hhavok666

[hhavok666]

Simon Riley spitting on your pussy (+slight spit play)

He's so dirty about it. It's right before he puts his cock in you. He spreads your legs and leans down, holding your gaze before shifting his eyes to your cunt.

He spits on her, his cock twitching when you whimper about it. He pushes his cock between your folds, the thick head nudging your clit.

“Fuck, so pretty. Look at this pussy, all wet, hm? She looks so pretty with my spit on her, don't she?”

He rubs his cock back and forth between your folds, working you up even more. But then he pulls away and leans closer to you. He places his fingers against your lips. “Spit.”

You obey, spitting on his fingers, and he grins.

“Atta girl.”

He moves his hand down between your thighs and slides his fingers into you. You mewl, pushing your hips against his hand.

“Yeah, I know. I know. You're already so wet, but a little more won't hurt, hm?”

He pulls his fingers out of you and licks them clean. But it's not enough for him. He spits on your cunt again, right on your clit, and you squeak.

He rubs his thumb on your clit, using his spit as lube, and he presses the bulbous head of his cock against your entrance. He slowly pushes into you, groaning, feeling how tight and warm and wet you are, and he almost comes right then.

He fills you to the brim and then covers your body with his. He kisses your lips tenderly before grabbing your face in his hand, squeezing a little too tight.

“Open,” he orders, and smirks when you obey. He spits in your mouth, grunting as your pussy clenches his cock tight. He watches you, delighted, as you swallow it down, always so eager to please him. “That's my girl. Always so good for me, you make me so happy.”

And, God, you'd do anything only to hear those words from him again.

---

Taglist - if you wanna be added to my Ghost taglist, lmk 💛

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---

Simon Riley masterlist

[hhavok666]

and if i said that there's a version of ps!ghost that already has you bent over the edge of the leather couch, big hands steering your hips the way he wants them, tugging the lace of your knickers to the side (not even off, just enough to get what he wants) before the director's even let you know the camera's rolling.

"you nervous?" he murmurs, cloth mask brushing your ear as the red light beams, alive. "don't be."

he doesn't say it because he's gentle, but because he knows exactly what he's doing. knows your tells; how your breath snags in your throat when he spreads your thighs wider, how your lips tremble when he spits just to smear it in with his fingers.

"you're my favorite to shoot with," he says it like it's casual, like you're not already pulsing around the first inch of him.

no one can see his face behind the mask, but you feel the smile when he fucks in the rest of the way with a stretch that borders on unbearable, burying himself with a groan that vibrates in your bones.

"fuckin' perfect," he breathes, to no one and everyone.

"don't care what he script says." his hips grind, not fast but deep, and the sound of him— generously wet, dragging, greedy— makes the scene feel too intimate. too real.

"'m not pullin' out."

(ik he's nice in the other one i wrote but like cmon. CMON. he's even worse once the cameras stop rolling and the crew starts packing up omg)

[hhavok666]

— simon riley x reader

୨୧ cw: fingering, mean!simon, porn w/o plot ୨୧ requests open! check out my navigation for request guidelines and masterlist.⠀⠀ㅤ ━╋

you suck in a breath as simon adjusts your position. simon’s got you nestled in between his legs as he’s sat up against the headboard- he’s fully clothed and his mask is pushed up onto the bridge of his nose, allowing his grunts and vulgar whispers to be unmuffled. “uh uh- spread em’, luvie.” he murmurs, his large hand pushing your knees apart. “wanna make you feel good, gonna let me?” he murmurs into your ear.

your face and chest is flushed- completely naked as you lean against his chest- his fingers caressing your sensitive flesh. “actin’ all shy now like you weren’t beggin’ like a fuckin’ whore ten minutes ago.” he tuts, shaking his head as his fingers glides in between your folds- your arousal collecting onto his digits. “fuckin’ hell.” he groans, and you let out a soft mewl.

you can feel his hard cock straining against his pants on your back- every now and then he ruts it into your back like a desperate mutt. “cunnie’s sopping, this all for me?” he saying into your ear, nipping at the skin on your neck- eliciting a whine form you. “shh- i’ll give you what you need, pretty. god, look at ya- my perfect girl, yeah?”he coos, letting his middle and ring finger sink into your cunt as deep as they can go- nestled in my gummy walls that pulsed around him.

