sunlightandprayers

Latest Posts by sunlightandprayers

childhoodbsf!simon who eventually turns into fwb!simon and inevitably breaks your heart.

warnings : angst(y), mentions of sex but not very detailed, written on iPhone and not proofread

──────────୨ৎ───────────

it happened so naturally.

ever since that blond-haired boy moved across the street from you, and helped you draw a princess maze with pink chalk on the asphalt of the quiet street.

ever since you’d giggled as he dragged you to the little forest at the back of your yard—offering you an entire-day adventure and granting him a respite from the smothering walls of his house.

ever since he’d decided to call you sunshine, because that’s simply what you were to him. his sacred light in the dark storm cloud of his childhood.

ever since then, simon riley had become your very best friend. platonic soulmates, you’d called it.

⸝⸝

it had stuck for a while.

until college and the military rolled around, and suddenly your eyes were yearning for him nearly as often as your fragile heart.

suddenly, it didn’t feel so platonic.

there was still this easiness, that was undeniable—you still trudged into the tattoo shop with him every other month or sometimes week, watching as the needle danced across his thick biceps the same way your fingers longed to.

you still let your head loll on simon’s lap as he forced yet another painfully boring movie on you.

he still pushed your thighs apart and muffled his face in your tummy when you rioted and a romcom ended up playing on his obnoxiously big flat screen.

the same boy from your childhood grunted if your fingers weren’t carding through his dirty-blond locks within the minute.

⸝⸝

and then one day, somehow, after yet another failed date—because all those boys were lacking something, some spark—you found yourself at his flat.

he’d opened the door, clad in just boxers and the gray, army-issued t-shirt with his last name plastered on the back. it made that familiar sizzle run up the length of your spine before tingling at the back of your skull like a firework.

he’d hugged you like he’d done a million times before.

had stroked the length of your hair, the way you liked.

had talked to you softly, the way you needed.

had kissed your temple, the way you craved.

it had happened naturally then too. the push up to your tiptoes and the search of your doe eyes with his whiskey ones. your own were pleading, that much you knew. his thumb had grazed your cheekbone tenderly, prompting a chain reaction that inevitably ended in a tangle of limbs and messy navy sheets.

after that initial detonation, it had happened again and again and again—though it was all as friends. a good arrangement really, if one wasn’t in love with the man who fucked them on the regular.

which you were currently admitting to yourself, while simon—your simon—was buried deep inside you. deeper than anyone else ever had or ever could. deeper than just physical.

“si- look at me.”

it was a futile ask. you knew it all too well. those whiskey eyes never met yours when he was taking you.

“hm. can’t pretty girl. y’feel too fuckin’ good, sunshine,” he grunted.

it was half a lie. because while you did feel like heaven clutching him, that wasn’t fully why he could never meet your glazed doe eyes.

the truth was lodged somewhere deep between his ribs, in that sensitive spot where he kept very few things—like his mom, his baby brother, and you.

and if he met your eyes when he was deep inside your velvet heat, not only would he finish too early, but he’d want to keep you forever. which is something he refused to do.

even if it broke his heart when—after you’d both reached your peaks in a slow, deep, long orgasm—your nimble fingers curled around his dog tags. so goddamn reverent, that touch of yours. it undid him.

your manicured thumb brushed the indentation of his name in the metal plate, and those three little words slipped out of you like you’d always said them with this much meaning. they’d grown too heavy, too real for your body to be able to hold them back anymore. it was the softest, most honest i love you you’d ever said.

simon had frozen, spine rigid even if he’d known—he’d known it was coming.

so when he’d bent down, gently sliding out of you as he pressed his shaking lips to your forehead, tears fell quietly from the corners of your eyes. the same ones he’d lifted so often before, whether it be with a stupid joke or a smug smirk.

you knew too, right then, that he wouldn’t say it back.

that this was the last time. that this was the most you’d get from him.

a single hiccup wracked your throat, which simon eased the only way he knew how—with a familiar, smoothing hand over your hair. he rolled off his bed shortly after, his rippling back to you as he walked into his en suite bathroom.

when he came back out, minutes or hours later he wasn’t sure, with his bare feet dragging across the cold tiles, you were gone.

prompted by sheer agony, simon had almost laughed.

because even if you’d left, you were still everywhere.

his pillows smelled of those expensive shampoo and conditioner you loved, the ones that made your hair all soft and silky. his sheets smelled of vanilla and coconut, same as his cotton t-shirts, which you’d been borrowing since your teenage years.

hell, even his ribs throbbed. right where the fine-line sunshine was inked permanently.

the worst is that he was okay with it. the ache. the pain. it was familiar. bitterly comfortable.

a part of him had always known—even when he’d picked up that pink chalk more than a decade ago—that the sweet girl across the street would haunt him forever.

but he’d suffer your absence a thousand lifetimes over, as long as it meant the ghosts of his own demons could never reach you. could never snuff out that golden light he’d fallen irrevocably in love with.

because that instinct—to protect his sunny girl no matter the cost—had always happened so naturally.

──────────୨ৎ───────────

ᝰ.ᐟ author’s note

hii! okay so this is my first simon riley drabble (and my first ever published piece really lol), so if it sucks please bear with me :*)

idk if this is anything—but i had a 3 hour road trip, 5 hours of sleep, and this wouldn’t leave my head so here it is!

ghost who always have a grey, heavy, uninterested air about him but one day he comes to work, and he's got something behind his ribs clawing to be let loose. his teeth are clenched, his eyes sharp. his orders bite harder, his patience runs thinner, and the recruits feel it but don't understand it.

and it's all because you couldn't lie back and get eaten out like every other morning. it was routine. ingrained. automatic. ghost slips under the covers, dips his head between your thighs, and laps at your sex until you leave the mess he loves best— the slick, saturated spot he'd sniff while still wet. (can't blame me, luvie. it's sweet.)

you'd gotten up, thrown your clothes on in a hurry, and had been out the door, keys in hand, before he could get a word in.

unacceptable.

(kyle later catches him and asks him if he skipped breakfast or something. not by choice is what ghost tells him.)

Not again

That one awful time you got a UTI because you didn’t pee after and it ruined both you and Simon for days...and the future.

Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore.

