#half-ghost!reader

[yourlocalcrackedsimp]

Idk if I wanna do a platonic one or not but I'll leave it up to you! Also I haven't played the games so sorry if somethings are off, I have watched summaries of it though! Also this doesn't go over the game, it's just where I want this to start because timelines and such

Also this is my first time doing headcannons along with writing for devil may cry so sorry if there's something weird here

And yes, this is Danny phantom inspired. Do not judge

proof reading rn

HeadCannons!:

-You first found out about devils, unsurprisingly, through you usual exorcists.

-What you thought would be a normal job for you (scare off some ghosts, accidentally destroy one or two things)

-Somehow that turned into you meeting Dante (since he was hired by someone else in the area as they assumed the 'ghost' you were dealing with was a demon) and dealing with a (surprisingly) strong demon.

-You Initially thought it was a higher-ranked ghost, but no, he explained to you it was an actual demon and that you should probably flee since he assumed you were a con artist

-Oh how wrong he was

-After bickering back and forth for a few minutes in front of the demon about whether or not you were an actual exorcist or not, you were able to prove yourself to be an actual exorcist

-How? Simple.

-The demon attacked and while Dante evaded and subsequently dragged you with him too as you prevent you from being hurt, you aimed a fingergun at the demon and next thing you know, their head was blown off and their body sealed, effectively dealing with them quickly and in one move with a simple but powerful 'energy' bullet

-the wouldn't call that an exorcism though

-safe to say, he bugged and annoyed you with so he asked many questions

-after answering some of his questions, you left to go properly deal with the demon. But since he was was a devil hunter and this was his current commission, he tagged along just to see how you work

-in actuality, you were just going to an empty field to unseal the demon and then kill it because this is something you're certainly not going to send back to the otherside

-once you freed it, you had an idea

-with that in mind, you turned to Dante and gestured for him to deal with it

-and he does in his usual way albeit, with a small compliant about your unorthodox way of dealing with the demon

-i mean why walk somewhere else when you can deal with it right there

-And that was how you two first met

-over time, and with more people mistaking ghosts and demons as the same thing, you two ran into each other quite often until you two were together on every mission because somehow demons were able to consume the souls of the dead to gain more power

-somehow

-this all eventually led to you two just joining businesses since at this point, you guys were friends (sort of) and colleagues at this point

-with that however, you largely stayed at the office while he went out to complete the missions

-why did you stay behind? To clean the place along with organise the logs and commissions

-basically, you kept the place running.

-along with that, you also took more simpler ones so that there was at least another form of income coming in

-whenever he went out to deal with demons and sometimes, subsequently ghosts, you just gave him a piece of paper with weird runes on it to stick on the ghost so he could drag it back to you to deal with

-After the first few times this happened, leading to the office being unfortunately,somewhat destroyed, you eventually let him in on another ability you had.

-you could open portals anywhere you wanted so long as you knew the area

-with this ability, you now toss the ghost somewhere and deal with it later or now depending on the case

-on the rare occasion you do go with him on missions, you both learn more each others abilities

-like how one time, he ended up getting stabbed straight through his chest and instead of dying, he fucking walked it off like it was a normal Tuesday

-safe to say, you gave him a very long lecture afterwords about being extra careful, even if he has op regeneration abilities

-and vice versa, he learnt that you were a great defense because after him being pierced through his chest, you've opted to always have a shield around him when you're there so his safer along with being the medic between you two

-even if he could heal and walk it off, he still thought it was a sweet thing

-back in the office, you were definitely becoming a world class chef with how often you had to cook healthy meals for him

-one time there was pizza in the fridge and you had just finished making food, and instead of going for your home cooked meal, he went for the pizza.

-safe to say that his hands were immediately with a spatula, like a child being scolded, and had a decent meal shoved into his hands instead

-and whenever he did have pizza, you constantly reminded him to put the box in a bin. If not, his on chore duty for a month and his banned from pizza in that time

-plus, he had to train with you. Which is arguably worse than hell itself

-miserable times

That's all, send in requests if you want something!

Word count:951

Edited

[tobeholyistobeempty]

hey so since i’m in the season of ovulation here is degrading simon riley feeding my size kink. i’m not ok send regrets. 18+

“beggin little whore f’me. not so smart now that i’ve got your brain leakin outta your cunt.”

——-

yeah. you’ve pushed it. simple as that.

and god, you knew better. you really did. but some might say you’re a sucker for punishment. others might say you’re a masochist.

you think it’s probably a bit of both, when it comes to simon.

maybe it’s because he’s a big mean brute. emotionless. big ol wall of mass and muscle. tough bloke like him don’t feel a thing, yeah? at least in your mind. makes it easy to needle - easy to poke and prod and toss little jabs about his eyes or mask or whatever slivered sign of life he might be displaying that day.

he’s contractually obligated not to kill you, might you add. that brings a level of safety you got comfortable with.

but what you didn’t get comfortable with — what you couldn’t possibly ever get comfortable with, is the size of him in your fucking guts. the growl of him in your ear. the clutch of him around your throat.

even big dead-eyed men like simon have a limit. and by the grace of god, you’d found it. the bottom of this particular mine shaft, if you will—

“y’alright down there?” his voice is slick. fuckin slick with glee. a first for him, you’re sure. “still with me, sweet’eart?”

you can practically feel the smirk barring those teeth to your neck. you try to toss something smart assed back, something to keep it goin, but he’s got your wrists pinned behind your back and his cock stretchin your walls in a way that screams he shouldn’t even be able to fit — yet you’re clenching around him like you’d die without it.

all that comes outta you is a moan.

and he laughs. bastard. fuckin filthy rasp right against your ear. “tha’s what i thought. mm. s’what i fucken wanted.”

your eyes roll. he’s so deep your hips hurt. he presses a palm between your shoulder blades to pin you harder to the floor of his barracks. all that pent up aggressions got you leakin down your thighs. pathetic. humiliating. delicious.

“tha’s it. fucken stunned now, yeah?” he thrusts deeper. free hand smacking your ass til it stings. “always mouthin off. startin shit—fuck—y’knew what this was. you’ve always known what’d it take t’shut you up.”

you hiccup when he hits your gspot. over and over. so goddamn good it hurts. “fuck—fuck you—“

“yeah. y’are.” his hips jerk, hissing against the back of your neck. “feelin every inch of me, aren’t you? go on. fuckin tell me how i feel. wanna hear y’say it.”

you bite your tongue. squeeze your eyes shut. he fucks deeper. harder.

“say it.” another smack to your ass.

“big—“ you gasp, choking on it. “fucking—huge—“

he growls like you’ve fed him. “tha’s right. eight inches buried so deep in your tight little cunt y’forgot how to lie.”

youve never heard him talk like this and all you can do is whimper - the airs gone thin. every inhale is like sandpaper scratching at your throat. every thrust is like being punched open. and when every sound you make comes out as something pathetic you know you’ve lost.

you twist your head to try and adjust for reprieve but he fists your hair to still you. “y’wanna tell me again you can’t take it? huh? wanna tell me m’too big?”

he is. he totally is. but it’s delicious pain. makes your eyes water and your walls flutter. something about you can’t help but egg him on.

“s-shut up—“

he slams forward. breath cuts sharp against your neck. “wrong answer.”

you jolt. cry out. the heat is a wildfire across your skin. “s-si-mon—“

“try again.” he breathes, curling his fingers from your hair to your jaw. “or i’ll just keep pushin till y’feel it in your fuckin spine.”

he makes good on the promise with a bruising thrust. you wail with it. vision blurring blue. “fuck! fuck i wanted this—but you’re so—you’re too—fuck please—“

and it’s that last little word. the syllables that slip past your teeth presenting pleas on a silver platter, that make him moan. fucking moan.

“oh yeah. shit. now we’re gettin somewhere.” he exhales with it, shifting just to drag at your walls and angle deeper. “beggin little whore f’me. not so smart now that i’ve got your brain leakin outta your cunt.”

you long to tell him to shut up, fuck off, goto hell — any other circumstances you might have. but the first fuck with simon riley after months of pushing and prodding ain’t one to be won. you’ll be lucky to walk tomorrow. the monster can only be poked so many times before it wakes with vengeance.

[syoddeye]

knight!ghost x reader. hand-waving details. all vibes, as usual. cw: noncon touching, manipulation

After years beneath your mother’s watchful eye—less a daughter than a jewel kept safe under lock and key—you are at last released.

Invited to accompany your elder sister to court following her marriage to the esteemed Lord Garrick. Your first steps beyond the confines of home toward something far grander. The world opens before you like a storybook.

It’s a rare opportunity for a young lady of gentle birth. The kind of chance your mother spent years safeguarding you against, fearing the pitfalls of courtly life. An opportunity your sister now extends like a gift.

You intend to follow in her footsteps. To make the most of it.

As his carriage ferries you across the countryside, Lord Garrick indulges in his role as guide and guardian. He names estates and their residents you pass, calling out their banners and bloodlines, reciting them from memory like a living codex, its margins filled with his own notations and stories from years of soldiering in the King’s service and court.

