#ghost x Reader

[dead-flight]

Overprotective!Simon my HUSBAND.

He's never been worried. Not at home, not when he could fight any assailants off himself. Hell, they'd be fucking loose in the head to think they could take him on. It's not like he had much to show either--he didn't have much in the ways of luxury, simply because he chose not to purchase it.

Until he met you. He was nervous then, suddenly fixing shit around the house he'd let slip by him--the broken security system, the hole in the ceiling where he'd ripped out the smoke alarm because of its incessant 'low battery' beeping. Sure it was dangerous, but he hadn't cared before.

What never changed was the fact he'd had guns all over the house. You told him before that you'd feel sorry for whatever poor bloke thought he could grab a quick check off of your home, and he'd laughed in response, told you not to worry about it. He'd deal with it, after all, should push come to shove.

So he's prepared when he hears rustling from downstairs, and the beeping of the security system he'd had installed beeping away beside his ear--quiet enough for you to never notice, loud enough for him to wake up. He slips out of bed, sooths the crease that forms between your brows when his warmth leaves from beside yours, and grabs the pistol under the bed.

Whoever's broken in is about to feel bloody sorry for even trying.

He's efficient. Makes quick work of checking upstairs, deems it all clear before he's creeping down the stairs--the perpetrator's back in immediate sight. He's rifling through the desk in the study, thumbing through cabinets for cash, or anything expensive.

He only notices Simon when Simon wants him to. It's a firm press of the gun to the guy's head, causing him to jump, flinching under the touch. "What the hell--"

“I’d shoot y’point blank right ‘ere if I could, but the missus is sleepin’ upstairs. So y’ve got thirty seconds t’fuck off before I turn y’into a stain on the carpet," Simon interjects, checking the clock on the wall absently. Like it's just an average weekday to him.

"Hey, hey man, I'm just--" he raises his hands placatingly, dropping the papers he had been holding.

"Aye. Don't give a fuck. Would rather not stain the carpet, though, missus really likes this one. Said it's real soft n' nice on 'er feet."

Simon catches the door as he practically sprints from the home, only to avoid it slamming--he wouldn't want to alarm you, of course. He hums, shuts it quietly, and goes to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

When he's back upstairs, shuffling into the bedroom, your wide eyes looking at him and quietly asking him where he went--how dare he leave you when you were cuddling, he smiles, places the glass on the nightstand and sneakily slips the gun right where he'd first gotten it.

“Nothing, luv, was thirsty, needed t’grab some water.”

[localgoblinlad]

hold

[babyybrii]

simon riley doesn’t cum easily. he’s old enough to be your dad and he’s been fucking girls since before you were even a thought. it’s something he’s proud of—most girls are lucky enough to get foreplay and twenty minutes let alone hours of teasing, touching and fucking that’ll have them forgetting their own name. it’s something he even warns you about, almost holds the idea over your head when the topics of sex and your virginity come up.

“‘’m a grown man, sweetheart. much worse than the boys your father warns you about. wanna get you ready first.”

and he does—when the day comes and your laid out on your pretty silk sheets, topless and wearing nothing but your cutest lace panties—just for him. he spends an hour with his mouth between your legs, fingers inside you, hands all over your body. he spends so much time ‘getting you ready’ that when it’s finally time for him to sink his cock inside you—

he stills.

you blink up at him, shifting at the pressure of him just sitting inside you.

“simon?” you whisper, shuddering as your pussy clenches around him over and over—desperate for him to move, touch, something.

“need a minute,” he grunts, eyes squeezed shut. his fists clench and unclench next to your head. his hips twitch. he throws his head back when you try moving for him—

“don’t.” he snaps, must harsher than he meant, hand flying down to still your movement, “‘m gonna blow my load if you move again sweetheart.”

you blink. you frown. you think. then you grin. “but you said-”

“shut up.”

tags: @avgdestitute @3m3lia9 @km-ffluv

lmk if you wanna be taken off of or added to my cod taglist <3

[rawme-price]

still thinking about marine biologist!reader. come home the kids miss you 🥹

Orca Mer!ghost and marine biologist!reader who runs a mer sanctuary???? Yeah.

Ghost was a new rescue, youve been told. He was found off the coast of a popular tourist spot, and had suffered a broken arm from a boat getting too close. As one of the few on-call staff members with medical experience, you get called in to fix him.