It’s distant. Slow. Boneless and heavy and floating at the same time—like you’re made of liquid, spilled across the bed, soaking into the mattress where Simon left you.

Everything’s sensitive. Your thighs are trembling. The inside of you feels warm in a way that shouldn’t be possible—so full, so sore, still twitching from the way he held you down and ruined you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. it’s all Simon.

You might’ve fallen asleep. You’re not sure.

Then you hear him shift.

You don’t move.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble into the pillow.

He exhales slowly through his nose, amusement crackling under the surface of his voice.

“It’s been thirty.”

You groan, long and dramatic, and turn your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “You said you’d wait.”

“I did. And I have.” He leans in, mouth brushing behind your ear. “But you’ve got to get up now.”

“No, I don’t,” you mumble, lips barely moving.

“Yes,” he says, not unkindly. “You do.”

“Fuck off.”

“You need to pee.”

You sigh with a full-body shudder. The last thing you want is to move. Your thighs still twitch with every shift, every reminder of how hard he’d been in you—deep and rough and mean, the kind of mean only Simon can be when he knows you like it.

And now?

Now your brain’s caught somewhere between satisfaction and irritability.

You squirm an inch and hiss at the soreness. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I literally can’t feel my legs.”

He hums again. Not arguing. Not pushing. Just present.

And then you snap, just a little. Not angry, just done.

“God, why are you like this?” you bite. “You get off, and suddenly I’m a project.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, with that same frustrating calm “I get off because I wreck you, sweetheart. But I also remember what happens when you don’t move after.”

You're quiet.

“Yeah.”

You groan again. “Don’t bring it up.”

“I am bringing it up.”

He shifts beside you, moving the hair away from your damp cheek.

“You remember what happened last time.”

You do.

Unfortunately.

That time when you’d passed out immediately after sex—sore, blissed out, perfectly used—and slept the whole night through. Didn’t pee. Didn’t think to. And the next morning?

UTI. Full force.

Your insides were on fire. You couldn’t sit down without wincing. Couldn’t even have him look at you, let alone touch you.

You were grumpy. Snappy. Miserable.

He was worse.

Because not only were you suffering, but he couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t fuck you. Could barely cuddle you without getting a sharp “Don’t touch me, Simon.”

He was all but climbing the walls by day two. You'd heard him mutter “This is hell” when you snapped at him for putting the wrong tea in your mug.

And even then, he never said I told you so.

He just brought you cranberry juice and heated pads and ran you a bath and kissed your temple like he didn’t feel half-insane.

Now?

Now he’s not risking it.

“You were a nightmare,” he mutters, rubbing your lower back. “And I didn’t get to fuck you for a week.”

You roll onto your side to glare at him. “It was your fault too.”

“Exactly why I’m carrying you.”

You pout harder. “I’m not talking to you.”

“You’re literally talking to me right now.”

“Simon—”

He sits up and leans over, scooping you effortlessly into his arms. “I'm not doing this again.”

You huff, but you don’t fight. Your limbs flop against his chest like dead weight. You nuzzle into his collarbone, still grumbling.

“You’re annoying.”

“Mm.”

“Bossy.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I still can’t feel my legs.”

He chuckles and carries you across the room, his big palms smoothing over your bare skin as he holds you close.

Once in the bathroom, he sets you on the toilet like something precious.

And instead of stepping back or giving you space, he stays.

Right in front of you.

He’s standing tall, bare chest in your face, warm hands on your shoulders—guiding you gently forward until your cheek rests against his stomach.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter.

“And you’re soft,” he says. “All bark.”

You don’t respond.

Your body’s buzzing. Your thighs are still trembling. But when you finally relax enough to pee—

“Oh—oh my God—”

You jolt.

The pressure. The release.

Your muscles seize instantly, twitching with overstimulated nerves. It’s not just peeing. It’s like a second, slow-burning orgasm. Your body shakes with it, cunt fluttering around nothing, your legs twitching like Simon’s still inside you.

You gasp against him, trembling. It's not even about the release—it’s the aftershocks. The sudden emptiness as your muscles unclench. The way your cunt spasms around nothing as your body reacts to being let go.

Simon holds you tighter.

Your fingers grab fistfuls of his sweatpants.

His hands drop to your back.

“Easy, love. Just let it happen.”

Your knees buckle where they’re spread. You squeeze his sweatpants for balance, forehead still pressed to his stomach as you twitch through it—little pulses, flutters, everything still too much.

Your voice breaks. “Feels like—feels like I’m coming again.”

“I know.”

“Still—God, it’s still in my spine—”

You twitch again. His arms stay firm. He pets down your back, anchoring you, holding you upright as your body finishes unwinding in slow, shaking pulses.

And you do. You feel everything. His hands rubbing your back. The warmth of his chest under your cheek. The way he steadies your thighs when they jerk.

And when it’s over—when your breath evens out, and the spasm finally dies down, you just stay there. Arms weak. Legs numb. Whole body ruined.

Simon strokes your back.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “You did perfect.”

“I’m mad at you,” you mumble, voice muffled in his skin.

“You always say that.”

“You didn’t have to go so hard.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘don’t stop.’”

You groan. “I was lying.”

“You were begging.”

You slap his thigh half-heartedly. “I hate you.” He grins and helps you stand, supporting you like your knees might give out again—which they might, honestly.

You lean on him as he cleans you up, wipes you with practiced tenderness, and carries you back to bed without another word.

Once there, he slides one of his shirts over your head, tucks you under the blanket, and stretches out beside you with one arm around your waist.

Your face is buried in his chest. His heartbeat is slow, steady, solid.

simon who always guides your hand to palm at his cock when you guys kiss. tells you you’re makin’ ‘em feel s’good. that that’s what good girlfriends do.

loves feeling your quiet little gasps against his mouth as he throbs in your hand, as his thick, heavy cock fills your palm.

and the sweet little noise you make when he cums all over your fingers. only to wrap his fingers around your own to have you stroke him again :(

idk if yall missed my headcanons but i got bored and figured out which dog breed the 141 would be + co authored by my dog neek friend

more blunt!simon because he’s hot

he doesn’t even look up from his phone when he says it.

just sprawled across the couch, one arm behind his head, legs spread like he’s on a throne instead of a beat-up cushion that still smells like smoke and sweat.