Most names you know from lessons or gossip: daughters and sons married off, the odd spoiled reputation and scandal, matriarchs and patriarchs pulling strings. But being the sheltered girl that you are, one name catches your thoughts like a burr. 

Lord Garrick slips a miniature into your hand. It is no larger than your palm, with rich watercolors painted on smoothed ivory: a large man, almost comically set in the tiny frame.

His skin is pale, his eyes a warm, untroubled brown. He wears a slight smile, and his armor gleams with the seal of the King.

“An old comrade—Sir Simon Riley.”

You run a thumb over the edge. “Is he as handsome as his portrait?” you ask, shy as a girl should be when entertaining fancies.

Lord Garrick only grins. “He is, dear one.”

“And noble? Chivalrous?”

“The very image,” he assures. His wry expression is lost on you.

You are too steeped in fantasy to notice. Already imagining the weight of his hand around yours, already composing the vows he might whisper when he asks you to dance. Him, tall and solemn. You, breathless and giggling. 

You do not yet understand how generous portrait artists can be, the choices they make to soften a mouth or warm a gaze.

When you arrive, you trail in your sister’s shadow, a daisy behind a rose, trying not to stare too openly at every knight that turns his helm. Try not to appear too eager.

You curtsy. You dine. You take your place among the constellation of other young and unmarried ladies, each one a little star burning with her own hopes.

Time passes. You thrive. You charm. You are granted permission and invitation to winter beside your sister, a small victory. Come spring, you’ll be presented formally.

On the morning of the first frost, Lord Garrick finds you in the solar, where you sit with your companions and needlework, your thoughts pleasantly idle.

“There’s someone I’m due to introduce you to,” he says. “Sir Riley.”

He offers you his arm, and you take it. He guides you through the winding halls, past tapestries older than your bloodline. The keep quiets as you tread through an unfamiliar wing. The room he stops at is narrow and dark, the hearth cold, the shutters drawn.

It rouses an unsettling feeling in your stomach. A wrong note, a song sung off-key. Doubt prickles, fine as thorns. The chamber is too plain, too tucked-away for an introduction. 

But the man you’ve come to love as a brother—steady, kind Lord Garrick—pats your hand, and the doubt recedes, momentarily quieted.

He bids you wait. He’ll fetch Sir Riley himself.

You let him go with a wobbling smile.

When the door creaks open again, it is not Lord Garrick who enters.

It is Sir Riley. You know him at once, though the helm conceals his face. Your heart skips.

“‘eard you been wantin’ to meet me, girl,” his low voice rolls thick like smoke. Heavy, like the blade at his hip.

You do not move. The knight fills the doorway as he did his portrait frame. Your hands knit loosely before you, trembling.

“It’s…an honor, sir,” you manage. Your eyes dart toward the door, hoping Garrick will follow, show his face. “I wasn’t expecting…That is, I thought Lord Garrick would–”

“Thought he’d stay? Look after you?” Sir Riley asks, stepping inside. “Nah. Garrick’s a busy man. ‘Sides, if it’s lookin’ after y’need, no one’ll do better.”

The door shuts with a click, and the bolt sliding shut might as well stick between your ribs.

You offer a smile, trying to summon the composure that’s served you well in the halls. Yet even your propriety has teeth, and it gnaws at the edges of your nerves. This isn’t how introductions are made. You know that. A lady does not meet a man alone, knight or not, not without a chaperone.

And yet here you are. 

He moves further in, slow and certain, untroubled by the circumstances and its consequences. He unfastens one gauntlet, then the other, metal clinking as he sets each piece aside.

You step back, heart kicking against your ribs.

“I only meant…we’ve only just met, and I’m sure your time is better spent elsewhere—”

He says nothing. His fingers move next to the clasps at his shoulders. One pauldron. Then the other. Each piece comes away with unhurried care, as though he has all the time in the world.

The bulk sloughs off like a shell, revealing more and more of his frame until only the breastplate and helmet remain. You realize then that you’ve backed into the wall.

“I should go,” you eke out. “I’ve no doubt you’re very tired from your duties, and this isn’t right—”

Sir Riley laughs, rough like the scrape of flint.

“You’re a nervous one.”

He reaches up and unhooks his helmet, slow as sunrise. When it lifts off, you are not prepared.

He is not unhandsome, no, but he is not the man in the portrait, either.

His nose has clearly been broken more than once and healed crooked. A jagged scar bisects an eyebrow with a fleshy knot on the end, mirrored by another that pulls taut across his lips. His skin is a map of violence—keloids, silvered cuts, and pitted lines all speaking to a life earned inch by brutal inch.

He tilts his head, eyes catching yours. Rich brown, as the painting promised—but the warmth there is tempered with something else. Hunger. The kind you’ve spied in the King’s hunting hounds. Not the gentle yearning or tender longing you had quietly imagined for yourself.

“What’s wrong? Kyle said you found me pretty, pet.”

The word—pet—snaps like a ribbon.

In its reverberation, you feel the whole truth of it: you are very much alone, and Sir Riley is very much not what you were told.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes. You are caught between alarm and something stranger. It burns low in your belly, confusing and unwelcome.

You look at him again, truly look this time.

And realize: perhaps the artist hadn’t lied or embellished. Not entirely. Perhaps the man in the portrait once matched reality, before war carved itself into his skin. Before duty hardened whatever youth he’d once had.

You try not to flinch when he steps closer, but your body betrays you—a stiffening of the spine, a renewed tremor in your limbs.

Sir Riley notices.

He watches you the way a wolf watches a fox kit or rabbit. Clearly delighted by the prey he’s cornered. He lets the silence sit, lets your discomfort curdle before breaking it.

“You’re more beautiful than your picture,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your mouth dries. There aren’t many portraits of you beyond your family’s walls. Yet months ago, Garrick had insisted on one—a secret commission, a memento for your sister, a gift. All before your invitation to court.

You never questioned what became of it.

“I—I should go.”

You move to slip past him, but he doesn’t allow it. One step, and he cuts off your path with his bulk, the door now out of reach. Trapped between the edge of the room and him, the air tastes different—ash and smoke, hay and wet dog. It wrinkles your nose.

You try again. “Lord Garrick—he didn’t say—he never said you—”

“Yeah?” 

He smiles. Not kindly.

“That I-I,” you whisper, heart beating hard enough that you’re sure he must hear it. “That I’d be alone. This isn’t right—”

“Not alone, pet,” he shakes his head. “I’m here, aren't I? I’ll see you well looked after.”

Without pause or permission, he takes your hand.

You could faint.

Your bare hand disappears, swallowed by his callused palm. His thick knuckles are as battered as his face, broken and reset countless times. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist and applies a brief and slight pressure, just enough to remind you of his strength.

You jerk instinctively, a soft tug.

He doesn’t let go. Instead, he brings your hand to his mouth.

“No need to shy from me,” he rasps.

Your breath catches. 

(You really could faint, but a deep, sharp fear urges you to stay upright. Awake. That to fall now—the alternative—)

He kisses each of your fingers, one by one, unhurried. His lips are cracked. Chapped. Your skin burns under each press. You can’t move. You should, but your feet fail.

He smiles into your knuckles. Almost fond. “You’re shaking.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

“You don’t know what to do with yourself now, do you?” he drawls. “Bet you had a whole story in that pretty little head. Knight in shining armor, riding in to sweep you off your feet.”

His grip tightens, and he leans in, breath fanning over your cheek.

“Want me to do that, pet? Sweep you off your feet and take you away?”

Your heart screams no.

But nothing comes.

He watches you in that awful silence—measured and methodical. Like he’s trying to decide what to do with you first. His hand, still curled around yours, begins to move again, with new purpose.

He lifts your fingers and guides them toward his face.

You resist, weak and instinctive, and he overcomes it with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Go on. You’ve been staring.”

Your fingertips brush the ridge of the scar across his lip. It’s rough, raised, healed poorly. You flinch, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts your hand higher, until your touch ghosts over the thick welt at his eyebrow.

“Ugly, isn’t it?” he asks, almost amused.

Your throat tightens. “No—no, I—”

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t lie. Don’t like liars. You scared?”

You are. You’re mortified, shaking with it now—caught between a girlhood fantasy and the brutal reality of the man standing before you. There’s something violent in your own confusion. In the heat crawling down your neck and into your chest, in the tears prickling hot behind your eyes.

He sees it. Of course he does.

And he pounces.

One blink, and then his mouth is on yours without ceremony. It’s a brutal kiss, a claiming thing, harsh and sudden and full of heat. Devoid of the romance you once imagined.

You gasp, startled, but his free hand comes to the back of your head, fingers spanning your skull to hold you in place. He doesn’t let you pull away. He licks into your mouth and steals the air.

It’s too much. He is too much.

When he finally pulls back, your breath is ragged and your tears have finally broken free, hot trails slipping down your cheeks. The horror of what’s just happened crashes over you all at once, like a bucket of cold water sloshed down your spine. Your legs nearly buckle.

He stares, thumb wiping spit from your chin.

“There she is,” he says quietly, near reverent.

