaz smirked, knocking his shoulder against Soap’s goodnaturedly.
Leonti stopped in front of a hulking metal door, quickly pressing a badge to a small black box before deftly typing in a code. The door to the underbelly of the Shatterdome opened, the screeching movement vibrating the ground beneath their feet. Once it opened fully, Leonti stepped through, the three men following behind her. The corridor leading from the tarmac twisted into the bowels of the Shatterdome, lit by cool, sterile lights that reflected off polished steel. The hum of machinery was constant, like some living engine beneath the concrete and metal. Simon’s boots echoed as he followed Leonti, and he felt the familiar tug of his training: eyes scanning, senses alert, mind running through contingencies even though the threat here didn’t seem to be immediately lethal. Soap and Gaz were still behind him, and Simon could feel the nerves radiating off of them each.
“First, processing,” Leonti stated as she stopped in front of a desk. She quickly handed each man a packet of paperwork. It appeared to be standard issue, asking for things like name, nationality, next of kin, chain of command. Simon paused over the next of kin box, his heart thudding against his chest uncomfortably. Just once, but enough that he had to force the pain back down.
Once Simon, Soap, and Gaz were all done with their paperwork, Leonti wordlessly ushered them over to sleek pods that looked like something that would be more at home in those shitty science fiction films Gaz insisted they watch on off-nights back at base. A faint blue glow bathed the interior, which made a shiver race down Simon’s spine.
Leonti stepped up to each man, gently smearing some warm gel on each of their foreheads. “Helps the neural interface nodes attach,” she told them as she finished. She then motioned to the pods, one for each man. “Get in and stand still,” Leonti instructed.
Simon obeyed instinctively, the slight hesitation in his chest ignored. Soap rolled his eyes and muttered, “Bloody brilliant. First stop: full-body brain scan.”
Leonti shot Soap a glare as he muttered, obviously already tired of his constant quips. “This is still part of your processing. The drift comparability test only tells us if you are capable of drifting. This,” she paused, her hand gesturing at the pods again, “tells us how likely you are to survive a drift inside of a Jaeger.”
Soap swallowed thickly as his gaze darted away from Leonti. He glanced at Gaz as he stepped into his own pod, looking almost like a wounded puppy. “Gaz, I’ve got a feelin’ we aren’t in Kansas anymore,” he tried to joke, but it fell flat.
Gaz didn’t reply, jaw tight as he stepped into his own pod. The hum of the machine started as soon as each man was situated, the buzz pressing into their skull, their skin, like it was something physical. Simon could almost feel the pods analyzing them: heart rate, neurological response, stress markers. Tiny sensors tapped against his temples, sending mild tingles down his spine, the neural probes humming faintly as they scanned every synapse for compatibility with the Jaeger systems.
Leonti’s words cut through the whirring like a scalpel, as her voice rang through the machines, modulated and calm, counting down in Russian. Simon felt a flicker of unease as the machine continued to whir around him, tracking and testing. He had never trained for this, never encountered anything like this, but the familiarity of standing shoulder to shoulder with Soap and Gaz, even with metal walls and too-bright blue lights, steadied him.
Seconds became minutes. When it ended, the pods hissed open, and the three men stepped out, skin prickling, hair sticking up slightly from the static. Soap slapped at his uniform as though it might restore some sense of normalcy. “Feels like I’ve just been molested by a dryer,” he complained under his breath.
Gaz, for once, didn’t smile. Simon simply shook out his shoulders, muscles coiling and releasing, mind already moving ahead to the next step. Leonti stepped in front of the men again, holding a clipboard against her chest. “Well,” she started, brushing a loose strand of her short blonde hair back behind her ear. “The neural link test said you all have a decent chance of survival.” A pause as her cool brown gaze ran over Simon. It felt like ice as she looked at him, but he refused to look away. Without a word or any other indication, she turned on her heel and started walking down another corridor. “Outfitting room is this way.”
As she turned, Simon forced himself to take a breath. He didn’t like the way Leonti had looked at him. Didn’t know what it had meant, and that made all of the alarms go off in his mind. He was still standing outside of his pod when Leonti started to walk away. Soap noticed, and put his hand on Simon’s shoulder, clapping it softly against the silky material of Simon’s tactical undershirt. Simon jolted at the contact, his head whipping towards Soap.
