Ghost Riley X Reader - Tumblr Posts

May i ask what you think about Helen comforting-being there for Simon if he happens to have nightmares of his past and memories? i have this headcanon that he probably does have them given what has happened to the poor man so i wondered if you would ever consider doing something like that? :)

i am so sorry i took so long to answer this one, anon. i thought i could incorporate it into something, but alas it didn’t mesh well. but he 100% has them. and this is just something small of what i think could be.

simon ghost riley x f!reader (helen)

_____________

they first time he has one around her, it’s on base. her eyes full of sleep, lashes heavy as he wakes to murmuring and twitching. it takes her longer than she cares to admit—but then she touches him, hand to his chest, her other doing it’s best to slide under his balaclava, but it’s tight, so fucking tight, and he’s panicking—

his hand grabs her wrist. making it appear more dainty than it is in his grip. his chest rising and falling, all in quick succession—but it’s his eyes, swarming with darkness and disillusion.

“you’re okay…” ghost… simon. she’s not sure which of them is the one in peril. mainly, she knows how pitiful, and stupid her words were.

she’s not even sure why she lets the words escape, but she does. and he does seem to take a breath. does lessen his hold on her wrist.

he doesn’t talk about it, and she doesn’t ask. giving him space in the small bed they’re somehow sharing—letting him come round as he needs to, until his arm scoops around her waist, returning her flush against him.

sometimes they’re worse.

the one she can recall the easiest is at his place—his cries and groans rocking the house, never mind the bed. she’d been yanked from her sleep, her hand flicking on the light, half-jumping to conclusions before she saw simon, her simon.

the yellow touch of the light didn’t wake him. her eyes pinned to him, watching him somewhat thrashing, fists clenched and knuckles white. his words were twisted, messed up and hard to translate, her teeth biting her lip as she places her hand on his cheek.

a touch so similar to the one she’d give him when it’s just the two of them. simon and helen. helen and ghost. it would take a second, her palm flush with it before his breathing changed. a flicker of something.

if that didn’t work, she thought, she’d run her nails through his hair, she’d place her hand on his chest, his side—

but his eyes flip open, cold, distant—empty. they’re darker too, swirling with night and pain.

something inside of her unfurls. her anguish at seeing him like this bleeds, pooling inside of her, as vines from it begin wrapping around her insides—pulsing and tightening.

“i’m here.”

that’s all she can say, knowing him—knowing he needs to come around on his own. he needs a moment to give his brain the chance to touch reality. he blinks, adjusting—taking in that this isn’t a dream or a horrid nightmare. the walls of it crumbling, disappearing as the room comes to him.

she tried to say more, but it would be lost on him. his brain too tired and wound up to undo it all anyway. she knows him. she knows he wouldn’t want to be smothered.

it’s why she doesn’t take offence when he leaves the bed, the room—shutting the door behind him. he has a process, a way of working through things she won’t ever fathom—but he doesn’t understand hers either. her little things that keep her in reality and not off in some dark thought that envelops her.

silence ebbs at her, the room suddenly feeling larger, the air changed. the bed doesn’t feel as comfortable without him. but she remains, sliding her hand over the light to turn it off, grabbing her phone.

she reads until the door opens, him slowly entering—breath normal, hands occupied by mugs.

“did i hurt you?”

her heart drops, plummets. taking the mug, she shakes her head. “no.” hating that he even needs to ask.

she told him once before temperature would help. it would root him, remind him he’s awake and alive. since, he always get a drink—but he never drinks it. either a cold glass of water in his palm or a steaming hot drink. she further helps by tapping her nails against whatever drink she’s offered—something low, almost annoying.

in time, he’ll stop her. either placing his hand over hers, making her stop. this time he sits next to her, shooting her a glare. one she shoot’s back until be shakes his head.

“you good?”

“i’m good.”

he never wants to talk about it.

and she’ll never want to push.

she just waits until he asks her to come closer or just moves her, letting him do so until she’s where he needs her to be. just the same as he lets her when she’s had a bad night—or day.

I am excited for ghost and helen car ride 👀 we need more sass and snark hehe

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!Reader (Helen!Reader)

an: just a little something for a Saturday 🚘

He doesn’t elaborate on why he’s here instead of Soap, not when he loads the car, not even when the tyres hit the open road.

No explanation provided an hour in or after your two’s pit-stop-fuck. It niggled, tightened in the back of your mind that he was keeping things from you that he could tell you. Something he promised he’d never to do.