“ah- si-simon!” you squeal, your thighs clamping closed around his hand- your hips twitching as his fingers curl up against your g spot. he tuts again- pushing your knees apart and placing a light slap to your inner thigh. “tha fuck i say, birdie? keep em’ open.” he orders, his thumb swiping up and down on your clit- making your eyes roll back behind your half open lids.

“fuck!” you cry out, your hands scrambling to grasp his wrist. he lets out a deep chuckle as he fingers your weeping cunt- eyes glued to your pussy sucking in his fingers as he bites down on his bottom lip and ruts against your back.

he feels your pretty pussy flutter around his fingers, he knows it’s coming. the vulgar squelching sound your cunt is making is beginning to get more intense- as does his pace. “fuckin’ cunnie suckin’ me in, love. like she knows ‘er owner, yeah?” he comments as his free hand reaches up, grasping your throat with gentle pressure to the sides of your airway.

you moan pathetically- the cut off to your breathing creating a delicious dizzy sensation as you feel your orgasm approaching. “mhm- there we go, i know that look.” he grunts, his thrusts against your back getting harder and more desperate. “gonna cum, hm? gonna cum on my fingers? fuckin’ pathetic- my pathetic lil girl.” he rambles in your ear, his breath becoming more erratic as his fingers abuse your puffy cunt.

you writhe and cry out, your head tilting back against simon’s shoulder. your mouth forms an ‘o’ shape before you shudder and let out a guttural moan- cumming all over his palm. “atta girl- fuck…” he praises- his grip on your throat tightening as his cock pulses- cumming at the sight of you.

“god- fuck- my fuckin’ girl.” he mumbles, tilting his head back as his fingers continue to ride you through your high.

you go limp in his arms- head hazy and body still twitching. simon’s fingers pull out gently, a soft whine falling from your lips from the sensation. he kisses your temple and then your jaw.

DOLL2SICK— est. 2025 © do not copy or publish my work to any other platform!

[hhavok666]

when i was 12 i babysat this girl for a few years and she would come to me and show me her art, drag me by my wrists and point at the pieces she’d made during the week. and she’d be like “do the voice” and i’d put on a sports-announcer olympics-style voice and be like “such form! this level of coloring! why i haven’t seen such perfection in crayola in a long time. and what is this? why jeff, now this is a true risk… it seems she’s made … a monochrome pink canvas…. i haven’t seen this attempted since winter 1932… and i gotta say, jeff, it’s absolutely splendid”  and she’d fall back giggling. at the end of every night she’d check with me: “did you really like it?” and i’d say yes and talk about something i noticed and tucked her in.

she was just accepted into 3 major art schools. she wrote me a letter. inside was a picture from when she was younger. monochrome pink. 

“thank you,” it said, “to somebody who saw the best in me.”

[hhavok666]

Insecure (sfw)

Request by @r1s-y0ur-s4anity I'm so sorry it took me so long babe! Hope you enjoy 💛

Simon’s body is covered in scars. From his years of hard work, from too many missions, too many close calls. No matter how big and burly he is, he can’t look past the scars. How could anyone ever think him attractive for it?

But then there’s you. You perfect being, so sweet and kind and smart and funny. Perfect, that’s what you are. And Simon loves you, and he always marvels at the fact that you allow him to be yours. But the doubts remain, threaten to drown him whenever he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

Like today. He’s just showered and was going to get dressed, but the image in the mirror makes him recoil.