Soap gave him something close to a smile, and jerked his head toward the hallway where Leonti had disappeared down. “C’mon, Lt. It’s gonna take a while to find a suit that’ll fit you, anyways.”
Simon huffed out something that could have been a laugh in different circumstances, but he followed Soap’s sure bootfalls as they walked towards the outfitting room, whatever the hell that was.
The outfitting room was vast, racks of sleek pilot suits lining the walls, each piece humming faintly. They were single pieces, lightweight but reinforced, and each suit’s interface nodes glimmered softly like tiny gems under the harsh fluorescents that seemed to invade this entire base.
“These suits are neural-linked,” Leonti said, voice clipped as she watched the three men study the lines of suits. “Once fitted, your Jaeger will feel like an extension of your body. Any hesitation, mistrust, or fear will reduce synchronization efficiency. Painful experiences can… bleed into the Drift. You must control your minds when in the suit. Trust the bond between you, your partner, and the Jaeger.”
Simon’s pulse kicked at the words. Trust. It was the one thing that had kept him alive through every firefight in Task Force 141. He glanced at Soap, who was already sliding into a suit that Leonti had handed him, grinning even as the nervous twitch of his fingers as they brushed over interfaces betrayed him. Gaz was handed a suit next, and Simon watched as his hands moved methodically, tightening straps, checking connections, his focus absolute.
Leonti handed Simon his suit last, that same icy stare from before running over him. Simon felt his back bristle as he took the suit from her fingers. He quickly stripped down, not caring about the audience, and stepped inside of the suit. Electrodes pressed against his spine, tingling as if the suit was learning him, memorizing every muscle twitch, every heartbeat, every scar. A soft hum filled his ears, faint and almost alive. He swallowed.
This was alien. Terrifying. And yet… he could feel the potential. He didn’t like how it made his heart pound in anticipation.
I've been thinking about how, if Ghost had tried to do CPR when Johnny died, that could have been a version of their first kiss.
Hear me out.
Like, just imagining Ghost, seeing Johnny bleeding out on the floor, and just *breaking*. Running up, not caring that the amount of blood on the floor told Ghost he was gone. He didn’t care when Johnny was starting to go cold. He was going to try, damn it.
Going through each step of CPR, each one more desperate than the last, Ghost is suddenly crying without realizing it. Johnny was gone. There was nothing he could do.
Holding Johnny's body close to his, blood staining nearly every peice of clothing he wore, Ghost could only hear the ringing in his ears as Price comes forward, trying to get his eyes on him, not Johnny.
When they finally leave, Johnny being escorted away in a different vehicle than the one Ghost was riding in, he's silent, looking emotionless, barely moving the whole ride back.
Ghost is broken beyond repair again, and with Johnny gone, he doubted he would be fixed anytime soon.
pairing — (eventual) simon riley x Arya Vlahos (female oc)
warnings — none for this chapter
word count — 2,188
authors note — here's the long awaited pt. 2 to this universe. thank you all for all the love, and here's to more archangels of the ocean soon! also, please let me know if you want to be on the tag list!
masterlist pt. 1 pt. 3 ao3 link
The walk through the base out to the tarmac was dark, lit only by the cool, soft light of a low-hanging sliver of moon that filtered through the windows. It was getting ever closer to his deadline to 0300, and the faint hum of the military cargo plane idling on the tarmac echoed through the empty base hallways. Of course it was empty. It was damn near 3 o’clock in the morning. However, that didn’t stop the unease from curling tight in the base of Simon’s spine. He had spent his whole life becoming an immovable, unshakable soldier, but the last twelve hours had shaken him in ways he couldn’t even begin to describe, let alone comprehend.
As Simon stepped into the hangar, his eyes were drawn to the small, jet black cargo plane that was idling on the runway in front of him. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before. He hitched up the duffel, trying to alleviate some of the pressure as the canvas strap bit into the muscle of his right trapezius. As his eyes roved over his surroundings, his left fingers came up to adjust his signature skull print balaclava, a small gesture that betrayed his ever growing nerves.
“Lt!”
The sound rang out in the mostly empty hangar, and Simon froze. His heart pounded in his chest, a cold blanket of shock settling over his shoulders. He knew that voice. Had heard it for years at his side, over coms, across the blackhawk aisle. He hadn’t dared to let himself hope. A small flicker of concern whispered in his mind: look at that, Riley. You’re already going crazy. Your father was right.