Its...bad. when you first see the mer, thats all you can think. Bad. His arm is limp and cradled to his chest, you only catch glimpses through the tight anxious circles he swims. On his eighth turn you spot two notches and a tag on his dorsal fin. He was one of robas, that bastard.

Protocol states that he should be sedated for the procedure. It also states that you should never even stand close to a tank with an agitated mer. Soap, one of your three permanent patients, had once told you that seeing figures looming over the surface of the water was much more threatening than someone dipping their legs in. when your feet are in water, soap always had the best speech, growing up alongside humans we can see you are human stepping into our territory. We could easily drown you. It is like...submission? I dont know the English word for it.

So, you don a wetsuit and place all the needed supplies by the edge of the pool. The second your feet breach the water surface, ghosts hand is wrapping around your ankle and yanking you into the water. He had crossed the tank in seconds, and you were about ready to accept this would be how you die.

Except, you never feel your back hit concrete, or water filling your lungs. No, ghost just drags you into the centre of the pool then...leaves you there. You tread water as he circles you slowly, silently grateful for all those days spent in prices tank. Just as you begin to think ghost is waiting for exhaustion to overtake you, he pauses his circling and stops directly in front of you. "You..." his voice is scratchy and wavering, clearly unused to english "you...water...why?"

You had been trained on how to speak with mers that had limited speech. They weren't stupid, but you couldn't ramble at them like you could soap. Slowly, you gesture to your forearm, then point at ghost "broken. I'll fix it."

Ghost makes a displeased rumble that you know means danger. "No."

You nod, no need to anger him. "I promise, ill fix it. Can I show you what I want to use? Just so you can see?"

When ghost doesnt say anything, you slowly drift towards the edge of the pool again. He watches silently, and you think youll make progress, only for him to growl when you reach over the sill. "Hey, hey." You put your hands up so he can see them "its just stuff to fix you, okay? Do...do you want to come look? You can touch and ill tell you what it does."

Water sloshes against the sill as ghosts large form swims close. The bandage looks comically small in hid hands. "Those," you explain, careful not to grab at them, "are waterproof bandages. Its to help hold your arm in place when I fix you."

Ghost nods, picks and pulls at the stretchy fabric for a bit before moving on to the next item. You spend the next hour like that, going over each item and what it does again and again. You would spend the whole day here if thats what it took for ghost to feel safe.

You seriously think this will be all the progress for today, content with it even if youd prefer ghost be fixed sooner than later. Youre so caught up in whether his arm could handle another day that you dont register the presence drifting closer to you until a large hand circles your waist.

With a yelp, you're dragged backwards to lie on ghosts chest as he floats belly-up. He just rumbles at you when you squirm, hand nearly as big as your abdomen resting over your stomach. He holds his broken arm in fron of you, "fix it."

...well, you would never say no to helping a mer. So you work with what ghost gives you. Laid back as items are passed to you. He doesnt react when you pull at the bones until they set properly. The hand on your stomach may have been playful were this gaz, but you know its nothing more than a warning. Ghost could gut you if you upset him.

Its slow work, but as the sky is beginning to shift into warm hues, ghosts arm is bandaged and properly set. He startles you against by picking you up with one hand and sitting you on the sill. The second he lets go, ghost is darting to the farthest, deepest end of the pool.

Mildly, you note that he isnt swimming tight circles anymore.

[softaestluv]

more! | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Just thinking about Ghost having a shy, quiet wife. The glaring opposite of Ghost, painted in black and blood while you’re adorned in lace and frills. Smooth skin and delicate flesh, warm eyes and a bashful smile. Soft-spoken and so fucking sweet.

No one else knows about you, or that he’s married, not from lack of wanting people to know he has such a pretty dove waiting for him at home, but because he knows all the men on base would eat you alive.

But one day, he forgets the lunch you made him. It takes everything in you to refrain yourself from driving to base to make sure he has something to eat— you know he doesn’t have the healthiest eating habits.

You choose to message him, something he usually responds fairly quickly to. Always at your beck and call just in case his sweet girl needs him, but he doesn’t answer. Your lips are pinched raw with worry by the time you decide to get in your car.

So, imagine everyone’s surprise when a sergeant interrupts the meeting Ghost’s in— ‘Lieutenant, um, Mrs. Riley is waiting outside for you.’