You stand there, unmoving. Caught. The pounding of your heart drowns out every thought, each beat frantic, panicked. A bird slamming itself against a windowpane in desperation. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you’re allowed to say. The room grows smaller by the second, the walls pressing in.

He studies you, a delicate thing worth examining up close.

“Didn’t think you’d be this sweet,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Garrick said he had a girl for me. Said you were pretty. Polite. Court-bred. Figured I’d ‘ave to steal into your rooms, take some insurance to make you mine, you know. But Garrick said there’d be no need. That you’d behave. A proper good girl. That what you are?”

His eyes flick over your features—warm cheeks, wet-eyed, lips parted in confusion and fright. His thumb grazes beneath your chin.

“Look at you. Shakin’. Precious thing. ‘Course you are.”

He kisses you again. Harder.

No longer exploratory, no longer testing the waters. His moves as if owed. He takes and takes, lips dragging against yours, breath hot and heavy through his nose. Teeth sink into your lips, imprinting themselves on the pith of your mouth, sucking your tongue. You whimper, but his hand is already sliding down the line of your throat, splaying wide to feel your pulse.

Another panicked noise makes him smile.

He sighs. “Didn’t guess you’d be this soft. Bet you’re soft everywhere.”

Then—

The door bursts open.

A gasp of startled voices—servants. They freeze in the doorway, wide-eyed at the sight of the two of you locked together.

Panic explodes inside you. You jerk back from him, gasping, desperate to speak, to explain—this isn’t what it looks like—but you never get the chance.

Sir Riley doesn’t release you. His arm tightens, his grip anchoring you in place. He turns toward the intruders, unbothered and unashamed. Cold.

In a few short, lethal words, he promises consequences. He names each one of them—their roles, their kin. Swears they’ll feel his hand and blade personally should they utter a word of what they’ve seen.

They flee. Mute. Terrified.

When the door shuts again, it’s like the last breath is sucked from the room.

You’re a mess. Shaking, weeping, mouth swollen and burning. You are ruined. You know it. They will talk. People always do.

With the cuff of his sleeve, Sir Riley dabs your cheek, and then your chin. A mocking taste of the tenderness you’d dreamt of. He hums, too soft for the wicked glint in his eye, and tips your face back up with two fingers beneath your jaw.

“What a predicament we find ourselves in, hm?” he murmurs against your damp skin. “How fortunate that Garrick and I already ‘ave an audience with the King.”

He plants a chaste peck on your cheek.

“Dry your tears, pet.”

He smiles. A pleased shape that rekindles the hunger in his eyes.

“By spring, you’ll be Lady Riley. That’s a promise.”

[bi-writes]

mmmm ;) simon has got a special eye on single-mom!reader, doesn't he? (18+, lactation kink, daddy kink, breeding kink, dark content !!!!)

it's your first day back after maternity leave. you already look different, simon notices this immediately. the way you fill out your cargo pants--fuck, there's no way your arse has ever looked so fat. no way your thighs have ever been so plush--ngghhh...

fuck, you've never been prettier. motherhood suits you. your hair is longer. your eyes are a little brighter. and fuck, your tits look so heavy, can't keep his eyes off of them, can't fucking focus, fuck, fuck, fuck--

you look so cute patching him up. pouty bottom lip between your teeth as you string his lacerated skin back together with a practiced stitch, standing between his spread legs as he sits in a chair in your office. he nicked his shoulder real well in training today, and fuck, is he grateful for johnny's heavy hand because you're standing over him, and he has a front-row seat to the greatest view of his fucking life.

christ, they practically jiggle with every movement you make. you pop the cap off some disinfectant, and the little bounce of your chest makes him chub up immediately, and he doesn't trust the buckle of his belt anymore because you're so fucking hot. and god, it isn't fair, this isn't fair, you must be teasing him--because as he's staring shamelessly at your pretty, perky nipples, he notices the fabric of your shirt beginning to grow damp.

you notice his line of sight after you tie off his wound. you look down, gasping, your hands dropping your supplies to come up and cup your breasts and cover the wetness of your shirt.

"god--dammit," you breathe. you haven't gotten a chance to pump today, it's been so busy in the clinic, and god, they ache.

you're his sergeant. his pretty little soldier. he just wants to help you. he's just helping you, isn't he? that's what this is when he draws his big hands up, shifting your shirt until it nestles below your nursing bra. he's just helping you when he unlatches the strap with ease, drawing down the soft material and baring your tits for him, his eyes bulging when he sees how wet the skin is, how they glisten.

his mouth is so warm. it's the perfect relief after such a long day. his tongue is soft and careful, swirling in heated circles as he soothes the ache in the throbbing fat there. you're so wet--soaking your panties, you know you are, your hormones firing wildly as he pulls back, opening his mouth and catching just a dribble of the warm essence that leaks from one breast. finally, finally--fuck, he's so good at this, his mouth latching onto you again as he groans loudly. he's so sick, it's so fucking lewd, but god dammit, it's just what you need, you need this, you need this.

he likes you like this. he likes you fat around the hips and leaking from your tits and spilling sweetness into your panties. he needs to keep you this way. he needs to keep you pretty and aching and starving for the relief that he knows he can give you.

he doesn't care whose kid it is, he wants to keep you this way. he'd let johnny or gaz fuck you stupid after this if it meant plugging you up and making you full and beautiful and round again. he's never wanted kids anyway, he knows he probably shoots blanks, it's why you got pregnant so fast after he shut the door on your relationship and refused to open it again, isn't it?

nnghghhgh...

fuck, his pants are already shoved low, just enough that he can pull himself out. he's so heavy, balls so full and aching so badly, he's hardly slapping against his stomach. you slip your own trousers off, eager to get back into his lap, practiced pretty girl sinking down onto him and riding him for her life in the dark of her office.

he buries his face into your chest. they're bouncing every time you smack your hips back down against his, and he can't stop the noises he's making as he suckles your tits in his mouth and uses a firm grip on your ass to meet your thrusts with force. fuck, he'd forgotten what a nice cunt you had--he'd forgotten how nice and soft you are, how messy and wet you get, how whenever he fucks you, his entire pelvis is always soaked with the slick of you because you can never stop creaming on his cock.

"so big," you babble, just like you used to, and he grunts as he aims for that little spot inside of you that makes you cry. he wants to see those pretty tears falling down your face, but all it took this time was his tongue sucking on your achy nipples to make you pouty and sobbing.

fuck, you've always been good at taking him, you always were such a good girl, but now he's overwhelmed. your body is so different and yet the same, and he likes it so much more--fuck, there's so much to grab onto now, the smacking of your skin is loud, and you've always been such a wet girl, but now you're positively dripping. he grits his teeth as he looks down finally, watching the way you've wet his trousers, his boxers, your thighs, the goddamn chair. he can't wait to lay you down after this and put his head between your thighs, can't wait to get those tits back in his mouth and make you cry again and again and again and again--

yeah, yeah, yeah--fuck, fuck, fuck--

you collapse after he cums. whimpering, taking two of his fingers and fitting them into your mouth so you have something to suck on, something you always used to do for comfort. he hisses a little as he pulls out just a little, globs of cum dribbling onto the seat before he eases you back down again. you whine, clinging onto him, your eyes shutting as he shoves his cum practically into your stomach.

yeah, fuck--he's gonna make his little sergeants take you nice after this. he needs you to stay like this, needs to keep you fat and pretty and swollen. don't mind the chunky babies you'll have, he'll take care of you, sweetheart, he'll be the daddy that son of a bitch never gave you, yeah?

he grabs the phone nearest to him to check the time as you settle on wobbly legs into the seat next to him. it must be your phone, because there's a picture of a smiling baby as the background. his eyes flicker to yours, and when you catch his gaze, you swallow hard. there's a giant chubby baby you're holding in that picture.

with blond hair and dark eyes (;

[kruegerspillow]

simon riley who just needs to be understood. that's all. one whole jar of pity wouldn't do it, he needs you to acknowledge him. and, when you do, he'll surrender himself faster than he should.

The rain pours down heavily against the roof, the sound of pitter-patters humming throughout your house.

It had been weeks ever since Simon's leave and the sudden change hits you harder than a damn truck. It's just going to be a few weeks, he wrote down in the letter. But, you never really believed him, no. Fuck, you know he'd do anything (that includes lying) just for you to be at ease.

Though, the bed felt colder than before. Your place felt even more... tense, with the feeling of unease running through your body and the unusual, eerie silence. His job wasn't an easy one, and with the fact that his life is on the line, it made it worse.

Your heartbeat quickened as you looked down at your phone, scrolling through the messages and pictures Simon had sent the other day. You don't understand how soldiers could be so composed in the middle of the battlefield, including Simon himself. You'd be damned if you heard a single gunshot ringing across you.

Suddenly, the familiar sound of a car engine knocked you out of your trance. Your head perked up, a feeling of hope sparking up in your weary heart. Could it be him? You thought to yourself. He's earlier than usual.

You placed your phone on the table, gaze locking onto the front door as you leaned back against the armrest of the couch, a pillow pressed against your back. The sound of the engine eventually came to a stop, then—

Click.