Slowly, Simon turned his head. And, instead of being met with a ghost, like he was half-expecting, he was met head on by the familiar body of John ‘Soap’ MacTavish sauntering towards him, with Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick following close behind. Simon had never been more grateful for his mask as his cheeks flamed with shock and gratitude.
Soap reached Simon first, clapping a gloved hand on Simon’s shoulder. Soap gave it one firm, grounding squeeze before it dropped back to the strap of his own duffel. “Thought you were gonna sneak off without us,” Soap said, grin bright even under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hangar. “Hell of a way to say goodbye, Lt.”
Gaz snorted as he came up beside them, his breath misting in the cold almost-morning air. “More like hell of a way to say good morning. You were moving through this base like you were chasin’ ghosts.” A beat passed as Gaz looked away for a moment, his gaze surveying the cargo plane they were all expected to board in the next few minutes to ship off to god knows where before it slid back to Simon, a smirk pulling the corner of his lips up. “You walk bloody fast when you’re brooding, Ghost.”
Simon’s shoulders pulled up, just slightly, as Gaz’s teasing words washed over him. It was so familiar in a way that was almost comforting, but after he had spent the hours since the test convincing himself that he was going to be forced to go at this alone, it felt almost… dangerous. “I wasn’t brooding,” Simon replied as he gave Gaz a glare that lacked any sort of heat. “Just following orders.”
Soap’s grinned softened into something far quieter, far more perceptive. “Yeah. We figured.” Soap jerked his chin towards the cargo plane humming patiently thirty feet away from them. “So. Hong Kong. Shatterdome. No big deal, right?”
Simon huffed out a breath, something that could have almost been a laugh if the weight of everything that had happened in the last twelve hours wasn’t suffocating him. “Right.”
For a moment, the three of them simply stood there, a small island of familiar warmth and camaraderie in the cavernous, almost-empty hangar. The hum of the engines vibrated faintly through the floor, a low, steady reminder that everything was about to change the moment they stepped on that ramp. That they would be leaving everything they had ever known behind. Drift compatibility testing was one thing; being shipped out to the Shatterdome was another beast entirely.
Gaz shifted his weight and sighed softly before glancing over at Simon. “You look like someone read your unredacted file in public. Twice.”
“Long day,” Simon stated, keeping his gaze glued to the hulking black body of the cargo plane. It was the barest sliver of truth and nowhere near the whole of it.
“Longer ones ahead, I’d wager,” Gaz replied, but his tone carried a kind of steady assurance, one that could only be forged in the deepest pits of ops-based hell. “Good thing we’re all in this together. Would’ve sucked if we all got split up after all that testing.”
Soap nudged Simon’s elbow with his own. “Unfortunately, you’re not gettin’ rid of us that easily, mate.”
The words hit Simon harder than he was expecting. Less than an hour ago, he had been sitting in his own barracks, trying to convince himself that he would be okay alone. He felt himself swallow. Once. Twice. An instinctual attempt to force back the sudden tightening in his throat. Simon had trained himself his whole life to not rely on people. Trained himself not to want to. And yet, here they were. Soap and Gaz, the two men who had seen him through hell and back and around again, were here, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Simon cleared his throat, forcing the wave of gratitude down. He shifted his weight and tore his gaze away from the awaiting plane to look at the two sergeants standing beside him. “Didn’t expect you two to pass the drift.”
“Oi,” Soap feigned offense, but the lopsided grin pulling up one corner of his mouth betrayed him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Gaz chuckled. “Means he's shocked you’re compatible with anyone, Soap.”
“Damn right,” Simon muttered. Soap punched him in the arm playfully in reply.
The easy bickering, something so familiar and mundane, eased the tightness in Simon’s chest, some knotted coil wound too far. For the first time since the test, he felt grounded, even if he would never admit to it.
Steps rang out from the ramp, pulling all three of the men’s attention. A uniformed tech waved a clipboard in their direction. “Riley! MacTavish! Garrick! Wheels up in five!”
Soap exhaled sharply. “That’s our cue, then.”
Gaz lifted the strap of his duffel, adjusting it higher on his shoulder. “Guess it is.”
Simon looked toward the plane, toward Hong Kong, toward the Shatterdome, toward a future none of them were prepared for but were already hurtling toward all the same. The engines growled, the smell of jet fuel mixing with cold night air, and for a moment everything felt suspended: fear, anticipation, uncertainty, hope.
He drew in a slow breath.