Ghost is on his feet in an instant, it must be some emergency if you’re there. He rushes to the hallway, everyone else in the room stumbling behind to snoop through the thin crack of the door, see who their big bad Lieutenant is married to.

And there you are, Tupperware container in your manicured hands, white dress covering your frame with matching ribbons and bows in your hair. The look on your face is anxious, right up until you see Ghost, your eyes softening as he approaches you with wide strides despite the fact that he’s twice your size, hulking and threatening.

“Sweet’art, everything okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” He asks, brows furrowing as he does a once over your figure, checking for injury.

You exhale a quiet laugh, “No, baby. You just forgot your lunch, and you didn’t answer your phone so I got worried you would go the whole day without eating.”

He cups your jaw, a smile breaking out on his face. His sergeants are baffled for several reasons— they did not expect their Lieutenant to be married to such a sweet thing, nor had they ever heard their Lieutenant speak in such a soft, hushed tone, never seen him touch something with such care, like you were so fragile in the palms of his hands.

They would’ve thought it was all a joke if it wasn’t for the massive diamond ring on your finger, or the way you pushed deeper into his touch.

“Sorry, dove, just been in a meetin’ all day.”

He stamps a kiss against your lips, lets himself linger just a little longer than he should because he knows the whole room is watching from behind the door.

“Sweetest little wife, aren’t you?”

[thephantomsdream]

Soap: What did you do on break, Lt?

Ghost: Rode my bike and slept in an alleyway behind a bar.

Gaz: Checks out... (leaves the room)

Ghost: ...

Ghost: Want to know what I really did?

Soap: (immediately interested)

Soap: Yeah!

Ghost: (pulls out his phone)

Ghost: (shows picture of him having someone cuddled up next to him, both under a blanket, two switches in hand, both on the Stardew Valley logo screen)

Soap: (his smile falls immediately)

Soap: Wh—

Ghost: I played Stardew Valley with the missus.

Soap: The mi—?!

Ghost: Planted crops, went to the mines...

Ghost: (swipes through more pictures of them playing)

Soap: (stunned silence)

Ghost: Upgraded the house for the missus, made some town friends... (screenshots of more gameplay)

Soap: Wait—

Ghost: Even fishing. (shows a picture of him catching a legendary fish)

Ghost: The missus doesn't like fishing. (clicks his tongue) Caught them all though. (nods to himself)

Ghost: (smirks) Want to know why I'm telling you this?

Soap: (still stunned, but nods)

Ghost: Because nobody will believe you.

Ghost: (starts deleting all pictures in front of Soap)

Soap: (pained gasp)

Soap: Ye monster.

[ghouljams]

Hare!ghost x rabbit!reader will not leave me (noncon cw)

Keep thinking about the way he'd haul your hips up by your tail, tugging at the fluffy thing with a painful grip all so he can grind his hard cock against your ass and groan about how you're just soft everywhere, arent you? Threatening to stretch your ears out so they look proper like his while you whimper and whine. Caught between instincts teeth telling you that the other soldiers were right, you should be fucking like bunnies, and the startlingly human fear of having a big man on top of you. Deep throaty chuckle when you try and kick back at him, unable to find an angle that allows contact with his knees spreading your own. A vicious thrill boiling between your thighs at the long drag of his cock inspiring an attempt to claw away. Desperate to explain to him that it won't work, that you're two different families of critter, that there's no point in him doing this, but he won't listen to you, just shoves his hand into your fatigues and let's you know that your cunt sure is singing a different song.

[dmitriene]

simon ghost riley stays inside of you, nights, weekends, mornings, with your body pillowed down into the sheets and the hardness of his brawny chest from behind your back, fitting into the full line of his muscular body, your plump ass cushioned against his steadily rolling, pumping forward hips, feeling how his drawn up, full and coarse balls plap wetly against your fluttering folds, making you gasp, sound high in pitch and breathy.

with his face nuzzling in the juncture of your neck and shoulder, skin warm beneath, flushing at the exertion of accepting his swollen cock, dragging with drawn out, deep thrusts, hips pushing in against your ass, making you arch deeper, meeting his movements lazily, too fucked out, as you cling to the feel of simon's stubble rasping against your sensitive, sweaty body, down to your shoulder blades, the delicate line of spine.

you daze out, eyes watery, glancing at the headboard of the bed in front of you, bleary and smudging at the edges, making your head tip down to burrow into the pillow beneath, humming, gasping when simon's cock twitches inside of you, bulbous tip leaking and bumping over your sensitive spongy spot, movements rapid, sending white hot, exploding pleasure from the base of your spine and coursing, licking over your knotting tummy.