There he was. Simon motherfuckin' Riley.

He took off his boots and placed them aside as soon as he met your gaze. The smell of rain and dirt lingered around him, but he didn't care anymore. Not when the love of his life is right in front of him, waiting patiently to be placed into his embrace. But, he's fuckin' exhausted, and he can't help but let the feeling of fatigue take over his body.

He closed the door behind him, walking towards you with a look of deep longing and care. His bags were left right beside the front door. Your eyes travelled over his figure, searching for any new scars or wounds.

"Bloody 'ell, I missed ya s'much." He murmured, his voice raspy and carried a handful of emotions.

Before you knew it, he plopped down onto you, head resting against your plump thighs, earning an amused gasp from you. His arms softly wrapped around your waist, slipping underneath your shirt before caressing your bare skin. You sighed in content, relaxing beneath him before your hands made their way to his hair, running your fingers through his hair.

"Welcome home, Simon." You greeted him, your voice filled with warmth and relief.

He grunted in response, burying his face between your thigh, causing you to nearly whimper in response. But you knew he ran out of the energy, having finished a tiring deployment. Your gaze softened at the sight before you. Sometimes, even the strongest souls get exhausted.

"Want me to make tea for you, love?" You softly whispered into his ear.

He shook his head, wanting to hold you just for a while (that's a lie. He'd go through the whole month burying his face into you) and you understood, staying silent as you embraced him. You let him do his thing and fuck he was turned on by that mere fact. But, for now, lust was long forgotten, buried away by the need of your comfort and warmth.

Your hands gently massaged his tense shoulder, feeling the way his muscles relaxed under your touch. Slowly, his vision fades into nothingness, for your touch has provided comfort even to the soul of the corrupt. Surrendering himself into sleep had never felt so... easy.

And, soon, he'll show you just how lucky he is to have you.

kruegerspillow © 2024 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[tojisun]

simon riley x f!reader; uhhh a wedding night kink au blurb or something like that idk anymore

it coalesces — the burning need; the hunger; the itch to touch and to claim. it is seeping into your pores, leaving you parched and heady, your breaths coming out in rasps as you stare at him heave from across you.

simon’s jeans are pooled to his knees and you trail your eyes down from his chest to his flushed cock where it twitches on his thigh. he hasn’t even touched himself yet but it is already an angry red, leaking, and so sensitive, that it has him gripping at the edges of the mattress.

simon has never looked so… debauched as he does now.

he has never looked more subservient to his desires and he has never acted like his hunger triumphs over everything, leaving him as he is now, all sloppy before you. his cold bravado and his walls that drive you out have crumbled. he is so putty now, and you haven’t even done anything. not a whimper, or a tease of a show. you just walked into the kitchen, in the pretty dress which johnny drunkenly confessed that simon bought for you, and talked.

you spoke about your day — about work and your meetings; about the recipe you wanted to try; about the trip to the grocery shop and the limited sale of the ribeyes that simon particularly loves.

you just told him how fun it is to be a civilian again. how it was so easy to fall back into the normalcy of a woman your age, amiably befriending the mothers at the park who shared their favourite recipes with you before ushering their chubby babes back home, or the butchers who were obviously trying to make you buy more cuts of meat than you needed, or even your short meeting with kate that had little substance as you two just fell into a quiet conversation about her wife.

it was a day full of banality, and you shared that with simon. but, somehow, something about it, about you, dragged his aches into the surface because the next thing you knew was that simon was slotting himself behine you, fitting you in the spaces of his arms, before breathing you in.

you stuttered out his name, only for your voice to warble even more when he rutted his hips along the plush of your ass, all purposeful and slow.

“si…” you gasped out, blinking the fog away.

this wasn’t the first time that simon and you fooled around, and you are sure that it would never be the last, but it was never this charged. it was never so—

intimate.

it always happened in quick bursts, like two beasts jumping at each other, snapping maws and showing fangs, like any sign of weakness would end with a throat ripped open. but never like this — at a safehouse, in clothes that are so ordinary that one would never mistake the two of you as spec-ops, and sensual.

it was never a needy rutting nor a slow fever.

it was always an all-consuming passion so this… carefulness left you—

well.

it left you aching.

like the rug had been ripped from underneath you, and you are thrusted into the abyss, only with the heat of simon’s body burning from where he’s caressed maps into your back.

“room,” you remember gasping out. you felt him nod before he planted a kiss on the side of your neck, making you jump, and then he was tugging the two of you to the bedroom.

then here you are now, by the door, watching as he dropped himself on his mattress, his scarred hands tearing into his buckles and his zipper before tugging his jeans down and leaving him bare while you remain there standing, heaving, and your eyes wide open as you drink him in.

“c’mere,” simon rumbles, his voice grave and heavy, and you follow his call because you are enchanted by him.

you fall to his lap, your dress ruffling as you scoot closer, closer, closer. you pause. simon clicks his tongue and pulls you even closer.

“s’right,” simon murmurs when your clothed cunt finally brushes against his leaking cock. “sit on it, pretty.”

he wraps you in his arms, and leaves searing kisses along the cut of your jaw and the slope of your cheek, and it is so, so drunken and clingy that you cannot help but mirror his affections. you cling onto his shoulders, nuzzling close, before humping at his cock, feeling its sticky pre- mussing the cloth of your panties.

“that’s it,” simon sighs, almost dreamily. “such a good wife f’r me.”

oh.

oh.

a mewl leaves your lips as your mind catches up to what made simon like this — you realize now that he’s envisioned something like this before. a life outside of the violence. a life where he dresses you up and you become his pretty wife; dolled up for him, cooking for him, coming home to him.

“yesss,” you keen. “thank you si.”

you hump at his cock faster, positioning yourself so that every brush of the head bumps into your hardening clit. “thank you, husband.”

simon’s hands clamp down on the meat of your ass, and he groans, loud and deep.

“gonna buy you a ring,” he grunts, his voice all sticky with his desire. “gonna make this permanent, baby.”

a soft hiccup leaves your lips, your eyelashes fluttering when he pulls back just enough to gaze up at you.

“y’would love that, won’t you?” he asks just for formality.

“yes,” you gasp out, feeling his hands slide underneath the skirt of your dress and into your panties, his palms rough against the fat of your ass. “love nothing more, si.”

his whole body shivers, like it is singing in pleasure, before he plants a chaste kiss on your lips.

“say i do.” his thumb finds your clit, rubbing in familiar circles.

you hiss for a second, your eyes shutting close at the muted pleasure racing across your nerves.

“so beautiful f’r me,” you hear him say, and it is so breathy that you almost miss it but his benevolence sticks to you and not even an orgasm feels as good as hearing his devotion so you look back at him, your trembling hands cupping his cheeks, before you finally whisper, “i do.”

you lock your vow with a kiss, this one more hungry as hot lips devour each other. and, like a good husband, simon makes love to you all night long.

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; torn by their obsession, the pack crumbles—now feral shadows of themselves. ghost, spiraling into hunger and rage, unleashes his fury.

⚠️ warnings; obsessive behaviour, unhealthy coping mechanisms, violence (sybil gets hurt!), blood and gore

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

The Rose District was a place of shadows—where the dimly lit streets bled into the underworld, where the stench of decay lingered in the air, and whispers of trouble hid behind every corner. Ghost had never liked coming here, but tonight, he had a purpose.

You had been raving about some rare herb for the past few days, an ingredient you couldn’t find anywhere else. Ghost, seemingly indifferent to your ramblings, had made a mental note to find it for you.

He moved with silent efficiency, his half-wraith nature allowing him to blend easily into the darkness. His eyes scanned the corners for any signs of the itinerant vendor he knew to hang around the area. The herb was supposed to be rare—dangerously so—but he couldn’t bring himself to care beyond getting it and making you happy.

That was, until he heard a soft voice, muffled and frightened, cutting through the usual hum of the Rose District. It wasn’t the sound itself that drew him—plenty of people got into trouble here—but there was something in the air, a pull.

He stepped out of the shadows, his eyes narrowing as he saw the scene unfold a few feet away. A young woman—her honey-brown hair gleaming faintly in the dim light—stood cornered by a group of rough-looking men. They smirked, closing in, their intentions clear and unkind.

Ghost could have turned away. He didn’t know her, and getting involved in these kinds of situations wasn’t exactly his style. But something in him shifted, a tug in his chest that he couldn’t quite shake. He sighed, his usual apathy mixing with a sense of obligation he couldn’t place, and stepped forward.

“Leave her,” he said, his voice low, barely a whisper, but it carried an unmistakable weight. The men froze, eyes flicking up toward him. They were the type to recognize danger when it appeared, and Ghost—his towering frame half-hidden by his hood—was clearly not a figure to be trifled with.

One of the men sneered but backed off, motioning for the others to follow suit. “Not worth it,” he muttered under his breath, casting one last leer at the girl before disappearing into the shadows.