“ya know, if you’re gonna walk around like that, you oughta be ready to get fucked.”

you freeze. halfway across the living room, wearing nothing but a big t-shirt and the tiniest pair of shorts you forgot you even owned.

“like what?” you ask, already feeling the heat crawl up your throat.

he finally lifts his gaze.

smirks.

“like a mouth-watering little tease,” he says. “jesus. i can see the crease of your pussy from here.”

you make a shocked sound—half gasp, half laugh—and wrap your arms around yourself like that’ll help.

he scoffs.

“don’t act shy. you bent over the fridge earlier like you wanted me to notice. ass all high, thighs squeezin’ together like you were tryna get off on the cold air.”

you open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, lazy and cruel.

“if i pulled your shorts down right now, you’d be wet already. bet your fuckin’ panties are stickin’ to you.”

you stare. breath caught in your chest.

he grins wider.

“c’mon. lemme see. won’t even touch. just wanna take a look. see if i’m right.”

his eyes drop, heavy-lidded and hungry.

“you do like it when i talk like this, huh? your nipples are hard.”

you cross your arms tighter, turn to walk away, but his voice chases after you—

low and amused and absolutely depraved.

“run off if you want. just know the second i hear that shower start, i’m gonna be sittin’ here jerkin’ off with the door open. loud. so you know what you did to me.”

"si."

"doll."

"what's this flower called?"

simon looked at the billionth flower you showed in just twenty minutes, sighing. "im a soldier love, not a gardener." though he took the pink colored flower from your hands, and placed it in the small box you brought, just to turn them into a sticker later and put it in your notebook.

"makes sense," you murmured. "though i thought you'd knew since you guys are always on the forests or mountains."

"we don't really have time to search which flower is which doll." he said softly, moving everything that was sharp in front of you, in the small forest you two discovered in your hike. you liked getting lost in nature walks with your husband, who was as useful as a swiss army knife in your eyes.

"shame." you murmured, holding his hand when you felt like you were stumbling. though you liked to be a little dramatic sometimes. as you both continued to hike, and pick flowers, you occasionally liked to touch big tree's. "how fast you can climb this?" you asked curiously, looking up at the big oak tree.

"three minutes, max." he said with a casual confidence that made you remember why you falled for this man. he could do anything, and it was impressing you embaressingly enough.

"wanna test it out?" you asked with a mischief smirk on your face. simon mirrored.

"what do i get in return?"

"a big kiss."

he started climbing that moment, finding bumps to step on or using his big knife to help him climb, going all in for a kiss. you chuckled as he sat on one of the sticks, looking at the time. "two minutes and a half, lieutenant!"

as if it was nothing, he jumped down from that tree, landing on his feet with a loud thud. "my reward." his hands immediatly reached out and you happily hugged his neck, giving him the biggest smooch.

the next time he returns from a deployment, he has a bunch of squished mountain flowers on his gear pocket, a few of them losing their leaves but it mattered to you nonetheless. because he thought the weird and rare flowers would look great on your little notebook, and you felt special that he remembered that while fighting for his life.

simon riley whose insomnia went away when he met you

cw: pure fluff - no tag list

after retirement simon still felt the scars and pain as if they were fresh. he often found himself staring up at the popcorn ceiling of his shabby apartment, his large body sprawled out as the thin grey sheets were half on him and half on the cold wooden floorboard.

it was like he could hear the gun shots, the commands being shouted and the smell of smoke. if he was lucky and got some sleep, he would wake up in the middle of the night sweating, jolted awake as his scarred hand was in his chest, his breaths heavy and sharp. never did he think he would get a good night’s rest.

until you.

at first he didn’t even recognise it, his head on your lap as you watched soccer on the television, and simon never missed a game. his eyes felt droopy, the commentary from the show slowly faded as his breathing evened out, the feeling of your nails against his hair making his whole body go limp.

and when he woke up, it wasn’t like the usual nightmare induced sudden jolt, no. it was peaceful.

slowly blinking groggily before realising what had happened.

he fell asleep.

it was only for an hour, but that was the best sleep he had ever gotten.

slowly, he started to sleep more, taking occasional naps with you in his arms, where the two of you slowly migrated from watching tv on the couch to the comfort of his own bed.

his sad flimsy excuse of a bed now adorned in thick blankets and throws just to make the experience a little better.

then he started to go to bed early. usually he would be in bed at best by 1am, finding any excuse to not go, and yet he found himself bundled up next to you by 9.

then, he woke up later, finding any excuse to sleep in. “jus’ ten more minutes,” his voice muffled as he snuggled deep into the crook of your neck, pitting his whole body weight on you so you couldn’t leave.

suddenly, the bed became his favourite place.

MDNI 18+

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ simon riley getting the love he deserves after being a loner and thinking that he was unlovable.

cw: fluff, broken simon, vaginal sex, not proof read

he was too scarred, experienced the cruelest of things in mankind after being in the military and now he was a nobody. living in a shady apartment that coincidentally had its heating broken during the winter, only having cold water running in the shower, and just having an apartment that was plain and dull. his whole life simon was convinced that he didn’t deserve anything, hence why he joined the military, to deprive himself from anything that could potentially give him happiness.

so, he had an old couch that was so damn firm he got back pain whenever he laid on it. a flimsy bed that barely fits his large frame, his legs dangling off slightly as he tried to keep himself warm in the harsh winter with the thinnest blanket ever. oh, and he didn’t take care of himself, grabbing the reheat-able meals and ramen from the convenience store after his late night shifts.

that was until he met you, his sweet little birdie that made him feel just a little warm and fuzzier inside. he was accustomed to the usual sympathetic looks on the streets, the weak smile the cashier gave him whenever he bought another bowl of ramen. but you? you didn’t care that he was broken, you viewed him as an equal.

his sweet neighbour that cooked him homemade meals for him, made him his lunch for work that made his co workers jealous and shocked at the sudden sight of simon eating a filling meal.