every ridge, scar, and tense muscle of his body brushes, presses over yours, dappled in fuzzy little hairs, rough and textured, yet making you feel as comfortable as ever, nestling closer, chasing the feel of his large body weighting on your back, the cotton duvets beneath you soddening and furled around, his heavy hands draped, curled over your torso, calloused palms reaching to cup and knead at your breasts, pearling nipples catching on the callouses, hardening even more.

simon's cock always prodding, breaching in your sensitive, weepy cunt, and there's nothing better than being cradled so close to him, having him in, filling you with a pleasurable heaviness, chapped, tissued lips pressing kiss upon kiss against the side of your face, each dip and nook of your curves, matching with the softness that he accumulated as well, over those pecs and stomach that rub against you, and that knowledge is enough to make your pussy gush.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[tojisteddy]

size kink but reader isn’t actually small. You’re small compared to him.

And it throws you off a little bit, because you know you’re about or above average in height. You have a little weight on you, and it all mixed together with that gorgeous face that makes the man swoon just from eyeing you up across the bar.

It’s maybe your first time dating a man who you really have to look up to. Hes tall, broad shoulders, a large chest and amazing muscles. He’s the type you can easily spot in a crowd, who will take your hand in his large one and lead you through the mess of a busy Sunday market. Loves looking down on you and rubbing at all your curves while hugging you from behind. He’ll whisper it while kissing along your neck.

“So fuckin small, so fuckin pretty.” He grumbles.

But you’re not small, but he makes you feel like it. Everytime he lifts you off your feet you get spooked because he sweeps you off your feel like you weight a crumb. How he towers over you when he flirts or reaches for something past you. His shirts actually going mid thigh and barely coving your ass. How he measures where his cock is gonna reach in your pudgy stomach—

you two play fight a lot because you swear you can take him on. He’s not that much taller than you. Do you end up getting bent in half, knees to your earlobes, like it’s nothing?

Every fucking time.

Everytime he has to break you in like you’re a born again virgin, his large fingers stretching out your dripping tight walls till he smacks his leaking mushroom tip against you, rubbing through your sloppy folds. He slowly ruts himself inside you, with the power of patience, till it feels like hes stuffed you full. It’s almost a disappearing act the way you take his thick veiny cock.

“ Hah- ‘s not all the way there Mama, come on baby, biiig stretch.”

And he fills you to the hilt, till he feels his balls smack against you, covering your body completely, his large weight pressing against you ever to perfectly. your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, letting out a pornographic moan. You clench around him making him his. He presses into your stomach with the bass of his fingers, riiiiight where he can feel his tip kissing your cervix and you cream around him from that alone, sobbing at how big he is, how much he stretches you out.

“That’s my fuckin girl, take my cock so well.”

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ Simon, Toji, König, Sukuna, Joel, John, Gojo, Nanami

a/n: for the girls who are 5’8 and above✊🏾 Joel & John 6’2 propaganda? Well, yes!!

[readwritealldayallnight]

Your dog’s been missing for nearly a full day now, what feels like the longest 24 hours of your life

It had been a typical walk in the park with him, literally, as you’d side-stepped gaggles of children running by to beg their parents for more pocket change, a local summer fair in the park having the area much more crowded than usual, playful music resonating through speakers and ice cream vendors doubling their prices accordingly, an idyllic day by all accounts

You’d been distracted, glancing along the paths to decide which one would be best to take, not wanting your pup to get overwhelmed by the crowd and god forbid get a whiff of the hot dog vendor a few yards away, when he suddenly did something he’d never done in all the years you’d had him

He took off

You had hardly registered his leash slipping out of your grasp before you caught one last glimpse of his tail sprinting through people’s legs, dodging strollers and bikes as he disappeared out of your eyesight

You’d tried your best to chase after him, completely blindsided as he’d never done anything like this before, beside yourself with worry when you couldn’t find him anywhere, likely appearing hysterical as you begged and pleaded with those around you, asking if they’d seen a dog, if anyone had seen him

But no luck

You’d had to call a friend to pick you up and take you home, after what felt like hours of searching for him, your eyes too wet with tears to find your own way back to a flat with one less soul than when you’d left