Ghost watched them retreat, then turned to the girl. She was trembling slightly, her brown eyes wide with fear and gratitude. This was routine for him, helping folk when he had to, stepping in only when necessary. He was about to turn and leave, to forget this ever happened, when she spoke.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft, vulnerable.

Something about it made him pause, just for a moment.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice rough, more out of habit than genuine concern.

She shook her head, a slight smile forming on her lips, but before she could respond, her hand brushed his arm.

It was nothing—just a fleeting touch, accidental. But in that instant, something shifted. Ghost pulled back slightly, confused by the sudden wave of emotion crashing over him. It was subtle, at first, just a faint whisper in the back of his mind, but the longer he looked at her, the louder it became.

He tried to shake it off, tried to remember why he had come to the Rose District in the first place—there was something he needed to find, something important.

A strange sensation crawled up his spine, sinking deep into his mind. He felt… tethered, as if something in him latched onto her presence, a root slowly winding its way into his thoughts, making her impossible to ignore. His apathy slipped away, replaced by a growing need to stay close, to keep her safe, to protect.

He found himself stepping closer instead of retreating, his usual detached composure slipping as he studied her. She didn’t seem aware of the effect she was having, of the slow, insidious way she was beginning to unravel everything inside him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a little softer than before. The words felt automatic, like he was trying to regain control, but his mind was already clouded.

“I got lost,” she said, her eyes darting nervously toward the dark streets surrounding them. “I didn’t mean to—thank you, again. I’m Leah by the way.”

Ghost’s thoughts were hazy now, unfocused, as he repeated her name over and over again in his mind.

“We should go,” he muttered, gesturing for her to follow him. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t understand why he felt this way, but he couldn’t leave her alone now. Not when the pull was so strong.

By the time they reached the edge of the district, the thought of the herb he was supposed to find for you had completely faded from his mind. All that mattered was Leah—and keeping her near.

. . .

Plates sat piled in the sink, crusted and acrid with the remnants of old meals. Dust had settled over every surface, thick and undisturbed. The smell of neglect filled every corner, the windows streaked with grime, letting in only the barest slivers of weak, muted light.

The pack's home lay in shambles, reflecting the twisted obsession that had taken root in their minds. Every room told the same story—untouched and uncared and ignored like everything else that wasn’t Leah.

John’s instincts as a hunter—the sharpness, the clarity of purpose—had dulled, eroded by worry and exhaustion. He barely left the house, even though he should’ve been out there, doing what he did best, leading them. His guns, his gear, lay untouched, gathering dust in the corner. The man who had always been their steady hand, their anchor in the storm, was unravelling, his focus split between trying to hold the pack together and his concern for the woman who had somehow become the centre of all their lives.

Gaz rarely touched his books now, his once-meticulous study routine had been discarded, left to gather dust along with the shelves sagging under the weight of broken trinkets and forgotten potions. The thought of casting a spell, of focusing on anything outside of Leah, seemed almost impossible now.

Soap, once the energetic heart of their pack, had become consumed by his inner beast. His werewolf side, once held in check by a fierce loyalty and steady self-control, had slipped its leash. The wildness in him had grown more pronounced, his pacing erratic, his growls more frequent. He snapped at the others, a low, rumbling threat in his throat whenever they got too close. His restlessness filled the air, his anxious energy like static that crackled between them all.

And then there was Ghost. Of them all, he was the worst.

He had stopped taking the tonics you prepared especially for him—those essential mixtures that kept his half-wraith nature in check. Without them, the feral part of him had completely taken over, spiralling out of control. His skin had taken on a pale, deathly hue, his eyes burning red with the hunger that gnawed at him from within.

Things eventually did break apart.

The air in the house was thick with tension as the four of them gathered around in the dim light of the living room, a fire crackling in the hearth but offering no warmth.

Leah, despite having her own space above Laswell’s bar, had made herself at home in their place. It seemed so natural at first, like she belonged there among them. For a while, she stood out in the chaos, pristine and pretty amid the disarray.

But then, a sudden illness settled over her.

She had stopped eating days ago, and with every shallow breath she took, each spiralled deeper into their own madness.

The tension was unbearable, each day blending into the next, an endless cycle of sleepless nights and anxious pacing. They had stopped caring for themselves and each other. Fights broke out over nothing, their frustrations boiling over with every glance, every word.

The house that had once been a home was no longer a sanctuary. It was a reflection of the decay in their hearts, a hollow shell of what it had once been, crumbling under the strain of their obsession love.

“She needs more than we can give her,” Gaz said quietly, his voice laced with frustration. He rubbed his temples, as if trying to ward off the pounding headache that had settled on his temple for days. “I’ve tried every spell I know. None of it’s working.”

“Spells?” Johnny scoffed, his pacing agitated. “Spells aren’t what’s gonna fix her. We need to get her out of here, take her to someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“And who, exactly, is that, Soap?” Price shot back, his voice rising. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his face shadowed with exhaustion. “You think there’s someone out there who can handle this? Someone we can trust with Leah?”

Soap growled low in his throat, his enlarged nails flexing at his sides. “Better than sitting here, watching her waste away while you all argue over nothing.”

“We don’t know even what’s wrong with her!” Gaz snapped, losing his temper.

“And sitting here debating it is helping how?” Soap shot back, his eyes flashing in the low light. “We’ve been going around in circles for days. She’s getting worse, and all we do is talk, talk, talk!”

Price stepped forward, his face dark with anger. “We can’t just run off blindly. You think you’ll make it two blocks without something worse happening? The moment we leave this house—”

“This house is a tomb!” Soap snarled, his voice cracking. “She’s dying in there, and you want to sit here, playing it safe? You’re the one losing it, Price. You’ve lost your edge. You’re not thinking straight.”

Price moved so quickly that Johnny barely had time to react. They were face to face in an instant, both of them bristling with raw anger, their tempers flaring. “You want to say that again?” Price growled, the hunter in him itching to lash out.

Gaz stood up abruptly, pushing them apart with a frustrated grunt. “Enough! This isn’t helping anyone, least of all Leah.” He turned to Ghost, who had been eerily silent throughout the argument. “Ghost, you’ve barely said a word. What do you think?”

Ghost, standing in the corner, his form barely visible in the shadows, seemed almost detached from the scene. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, flicked to Gaz, but there was no recognition there, only a raw, feral hunger. He hadn’t taken his tonic in days, and it showed—the half-wraith within him was clawing its way to the surface, gnawing at the last vestiges of control he had left.

“We’re wasting time,” Ghost finally muttered, his voice guttural, barely human. His muscles twitched with unspent energy, his body wound tight as if ready to explode. “She’s dying. And we’re doing nothing.”

“We know that,” Gaz said softly, trying to reach him. “But we can’t just—”

Ghost’s eyes flickered, a dark intensity flashing across his face. “Then stop talking. Do something. Or get out of my way.”

Before anyone could react, Ghost was gone. He moved with inhuman speed, disappearing through the door in a blur of shadow and cold air. They barely had time to process it before the chill of his absence settled into the room.

Price cursed under his breath, turning back to the others. “Damn it, he’s gone feral.”

Soap’s pacing resumed, even more agitated now. “We can’t keep him locked up forever. He was bound to snap.”

“And now what?” Gaz asked, his voice hoarse with worry.

But despite the renewed sense of urgency, the argument had changed nothing. Leah still lay feverish in the other room, her condition worsening by the hour. And with Ghost gone, it felt as if the last thread holding them together had finally snapped.

And outside, in the night, Ghost stalked the streets, driven by an insatiable thirst, slipping deeper into the feral haze that consumed him. The city, bathed in the cool autumn moonlight, was ripe for hunting.

. . .

That cool evening you strolled through the dim streets with Sybil at your side. It was a rare moment of quiet, a stolen breath of normalcy after weeks of carefully orchestrating your life away from the pack.

No contact, no messages, no nothing. You were trying to move on, and of course failing miserably.

You tugged your cloak tighter around your shoulders when something suddenly felt… wrong. An icy chill washed over you, setting your nerves on edge, like a storm creeping in from the horizon.

Then you saw him.

Ghost.

His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were bloodshot, wide with hunger, glowing faintly in the dark like a feral animal.

Then you noticed the blood. Fresh streaks ran down his arms and neck, his clothes stained and torn, his skin smeared with it. Clearly not his own. He had already hurt someone. Maybe worse.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

“Simon?” you called his name softly.

He didn’t answer. He just stared. Unblinking. And then, with terrifying speed, he lunged.

Panic surged through you, and without thinking, you ran—your only thought was to get back to the shop. Trusting wholly that Sybil was by your side, you sprinted through the streets, your breath coming in frantic bursts, the pounding of his feet behind you growing louder, faster.

You barely made it through the door, slamming it shut and locking it just in time. But there was no time to catch your breath. Ghost was right behind you, slamming into the door with such force that it cracked. Your heart was racing in your chest as the door gave way under the weight of his attack, splintering open.

He barged in, and the destruction began.

He tore through the shop like a whirlwind, knocking over everything in his path in his blind attempt to catch you. Shelves collapsed under his weight, glass bottles shattered, herbs spilled across the floor, the once-familiar scents mixing with the pungent stench of blood and sweat.