He stares at his reflection, eyeing every scar, knowing each and hating them. They ruin him, take away whatever attractive qualities he may have.

You walk into your shared bedroom then and catch him staring, dripping water onto the floor, towel low around his waist.

You walk up to him from behind and hug him, your hands on his strong chest. You feel him tense up at your touch and your eyebrows furrow.

“You okay, Si?” you ask gently, breath fanning against his back.

“’m fine,” he murmurs. “’s just…all these scars got me looking like…”

You wait. When he doesn’t finish his sentence, you step in front of him so you can see his face. “Looking like what?” you prompt.

He shakes his head, avoiding your gaze. “Like the kinda man that you wouldn’t want. There are so many hot men out there, love. You chose the ugliest one.”

Your heart breaks, tears right down the middle and the pieces fall into your stomach, making you feel almost nauseous.

“What? Si, what are you going on about?” you ask, grabbing onto his arms.

“I ain’t the kinda man that a girl like you should be with,” he says quietly, meeting your gaze now. You see the pain in his eyes, a storm that traps him. “You could have anyone else.”

“I don’t want anyone else, I want you.”

He shakes his head. “But these scars—”

“Are part of you,” you cut in. “Every scar is a story, Si. A victory. Another time you made it out alive so you could come back to me,” you say quietly, eyes trailing down his body, finding every scar. You know them by heart, your fingers have traced them countless of times. How could he possibly think they’re ugly? They’re perfect on him.

You look back up at his gorgeous face to find he’s unconvinced. You grab his face in your hands, pulling him down some so you can kiss the scar on his forehead. “I like this scar.” You kiss the one on his eyebrow. “This one.” The one on his cheek and the one on his jaw. “I love all your scars, Si. What do you see in them that you don’t like?”

He doesn’t answer. So you keep kissing. The ones on his shoulders, the ones on his chest, on his ribs, they’re all over his torso, and you kiss each one. You move to his back, kissing the ones on his shoulder blades, on his sides. You kiss the ones on his arms, on his hands.

By the time you’re done, he’s crying. Silent tears that just roll down his face. No sobs, no sniffles, just a quiet storm breaking past the usually calm and cocky mask he wears.

“Si,” you say quietly, grabbing his hand and leading him to the bed. You make him sit on the edge and hug him. He’s quick to wrap his huge arms around you, burying his face into your chest as he cries. He still doesn’t make a sound. “Si, I love you, no matter what. I love your mind, your dirty humor, your silly jokes, your voice. I love the way you look at me, and how you touch me, and how you’re always there for me. I love your face. I love your eyes, and your mouth, and your neck, and your shoulders, and your arms and hands and I love every scar on every inch of you. I love everything about you, the physical and the soul. I love all of you, Si, no matter how many scars. No matter how ugly you think they are and how ugly you think they make you, I love all of them. Because they’re not ugly, and neither are you. God, Si, you’re so far from ugly. You are the hottest man I’ve ever seen. And you’re an amazing man, perfect for me. And I love you.”

He looks up at you, eyes broken and filled with tears. You caress his face gently. “You mean that?” he asks quietly, voice rough.

“Baby I would never lie to you. Especially not about this. I love you and all your scars, and I always will.”

---

Taglist

@booboobear-12 @lilychristine01 @smzyyx @mxsatorisimp @akkahelenaa @crypticlxrsh @m-0-ssy-m-3-ss @actualpoppy @dawnnightshade666 @dethspllz @massivecandycrusade @mentally-unstable-hottie13 @shushyoudontknowme @readinggeeklmao @despairingrat @h0lydrag0ns @poseidonsbichild @sillylittlereader @vanillarosekiss @jangles-the-clown @lem-hhn @doubledizzy22 @http-bell @readingthingy @velvetdimond @thegaywitchofwhimsy @weaniebeaniebaby @havoc973 @lucienofthelakes @keiminds @8pmismybedtime @i-wanabe-yours @happysmappy @jp600fox @moonbluff @hobiebrownenthusiast @dragons-flare @canyonmooncreations @foxintheferns @dreamland08 @fertilise-me @dravenskye @hobiebrownenthusiast @liidiaaag @viviansvault3 @alwayzmsbehavn @nicolebarnes @tysukier @icouldntthinkofanythingclever  @cd-mr