Missing posters had been posted on social media immediately, your friends and acquaintances sharing the posts often, sending you messages with well wishes, expressing their own feelings of sadness on your behalf

The woman behind the desk at the library kept sending you pitiful looks as you printed as many missing posters as your arms could carry, a picture of your dog enclosed along with promises of a cash reward for her safe return, intent of hanging the flyers up everywhere and anywhere people might see

Ghost watches you from a safe distance, spots your figure moving from lamppost to tree to wheely bin as you tape and staple your sweet little flyers everywhere the eye can see

Part of him almost feels sorry, for a moment, when he sees the expression on your face, all puffy, red eyes and dark under eyes to match the epitome of a distressed dog owner

But then he reminds himself that there’s no real harm done, after all, your mutt’s safe back at this flat, enjoying all the spare bits from his butcher job that a dog could ever dream of, the very same cuts of meat that had the dog sprinting away from you and towards him in the park yesterday

Besides, he’ll only wait a little longer before he calls the number at the bottom of those cute little flyers you’ve made, before he’ll return your dog to you safe and sound, before you’ll be thanking him for finding your best friend, before he’ll be insisting that a cash reward isn’t necessary, not when he’s got another reward in mind

After all, he’s had his eye on you for long enough now, has been waiting oh so patiently to act, he can handle a few hours or so

But what did you expect, love? A man can only hear your sweet voice saying “Oh Riley, you’re such a good boy! I love you, Riley” so often before he snaps

[simonz-angel]

what happens beneath a bars countertop… ft. cowboy!simon riley

his throat rumbles, slow and reverberating as he watches you steady. pupils dilating before shrinking to adjust when they meet yours, you’re almost sure the honey, sugary brown is giving you cavities, sucking you in tight like some sweet addiction.

“you got a voice, pretty boy, or d’you prefer starin’?” and though your tainted accent drawls out sharp, your knees are seconds from buckling. and there it is again, that muted laugh, the one that doesn’t crack past his lips, just rolls deep in his throat.

“yer voice is shakin’, hon,” and its cruel the way he leans himself in, close enough you can taste the bittersweet brandy on his tongue. close enough, you can see your mirrored reflection in those blown pupils. yet, when he speaks again it’s low, voice dropping octaves so you’re the only one to hear. “s’are yer legs, want me to pull up a seat?”

and he smiles, measured and cruel as your throat tightens up, dipping in a slow swallow. you choke up on his words, brain short-circuiting as you try to catch your breath. and what’s worse is his eyes drop just as your thighs shift, watching the way you press the meaty, fatty flesh together and tighten em.

but your mind catches up fast enough, tongue rolling out in a brutal hit. “go fetch me one…” and with a taunting movement, you dare to lean just a bit closer. “before i decide to use your face.”

and it works effectively, his smirk falters before his teeth are baring at his bottom lip, snagging it tight. simon’s brain weighs out, before he’s nodding deliberate, calculated with every movement. he likes your sharp edge, the way you push him further, and it certainly has his cock snagging just at the zipper of his jeans. his glinting belt buckle suddenly too tight, suddenly cutting off a bit of blood flow.

“try’na boss me around already?” his thick accents wafts in and out, a soft southern drawl ever so slightly touching his tongue. “better off beggin’ for the things you want, sweet’eart. gotta learn how to ask me nicely, now.” and his fingers hitch over the worn edge of his hat, head dippin in a sweet sarcasm of respect, left eye shooting down in a wink.

and you smile sweetly, tilting your head slow as you step closer. your chest knocks his slowly, as your nose nudges up along his ear. you can feel the soft hitch of his breath, the way his chest falls and halts under yours.

you brush your knuckles gently across the corduroy of his coat, enjoying the way it slides smooth over your skin. he lets his chin dip, eyes tracking your movements with precision, zeroing in on your hand but you’re faster, quicker to move then he thinks.

so when your hand slides between his thighs, and your palm cups up around the tight bulge of his cock, he’s gasping. he’s sure the room is spinning with how long he hasn’t exhaled, he’s sure it’s written all over his flushed face by now.

you nip at his ear giggling gently, just enough to lace his stomach up tight, just enough to make his balls raise in interest. your forehead knocks at his hat, when you breathe hot into his ear, “oh, baby, i don’t ask. if i want something,” and your hand fists up tight. “i’ll get it, understood?”

wrote this to post malone btw i am too freaked out.

divider - @bernardsbendystraws

[whateveriwant]

Price is the type of husband that schedules sex. It’s not that he’s anti-spontaneity or something; it’s just that he’s so busy with work that it’s hard to find the time for intimacy organically. So make sure you keep an eye on your online calendar because you never know when you’re going to get a Friday night invite from your husband that simply says ‘Hanky-Panky’.