“Stop!” you screamed, but it was useless. He couldn’t hear you. Couldn’t stop.

He pounced at you again, and Sybil, ever fearless and faithful, intercepted him. She sank her teeth into his leg, snarling fiercely, and for a moment, it slowed him down. He roared in pain, staggering, his bloodshot eyes narrowing in fury. But with one hard swipe of his hand, he sent her flying across the room. She hit the wall with a pained whine, her body crumpling to the floor.

“Sybil!” you wailed, heart splintering at the sight of her.

He stumbled on his injured leg, collapsing like a rag doll. But he wasn’t done.

Before you could react, his hand shot out and latched onto your ankle, dragging you down with terrifying strength. You hit the floor hard, pain shooting up your leg as he pulled you toward him, his grip crushing, his nails digging into your skin, drawing blood.

You cried in pain, instinctively twisting your body and kicking him—hard and square in the jaw. The impact was brutal, and his head snapped back with a sickening crack. For a moment, his grip slackened, and you scrambled to your feet, gasping for breath.

But it still wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

You limped towards the cauldron over the hearth, the brew still bubbling inside, before latching fiercely into it and toppling it towards him. The boiling liquid splashed all across the floor and against Ghost. His howl of pain ripped through the air as steam rose as his skin sizzled and burned, blistering down to the bone where the unfinished position had hit him.

You were barely holding on as you manoeuvre yourself around him and the torrid concoction, your body trembling as you picked up Sybil and darted towards the stair, desperate to get away. Every step was agony, your ankle throbbing from where he’d grabbed you.

You managed to slam the door to your apartment shut, locking it with shaking hands, but it felt so fragile. Too fragile. The sounds of Ghost’s growls echoed below, followed by the scraping of claws on wood.

He was coming.

You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking uncontrollably as you dialled Laswell’s number. The line rang and rang, but there was no answer. Your heart sank, panic rising again. You tried over and over, but no response came.

The door shuddered as he reached it, his nails scratching and clawing at the wood, a relentless assault that made your heart pound painfully in your chest. You clutched Sybil tightly in your arms, her body trembling against yours. She was hurt, but alive. You pressed your face into her fur, tears streaming down your cheeks as the scratching continued, a reminder that he wasn’t going to stop. Not until he had you.

The weight of it all—Ghost’s betrayal, the destruction of your shop, Sybil—threatened to suffocate you.

All you could do was wait. Wait for the sun to rise, for the light to finally push back the nightmare.

But deep down, you feared that by then, it might be too late.

banner credit

[the-palelady]

ghost thinks he has finally gone mad when he pulls you into an alcove off of the gardens.

you are hidden away from prying eyes by the shadows. only your hydrangeas catch a glimpse of ghost’s hand settling at the small of your back, pressing you firmly to his armor clad chest.

the kiss is practically all teeth, hungry and fueled from months of built up desire.

you can not breathe due to the way his chapped lips consume you.

he is so big, holding you like you are the most fragile piece of glass, yet so tight you feel as though you may crack.

his free hand runs up the laces of your corset, up the dip between your shoulder blades, slow and tantalizing. it takes every fiber of his being to not untie the vexing garment keeping him from seeing the rest of you.

but ghost could only imagine what the king may do if he sees such an obscene act, the leader of his army bending the queen, his own wife, up against the stone wall, and fucking her within an inch of her life.

so he settles on drowning himself in the taste of your lips, soft like the finest silk, and more intoxicating than any ale.

this small moment in time does little to fill the void that settles in the pit of his stomach, gnawing away at his insides, nasty and constantly begging for more, more, more.

it is not enough time to map out every part of you he so desperately wishes to touch.

but when he leans down, lips pressed against the shell of your ear, and whispers, “at twilight. wait f’me here,”

he promises himself there is not a part of you he will leave untouched.

[rainyramblesscramble]

Wiping away cheek kisses from the 141 as a joke? Overall, not recommended 💀

‘M tired y’all, don’t judge. It’s just a little something different than usual, via my notes app, from my time w/o internet

With Price, come on. You really thought that was a good idea for a joke, sweet? 🤨 That wasn’t very nice. 0/10. Could probably go one of two ways, depending on his mood. Good mood: to teach you a lesson by withholding future kisses from you. How long that lasts is up to you, doll 🤷‍♂️ Bad mood? Oh, he needs you to accept his kisses. Can’t have his heart broken by the one person who brings him peace, after all. So, the prick pulls you right back to smother you with so many kisses that it’d be impossible to wipe them all away. You brought this upon yourself, doll 😌

With Simon…no. Not a good joke. -100/10. Might have a little moment of serious thought once he sees that hand come up to wipe away his kiss—wondering if he’d somehow missed one of your tells that you’d been upset with him about something. He swore he’d taken out the trash like you’d asked, swore he’d mopped the mud from his boots in the foyer—oh. Oh that was a joke? Not a very good one, luvie. Don’t scare him like that, yeah? Had a moment there where he almost thought that you were just losing interest in him, or something, but wouldn’t admit that. Can’t lose his favourite person, not now or ever. Doesn’t think he could stomach such a thought. Reassures himself at your cost, and crowds your space until you accept his fawkin’ kisses.

Kyle would most certainly pout. Ever attentive, he may gently try and ask if there was something wrong, at first. Had he done something to upset you? Was it that annoying coworker again? Was that obnoxious neighbour still bugging you? No? What is it then, luv? Some slight internal panic, but he masks it by trying to figure out what happened. Will use his skills in psychological warfare to ease the truth out of you—for your own good, he swears!—only to figure out that it was just a prank. Nearly had his heart beatin’ outta his chest, luv! 😮‍💨Don’t toy with him like that, yeah? Now give him a right proper kiss to apologise—

Trying this on Johnny will backfire. Be prepared for whiplash. Wipe away his kiss, and he’ll stand there for a moment, confused x100. Tries again—maybe you just had an itch? He’ll shave a lil for you later. But when you wipe that one away too, he knows what he saw. Frowns, and may or may not just pick you right up, and march you over to the couch/bed. What’s all this for, eh? Wipin’ away his kiss like that, bon? Relentless when he discovers it was only a joke. Welp! Looks like your stuck wherever he’s managed to pin you 😚 Just maybe save this prank until after he’s showered, next time, else risk smelling like his workout all day 🤷‍♂️

[lunarmothim]

just a half-baked thought

imagine being on 141- maybe you're a total badass or maybe you're just a bit too full of yourself, a bit too cocky- and approaching ghost and soap in the gym, just fucking blurting out "you two wanna take me at the same time?"

soap chokes on his water and ghost just gives you a bemused stare while he pounds on soap's back to get him to breathe again

you meant in a spar, but when you end up between them back in one of their rooms you're definitely not complaining

[bomber-grl]

Nico Di Angelo x Child of Medusa 🐍

Pairing(s): Nico Di Angelo x M!Reader

A req for @calypso-74213! Also cringe-ish warning

Everyone at camp is terrified of you

I mean its said that people are scared of what they don’t understand

And you’re sort of an anomaly

Not to mention that you’re able to turn ppl to stone, the only barrier separating them and you, bding your sunglasses

Also because you closely resemble humans/ demigods

Yknow, besides the snakes instead of/ amongst your hair, scales here and there, and your eyes

Especially since Medusa isn’t known to be particularly fond of men, so it leaves much to think about and question

Then again, Athena-

Anyway

Many aren’t fond of you, that’s a given. I mean many campers weren’t very welcoming of Nico and his status(?) as son of hades so I can only imagine the treatment you go through

I mean at least everyone has the decency to pretend to be nice to you

But the tension is still there

The first day you were introduced was by Chiron, usually he’d leave the camper up to the counselor these days but you’re a special exception (along with Percy)

So bam, new cabin for not a god but rather Medusa

I’d imagine a lot of discourse, especially since it’s only for godly parents and the whole pride aspect

But eventually, with much persistence from Percy and others who are willing to back you up, you get one

Which is only a result of them being proven wrong by your origins and proven to be a nice person

Also, might I add, you’re likely here because of being mortal/not completely monster and need protection like many demigods

Anyways, Nico isn’t at camp all that much

Especially since he has this idea that many people aren’t fond of him (which changes throughout the series)

When he hears about you through the grapevine he’s intrigued

He never thought that someone such as yourself would even exist but then again he could say that about the gods and Olympus

Only once he finds out that you’re treated like shit (at the start of your stay) does he go to find you and see what your deal is

And he’s pleasantly surprised

You pass all his standards

1. Don’t be an asshole

2. Don’t be an asshole

Oh, and did I mention don’t be an asshole?