Then he nodded once, decisive, falling back easily into his role as the lieutenant, the man the others looked to for guidance. “Let’s go.”
Soap grinned. Gaz mirrored it, subdued but steady.
The three of them walked up the ramp together.
And for the first time in twelve hours, maybe the first time in years, Simon didn’t feel like he was walking into the unknown alone.
----------
The night sky had passed in a blur outside the plane, inky blackness turning into the mottled pink and yellow of a new sunrise before shifting to the bright yellow and orange of the afternoon. The flight was long, thirteen hours in air, but it passed by quickly. Soap, even with all of his seemingly-endless amounts of energy, was quickly lulled to sleep by the din of the roar of the engines within the first hour. Gaz had set up camp in one of the corner jumpseats, and had fallen asleep an hour or two ago, the book he had brought with him for entertainment left open by his feet where it had fallen out of his hands. There was no paperwork, no last minute briefings, no gear checks.
So, what does a soldier do? They get sleep where they can.
But, sleep had never come easy to Simon. He stayed awake, ever watchful and careful, even as he let his head fall back against the cold fuselage behind his jumpseat. He tried to keep his mind carefully blank, to keep the gnawing uncertainty and fear of the future from biting at his already frayed nerves. Knew that if he fell asleep, the only thing that would meet him would be adrenaline-fueled nightmares with faceless adversaries.
So, he stayed awake while the other two slept.
He felt it before the pilot’s voice even clicked on to crackle through the comms system. They were starting their descent. It was rocky, and, for once, Simon was grateful for the lack of windows as the tight chatter of the pilots echoed through the cavernous body of the plane through the comms. The plane bounced slightly as it came down on the tarmac, skidding to a complete stop as the arresting cable finally caught on the tailhook. Simon sighed as he stood up, his joints aching in protest after being locked in one position for far too long. He rolled his shoulders out as he twisted his neck from side to side, his gaze falling to the two sergeants. He crossed the body of the plane, his steps shaky from lack of movement and the trembling vibration of a jet cooling down.
Simon’s foot nudged Gaz’s as he leaned down to pick up the book that had slipped from the sergeant’s fingers. Gaz stirred, hands coming up to rub at his eyes and squinting against the low red light of the interior of the cargo plane. Simon held the book out wordlessly, and Gaz took it back with a small nod as he stretched. “Bloody hell,” Gaz muttered as he ran a hand down his face. “Flew halfway across the world and still feel like I got hit by a tank.”
Soap groaned as Gaz’s complaint filtered through the cabin, rubbing his hand down his own face as he blinked blearily against the low light. “We there?” Soap asked, his voice thick with sleep-heavy Scottish brogue.
Simon took a step back from Gaz, shifting his gaze to Soap. He nodded once. Deliberate. Tactical. “Touchdown. Hong Kong.”
Soap let out a quiet whistle as he stood up, twisting his body to release the tension and ache that no doubt lingered from the way he had curled up in that jumpseat for the last twelve hours. “Right then. Time to meet the big leagues.”
Gaz snorted as he also stood up before bending down to grab his duffel bag out from under his seat. He shoved the book haphazardly back into the bag before zipping it back up and glancing at Soap, his expression deadpan. “Big leagues? More like big robots and bigger deaths if we fuck this up.”
“Cheery way to start the day,” Simon muttered as he copied Gaz’s movements, grabbing his own duffel and slinging it over his own shoulder. The weight of it was familiar, grounding, but it did little to help ease the coil of nerves that had grown as the plane had taken them further and further away from the TaskForce 141 base, the only true home that Simon had ever known.
Gaz shrugged, one shoulder coming up higher than the other due to the weight of his own duffel. “Just bein’ realistic.”
Before Soap could fire back with something equally irreverent, the hydraulics of the cargo ramp whined, gears clanking as the massive door began to lower. A flood of bright light and humid air surged inward, the warmth immediately clashing with the cool chill inside the plane. The scent of sea salt and jet fuel mingled so sharply that Simon felt it scrape along the inside of his skull.
The Hong Kong Shatterdome stretched out before them like a metal city unto itself. Even from inside the plane, Simon could sense the scale of it: massive hangars, towering cranes, stacked shipping containers, catwalks like spiderwebs suspended over yawning maintenance bays. There was chatter from the PA system, unintelligible from where they stood inside of the plane. His gaze tripped over the exposed body of one of the Jaegers. Even not moving, the sight was impressive. He had seen the pictures, the video clips from the news . None of them came close to standing in its shadow.