Soap is the type of husband that gets possessive when you’re around other men. It doesn’t matter if it’s a group of friends or a rando at the pub – if someone’s eyes linger on you too long for his liking, he’ll take matters into his own hands. What starts as an arm around your shoulders or a hand on your waist will quickly escalate into him dragging you to the nearest bathroom to fuck you loud enough so that everyone knows you’re his.

Gaz is the type of husband that reenacts your smut fics. Whether you’re a writer or a reader, I’m sure at some point in your life you’ve encountered a sex scene where the positions seemed impossible for two bodies to achieve. Well, not only will your husband show you that said positions are indeed possible to recreate, he’ll also show you that you’re much more flexible than you once thought.

Ghost is the type of husband that can’t won’t orgasm if it’s not with you. When he’s away for work, he’ll go weeks, sometimes even months, without masturbating because he thinks it’s a waste of good seed. Once he’s back home, though, you better prepare yourself because you’re not leaving that bedroom until you’ve got a belly stuffed full of all the cum he’s been saving for you.

[babyybrii]

Lieutenant Simon Riley—who’s fucked you, his superior, exactly once, against Price’s dryer during one of his infamous ‘task force barbecues.’ He’s made you come on his fingers exactly three times—all after rough missions when he claims he’s just doing his job. Taking care of his Captain. His mission. His obsession. You’ve kissed him twice—both times in the shower—when he lets you see his face and his scars and a little piece of his soul. He told you he loved you—just once—while you were unconscious in front of him. You didn’t hear him, he still meant it.

He doesn’t tell anyone, neither do you. But everyone knows. They see it in the way your voice softens when you order him around and in the way he watches your back like a hawk—even when there’s no potential threats.

Price knows. He sees it in the way Simon never flinches under your orders, even when they’re sharp.

Gaz knows. He’s caught the way you go a little breathless when Simon enters the room with his sleeves rolled up.

Soap definitely knows. He walked in on the two of you in the comms room once and didn’t say a word—didn’t even make himself known. Just arched a brow and walked back out, grinning.

Simon’s careful, though.

Too careful.

Only touches you when you’re alone. Only lets his voice drop when your hands are already on his belt.“That’s four,” he growls in your ear, fingers curling just right inside you. “Shouldn’t let me do this, Captain. Should tell me to stop.”

You cum around his fingers, trembling, his mask pressed to your shoulder as he exhales like he’s relieved.

And when he’s alone in his bunk, gloves off, hand wrapped around his cock, he thinks about the way you kissed him last—slow, trembling—while the water washed over both of you.

He doesn’t need to say it again.

You didn’t hear it the first time, but it didn’t matter.

You’re still his.

tags: @3m3lia9 @aztecbrujeria @km-ffluv @tessakate @seasonstreesbloom @h0lydrag0ns @viscade @i-live-in-spite @slytherin-addict @avgdestitute @ghostsd8s @fertilise-me @xylov

[sweetdarlingfic2]

Yeah right

Cw: smut

You’ve been sleeping with Ghost on and off for a few months now.

No labels. No talks. Just sex, video games, and quiet 2 a.m. hangouts in the dark, nights that start with trash talk over split-screen shooters and end with your legs around his waist, breath caught between your teeth.

It’s casual.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. Say it enough times, maybe it starts to feel true. But the way he touches you, slow, soft, like he’s savoring every inch, makes it hard to believe this is just sex.

He lets you wear his hoodie home, then pretends not to care when you post a mirror selfie in it but he still double taps it within two seconds. His jaw clenches when you take too long to reply. And his eyes always drop to your mouth when you talk, linger like they’re thinking.

You want to ask what this is. Why he acts like this. What you are.

Is it just comfort? Is it just habit? Or something close to love? Maybe too close?

You tried to ask once.

But the words barely left your mouth before he kissed them away, hands sliding up your thighs, breath hot at your throat. The question died in your mouth. Drowned in the way he fucked you like you were his. Like he didn’t need to say it because you already knew.

So you let it go.

You kept pretending it was enough.