But then, you equally had promised not to put yourself in danger, and here you were accepting a mission not necessary for a medic.

You had ways of pulling information from Ghost, and even ways of retrieving it from Simon.

Both begin in the same way, following a similar pattern: indifference. You lull him into believing telling you would be better than whatever the fuck you’re doing. A bribe, an exchange.

Your chosen play was to keep messing with the radio volume and station until it wound him up. Watching his eyes dart in your direction, even if you never met them. His hips shifted periodically, making your eyes stare at the thighs you’d between your own only hours ago.

That was his play—his line of defence: his ridiculous body and his ridiculous way of knowing every inch of yours.

Except, he’d played his hand too soon. Your knickers are still in his pocket, and his cum is still very much inside of you. So, you turned the volume up another two notches, wondering how tight his jaw was under the thin fabric on his face.

You can’t assume you’re getting to him.

That’s how you fail. But, the volume is piercing your ears, so you have to wonder if it is for him. The songs neither of you know blaring, filling the small space with sounds both irritating to you, and him.

So, naturally, you turn it up again. Almost pulling your hand back when his wraps around yours, gripping it with enough purpose to tell you you’re getting to him—but not enough to hurt.

“You not like that song?”

“Enough, Helen. For fuck sake.”

You grin, keeping score as the sun sets. The ambient temperature lessens as the breezes rushes through both of your open windows. Allowing clothes to fall away from damp skin as the low light catches the metal in the car and the metal on his left hand—the evidence of your cover.

A story not far from the truth. One you’d supposed to be spinning with Soap, and not your actual lover.

Soap would also have been bare faced.

“I’d have been fine with Soap, if that’s what you were worried about.”

His hands tightens on the steering wheel. “Wasn’t worried.”

“And, as good as his singing is, it wouldn’t have swayed me from your broody nature. In case, you’re jealous that he’d get to spend two to three days with me.”

He shoots you a glare—eyes standing out due to the lack of paint around them. The same ones you see when he’s bare to you, all walls down, and willing to let you in.

Pieces of truth slide into place in front of your eyes, the puzzle almost readable—almost identifiable.

“How you going to be explain the balaclava, hubby?”

You watch for him tensing at the affectionate name. He doesn’t. If anything, he doesn’t react at all. Likely knowing it’s what you want—that right now the best the two of you have is fighting and fucking to make up for it.

He won’t tell you what’s wrong, and you’re already bored of him being difficult.

“Tell them I’m ugly. Warn ‘em I’m doing them a favour by keepin’ it on.”

You smirk, letting your head roll back on the seat as the breeze whips your hair around your neck. “Next to me, they won’t believe that.”

“Bit full of yourself, Helen.”

“If I remember, I’ma bit full of you.”

“Watch it.”

Snorting, you roll your head to look at him. “Or what? You’ll pull over and stuff more of yourself in me… cause I’ll tell you now, Simon. I’d like that too much for it to be a punishment.”

“You’re something else.”

“It’s why you married me, remember?”

“Engaged, Helen,” he snarls, and your eyes narrow at his side-profile and his tone.

Because you know that, know that the two of you haven’t quite crossed that line just yet. But for this… you’re married. A lie that you’ll need to spin when you reach the end of this particular half of the journey.

You almost saying that, it fermenting on the tip of your tongue.

But his hand takes yours again, clutching it, weaving his bare fingers in between yours. And you let the words die, wilt and fade. Beginning to maybe see what may have been bothering him.

Maybe.

happy valentine's day, jo ❤️ for the #mmvalentinesevent can i request "carding your fingers through your lover’s hair after a bad nightmare" with ghost and helen please? love you, babes!!

sometimes, i dream

simon ‘ghost’ riley x f!reader [helen!reader]

Some nights, he falls asleep dreaming of nothing.

In others, the black space behind his eyes comes alive with all the failings—the blood, the loss, the sights. Sometimes they’re accurate depictions, a flashback, a reminder; sometimes they’re heightened, a lie created by the fears he carries.

He never knows when they’ll come, when they’ll crash into him, and when they do…

Nightmares pull Ghost under. The mask he applies so perfectly is yanked from his face, leaving him exposed—leaving him with Simon.

Simon has scars that are different to the ones Ghost has. Ones that aren’t on skin level, but far beneath the surface.