Figures moved across the tarmac in disciplined, purposeful lines. Engineers in yellow vests, techs in grease-stained coveralls, officers in crisp uniforms that stood stark against the morning’s first pale light, all moving with purpose and efficiency. It seemed to work like any other military base, which brought a sort of comfort and familiarity to the three men.
As the ramp of the cargo plane finally clanged down to rest on the tarmac, the three men stepped towards it, shoulder to shoulder as always. And at the base of the ramp, waiting like specters, stood two men.
the kindest devil, pt. 1 - simon riley x fem!reader
This is your dead dove: do not eat warning. This first part deals with talks of abuse, murder, familial violence, alcoholism, fauxcest, and implied sexual abuse from an authority figure. it is also worth noting that both Simon and reader are aged down (18 year olds in their last year of high school) THIS IS AN 18+ FIC! please do not read if this will be harmful to your mental health. that is more important to me than anything else.
listen, the brain worms took over. it was supposed to be a quick little drabble but the brainworms demanded a sacrifice and it revolved into this (which isn’t even done). i have so much more planned, i just needed SOME part of this posted before i lost all motivation. pls don’t be afraid to tell me if this sucks. thanks for reading!
word count: 2,373 pt. 2 here masterlist ao3 link
You and Simon were both living with a foster parent, Phil. At first, Phil seemed like the perfect fit for the two most difficult fosters. You both were victims of horrendous circumstances. Simon, a father who murder his younger brother and mother in front of him. You, cursed to be the sole survivor of your own father’s drunken abuse. Phil was strict, but with a gentle hand, able to guide and shape you and Simon into much more upstanding figures of society. In fact, since coming into Phil’s care, you and Simon had seemingly flourished. Both of you had fantastic grades in school, and you were excelling as a singer, a dream you had had since before you even knew what it meant, while Simon had become a top rugby star. On the surface, everything seemed fantastic. Every time the social worker came to check on you and Simon, she always praised Phil when she thought she was out of your earshot, telling him how fantastic he was at bringing you and Simon back to ‘respectable standards of human beings’.
If only she knew.
Simon’s propensity for rugby obscured the damage inflicted by Phil, and you covered your own bruises, burns, scrapes, and whatever other punishment Phil’s sadistic brain could come up with with the baggiest clothes you could find, typically Simon’s rugby sweatshirts. This, in and of itself, has sparked an undercurrent of rumors throughout your peers. Occasionally, you would hear the whispers through the halls as you walked, but Simon, never far behind you, would quiet the muttered conversation of the ‘siblings who fuck each other’ with a quick glare as his hand settled on the small of your back. Whoever was gossiping would quickly find some other topic to occupy their mouth, or they would high tail it in the other direction.
If only they knew.
You and Simon were not actually related. Had never even met before you were both placed in this home three years ago. However, that didn’t stop you from feeling slightly sick as you tiptoed out of the shed, the attic, the wine cellar, the gardens, or wherever you had managed to find momentary reprieve in the dizzying dichotomy of the punishing snap of Simon’s hips against the gentle way he embraced you. No, you weren’t related. But, the little voice still whispered in your ear that it was wrong to do the things you had done together.
Yet, you always found each other right back where you belonged - in the other’s arms. Tonight, however, tonight was different. Phil was out, a rare occasion. He had muttered something about a bar and his mates in passing this morning before pressing a too-sloppy kiss into your lips as you and Simon left for school this morning. Simon had been pissed, all but vibrating with rage as he drove the two of you to school. His hands clenched around the steering wheel in a white-knuckled death grip, his mouth moving slightly as he glared at the asphalt ahead of him, words of vengeance spilling from his lips silently. You knew better than to engage with him as he drove, your own trauma forcing you to freeze. Even though you knew it was Simon, the one man you could guarantee would never harm you, it was still an angry man driving a car, and prior experience, no matter how inapplicable in this specific situation, dictated that the best thing for you to do was freeze, stay silent, unseen.