Even though it wasn’t.

Was a Thursday night. He was at your place. The city’s asleep outside, but your apartment was lit dim and warm, a mess of tangled sheets, empty beer bottles, and that ghost of something unspoken, thick in the air.

He was quiet after. On his side, one arm slung around your waist like it’s second nature. Your skin still hums from his touch, but you’re cold inside empty in a way he hasn’t even noticed.

You stare at the ceiling.

And then “Do you ever think about me when I’m not here?”

It comes out softer than you meant it to. Too soft. Like you’re afraid of scaring him off.

Silence.

He doesn’t answer he just exhales slowly and pulls you closer, his mouth brushing your shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Wordless.

that was the only answer you got.

You don’t sleep.

You just laid there, his breath at your neck and that emptiness blooming wider in your chest. You’re not comforted by the closeness. It pisses you off, how he can touch you like that, hold you like he means it, and still give you nothing.

You turn away from him before sunrise. His arm slips off your waist. He doesn’t pull you back.

Good.

Let him feel it.

Let him wonder why you’re quiet in the morning. Why you don’t kiss him goodbye. Why you nod and shut the door behind him like it doesn’t take everything in you to do it.

Because if this means nothing to him… then why should it mean anything to you?

A month passes.

You don’t sleep with him. Not once.

Not because you don’t want to. You do. Desperately. Every time his shoulder brushes yours on the couch. Every time he leans back laughing, head thrown, or looks at you like he misses you even though you’re right there.

But you resist.

You keep your distance. Draw careful, invisible lines between your thigh and his. You still hang out because neither of you knows how to stop but you don’t stay. Not anymore. You dodge his touches. Dodge his eyes. Ignore the ache in your chest and pray he doesn’t see through it.

Of course he notices.

He’s restless now, picking at beer labels like they’ve got answers printed on them. Watching you when he thinks you won’t catch it. And when you do, he looks away fast, jaw tight like your silence is choking him.

Maybe it is.

He doesn’t know what he did. That’s the worst part. You asked him a question and he let it float off into the dark. Now all he has are guesses and guilt and that gnawing pit in his stomach that only you used to calm.

He needs you.

And he’s trying. He shows up more. Lingers longer. Drops hints with his hands, his eyes, the way he says your name like a question he’s too afraid to ask.

But you don’t break.

Not this time.

Because until he can look you in the eye and give you something real, you won’t let yourself be touched like you’re his when he’s not willing to say it out loud.

Not again.

He’s the one lying awake, wondering what the silence means.

It all comes to a head in the fifth week.

He shows up quiet. Tense. Like something’s unraveling inside him and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

He doesn’t play cool. Doesn’t make half hearted jokes. Just watches you. And this time, when you catch him, he doesn’t look away.

You feel it building in the silence between you it was thick with all the things unsaid.

You’re on opposite ends of the couch. Some movie’s playing, neither of you are watching. He just looks at you like you’re speaking a language he can’t translate.

Then, finally

“What did I do?” Voice low. Rough. Not defensive. Not cold. Just lost.

“I don’t know what I did,” he says again, eyes locked to yours. “But you’re not staying the night. You’re not looking at me. You won’t even let me touch you. I miss you… and you’re right here.”

You blink, eyes burning a little.

“I asked you,” you whisper. “I asked if you thought about me when I wasn’t there, and you didn’t say a word. Just held me like that was supposed to be enough.”

His brow furrows. That moment lands.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he mutters. “Didn’t wanna say the wrong thing.”

“So you said nothing?” You sit up straighter. “You can’t fuck me like I you love me and then act like I don’t matter.”

He leans closer. Not touching. Just close enough to feel.

“you do matter,” he says, it’s not soft. It’s firm. “You mean so much to me. You always have. I just… fuck I don’t know how to say it without ruining everything.”

You stare at him.

“I love you,” he says, finally. “And I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

This time, when his hand reaches for yours, he waits.

you let him touch you.

You don’t speak. Just lean forward and rest your forehead against his. His breath hitches. His eyes flutter shut.

“Show me,” you whisper “show me you love me,”

He kisses you like a confession. No rush. No greed. Just soft, reverent pressure. Like he’s trying to say I’m sorry with every slow drag of his mouth.

His hands find your thighs, sliding over your skin like he’s remembering how to hold you. “You sure?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Just… be honest this time.”

His jaw flexes. “I promise.”