They choke him. They force strangled noises passed his lips as the darkness wraps around his throat. It unfurls inside of him. Needing to wake, needing to escape—

“Simon…”

It drips into his ear, calls to him: her voice.

An outline of her stepping like the brightest light into the peripheral of his dream. It’s something, but not quite enough. Needing more, internally pleading with her.

Save me. Help me.

“Shh, Simon. I’m here.”

She’s more corporeal. Pushing through the shadows of his guilt, trying to reach him, desperately fighting against memories and failures and—

“Baby, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

Her nails brush through his hair as he dances between dreams and being awake. He knows them so well. A feeling he treasures and craves.

Her fingers, those healing hands, push past his slightly-too-long hair. Likely feeling the damper parts from his nightmare. Her nails occasionally scrape against his scalp, cementing him here and not wherever his mind keeps trying to take him.

Ghost flicks his eyes open. His sight meeting darkness, but not the same type his mind had conjured. This darkness has familiar shapes and calming shadows. It has outlines that make him relax.

It’s why all he does is stare.

Finding her eyes, even in the dark of the night. Needing them, having them guide him back to normal breathing.

He should admit it—tell her—that the mere whisper of his name had yanked him free of his nightmares hands. That when she repeated it again, it unlodged the grip around his lungs; untangled the knot in his stomach, and allowed his heart to thump again.

But when she called him baby... when her beautiful lips let those four letters slip out into the air—it had pulled him back to her.

Pulled him from sandy deserts, where there were screams of people he could have saved and his palms soaked with blood that wasn't his.

It’s why he stares at her like she is the sun. Because she is his sun. She lights him, both his world and his skin. She spreads warmth, even amongst the places he never thought he’d feel it again. Her smile, similar to the sunniest of days—makes everything okay, even when it couldn’t be further from it.

She has cloudy days, thunderstorms and rain, too. He knows she does. Has pulled her from them and brought her close to him.

He guesses she's returning the favour. Pull him close to her, feeling his panicked breath on her chest until he soothes and coats her skin in quick thank yous.

He will, thank her. For now, he slides his hand over her forearm, squeezing—letting her know he’s back, he’s here. A silent gratitude, one she must hear loud and clear because she drops the softest, sweetest kiss to his brow.

“Would you still love me if I was a rock, Simon?”

And he feels it before he acknowledges it: a smile.

The way it spreads like wildfire across his face. The way his mind wants to articulate some sarcastic comment, letting go of the last tendrils of his nightmare with ease.

She’s good. He thinks quickly—almost tempted to slide his palm up and feel her smirk. Using distraction.

“I’d carry you in my pocket. Maybe throw you at Johnny when he’s pissin' me off.”

She laughs the most beautiful sound, one which lulls him without trying. “You wouldn’t need to aim, either. I’ll always find the spot to hurt him. Just for you.”

He grips her arm a little tighter, thumb brushing in swipes. “S’why you’re too good for me,” he whispers, the words barely kissing the air.

“One day you’ll believe we deserve one another.”

He snorts, imagining the smile she's wearing at his grunt.

He just feels the most comfortable silence fall over them. Enough to make him close his eyes as her head meets his shoulder. Warmth spreads over him as her skin touches his.

He’s almost not afraid to try and sleep again.

Not with her by his side, his lips brushing her forehead, his hand remaining on her forearm—rooting himself with her.

an: i know this was supposed to be sweet and romantic, @halfmoth-halfman so i hope this is okay that i took it a little… angstier. loves ♥️

the effect you have

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader

(helen!reader/ medic!reader)

wc: 2.5k warnings: helen and simon post proposal as things shift for helen. bit of angst, bit of fluff, bit of reader struggling, mainly softer!ghost. summary: ghost enjoys how you always look up at him like he’s something special—like he matters.  it’s evolved and transformed in time. a softer look in your eyes now when you stare at him, your hand gripping his cheek

simon ghost riley masterlist

You remembered when he had ignored you like he hated you. 

Doing so intentionally as if proving to himself that it meant nothing outside of the moments he pulled you into dark corners.

Even if it was he who lifted the mask—brushed his chapped lips over your neck, blew his breath over your skin until it prickled and raised.

It meant something now.

Seeing the evidence of it as you remove your gloves—eyes catching the ring he placed on your left hand. It had meant something for longer than it had been there, pulsing around the two of you. 