“where’d ya get that meal from? looks homemade,” his coworker grumbled eyeing the container in his hands. simon muttered a half ass response, he was going to keep you a secret from these dirty men.

he tried to ignore the way his heart rate increased just the slightest when he read your little notes plastered on the container, small words of encouragement as if you knew what he was currently thinking.

slowly you embedded yourself into his daily routine, inviting him for dinner as you cooked his favourite meal, whilst he fixed your table. it was something more than transactional, but neither of you spoke on it, especially simon, he didn’t want to ruin the one good thing that he had in his life.

but deep down he was secretly wondering when you were going to leave, after all - all the good things in his life seemed to go away eventually.

you didn’t though, instead you showed him things that he never thought was possible. self love, though he was dork new to it, he couldn’t help but to feel just a little more confident in himself. the way you were perched up on the tiny bathroom counter gently shaving his face whilst whispering words of affection, or the way you kissed every single one of his scars.

then came the most intimate moment of his life - sex. it wasn’t just something that was done and dusted, no. it was a ritual for the two of you. the sheets rustling as simon kissed your neck, your legs wrapped around his waist as if you wanted him closer, even though it was physically impossible. he refused to make you feel like a conquest, making you come multiple times before cleaning you up and making you your favourite meal.

the change wasn’t internal only, his apartment seemed to reflect the blooming relationship between the two of you. his old beaten up couch all new and replaced because he couldn’t stand the idea of you being uncomfortable whilst watching your favourite show. adding more shelves and storage to his bathroom as you slowly moved in, your toothbrush on the bathroom counter, your pink hair dryer on the shelf and a random vase of flowers.

simon never expected a simple domestic life with a lover, but here he was. lazy morning sex with hushed whispers and basking in each others warmth, trying to ignore the demands of the outside world. cooking breakfast together as simon wrapped his arms around your waist. kissing each other goodbye as you two left for work, your hands brushing against each other one last time.

tag list: @happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969

+18, mdni

He stops with a sharp breath, his hands locking around your hips, fingers digging in hard. He’s close—too close—and you can feel it in the way his thighs tense under you, in the way his chest rises unevenly.

"Wait," Simon rasps as his one hand leaves your hip and finds your face, pulling you down until your mouth is on his.

It’s that lazy kind of kiss—lazy and wet, all tongue, just the way you love it. His lips are warm, soft, and parting with a hum when your teeth scrape just a little. He kisses you like he’s trying to catch his breath through you, like if he slows it down, he might not cum right then and there.

Your body doesn’t get the memo.

You're already soaking, but that kind of kiss? That slow, wet drag of his tongue against yours? It makes you clamp down around him so tight he chokes on a moan.

“Fuckin’—love,” he grits out against your mouth, voice rough and cracking. “Stop squeezin’ me—I’m gonna fuckin’ cum.”

You smile into the kiss, smug and breathless. “Then stop kissing me like that.”

He stares at you for a split second—just one—and then drags you back down, kissing you deeper, messier, like he’s punishing you for talking back.

You keep squeezing.

He bucks once, twice, hips jerking under you like he’s losing the fight. "You fuckin'—ngh—"

You feel it when he gives in.

His head drops back, jaw slack, hands gripping your ass like he’s trying to anchor himself. You ride it out slow, lips still brushing his, feeling him pulse inside you while you grin like a little menace.

“You’re evil,” he mutters, breathless, his eyes half-lidded.

“And you’re terrible at resisting me.”

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

gooood morninggg

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs

simon ghost riley listening to let down by radiohead on repeat after you pass away.

okay so we all know that Simon acts all tough, but is secretly touch starved.

like think about it, the man has lived his life being shaped into a fighter, a man that kills with no hesitation. so he probably isn't used to being touched, at least romantically.

enter you, who holds his hand in public, squeezing softly when he starts to get paranoid. or cuddling into him on the couch when the two of you are watching a movie, wrapping your body around him to feel his warmth. holding his face in your hands late at night when he has too much on his mind to sleep, listening without judgement as he quietly whispers about the things he's done.

he might be cautious at first but the moment he realizes that you genuinely mean it and aren't going anywhere? expect him to be nuzzling into your neck at any time during the day.

nasty old dog

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY x FEM!READER

summary silent, broody...how can you resist your mysterious older neighbour?

warnings fluff-ish, age gap (early 20s, late 30s), nsfw (smut), bad brain-rotted writing

a/n heh......send requests pls

masterlist

the first time you meet him, he’s standing at your front door in full tactical gear.

not just a vest or boots—everything. black from head to toe, a skull-print balaclava covering most of his face. there’s a duffel slung over one shoulder, and your parcel in his hand.

you freeze.

he doesn’t say anything at first—just stares at you. and then, quietly, almost too quiet to hear:

“this came to mine.”

you take the box slowly, fingers brushing the gloves he hasn’t taken off. your eyes flick to his—dark, heavy-lidded, with a hint of tiredness that makes something twist in your chest.

“…thanks,” you manage, trying not to sound nervous.

he nods once and turns without another word. just disappears into the apartment across the hall like this is normal. like he’s normal.

you close the door and stand there for a long moment.

“…what the hell.”

—

you tell yourself not to be weird about it. but every time you see him—taking out the trash, coming back from a run, carrying enough groceries for a family of five—you get more and more curious.

there’s something about him. the way he’s always alone. how he never quite makes eye contact. how your cat likes to sit by the front door, ears perked, tail twitching, every time his boots echo down the hallway—like she knows exactly when he’s coming home.

he’s strange. broody. definitely hiding something.

so of course you bake cookies.

and occasionally leave them on his doorstep.

because you're a nice neighbour!

because you’re nosy. and maybe a little reckless.

and because god help you, your mysterious neighbour is hot.