You were more than pleasant to hang out with and he found himself looking for you amongst the crowds of demigods at camp

He looked forward to seeing you again

Only then does he realize how he’s fallen in love with you

He never would’ve imagined he’d ever fall in love with a son of Medusa, but here he is

He’s admittedly hesitant to confess to you

It’s so obvious too

You’re at the lake like you usually are

You tend to spend time there when you’re not having fun at arts and crafts or training with weapons

This is the time of day you two usually hang out and that’s only proven more by the fact that Nico is seated right next to you, gazing at you

Almost lost in thought but then you snap him back to reality- wondering what’s up

That’s when he just tells you, he almost shrinks away until you tell him that you reciprocate his feelings

He’s honestly shocked by the whole thing and just stares at you until you hesitantly hold his hand

From them on you’re officially boyfriends and he can’t emphasize how happy he is to have you

The sun isn’t always shining and so bad things are bound to happen, what’d you expect? You two are a demigod and a half monster (?)

Your origins might be a mystery but you know better than anyone not to fear the dark

So when Nicos having certain days where he’s struggling, he’s glad that you can embrace all of him

Change of tone but you and Nico are just chilling as Jules- Albert drives you places when Nico realizes something

He’s never seen your eyes, or rather, looked you straight on

I mean you’ve kissed, hugged, etc etc but he’s never seen you without your glasses

Which how could he? He’d literally be turned to stone

But that doesn’t stop him from wondering

His eerily long silence next to you prompts you to ask him what’s up

And finally after much convincing that ‘we listen and we don’t judge’

He tells you

And of course you laugh but just because you find it endearing that he wants to

Of course it’s something that never goes anywhere but if he asks a Hecate kid if there’s stone proof potions- well that’s none of your business

[syoddeye]

you scurry into the bookshop from the cold, the door slamming shut behind you with the breeze.

the warmth inside feels like a slap after the bitter chill, and your glasses immediately fog over, clouding your vision in a steamy blur. you pause, fumbling with your mittens, distracted by your own breath bouncing back at you behind your scarf, making it worse. you step forward without thinking.

and immediately regret it. your shoulder slams into something hard and solid, like a wall. except the wall shifts, and a deep voice hisses down at you.

“fuckin’—we in a rush? watch where you’re—”

“sorry!” you blurt out, flinching back.

the voice halts. just stops, snipped mid-sentence. you’re scrabbling to pull your mittens off now, fingers clumsy and frantic. the fog persists, blinding, smothering, your breath quickening and making the condensation worse.

“shit, shit, sorry—”

then a hand settles on your shoulder.

a low, rasping hehehe rattles from above. “can’t see a thing, can ya? ‘old still.”

you freeze, mittens half-off, mouth hanging open in protest as something dark moves toward your face.

“uh, what are you—oh, you don’t have to…”

a thumb drags black fabric gently over one of the lenses. the fog clears in a small oval, revealing part of the stranger’s face, his deep brown eyes. you try to crane your neck for a better look, but the hand on your shoulder shifts to your chin, steadying it.

“keep still.”

your mouth shuts and your pulse stutters. his thumb and forefinger pinch just firmly enough to hold your head in place. he clears the second lens, and when he withdraws the fabric, you finally see him.

he wears a thick, cloth mask, the loops disappearing beneath the edges of a matching hat. though most of his face is hidden, you notice the faint scar cutting across the end of one blond eyebrow, a few faded freckles dusting his forehead. the scarf around his neck hangs loose, one end caught in his hand, which he drops once he seems satisfied with his work.

“there,” he says, leaning back a fraction to examine you. his eyes crinkle at the edges, amused. he must be smiling. “look at those eyes.”

you blink up at him, and you’re hyper-aware of your own breathing. careful not to exhale too hard, in case you fog everything up again.

“thanks.”

his thumb, still resting lightly on your chin, moves in a small, absent circle. he hums, low in his throat, and then lets go.

“of course, sweet’eart.”

for a second, you just stand there. five seconds, maybe. you’re the one who breaks the silence by awkwardly stepping away.

“okay, yep, thanks again.” you say, words knocking into each other like you knocked into him.

you retreat further into the shop, yanking at your mittens until they’re off and stuffed into your pockets. your scarf is next, practically ripped from your neck, the heat of your own embarrassment prickling at your skin all over.

what just happened? should you have said something? made a point of how weird that was? because it was weird. right?

you circle the horror section three times before your heart rate evens out, but even then, you’re not really seeing the shelves. the titles run together, and your mind drifts back to him—his hand on your chin, the soft way he said sweetheart.

your glasses are clear, but you’re stuck in a haze.

simon was just supposed to kill time, having arrived arrived early to meet price. except now he’s going to be late, for the first time in ages, to a meeting with his captain.

it’s difficult to hide in a shop where he’s taller than most of the shelves, but he’s careful. doesn’t take much of an effort anyway, she’s preoccupied by the shelves of the horror section. not his preference, but he likes the twist. likes the view, too. the profile of her face, her hair, the way her jeans fit snugly over her arse.

smitten. that’s the word, he thinks. charmed, maybe. pretty, sweet four-eyes all dressed up in knitwear. she probably made them herself. seems the type. he wonders, absurdly, if she’d make him something. a sweater, maybe. something that actually fits his shoulders.

then she suddenly moved, pulling out her phone, and he buries his face in the cookbook he’s been pretending to read. thai recipes, apparently. he flips a page, wondering if she likes thai food. he could try making it.

his phone buzzes and for a second, one irrational second, he thinks it’s her. like she’s sent a message telepathically from across the shop. but no. it’s price, blunt as ever, asking where the fuck he is.

he looks up again, and she’s gone. just like that. his stomach drops, and he straightens instinctively, scanning the aisles. he can’t help it, he turns—

“so…you like thai food?”

he looks down and finds her at the next shelf over, smiling shyly. something about it. it slips through his ribs and gets comfortable.

[bi-writes]

hi! i was thinking if you could write an older!boyfriend simon x reader BUT reader is john price's daughter so is kinda of a forbidden and secret relationship !!!! they've been dating for a long time now until john finds out !!!!!

18+

"how is she?"

"doing well, john. but you don't have to worry about her anymore, you know that right? she's not yours to worry about."

"she is mine. i know she's not..." john huffs. "she may not be blood, but she's mine, yeah? so when i ask 'ow she is, you tell me, kate. can we agree on that?"

"sure, john. she's in georgia. her russian got very good. if you want to know my honest opinion, i think she'll be one of my best."

"well...i wouldn't stand for anythin' less."

"john?"

that voice is music to him. he turns, taking his hat off, and he laughs, genuinely, when he sees you. his whole face lights up, and you make your way to him. it's been months since you've seen him in person--even though he makes you send him constant updates about what you're doing and where you are, you find yourself missing this man and the warmth he gives off whenever you are in his proximity.

he's always looked at you so kindly. he's always taken care of you. whenever you pick up the phone, he's always answered.

"'ello, bug."

he crushes you in a warm hug. he puts a hand on the back of your neck and holds you to his chest, and the tension in his shoulders deflates now that he has you with him.

"hi, john. miss me?"

"well...you were the only one with sense in my house."

"you live alone, john."

"aye."

he pours you a hot cup of tea before he makes you tell him all about your new posting. most of it is classified, and you tell him that, but his face lights up when you talk about the new skills you're learning and all the opportunities that kate is giving you. his face scrunches a little when you talk about the more dangerous ops, but john never has the same regard for his own life.

the mess hall gets busy once dinner time rolls around. his men were not expecting you, and that much is clear when they see their captain even enjoying a meal in public and not secluded in his office. you smile at his sergeants, but when your gaze lingers a little longer on the doors, johnny just nudges you with his elbow.

"miss the big guy?"

"what? no."

"he had a long night last night," he wiggles his eyebrows at gaz, who just laughs a little. "i might need to try the whole brooding, scary look LT has got on. attracts the most bonnie things, fuckin' christ."

your plate flies when you stab at your food too hard. the cutlery clatters as it hits the floor, and you jump a little, swallowing.

"are you alright, bug?"

"huh? yeah, oh...yeah, just...fucking clumsy. i...i'm gonna...find the toilet."

the blood is rushing in your ears as you make your way out. you're vibrating, hot inside, and you feel him before you see him, even in your anger.

when he pulls you into the shadow of a nearby supply closet, you swipe the blade out of your boot and hold it up against his throat. even through the mask, the blade bites, and he hisses as you hold him up against the wall there.

"don't fucking touch me," you snarl, and ghost's eyes are bright and alive as he holds his hands up defensively.

"wot--"

"and don't what me," you snap. "actually, don't fucking talk at all, you cheating, manipulative, british piece of shit--"

"look so pretty," he murmurs, tilting his head to the side. "did you do y'r hair, baby?"

"i will kill you."

"'s olright. last thing i see'll be you."

"i'm not fucking kidding, simon!"

he bends a little, tilting his head, and you breathe out through your nose as he leans his forehead against yours.

"reckon ya spoke t'johnny."

you scoff. "told me all about your winnings last night, lieutenant."

"was no winnings, love, don't be so fuckin' naïve." simon swipes at the handle of the blade, curling his gloved fingers around your wrist and forcing it away from him. "y'r just mad cause y'r cunt missed me."

"don't flatter yourself, asshole."

"so if i pull your knickers down right now, y'won't be drippin', swee'eart?"

"that's irrelevant."