When Simon parked, he jumped out of the car and ran around to the passengers side, opening the door for you silently, his face still pulled into that dark glare. You slowly got out, avoiding eye contact with him as you hiked your backpack up your shoulder, but no matter how scared you were, you didn’t dare move until you felt Simon’s hand settle onto the small of your back like a security blanket. He led you into the school, where everyone gave you a wide berth, and as soon as you stepped into your first hour class, he had disappeared. You didn’t see him again for the rest of the day, which felt odd. But, you tried to push it from your mind, figuring that he just needed to cool off. Sometimes, when Phil would get really bad, Simon would make sure you were somewhere safe, and then disappear to calm down before he did something that would make his worst fear come true: becoming his own father.
The day passed uneventfully, if not a little blurred. You couldn’t focus on your lessons, your mind consistently wandering to whether or not Simon was okay. After school, you had choir rehearsal, one of the few bright spots in your life. Normally, Simon would’ve waited for you, sitting in the hallway to listen to his little songbird, as he always called you, but he was nowhere to be found. So, one of your friends took you back to Phil’s house, and you silently sighed out a deep breath of relief when you saw Simon’s beat-up black pickup truck in the yard. At least he was safe. You quickly got out of your friend’s sedan, waving bye and promising them that you would go get coffee with them tomorrow, and walked carefully up to the house. You were on high alert, watching out for any sign that Phil was still around, but his car was nowhere to be seen. Thanking any and all of the gods above, you slid your house key into the lock of the front door.
When your feet crossed the threshold of the house, Simon was there, picking you up bridal style, as if you weighed nothing. Without saying a word to the surprised squeak and startled “Simon!” you had let out, he takes the stairs up two at a time, not stopping until he had deposited you into his bed. You bounced slightly, lifting yourself up slightly by leaning back on your elbows to hold Simon’s warm brown gaze, confusion furrowing your brow even as want pooled in your lower stomach.
Seeing the look on your face, his gaze softened slightly, but he quickly looked away. One of his hands came to rest on your ankle as his other hand started to untie the laces of your trainers. He was entirely focused on your shoes, tugging them off with almost reverence. Your socks followed soon after. Then, his hands started to slowly started to trail up your legs, his gaze zeroed in on his hands. That’s when you noticed that his hands were shaking. His hands were shaking.
“Simon,” you tried to get his attention. When his only response was his hands gripping into the meaty flesh of your thighs, a sharp intake of breath punches past your lips. Normally, his touch would never scare you, in fact, you welcomed it like a balm over your tattered soul. But, his behavior from this morning, the shaking of his hands, and the silence were driving you insane with fear. “Simon, c’mon, talk to me. You’re… you’re scarin’ me.”
As soon as you said that he was scaring you, his head snapped up, his brown eyes wide with concern and guilt. He pulled his hands away from your thighs, and you felt an instant pang of abandonment as the contact was broken. You sat up fully on Simon’s bed, concern clouding your expression as you leaned ever so slightly towards him, desperate to close the distance between the two of you. Simon did not share your sentiment, as he took a step back from you, running his hand through his hair frustratedly as a sound that can only be described as a frustrated growl reverberated from between his plush lips.
“I hate him,” Simon muttered, not looking at you.
“I know,” you replied simply. You were still trying to catch his gaze, trying to decode his emotions, even as he stubbornly kept his eyes away from you.
Simon shook his head, his mouth pinching together for a brief moment before his gaze met yours. There was something about you. No matter how much anger, or hatred, or stress seared through Simon’s veins, just one look at you was able to melt it all away. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, closing the distance between you. His hands fell to your hips, his thumbs digging ever so slightly into the plush flesh. “I just… I could kill him. I know I could, but…”
“You’re afraid of becoming your father,” you finished, your eyes searching his.
His eyes fell shut, his plush lips pressed into a thin line as he nodded slightly. He looked so defeated, as if he was doomed by his very existence to become a carbon copy of his father. Your hands fell to where Simon’s were digging into the soft curve of your hip, and you squeezed his hands tightly. “Listen to me, Simon. You could never be your father. No matter what. You are good. The best man I’ve ever met, that’s for damn sure.”
Simon’s eyes darkened as your hands squeezed his, and when you say that he’s ‘the best man you’ve ever met’, something in him snapped. His right hand left your hip, immediately coming up to your chin to draw your face impossibly closer to his. “Most the men you know are devils, darling. Just because I’m the kindest of ‘em all, don’t mean I ain’t a devil,” he rebuked, his words low and full of a dark promise. His calloused thumb brushed over your soft lower lip, pulling it open slightly. “If I weren’t a devil, I wouldn’t let myself touch you like this, hmm, love?”