—

at first, it's subtle. a soft nod when you pass by each other in the hallways, and even an occasional gruff "mornin'" from the man.

simon doesn’t exactly do small talk—but he starts remembering your name, starts holding the lobby door open a little longer when your arms are full of groceries. he even helps you carry them once. gruff, silent, but his hand wraps fully around the handle of your tote bag like it weighs nothing.

there’s a moment, that day. where your fingers brush his. and he flinches—not from you, but from himself. like he wasn’t expecting how warm you’d feel. how soft your hands were, untouched by the horrors of the world.

then it’s a sticky note.

you find it one night, stuck on your fridge in all caps, scrawled with a heavy hand:

“FIXED YOUR SINK. STOP USING THE DUCT TAPE.”

you don’t even know how he got in—must’ve used the spare key you gave your building’s maintenance guy. you leave a tupperware of cookies on his doorstep the next day. he doesn’t say anything, but a week later, your broken curtain rod is magically fixed too, and your empty tupperware sits on your kitchen counter.

and somehow, this becomes your thing.

he drops by after missions—always late at night, always quiet. you never ask questions. he never offers answers. but he shows up with oil stains on his shirt and shadows under his eyes, and you let him in, let him rest. you even start cooking bigger portions, just so he'll have some home-cooked food to eat when he drops by at night. you don't ask questions, you don't say anything. you just give him some food as he tugs off his skull balaclava.

sometimes he falls asleep on your couch, jaw slack, brow still furrowed like he’s expecting a fight even in sleep. other times, he just… sits with you. watches whatever’s on the tv without a word. you talk. he listens. and every now and then, when you say something funny or dumb or weird, the corner of his mouth twitches. barely noticeable. but it’s there.

eventually you get comfortable with him. you curl up against him during movie nights, head resting on his chest. his arm rests on the back of the sofa behind you. his hand doesn't wrap around your shoulder. he makes sure there's some sort of distance between him and the little young thing sitting beside him.

you learn he likes his tea strong. that he only takes sugar when he’s had a rough day. that he reads, sometimes, when he can’t sleep. that he has a soft spot for your cat, even if he pretends to ignore her—pretends not to notice when she curls up beside his boots. (you even catch him smiling at her once, but you pretend not to notice)

you start to learn the rhythm of him. the little ways he says “i care” without ever saying it at all.

eventually, you stop pretending he’s just your neighbour.

but he doesn’t.

he keeps his distance, even as he inches closer. never lets himself touch you for too long. never stays the night, no matter how late it gets. you catch the way he looks at you sometimes—like he wants something he doesn’t think he should want.

he’s careful. too careful. because you’re bright and soft and still figuring things out. and he’s lived a thousand lives in the dark, each one heavier than the last.

and maybe that’s why it nearly breaks something in you when one night, after a silence stretched too long, he just says it.

quietly. like he’s scared he’ll ruin it.

“i sleep better here.”

you don’t say anything. just reach for his hand and squeeze. and this time, he doesn’t pull away.

—

and one day, he comes back more broken than usual.

you can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he lingers in the doorway like he’s debating whether or not he should’ve even come. his jaw is tight. his knuckles are bruised. and when he finally steps inside, he doesn't say a word—just drops his gear by the door, like always, and sinks onto your couch like gravity's finally gotten the best of him.

you sit beside him, quiet. you let the silence stretch.

until you finally ask, “si, are you okay?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just stares ahead, breathing deep, like your soft little apartment is the only thing keeping him tethered.

“had to do lotsa' things i didn’t wanna' do,” he mutters eventually. voice low. rough. “a lot more than usual.”

your hand finds his and you squeeze. your grip is gentle. grounding. “you’re home now.”

he turns to look at you then. and there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch—something sharp, haunted. but under it… there’s hunger too. not just for you, but for the comfort you bring. for the peace he only finds in your presence.

and maybe that’s what makes you brave.

maybe that’s why you shift closer, crawl gently into his lap, hands bracing on his broad shoulders. you feel the way his body tenses beneath you, the way he swallows hard when your fingers ghost along the back of his neck.

“let me take care of you,” you whisper.

“sweetheart…” he warns, already shaking his head.

you start grinding down on him a little, just to test the waters. but his hands come to your waist. but they don’t push. they just hold. “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“i do,” you murmur, leaning in so your lips ghost along his jawline. “i know exactly what i want. i want you, si."

his breath stutters. you press a kiss just below his ear. his grip around you tightens into somewhat of a hug.

“don’t do this,” he says, but his voice is wrecked. you notice the slightest tremble in his hands and voice. barely noticeable to anyone else, but you can feel it.

“why not?” you whisper. “i know you want me too.”

“you’re young.” he finally says it. the thing that’s been sitting heavy between you both.

“you’ve got your whole damn life ahead of you. you shouldn’t be wasting it on some old bastard who drags death with him wherever he goes.”

“i’m not wasting anything,” you whisper, pulling back. you look into his eyes and your hands come up to hold each side of his head. “i’m choosing you, you old dog. doesn’t that count for something?”

and it’s like that finally breaks him.

because the next thing you know, his mouth is on yours—desperate, almost angry, like he’s been trying to hold himself back for months and he just can’t anymore. his hands grip your hips tight, dragging you closer, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you in his lap.

and when he kisses you again, it’s not hesitant. it’s hungry.

his lips are hot, almost feverish against yours, and you can feel the desperation in every movement. his hands are everywhere—palming your hips, sliding beneath your shirt to feel the warm curve of your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

and you? you just melt for him.

you thread your fingers through his short crop of hair, tugging gently, and he groans low in his throat. you whisper his name, over and over, like a prayer, like something sacred. and it's music to his ears.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, “you don’t know what you do to me, sweet girl.”

but you do.

you feel it in the way he grinds up into you, slow and controlled, like he’s still trying to restrain himself even now. like he doesn’t want to hurt you. like he wants to worship you.

you pull back just enough to look at him—his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lashes fluttering as he blinks up at you with something close to reverence.

“i want all of you, si,” you whisper. “please.”

his jaw clenches, like he’s fighting every instinct to be good, to be safe, to keep distance. but you see the moment he gives in. the moment he realises you’re not afraid of him. you want him. all of him.

he stands with you in his arms, effortless, and carries you to your bedroom. he lays you out so gently you nearly cry. and when he finally takes off your clothes, it's like unwrapping something precious—his touch is rough in places, but careful where it matters.

“you’re so fuckin’ soft,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along your collarbone, “so goddamn perfect.”

your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, and he helps you pull it over his head. you take a moment, just looking at him—all scars and strength and something broken that only you ever get to see.