*if you wanna be added to my Ghost taglist, lmk 💛

---

Ghost masterlist

[hhavok666]

My thoughts exactly

blunt!simon!riley during your honeymoon

cw: dubiously consensual language / power imbalance, breeding kink / pregnancy kink, possessive + degrading language, obsession + ownership themes, implied somnophilia (waking you up with sex) marking, bruising, overstimulation, territorial behavior / isolation kink, objectification

a/n: divider by @bernardsbendystraws

he doesn’t take you to a beach. no cute sandals, no cocktails. he takes you to a cabin in the woods with no cell service and blackout curtains.

“honeymoon’s for makin’ sure it sticks.”

you don’t leave the bed for days.

you’re wearing nothing but his t-shirt and your wedding ring. your thighs are sore. your voice is gone. you’re leaking everywhere, and he won’t stop pressing his palm to your belly like he’s checking.

“doesn’t feel full enough. think i need to try again.”

he eats you out in the kitchen. fucks you over the balcony railing. carries you from room to room like a doll. he lets you nap only so he can wake you up by slipping in slow and whispering:

“’s your honeymoon, sweetheart. you want me to take care of you, yeah?”

you lose track of how many times he finishes inside you.

and he keeps whispering that same promise into your ear, every time your belly tenses up or your breath catches or your thighs shake:

“gonna give you a belly, yeah? a bump. little ring on your finger and a fuckin’ baby in you. real wife now.”

[hhavok666]

To the she devil above what does a girl gotta do to get this?!?

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.

“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”

it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.

“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”

and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.

“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”

he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.

“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”

he exhales. slow. almost a growl.

“jesus. stop talkin’.”

“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”

his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.

“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”

he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.

and you?

you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.

“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“

he doesn’t let you finish that thought.

“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”

“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“

his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.

“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”

that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.

“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”

he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”

by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.

and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.

your thighs tense. he notices.

“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”

he pauses. boot in hand.

“…what?”

he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.

your lashes flutter.

“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”

he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.

your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”

he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.

“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.

“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“

“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.

the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.

not fully, but enough.

you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”

he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—

“only when i breathe.”

your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”

he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.

he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”

the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.

“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“

before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.

“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”

you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.

your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”

his eyes snap shut.

“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”

even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.

“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“

his palm tightens over your lips again.

“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”

then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”

[hhavok666]

Ripped ghost truthers come to my doorsteps to die.

[hhavok666]

Facts

Y/n: Is your dick big enough for the way you act ?

Simon: Come and see.

*Later*

Y/n: *flustered* He can keep acting this way.

Simon: :)

[hhavok666]

Tactical Porn | Soap x TF141!Reader

The pub wasn’t packed, but it buzzed with the low thrum of end-of-mission tension finally loosening its grip. You were leaned against the corner of the booth, half a drink too deep, cheeks a little warm, boots scuffed and muddy under the table. Ghost sat across from you nursing a dark ale, Price was at the bar charming the poor bartender for the fourth time that night, and Gaz was telling a story with too many hand gestures and not enough point.

And then—he walked in.

Soap.

Freshly showered, but still wearing his tactical pants, boots laced up tight, black tee stretched across his chest like it was trying to hang on for dear life. Dog tags clinked softly against his chest as he slung his bag down, arm flexing with the movement.

He didn’t notice you watching. Not yet. He was talking to someone from another squad, smiling wide, that same damn smile he used after blowing something up and getting away with it.

You stared. Shamelessly.

“I mean… Jesus Christ,” you mumbled.