When he’s not on base, your memories are what keep you warm until he returns. Remembering how his bare fingers had felt fanned over your hip, the sound of how his slow breaths had filled the air, darkness blanketing the room as you wished the night never ended. 

You’re growing tired of spending more hours away from him than together. Not just because you miss him, but because you’re tired, drained…

There’s a calmness Ghost feels when you’re close.

As though, by seeing you, he doesn’t need to look for you or wonder if you’re safe, if you’re unharmed and your heart is beating. 

He doesn’t believe it when people tell him—he has to see it. He needs to. Otherwise, the little voice grows louder until it’s shouting, shrieking and using his skull as a hammer. 

It’s different when he’s alone with you. Then, he likes how you look when you’re under him. 

Ghost enjoys how you always look up at him like he’s something special—like he matters. 

It’s evolved and transformed in time. A softer look in your eyes now when you stare at him, your hand gripping his cheek—or on his shoulder—when he curls his fingers inside you. 

He relishes in watching you come apart. He likes knowing it’s him that’s doing it—that he gets to for as long as there’s air in his lungs, and you’ll have him. 

Simon likes that he barely has to lift his mask over his nose before your lips find his—hungrily, desperately like you crave him. As though you want to consume and be consumed. 

Almost like you don’t understand that you’d consumed him so long ago. You’d left a hole in him that added to the many others. 

It was just that yours could be filled—and filled it was, when Ghost managed to hold you again. When years ran their course, and you were there, showering the air with your laugh, smile and wit. 

He thinks he’ll deserve you. Ponders over it when you're lying in front of him, thinking how you’re a literal piece of art when you’re spread in front of him. When your limbs are bare, there’s the lightest sheen on your skin. 

He knows every curve, every scar. He knows the feel of every part of your body. He knows how your smile feels under his thumb and the tears under his knuckles. 

Every part of you, every emotion—he’s seen. He’s held you close and pulled you even closer. He’s watched you fall apart and placed shards of you back into place. 

Not out of obligation, but need—want. 

The same as you do to him, for him. Both of you have become excellent puzzlers over the years. Each time he’s been granted the pleasure of fucking you, he’d committed it. Written over what he managed to mentally absorb, ensuring he has the perfect render of you living in his dreams. 

Ghost still did it now, even though now you’re his. You chant it like a prayer when he pulls you close.

Yours. Yours. Yours. 

His beacon—the light that leads him. You’re his moon, his sun—the thing he never wanted to orbit but does all the same. He won’t admit it. Not a whisper of it. Not any of that or that you’re his escape, a welcomed retreat. Something dangerous in the day and sweeter at night. 

He’s always loved that about you. That when the day is done, your walls come down. The fire inside of you slowly smothered so people could get close. He’d walk through your flames if they ever rose around him, storm through until he stared at the soul in the middle. 

He wouldn’t lose you again. 

Wouldn’t squander the chance of being loved by you.

It’s why his eyes linger on the ring on your finger. The one that had been a welcomed weight in his vest, but suits being on your hand even more. 

The hand which is splayed across his stomach, the sun slowly rising, shimmering its orange hue across his base room. 

“I can hear you thinking, Simon.” 

His lips twitch as he closes his eyes. Wanting another minute, another hour, another day. 

“Go back to sleep.”

You look for him in your nightmares. 

The ones which happen nightly, more frequently than they’ve ever done. 

Your hands are dripping with cherry red, the sound of a flatline being the soundtrack until he arrives. You expect him, need him—practically call for him even if your dream-lips don’t part, and your dream-chords don’t scream. You wish for him, secretly plucking a chord for him to arrive. 

And he does. 

Whether it’s his projection appearing to pull you from the darkness, no mask on his face as the shadows and smoke swirl around his boots. Whether it’s his hand spraying across your body, pulling you back to the physical world. 

He saves you, over and over.  

Your map home, your light, your reason. 

Sometimes he feels he can keep you safe.

He pulls you from your dreams, when you’re sweating, shaking and whimpering. He holds you when your eyes mist over, your light flickering as he guides you to the shower, watching crimson wash down the drain. 

Other times, he wonders if he’s imprisoned you—shackled you to a life he can’t protect you from. 

Irrespective of him, you’re in the centre of danger—a member of 141, all the same. Your hands keep the team together, doing your bit to keep the wheels turning and the operations ticking. 