He lifts you like it hurts to let go, carries you to the bedroom, lays you down with more care than you’ve ever seen in him.

This isn’t just sex. It’s something else.

He undresses you in silence, and when he pushes inside you, slow and aching, your whole body breathes for the first time in weeks.

“I wanted you for so long,” you whisper, fingers threading through his hair. “Even when I pretended I didn’t.”

His eyes close. A breath shudders out of him.

“Me too” he says. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

He fucks you like he’s reclaiming something. Like your body is a home he got locked out of. Every stroke says what his voice can’t, I need you. I miss you. I’m yours. I’m trying.

And when he comes, breath broken in the crook of your neck, he doesn’t pull away.

He stays.

You lie there tangled up. Skin sticky. Sheets a mess. And when he says your name, it’s not a question. It’s an answer.

“Love you.”

You turn to him, heart raw but full.

You both slept that night.

Hands sewn together. The quiet, certain feeling that maybe, just maybe, this is what it means to be loved.

[honey-on-your-tongue]

Some light somno request…

Simon wakes reader up with oral. Some sleepy pushback, both knowing they’ll give in and let him get. To. Work.

Oh dear God, what I wouldn't give to wake up like this 😮‍💨

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

You'd slept in his just shirt and a pair of panties. It hadn't occurred to you what effect it would have on him in the morning.

You're not even aware he's already up and between your legs until he kisses one bare thigh, then the other. You stir awake, groaning, hands weakly and sleepily pushing his head away.

He chuckles softly, kissing your pussy over the cotton of your panties, your weak hands not deterring him. “No?” he asks. “Why no?”

“‘s too early,” you whine, though your eyes flutter open to look down at him.

He mouths at your thighs, meeting your gaze with a pair of puppy eyes he knows you can't say no to. “Too early? Love, all you gotta do is lie there and let me take what I want,” he says lowly as he starts tugging your panties off.

You whine again but stop fighting him. Instead, you lift your hips to help him take your panties off. He grins, tossing your panties aside, and then glances at your pussy.

“Fuck,” he whispers, mouth already watering, cock hardening, as he leans in. He glances up at you one last time before smirking and going down.

His mouth covers your pussy, tongue sliding up and down between your folds as he works you up.

You gasp softly, hips bucking against his face, and Simon has to hold onto your hips to keep you still.

He sucks at your clit, relishing the way your writhe and squeal, as one of his fingers slides between your thighs. His middle finger circles around your entrance, feeling the slick dribbling out of there, feeling you clench around nothing.

He looks up at you, your eyes shut tight and your chest heaving with each breath. You look beautiful, all natural and messy from sleep. You look like a goddess.

He pushes his finger into you, grunting when you squeak and squeeze his head between your thighs slightly. He adds a second finger, slowly thrusting them in and out of you as his tongue and lips busy themselves on your clit.

You moan, one hand moving to grab at his hair, the other one clenching the bed sheets tight. You rock your hips against his hand in time with the thrusting of his fingers, hearing the obscene sounds of your wet cunt grow louder.

“Simon, fuck,” you whimper, trembling a little, body writhing and shaking.

He moans when you say his name, his cock twitching in his pajama pants. He doesn't let up. Instead, he sucks and licks at your clit harder, thrusts his fingers faster and curls them up to press against that spongy spot he knows makes you lose it.

Your back arches, a coil wound tight in your lower belly, and you're squealing and mewling. “Please! Please! Mm!”

Simon growls into your pussy, doubling down on his efforts. He's begun grinding his hips against the bed, desperate for some sort of relief for his aching cock.

You become breathless, letting out only gasps and quiet whimpers, and Simon knows that's it.

He drags his teeth over your clit, and you go whirling off the edge.

Your orgasm wracks your body. You cry out as you come, hips bucking against his face, thighs squeezing his head between them hard, fingers tugging his hair painfully.

But Simon doesn't mind. He loves the way he makes you lose control, loves giving you pleasure.

As you come down from your high, he pulls his fingers out of you and quickly latches his mouth to your pussy again, eagerly drinking up your slick.

When he pulls back, his mouth and chin are glistening from you, and his pupils are blown wide with lust.

He climbs over you, kissing your lips, letting you taste yourself before he pushes his hips against yours so you can feel his hard, heavy cock through his pants. “Looks like it's gonna be a good morning, love.”

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Simon Riley masterlist