Gaz leaned a little closer. “What’s that?”

You blinked, realizing you’d said it out loud. But it was too late now—your drunk mouth was running. Full speed.

“I just don’t get how he exists, you know? Like—how is that man real? Look at his arms. His arms, Gaz.”

Ghost raised a brow, amused. “You alright there, sunshine?”

You waved your hand dismissively, laughing. “I’m just saying! It’s criminal. He’s got that... older guy confidence. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and how you like it—probably doesn’t even have to try.”

Gaz nearly choked on his drink. “Bloody hell, you’re in deep.”

You nodded solemnly. “You ever seen him disarm a bomb? It’s porn. Tactical porn.”

“I’m regretting this conversation,” Ghost muttered, though his eyes were definitely smiling under that mask.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer weight of your thirst, Soap turned. Eyes scanned the room and locked right on you. His smile curled into something sharper, something knowing. He raised a brow.

You went very still.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “He definitely heard me.”

Gaz snorted. “He didn’t have to. You’re practically drooling.”

Soap started toward your table, slow and loose, and you suddenly remembered how to panic.

“I hate everyone here,” you muttered under your breath.

“You love it,” Ghost replied.

Soap reached the table, gaze flicking from Gaz to Ghost, and then settling on you. He leaned down, bracing one hand on the back of your seat, voice low and amused.

“Somethin’ you wanted to say to me, bonnie?”

Your mouth went dry. Heat crept up your neck.

“I—uh… I like your shirt?”

Smooth. Nailed it.

He just smirked, voice like velvet and mischief. “That right? Thought I heard something about my arms.”

You buried your face in your hands as the guys lost it around you. Ghost let out an unholy wheeze. Gaz was doubled over.

Soap leaned in even closer, lips brushing your ear. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll give you somethin’ better to look at later.”

He pulled away with a wink and walked off, leaving you red-faced and speechless, the table roaring with laughter.

You were never drinking around the Task Force again.

The barracks were quiet. Most of the squad was still out drinking, laughing off adrenaline and bruises. But you had ducked out early—blaming your headache, or maybe your pride.

You’d hoped he’d forget. You’d prayed he hadn’t heard you go on and on about his arms, his older-guy confidence, the way he disarms bombs like he’s undressing someone. But Soap wasn’t the type to let something like that slide.

You were halfway through changing—jacket off, shirt tugged up over your ribs—when you heard the door creak open.

You froze.

"Didn’t mean to interrupt,” came that familiar voice—low, lilting, amused.

You yanked your shirt back down and turned, heart hammering. Soap leaned in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, hands in his pockets, that smirk already locked and loaded.

“Johnny—”

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. “No need to get shy now, bonnie. You had plenty to say earlier.”

You crossed your arms, trying to fight the heat crawling up your throat. “I was drunk.”

He tilted his head. “Drunk enough to say the truth.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Soap took a slow step forward, then another, until he was right in front of you. His eyes dropped, dragging over your face, your parted lips, the rise and fall of your chest.

“You said I look like I know exactly how you like it,” he murmured.

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean it.”

He grinned. “Aye, but you do wonder.”

You opened your mouth to snap back—deny it, laugh it off, something—but he leaned down and kissed you. It wasn’t soft. It was precise. Confident. Just like you imagined. His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he angled your head and deepened the kiss until your knees gave just a little.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, breath uneven.

“I was gonna wait,” he said quietly. “Figure you might get nervous. Might think I’m just older and lookin’ for fun.”

You blinked up at him. “Aren’t you?”

His grin turned dangerous. “No. I’ve had fun. What I want now’s a little more than that.”

Your heart flipped, fast and stupid.

He stepped back, letting you breathe, eyes dragging down your frame again—just long enough to make your skin burn.

“Come find me when you stop pretending you don’t want it,” he said, heading for the door. “And next time, love, don’t whisper it in a pub. Say it to me.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you just stood there—flushed, breathless, and already aching to chase him down.