He has no part to play in you still being here. That’s a choice you make, and one he has nothing but respect for. But it’s outside of that. 

When he watches you trace his scars in a shoddy bed or when you say nothing but tighten your fingers when the two of you walk down a street, off duty. It’s those moments he wonders if he’s trapped you—made you carry his fears, carry the weight of his grief. 

Doubt rears its head then, smothering over nicer moments as he wonders if the past will take away his future. Whether he’s condemned you to a half-life because there’s only half of him left. 

He feels it when there’s a noise in the darkness. The flat the two of you live in groaning and creaking—whether it's the pipes or the floorboards. It grips his heart, and makes him kick his legs from the sheets. A need to keep you safe, to protect. 

There are times you find him, sleep in your eyes, weariness in your bones as you take his forearm and pull him back to bed. Others, he returns to find you curled in on yourself, a need to pull you close, feeling your warmth smother over him as he tries to close his eyes. 

That same feeling roars when he’s running through the dirt, kicking up dust, yanking his comms from his ears. He hears you call for someone through the comms, your whimper, your pleading. 

Ghost knows why you don’t call for him. He’s the reason you don’t—his silent request you abide without ever being asked. 

And that fills him with fury, the fear exploding into a panicked rage that would give him the strength to tear whoever came in his way. He’d rip through it, them—whatever attempted to stop him, person, moment, world—in two. 

Something in him taking over, the killer in him, the Ghost. That part of him dispatching one after the other as they fall, allowing Simon to hunt for his Helen. 

You’ve been hurt before. Too many times for his liking. He’s stroked his fingers over the scars, and traced them with the tip of his tongue. His ears have captured whimpers that turned into moans. He should be used to it, but he never is.

The twist in his chest at the sight of you on the floor, knocked back from an explosion you should never have been near. Still, your eyes land on his. Finding him—seeking him. Lips parted, hand to the back of your head—

Even concussed, you look for him. 

A sight and thought which renders him breathless. Something which stirs in him, making him find you, even in the middle of an operation. He’d do what he needed to do, take the lives that were necessary, and collect or extract what was required of him before.  

It’s what you’d want. And he’s also nothing but dedicated to the cause. But after, when the main objective is complete, he will begin his second. You curl into him, finding the spot you usually have when the two of you are alone—pulling you close, not caring about the odd looks, as he lifts you easily. 

“Keep your blood in you, Helen.” “Roger that, Ghost.”

Your eyes flick over him as though unsure if you’re dreaming or in reality. Keeping them on him, your training appearing—the usual thing you tell those who you’re taking care of:

Eyes on me. Do not close them.

He doesn’t need to tell it to you, doesn’t need to remind you of your famous words—you’re doing it already. Continuing to do so until you’re in a bed in your own workplace—a machine beeping, white bandages covering you where necessary. 

Sometimes he feels he can save you. Sometimes he feels he’s always too late. 

It’s gnawing. 

Worsening, as you call another time of death again. 

Like you have done constantly since the 141 had managed to hijack space on another base. Your expertise is needed in the medical area, watching more light fade from eyes than your heart can handle. The death is more constant than you’re used to. 

Your hands are good, but not great; your brain is quick, but not quick enough. 

Confidence wavering, determination squandered. 

In truth, it’s the damage, the injuries too severe. But your mind is a liar, a cage of deceit that reminds you you’re not good at what you do. That you lose, over and over again…

The reason he’s so good—why he can and used to work alone—is that he notices things.

Ghost spots things, the tiny flicker of reflection, the tyre marks, the kicked-up sand and oddly placed buildings when they scan satellite images. 

It’s why he knows you’re running on nothing. Something has changed inside of you. Something had been broken—ripped in two and left dangling, withering in your chest where hope once was. 

Often, a break helped. You mended and sowed yourself back together with the same magical hands you save lives with. But the last two-week break at home didn’t do that. Your body was small, curled up in bed for reasons he didn’t like. The smile he loves to bottle stares at him, all forced and different at the edges. 

He should have asked, but feelings aren’t his strength. He fixes, builds and repairs…

Ghost isn’t sure how to fix this. How to heal you. So he doesn’t, even if he should. 

A part of him praying you’ll blink one day on base, and he’ll see the embers in your eyes. His prayers are unanswered, watching more of your fire being taken, more of your body slumping, a tiredness sleep couldn’t fix. 