“you’re beautiful,” you say, and his breath hitches.

he kisses you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel alive. like the war stops when your mouth is on his.

and when he finally slides into you, it's slow. unbearably slow. you feel every inch of him, the stretch, the fullness, the way his breath stutters when you moan his name. but he fits perfectly. like he's the puzzle piece you've been searching for. like this was meant to be.

one hand toys with your nipple while the other rubs soft circles on your clit.

he’s whispering things between gritted teeth—“that’s it, sweetheart,” “so good f'me,” “i’ve got you”—his voice like gravel and honey in your ear.

and when he finally loses the last bit of restraint, it’s devastating—his rhythm picking up, hips snapping into yours, his forehead pressed to yours as he groans your name like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

"f-fuck si—oh yeah right there—oh!" your moans are almost pornographic, only spurring simon on as he picks up his pace. faster, deeper, and soon you feel the familiar warmth in your belly as your stomach coils.

you fall apart beneath him, trembling, gasping, held together only by his arms around you and the heat of his breath against your cheek. your walls tighten around him, squeezing him. and soon he follows with a low, broken sound and your name on his lips like a plea.

he spills deep inside you, your walls milking him for all that he is.

and then it’s quiet.

his body curled around yours, still catching his breath as he pulls out of you. your fingers tracing lazy circles along his chest. his thumb brushing soft over your waist like he can’t stop touching you, like he doesn’t want to.

you feel his lips press into your hair as he mutters, barely audible:

“don’t know what i ever did to deserve you.”

simon ghost riley can often be found resting upon your lap, rugged, scratchy with prickling, patchy stubble face nudges in the doughy surface of your supple thighs, open by some short sleeping shorts you wear around the house, or nothing at all, just a pair of panties that barely separate him from where he tries to burrow in, concealed only by the loose shirt that is draped over your body and crumples between your legs.

nuzzling in like a domesticated cat, focused on getting where he wants to go, brazen, demanding, calloused, short nailed fingers dig in and knead on the sensitive flesh of your thighs, leaving hollows and making you flinch, coating with goosebumps, making you clench your own fingers in the short hairs on the nape of his neck, previously tangled there to scratch at his scalp, now trying to tug him away, even though the displeased grumble coming through his chest, and the forceful grip he keeps on your legs.

simon just needs it, not to only lay with his head on your thighs and enjoy the caress of your fingers over his hair and face, nails raking down slow over the sensitive skin of his mug, the tissued feeling of scars and faded blemishes that were left by wearing a suffocating balaclava too often, but it's not enough, there's a gut wounding, aching need to be close to the most intimate part of your body, crawl in somewhere between your ribs, but the only thing he can do that is somewhat close, burrow his nose against your clothed cunt, jaw stretching to accommodate his wide opening mouth, just to inhale the telltale note of your building arousal, the musk of your sweet pussy.

and you can't say him no, not with how persistently his tongue lolls out to wet the slowly drenching fabric of your underwear, his crooked nose pressed just right against the twitchy, swelling nub of your pebbled clit, searing hot and seeming to twitch at the proximity, sending spasms down your bowing spine and flexing, curling toes, as your part your legs for him, feeling the heavy press of his brawny, full chest against your tensing thigh, as he hums lowly, before sucking on your mound through the fabric, burying down in earnest.

it's quite charming, how eager simon is to fuck his tongue in your mouth and swallow down mouthfull of your honey syrupy slick, dripping eagerly on his twisting, curling tongue and relaxed throat, letting him gulp down each drop, until he grows tired, perhaps drowsy, weighted by the exhausted weeks, contented to be squished down between your legs.

main masterlist. quidelines.

prev. | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the last place he visits before being sent off on an assignment.

‘Jus’ need somethin’ to tide me over, yeah dove?’

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but when he’s away, his rugged and calloused hands don’t feel like yours, can’t get off unless he pictures you.

Above him. Below him. On your knees. On your back. In your mouth. Buried in your cunt.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the first place he visits when the mission is finished, doesn’t even bother going home.

And you answer, despite it being three in the morning.

“There’s my girl.” He breathes. Relieved. Dropping his bags on the floor before lunging forward to cup your face in his palms.

The claim makes you whine quietly, digging your fingertips into his wrists, arching on your tippy toes to meet his lips halfway. It’s ravenous, leaves your breath ragged, and lips thrumming with swelling blood.

He hoists you in his arms, burrowing his hands under your thighs and ass, pinching the flesh so hard it’ll bruise, but he can’t help it. He’s greedy. Selfish. Hasn’t quite coaxed himself down from the harsh realities of being ‘Ghost.’

“Ah—Simon,” You whimper, huffing hot air against his lips, “You’re hurting me.”

“Sorry, baby,” He smooths his hands, petting the backs of your thighs, “I just-”

The ‘missed you’ dies on his tongue, stops it from rolling off and filling the empty space between the two of you, but you know.

That night when he asks you to repeat him, tell him you’re all his, you don’t respond like usual. He tries his best to coax it out of your pretty lips orgasm after orgasm because he needs to hear it, but you don’t give him the pleasure.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, so he has no other option but to accept it because you’re not his. The lack of acknowledgment eats at his skin, brutal talons gnawing at his flesh when you slowly stop responding to his texts.

Shows up at your doorstep anyway because you don’t get to tell him when this stops. When you answer the door, you’re all dolled up, a tight little skirt hugging your figure, lip gloss smeared on your lips like you have somewhere to be other than on his cock.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, glaring at him, “I’m busy.”

“With what?”

You frown, “I have a date.”

He snorts, pushing past you, making a show of taking off his boots and placing them next to yours, has no intention of leaving.

“Simon,” You sigh, closing the door behind you, “I don’t have time for this right now. He’ll be here any minute.”

The statement alone pinches his temples with irritation, but that’s when he sees it, one small hickey adorned on your neck, just below your ear. His vision narrows, tunneling red, nudging you against the wall with one swift movement, tilting your jaw to get a better look at it.

“The fuck is this?” He snarls, runs his thumb over the bruise, and makes your breath hitch slightly.

“Nothing.” You mutter quietly.

“Your little date give you this? Huh?” He grits through clenched teeth, grip tightening on your jaw, drawing dimples in your skin.

“None of your business.” You spit back, but it’s far too gentle to have any real bite like it always does with him, pup with baby canines.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he seethes at the idea of another man inside of you, another man marking you as theirs when you’re his.

Sinks his teeth around the stupid mark, dragging sharp fangs against your delicate flesh, and sucks the skin viciously. Covers the ugly bruise with his own claim.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he presses you right up against your front door, so your date can hear him fucking you in two when he comes to pick you up.