[hhavok666]

You know that thing some married couples do where the husband takes a bite of cake and mouth-feeds the chewed part to his wife? Simon definitely does that at your wedding and some of 141 collectively lose their minds.

⸻

The cake was good—light, sweet, touched with something rich like espresso—but you barely tasted it.

Because Simon took the first bite. Not with a fork, not like a gentleman. Just lifted it with his fingers, slow and sure, eyes on yours as he bit into it.

Crumbs clung to his lips. Frosting kissed the corner of his mouth. He chewed slowly, jaw tense. That wolfish calm he always wore—under control, but always on the edge of something primal.

From the table nearby, Soap called out, “Oi, better be a clean split or there’s gonna be blood!”

Laughter. Glasses clinking. Someone whistled.

But Simon? Didn’t blink. He kept chewing, and locked eyes with you.

You leaned in slightly. Narrowed your gaze.

“Was that the last one?”

He didn’t look sorry. Just kept chewing. Shrugged, eyes glinting.

“You said you were full,” he said around the bite, voice low, half amused, half taunting.

You huffed, eyes flicking to the now-empty plate. “That was before I saw you licking the damn fork like it was divine intervention.”

That made his lips twitch.

Then—because he was ridiculous, and feral, and somehow the softest monster you’d ever loved—he leaned forward, chewed a little slower, and pulled you in by the chin with two fingers.

Mouth to mouth, he pressed the rest of the bite to your lips. Chocolate and salt and heat. Your breath caught.

You let out a startled laugh against his mouth. “You’re disgusting.”

“You wanted some,” he murmured, smug. “Open.”

You did. Because you were a little disgusting too. And because the way he was looking at you? Like the reception, the cake, the crowd—none of it existed. Just you, and his hand on your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like you were his favorite thing he’d ever tasted.

From the 141 table, a violent cough.

Soap, choking. “Jesus Christ—”

Gaz: “I think I just got pregnant.”

Price didn’t say anything, but you could feel the weight of his stare. The kind that said this is still a public function, son, even if his mouth twitched like he was holding in a smirk.

You swallowed.

Simon pulled back just an inch. His thumb wiped a smudge of icing from your bottom lip and, without looking away, he brought it to his own mouth. Licked it clean.

“Good?” he asked, low, rough.

You nodded, dazed.

“Thought so.”

Soap leaned into Gaz, muttering loud enough to carry: “They’re gonna shag on the damn cake table.”

You turned slightly, still breathless. “You’re just mad no one’s feeding you.”

“I’m mad I can’t unsee that,” he said.

Gaz: “You’re lying. You’ve replayed it twice.”

Price finally chimed in, cool and dry: “You feed anyone like that on my birthday, Riley, I’m pulling your funding.”

Simon didn’t even glance at them. Just pressed his palm to the small of your back, ring flashing, and leaned in until his lips were brushing your ear.

“Still hungry?” he asked, just for you.

God help you. You were.

And they all knew it.

[hhavok666]

the holy grail types of fanfic

[hhavok666]

Yupppppo

serial kiler simon riley x reader

Serial killer Simon Riley who goes on a date with his victims and kills them after, who actually chokes u mid sex with an intention to kill but you moan instead thinking he has a choking kink.

And he stops bcs what?

You gasp out, voice hoarse—“S-Sorry… I’ve never really done this before, but… I’m willing to try?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

He stared at you like you were a glitch. You should’ve been dead by now.

Instead, you were flushed and squirming, looking at with all wide eyes.

“Yeah?”

And you breathed. “Is it… is it something you like?”

His head tilted slowly. His gaze slid down your body, back up to your face. He studied you like you were a rare creature.

Then he smirked. A dark, quiet curl of the lips. "Maybe."

“Okay,” you said, barely whispering.

Safe to say you don't die that night.

sorry wtf is this