“Think we should buy a house.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, holding your hand in your office. Tired of watching you dwindle, shrink and wane. Forcing his way into your office, just like he always does. He waits for the usual smirk, pauses for it. Watching as he finds a soft smile there instead, replacing what he usually knows.

He’ll take it. 

Fuck, he’d take anything you gave him. Forever lucky to have a speck of you, never mind all of you.

Rolling your hand between his gloves, he doesn’t miss how you sigh contently. “Somewhere quiet. A fixer-upper.”

“You gonna be fixing it up?” 

Smiling, he looks at you. 

Does so until the seconds bleed into a minute, watching the walls come down—the sheet of pretence—watching that tiredness return. The one you try to hide, but he sees all the same. 

“Think y’could do with a project.”

“You do, huh?”

He grips your hand a little tighter, more purposeful. “It’s alright that sometimes enough, is enough. Y’know?” 

He watches as you bite the inside of your lip, blinking—a shimmer growing in your eyes as you try to hold it all back. He studies you and keeps his eyes fixed until you sweep your tongue across your bottom lip. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Casper.” 

He nods, loosening his grip begrudgingly on your hand before he pulls it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your skin. Savouring the softness, feeling your ring under his thumb, before he lets it go, watching you, watch him. 

“You remember when you used to hate me?”

“Never hated you.”

Smirking, you fold your arms. Keeping your left hand—the one which sparkles—on the top. On display.

“Jus’ wanted to keep you safe.” 

Your smirk drops, blending into a smile, as your head tilts and you let out a heavy breath. “I prefer how you keep me safe now than you did then.” 

He knows. Feels it too. Has kept you safe differently since he had you back then he did before. Then it was about keeping you out, now it's about keeping everyone else away.

Swallowing, he nods, picking up his balaclava from your desk, turning it in his hands as he stares at you. “Me too.” 

You drop your eyes, shoulders sinking as he stands from the chair. It creaks, the noise disrupting the quiet of the small room the two of you are hiding in as he begins to put his balaclava on. 

“Simon…”

He halts, the fabric coming down to his nose as you lean forward, pressing your lips to his before wiping a finger to remove any chapstick from his lips. 

“You should ask Soap to be your best man.” 

Snorting, he shakes his head. “Not a fuckin’ chance, Helen.” 

The fabric coming down over his face, the Ghost smothering over Simon as your fingers help slide the bottom into his top. 

“I need to cut your hair when you’re back.”

"Thought y'said you're not doing that anymore."

Shrugging, your hand cups his fabric-covered cheek, his head turning, pressing his lips against it as he watches something light in your eyes. 

“Be safe, need you back with me if we’re doing house viewings, Casper.” 

He smirks, hoping you can see it, lifting his hand up, showing one finger, then four, then three. 

Simon was about to make another cut on the man's already maimed face when the phone rang up.

“Would you look at that ?” He smiled, his grin cocky as he flashed your caller Id, saved lovingly as Babe, a red heart too. The man in question had eyes puffed and bruised beyond vision and Ghost only relished in the torture.

“Now keep your pathetic excuse of a mouth shut while I talk to my sweet love.” His words were dagger sharp, glaring as he wiped his hands, bloodied and bruised.

“Baby !” You chirped on the phone, Ghost smiled, heart melting at your voice.

“Haven't you slept yet darling, come on, it's past your bedtime.” He teased you, you whined, scoffing at bedtime.

“I can't sleep without you.” You whispered softly in the phone, Simon cocked his head as the man, tied and on the edge to death whimpered, his expressions hardened and he brought a finger to his mouth, Simon shaked his head at the man, making a throat slashing sign, the man clamped his mouth shut, a sob dying in his beaten throat.

“I am coming home to my sweetheart, with icecream if you be a good girl.” He added with soft chuckle, Simon bit his lips when he heard you giggle on the other side.

“Be quick, I am waiting.” You purred, he was sure you pouted and he so, so wanted to kiss your lips, softly and delicately, like you were made to be cared for.

Simon reluctantly ended the call, kissing the screen as if it were your face, finally turning with devilish look in his eyes.

“Would you like mint chocolate or strawberry ?” He asked, flexing a gun in his slender hands, the man was shaking his head profusely, sobbing almost, trying to free himself.

“Didn't you hear bastard ?” Simon snarled, the man winced, " she can't sleep without me so you better be quick."

“Mi...mi...min...” He stumbled against his words, wincing at every second.