‘Can yer little boyfriend fuck you like this? Huh, baby? Did he know jus’ how you like it?’

Fucks you messy and pretty, until your cheeks are tear-stained and your breaths are wrecked, hiccuping over your moans that’s he’s so mean, so cruel, asking you to say you’re his when he doesn’t even have the courage to say he missed you.

‘Be a good girl f’me, yeah? Tell me you’re all mine.’

And when you do finally say it, he carries you to your bed, fucks you slow and deliberate like he always does, like he really means it, and whispers the words against your skin.

@bbygirl9 @ailanbutterfly @amberbalcom14 @h0lydrag0ns

ai is making people way too comfortable with being incompetent stupid and useless… go learn some skills

girl something good has to happen at some point

blue collar!simon who every time you pass a building he’s worked on he’ll tell you about it.

“did that beauty right there.”

he’s so proud of his work.

calloused hands holding yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss to the back of your hand as he promises that he’s gonna build you your dream home one day.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but when he is fucking you he doesn’t take his eyes off your face, drinks in every pretty reaction you give him when he’s tucked right against the spot he knows makes your lashes flutter and breath hitch.

‘That the spot? Yeah, baby? Look s’pretty under me.’

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but smiles at you because he can’t help it when your reactions are so cute, when you nod so pleased at him with pursed brows as you orgasm for the second time.

‘There we go, sweet girl. Gonna cum wrapped ‘round me?’

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he doesn’t let you muffle any of your moans because you sound too fucking pretty whiny and breathy.

‘No, no, none of that, sweet’art. Wanna hear you, sound too pretty to hide it from me.’

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but tangles his fingers in yours the entire time, keeps your palms pressed together in any position, squeezing your hand through it.

‘I know, baby, I know. I got you.’

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he’s possessive over you— ‘my, my, my.’

‘My pretty little dove.’ ‘My sweet girl.’ ‘All mine.’

And because he’s so cruel he makes you say it— ‘Only mine, yeah, baby? Wanna hear you say it.’

But still, after he’s done breaking you down and putting you back together piece by piece with such warm palms, soft eyes, and sugar-spun words he cleans you up before tucking himself back into his pants, and leaves you like it meant nothing to him until the next time he texts you for more.

happy easter girls 🐣🩵 be kind to yourselves today and God bless you all!

MDNI 18+

mentions of: oral sex (m) receiving, thumb sucking

oral sex with simon riley is absolutely filthy, dirty all around with spit, cum and tears. simon knew that he was a big guy, his cock heavy in his hands as he gave it a few hasty pumps, the roughness of his hands on his aching cock making him hiss slightly. his free hand tugging the back of your head, allowing him gently rubbing his leaking head over your plush lips, making them glisten with his precum. “give it yer all yeah? slobber all of it luvie.”

simon wasn’t a patient guy, roughly shoving his cock in fully with no warning making you gag as his fat tip hits the back of your throat. he was addicted to the way your warm mouth felt, your tongue swirling around his sensitive head. your mouth was stretched out to accomodate his girth, your jaw slightly sore before he pushed your head fully down, your nose nestled in between his messy pubes.

he had one criteria for blow jobs, you needed to be an absolute mess after.

wet squelching sounds filled the room as you drooled all over his cock, making a mess on your hands as it dribbled down the corners of your mouth then to your chin. “remember to breathe luvie, can’t have yer passin’ out on me.”

he fucked your mouth like it was your cunt, two of his large scarred hands fisting your hair forcing you to take his cock fully, a guttural groan leaving his lips. when he would come he wouldn’t stop, forcing you to mix your saliva with his cum as it dribbled down your chin, the clear liquid slightly milky now. “such a pretty girl makin’ a mess on me cock, havin’ fun luvie?” he cooed as he panted, his chest rising whilst beads of sweat were on his forehead.

roughly, he pulled his cock out, a loud ‘pop’ leaving your swollen lips as he did with a string of saliva that connected from his pinkish swollen head to your glossy lips. “such a good girl.” he praised lowly as he rubbed your lips with his thumb, before slipping it in. instinctively you sucked on it, your tongue swirling as he shoved it deeper.

“ yer have an oral fixation bun?”

his gaze dropped down to your neck and chest, the milky liquid now seeping in between your breasts. he raised a hand to gently smear it across your breasts, your skin glistening with the sticky liquid as simon made a silent claim. “might have to fuck yer tits if they look so pretty like that.” his voice low as he brought his hand covered with your saliva and his cum to your face, before smearing it on your cheeks. the sticky liquid coated your skin before simon gently ran it through your hair, making some parts clumped together.

“give me a big smile luvie.”

as you closed your eyes, a big toothy grin on your face tilted up, simon messily fisted his cock, sloppy wet sounds filling the room before he came all over your face. your lashes slightly glued and clumped together as he coated your face.

i love the fact that girlies will write the filthiest, most depraved smut about dark, intimidating and tattooed men—with fluffy bunnies, sparkling little stars and pretty bows as banners. oh, and soft pink as a colour accent on certain words.

im still losing it over the "how did high schoolers write 600 word essays before chatgpt" post. 600 words. that is nothing. that is so few words what do you mean you can't write 600 words. 600 words. this post right here is 45 words.

Simon never heard his father say sorry, or please, or thank-you, or I love you.

In their house, when his mama would put down hot, heavy casseroles, her skin damp with sweat, eyes darting for some sweet words, his father never said one word of thanks, let alone 'some'. Only waved his thick, impatient hand.

His father never took the plates to the sink. Never noticed when she stayed up at night to sort the screws by size and purpose—organizing the chaos he left behind just to find one damn hammer.

His father never said ‘please can you—’ only grunted with that bitter mouth, glared with those unkind eyes when he needed something.

Simon never heard him say I love you. And he couldn’t believe his eyes the day his father plucked out his baby brother from his mama's arm, and didn’t spare one glance for his Ma. She didn't deserved that, did she? Her weak frail body, cracked murmuring lips — she should be celebrated with adoration, comfort, love.

Love, and an infinite of it.

His father never sat beside her just to drink tea. Never told her about his day. Never asked about hers — what she did, or liked, or wanted. Never reached out his thumb, however calloused it was, to wipe away the sprout on her chin. That he was grateful she's next to him, that he loved her.