His words made your head spin, your small hand coming up to grasp his wrist, fingers unable to enclose it entirely. Simon glances down at your feeble attempt to grab onto him and smirks, his hazelnut eyes glinting darkly with the promise of making sure you never truly forget how much of a devil he could be. His eyes met yours, his pupils so obscenely blown that the warm brown of his iris was completely swallowed by inky blackness as he slowly pressed his large thumb between your lips, the rough digit scraping against your tongue, forcing it down further into your mouth. You gazed up at him, your eyes shining with submission, and if anyone was looking close enough, something that could be mistaken for love. Maybe he was a devil, but if he was, he was yours.
“Such a pretty angel for me, hmm?” Simon rasped out, his voice rough and low. “C’mon baby, you know what to do. Show me what that perfect fuckin’ mouth can do, huh?”
Your eyes rolled back a little at his words, the way they washed over you like a warm blanket. The heat that had been building in your gut since Simon had manhandled you into his bed suddenly flared to life as you hollowed your cheeks out around his thumb and sucked. A long, resounding groan of pleasure tumbling from Simon’s plush, chapped lips was your reward as his fingers brushed against your cheek lovingly. “‘Atta girl,” he breathed out, stroking against your tongue for a moment before he pulled his appendage out with a wet pop. A thin line of your saliva connected his thumb to your lower lip. You stared at it for a moment before your gaze flicked back up to his, a teasing smirk settling onto your mouth as you bit down on your lower lip, something that had always drove Simon crazy.
He groaned in slight annoyance, but the sound is undeniably pleasure-filled. His head fell back for a moment, almost as if he was fighting against himself. But, before you could beg, let alone blink, he was already surging forward, his massive frame pressing you back down to his bed as his hot, hungry mouth found yours. It’s all tongue and teeth and desperation as he licked into you, the sound of your moans mingling in the air together as his hands trailed up your sides underneath his rugby sweatshirt. “You in my fuckin’ sweater, eh?” he teased against your lips as his thumb and forefinger captured your nipple between them, rolling the sensitive nub in a way that made you see stars.
“Simon-“ you gasped out in response as your back arched off of the bed, closing the little distance that was between you and him. He chuckled darkly as his head tipped into the junction between your shoulder and neck, his fingers still providing delicious torture to your nipple. It felt like every fiber of your being was set aflame as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your throat.
“Such a wonderful fuckin’ body, love. Perfect. Perfect for me. My beautiful angel,” Simon muttered against your skin before he bit down into it, eliciting a sharp noise of pleasure to burst past your lips. His broad, warm tongue soothed over the mark that he left slowly, forcing a whine out from between your lips. He smirked against the thin, delicate skin of your throat as he pressed a few more lazy kisses into you, his hands finally moving to your other nipple, tugging at the sensitive rosy bud just enough to make a long, wanton moan erupt from your throat. “That’s it, baby. Lemme hear you,” he encouraged, his lips slowly trailing down your neck as his hands push his rugby sweatshirt up further, completely exposing your chest to the cold air of the house.
His mouth clamped around the nipple that he had just tugged, sucking at a languid pace that had you spasming beneath him, torn between wanting more and pushing him away. He chuckled against the plush softness of your chest, one of his large hands going to your hip to pin you against the bed as his knee came between your legs to press up into your core, giving you the delicious friction he knew you needed.
You were getting lost in each other, bodies moving together in sinful synchrony, a mess of lips, teeth, and spit. You got so lost in each other that you didn’t even hear the click of the gun being cocked. In fact, you didn’t hear anything after the bullet ricocheted around the room.
things i've researched so far for my tf141 x pacific rim fic... (a non-exhaustive list that will be added to)
where is guam
where is the mariana trench
where is challenger deep
how far can a blackhawk fly
how long is a flight from heathrow to hong kong (answer: 12.5 hours - WAY more than i was expecting lol until i looked at a map and felt immeasurably stupid)
can planes idle (i’m still not sure but i think yes)
so… i’m writing the second chapter of archangels of the ocean (my pacific rim au with tf141), but i honestly am really struggling with the reader insert part of it. i’ve never written a fanfic with an OC, but i have written multiple “traditional” fiction pieces, and i think that feels more comfortable for me with this story. so, i guess i have a question for yall.
would you read archangels of the ocean if it was a simon riley x oc fic?
yes!!!
no!!!
i literally don’t know what you’re talking about/just wanna see results