“Too bad.” Simon said nonchalantly, pulling the trigger, “M' sugar likes strawberry more.”

Part 2

Masterlist

" It's okay baby, leave him." You grabbed Simon's hand, too big against yours but the effect wasn't, his gaze softened when he met yours, you had seen the murderous glare he gave that man.

" But—"

" he doesn't deserve it babe, c'mon, let's not ruin our date." You hopped on your feet, dragging him with you not that you could but he simply allowed himself, squeezing your hand gently as he leaned to kiss each knuckle.

" You're an angel." Simon smiled, his eyes filled with warmth as he carried the books along.

" and you're my angel ! " You grabbed his collar, pulling him in a kiss, you were almost sure that Simon was going to kill him, but Simon didn't pick up fights, never when you told him not to, he kept out of trouble. Angel

" Ofcourse." Simon peppered, glancing at the other lane but the man who ' accidentally ' grabbed your butt was gone.

—

Simon was reluctant but it has to be done, he took your arm that was wrapped around him and placed it on the pillow, sliding away as his foot touched the cold floor, how much he just wanted to be wrapped in your warmth and smell, you looked extra angelic when you were asleep. He pressed down a kiss on your forehead, sighing deeply.

He didn't like lying to you but you were just too good of a girl, always forgiving, always nice, always angel and these fuckers, they just didn't deserve any of it. He locked the door as he made his way to his workshop, humming along a song you liked very much, thinking about making pancakes for you tommorow.

The workshop was dark with it's steel and iron, he didn't bother to light it up as he pulled a vase aside, revealing a switch he turned up, a creaking noise followed and small space opened down the floor, revealing a steep staircase.

He heard it, his heart relished as he did, the sobbing was like music, Simon descended down the stairs, a smirk plastered to his face

" Hi Bastard" He opened the lights, the man in question squeezed his eyes, his whole body bleeding with ropes too tight against his naked body.

" ple...plea.. please." He croaked, Simon made sure to keep his mouth open because how wonderful it would be to scream and scream and have no one to hear, blood brilliant.

Simon grabbed a nail, placing it between the bruised man's knuckles, he had duct taped his wrist to a table.

" oops." Simon said nonchalantly, as the man screamed with his dry throat, the hammer striking on his middle finger on instead.

" ... please...I be..g " he was howling, Simon shaked his head, looking at the nail that was yet to be penetrated.

" My girl is very soft you know, very sensitive my cupcake." He said, placing sharp edge of the nail on his index finger, looking into his eyes while the man cried back in horror, " I understand that was an accident."

" sorry...so..AHAH ! " He shrieked when the hammer hit the nail, blood splashing out.

" you touched her with these filthy fingers, didn't you ? " Simon sighed, his eyes glinted when the man broke into a cry, big tears mixing with blood as the came down his pathetic face.

" perhaps it was the left hand, don't you think ? " He perked up, the man shaked his head profusely, throat unable to form a scream as Simon shifted his gaze to the left hand, " Oh, you think so too." Simon whispered it down, revealing a box full of nails.

Masterlist

Simon didn't call you his naughty-naughty girl for no reason, it was like —you were. Always teasing and bratty, riling him up until he could bear no longer and has to teach you a good lesson.

That day was no exception, you already hit the first step when you decided on a red dress that did the best for your curves.

While Simon did his best to get as much hands on you wherever he can but —

“Oh Simon baby, have some decency.” You frowned, when one of the older woman looked at the way your husband's hand was resting on your ass, almost kneading your dress to wrinkles.

“Behave Mr. Riley.” you already knew about the effect these words had on him and if you didn't, the tenting erection that he meanly pressed against your hip was one solid job.

“Give me some time with my friends Mr. Riley.” You pouted, kissing his cheek and tracing down a finger from his chest to his navel, twinkling eyes.

Simon growled and watched as you teased him some more, not so accidentally running your hand over his thigh under the table, calling him Mr. Riley again and again, watching with your most devouring smirk while he fumed up with tension.

Then it could've been nice of you if you didn't slap his hand away when he slipped between your legs, pushing back your chair and eyeing him deliberately.

“Sorry, jus' gonna use the restroom.” You said, to all of your friends but specially to Simon who glared with his hands empty, such a naughty-naughty girl.

So when women's restroom banged opens, belt unbuckling as soon as he grabbed you, riding up your dress, it was time for a lesson.

Masterlist