So when life happened, and Simon was left to pick up his pieces and place them in a way he wanted to be—he thought whomever he will be, anything, but his father.

Anything but him.

And then life happened again but this time it arranged itself in beautiful ways. Because you came with it this time. You and all your silly lovely ways, you who kissed your knee before resting your chin, you who cheered up catching up with fridge' light switching off, you so beautiful, so kind, made up of sundust. His sunshine — lighting up his world.

And God, he was so, so grateful. Every moment, every day !

“I love you,” he’d say the moment he wakes up next to you. Pressing his love on your lips, on your shoulder, on your neck.

“I love you,” when you spill milk in the morning daze and stare at it like it might disappear.

“I love you,” when he wipes your chin and kisses your forehead.

“I love you,” when he takes your hand in his and rubs it between his palm, why ? Because he'll spend his whole life keeping your hands warm than anything else.

“I love you.” because he loves, loves, and loves you so much that it hurts, so much that it heals, so much that it's everything sweet ever happened to him.

“I love you.” for all the ways his father failed, and Simon too, as a son, as a brother — failed to save his mama and lil' brother. I love you, because in loving you he is allowing himself to be loved.

Masterlist

sweet!simon | sex and other things

as you may notice, i'm lowkey done with capitals when i type they're just so so inconvenient and DISRUPT MY FLOW (unless i wanna get my point across like that) enjoy!

warnings: virgin!reader, simon actually being…sweet?, f!oral receiving, sex and other things (duh read the title)

word count: 0.6k

it's slow at first. deliberate.

he's got you spread out on your bed and by the look in his eyes, he's been starved for this. looking at you through low eyes like you're something so rare, laid out all nicely just for him. big hands on your thighs, thumbs stroking over your skin in a comforting way. like he can't believe you're real.

"been thinking about this for so long," he mumbles, voice rough and quiet. "thinking about how sweet you'd taste."

your breath stutters. he smirks that goddamn smirk, because he knows alright. he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

and then, finally, his mouth is on you. and it's devastating.

slow, wet, messy.

he's not shy about it at ALL. tongue working you open like he's got nowhere else to be. this is basically what he believes to be his purpose in life. to please you. every little noise you make just makes him groan even deeper into you, like he lives for the sound of your pleasure.

"fuck..." he murmurs against your core, voice shattered, "all of this for me, pretty girl?" he praises you, managing to pull a physical reaction out of you as you feel yourself dripping, leaking in arousal all over his lower face.

your hands find his hair without even thinking, tugging a little, and he loves it, groaning into you like it's the hottest thing you could've done. he grabs at your thighs when they start to tremble, spreading you wider and pulling you closer like he needs more.

it's absolutely filthy and he's obsessed.

he doesn't stop until you ride out your orgasm on his face, his grip on your thighs helping you to push through the intensity of it.

and after? you'd be lying there still catching your breath after this absolute MUNCH just ate you out with no mercy whatsoever, your legs still shaking a little, chest rising and falling. and he would just look at you with a stupid smirk like he's so fucking proud of himself. as if you looking spent was his most favourite view ever.

he would probably wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, but he'd still be grinning. maybe he even says something like "tastes so fucking good. knew you would." like it's nothing.

and then... he's already getting rid of his clothes - unbothered, hard as hell, dick literally leaking because he's been so into it. he's wanted to fuck you from the second he touched you but he was patient about it.

but now? after that? he has no patience left. it's non-exsistant.

he would definitely grab your face while kissing you messily, so turned on by the fact that you can taste yourself on his mouth. groaning into it, mumbling promises like "gonna fuck you so good, baby. gonna feel so good."

and when he finally pushes into you...? oh hellll you're done for.

the mix of low moans and gasps from him and whimpers from you make the moment so so perfect. him holding you hips, telling you "that's it. atta girl, jus' like that. taking me s'well."

he'd be such a praiser too. "my pretty girl. so fucking perfect f'me."

the sex would be slow at first, he needs to make sure it feels good for you before he focuses on his own needs and wants, but it wouldn't take too long before he's fucking into you like he can't help it. whispering filthy little things embellished with praise into your ear between kisses. staring into your eyes as he fucks you so good, watching you fall apart on him.

gosshhh im combusting at this thought rn...

Tag list 𖠋: @punkkture @slut-lmao @sebastianstans-slut @ilikeoldmen @g1rlfa1lure0 @queenoflaflames @tmartin0918 @kkloubee @goldie-221 @patricksoulmate @writingandsins @mxnee777 @bittersweetfig @mlthree @cupidswan @siphon07 @decaffeinateddelusionbread

mechanic!simon riley headcanons

mechanic!simon riley who swore he fell in love with you the minute you walked in the shop, your eyes wide but your expression serious. his usual customers are on the older side and always men who are too insufficient to fix a car on their own, so you were the perfect change of pace.

mechanic!simon riley who knew as a woman you were highly likely to get ripped off by other mechanics, so he was glad you came to his shop. he makes sure to offer you water and some light snacks. he doesn't do that with his other customers, but you're an exception.

mechanic!simon riley who thought it was hot when you got straight to the point before he could even introduce himself. you already diagnosed your car before you came because like simon, you knew how you could get scammed in repair shops. you nodded when he asked if you knew a lot about cars and he replied with, "a woman after my own heart."

mechanic!simon riley who is already wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt, but rolls up the sleeves to his shoulders so you could get a view of just how huge his biceps were. it doesn't help your temptation when you see that his tattoo sleeve in fact does continue up until his shoulder.

mechanic!simon riley who on purpose makes sure his t-shirt lifts a little bit higher than usual while he's working on your undercarriage. he's lying down under the car, and makes sure to extend his arms higher so he can tease the gorgeous combination that is his happy trail, abs, and v-line to you.

mechanic!simon riley who drains the oil in your car on purpose while he's working on it just enough so that you have to come back a second time and so that he has an excuse to see your gorgeous self again.

mechanic!simon riley who doesn't let you pay for any of the repairs you needed. he reasoned with you saying you had enough trouble driving the car to the shop as it was, and doesn't want to add on to it.

(idk)

is there anything more boring than watching golf? like fuck.