"'s not. turn around and bend over."

simon's sorry, so he eats your pussy from behind. he gets down on his knees, and the crack of them satisfies you immensely, up until you feel his mouth between your cheeks, tongue slicking up your folds. you brace yourself against the wall, palms flat against the concrete as he puts two gloved hands against your ass and spreads you wide to fit himself nicely there. he hums, groans, makes you whine as he slurps obscenely into your cunt, laving at the drip of you until the taste of you floods his mouth.

"simon..." you whimper. "tell me i-it's not true."

he presses a wet kiss to your ass, biting it firm.

"'s not true, love. promise."

"fuck your promises," you sniffle. "you're a professional liar."

"tha' 'ow it's gonna be, innit? not gonna trust me? believe me?"

you rest your forehead against the cool wall, and the shadow of him envelopes you when he stands. he grunts a little as he gets to his feet. his big hands squeeze at the curve of your waist, and you close your eyes when you feel his breath against your neck.

"i'm sorry, simon."

"for wot?"

"i just...i like you so much. so much."

"come 'ere," he murmurs in your ear. he pulls your hips back, pressing your ass against his pelvis, and you dig your nails into the wall when you hear his belt buckle and zipper. "my pretty girl. my pretty, pretty girl."

"i missed you s-so much, simon."

"i know, love. quiet now. someone'll hear."

it's not the worst place you've fucked. you've snuck quickies in the rec room. behind the mess hall. met up in filthy gas station toilets, fallen into the backseat of a car in the parking lot of numerous military bases. even once, you deigned to suck his dick in his office, and you had to hide behind his couch when john came in to ask about an op.

john had a rule. his men were off-limits. he should've thought about that before he hired a man straight out of your wet dreams for his stupid fucking task force.

you're weak. and simon is a man.

inevitable.

you're a mile into pound-town when someone interrupts. simon is cock-deep inside of you, pelvis up against your ass, one hand braced around your throat and the other squeezing your ass. your eyes are rolled back into your head, and there's drooling coming out of your mouth. it's hot, disgusting, filthy to let him have you like this, but it's been weeks since you've seen him, and the phone calls aren't enough.

you love talking to him. you love when he talks to you. he'll never be annoying to you, you'll never get tired of him, but the distances hurts. you want simon to be all around you--inside of you, against you, his voice in your ear and his mouth against yours and his warmth your only sheet, but you can't bring yourself to do more than this.

you're too afraid of disappointing people. you're too scared of simon's rejection. if your relationship is nothing but fun, nothing but sex, you can pretend it isn't real, but you're just lying to yourself now.

you babble, and it sounds like love, but then the hallway light blinds you, and familiar blue eyes nearly kill you.

"jesus christ!"

simon puts his body in front of yours to cover you, using a harsh boot to kick the door closed. you squeak, covering your face with your hands, and you groan audibly as simon pants against your back.

"fuck--" you gasp. "oh...fuck, fuck, fuck!"

simon buries his face into the crook of your neck, laughing a little.

"bloody hell," he breathes. "reckon we're fucked, huh, love?"

"it's not funny, simon! we're in so much trouble!"

"well..." he squeezes your throat gently, tilting your head back. "could still finish. no sense in pretendin' now."

"you are not going to come when he's probably waiting for us outside."

"i'm balls deep in my favorite girl," simon mutters. "could come just fine. just say the word."

"you're disgusting."

"mmm..." simon squeezes your hips. "keep talkin'. i like when y'talk t'me like tha'."

"fucking asshole."

"yeah...yeah."

"you stupid, immature, unhinged pain in my ass--"

"fuck."

well.

you're definitely never leaving this room.

[kruegerspillow]

taking care of sick, stubborn simon riley is not an easy task...

you knew something was wrong after he'd arrived home from a deployment

his sneezing and coughing had grown prominent, his body temperature was scorching hot, he felt more exhausted than usual and he did not let you get too close to him

you've asked him if the ac was too cold or if he's feeling unwell

unfortunately, he denies every assumption you make

"love, 'm not sick, trust me. it's just the weather today..."

"christ, 'm not that warm, dunno what you're talkin' about."

"i'm jus' fuckin' knackered today."

"your side's too cold, 'm just... gonna be sleeping 'ere, alright sweet'eart?"

but you're not buying it.

the next morning, you crawled over to his side of the bed before placing the back of your hand on his forehead, pulling away with a hiss at the very much expected heat

so, you decided that you're going to take care of him

he refuses.

buuuut, he realized that it was in fact an order and not a question. there's no choice for him.

unwillingly, he lets you take care of him... and he eventually gives in.

you checked his temperature, gave him his meds and even gave those fever gel pads to him

you basically helped him from dawn to dusk, not letting him move a single muscle because he needs a damn break.

he's hungry? oh, you got it. some warm soup and a cup of tea.

he's cold? don't worry, you got the blankets ready.

he needs to shower? oh no, he's definitely not showering alone.

he'd never felt this vulnerable before, yet, with you? he enjoyed every second of it

once it was time for the both of you to sleep, he'll hesitate sleeping so close to you, out of fear that you're gonna get sick too

"i don't mind sleepin' on the couch, y'know tha'?"

you couldn't care less, though

eventually, he pushed his stubbornness aside and lets you hold him.

your chest pressed against his back, legs wrapped around his waist while his heartbeat synchronized with yours. simon riley wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

kruegerspillow © 2024 — reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[oceantornadoo]

Hello… Uhm. This is my first time requesting, lol. I was wondering if you could maybe… do a part 3 to that one fluff thing with the reader liking Simon bigger in size? I adore it so far. You don’t have to though! I was just hoping you could.

since the holidays have a lot of eating, i decided to make this christmas fluff

previous parts here (it's called "i like you big")

tw: simon has unhealthy eating habits

"since we have to be here over the holidays, we're doing a movie marathon. christmas movies only!" you announced cheerfully to the groaning task force. it was a rare night on base where everyone was together, and you wanted to spread some holiday spirit. "and i bought cookies." that got some cheers, thankfully. you took the cookies out of the locked cabinet, a necessity when surrounded by ravenous soliders, and set them in the common room near the tv. you went all out: sugar cookies, chocolate peppermint ones, raisins for price (as part of his old man tendencies), scottish shortbread, and british tea cookies for your favorite brits.

"cheers, love," simon murmured. you tucked your head to nod, afraid he'd see how easily the term of endearment heated your face. instead, you busied yourself setting up your favorite christmas movie (elf, of course) and passing out plates to everyone. it was self-serve, so you stood back as your task force attacked the table with a single-minded vigor you only saw on the battlefield. curiously, simon only had one cookie on his plate, a british tea one. you took your usual seat next to him on the sofa, grinning as soap and gaz started debating the reality of a human surviving the north pole in only tights.

"only one, si?" you whispered, nodding to his plate. at that exact moment, you heard his stomach grumble. he didn't have his mask on so you could see how his cheeks got a little pinker at the sound. "not 'ungry." you frowned. instead of replying, you reached for your own plate, taking one of each cookie until it was stacked full. his arm was around the back of the couch so you tucked yourself in further. the chocolate peppermint cookie was delicious, and you couldn't hold back the small moan you let out at the taste. simon stiffened by your side, uncomfortableness radiating off him in waves. "sorry. it's jus' so good." your mouth was slightly full, this time with the scottish shortbread. "bonnie, ye got shortbread?" soap asked earnestly. "yeah, i figured it would be nice to have a taste from home. not sure if you actually eat these or if it's just a stereotype but..." soap smiled wide with a boyish grin. "our thoughtful girl, gettin' cookies fer all of us. thanks, bon." you smiled back, tucking yourself further into simon as he hummed in agreement.

"plus, i think everyone deserves extra treats during the holidays. animals gain winter weight, why shouldn't we?" you added as an afterthought. price snorted in agreement. gaz made a comment to him that earned him a whack to the back of his head. you snuck a look at simon, who was staring off into the distance, ignoring buddy's journey on the tv screen. "si?" you nudged him a little. "s'ppose y'r right. an' y' put all this thought into these." you gave him a small smile that he returned, a rarity from your lieutenant. he shifted on the couch, leaning forward to grab two more cookies from the table, decidedly ignoring the scottish ones. he took a bite of the sugar cookie in the shape of a christmas tree and closed his eyes contentedly. "good, si?" he nodded, his shoulders loosening and his body sinking into the sofa. "yeah, love. real good."

this was short but the rest of them has been as well so i hope you enjoy :) this was also the first time i've written holiday fluff <3

[tojisun]

jealous simon but it’s in a self-destructive way.

how he isolates himself and forces his own desires into the yawning of his heart so that they won’t see the light of day because he knows, more than anyone else, how he doesn’t deserve you. and so he would rather burn with the ferocity of his unreturned love than burden you with his devotion.

how he draws away from the easy companionship that you two have; what were once hour-long phone calls peter into minutes of checking in, until they simmer into sparse messages. sometimes you two won’t even talk for months.

how he begins to avoid you. he misses out on cafe dates or movie nights, or hangs out with the squad almost everyday.

how he burrows at his safe house—he hasn’t been home (withyouwithyouwithyou) for months now.

he thinks time will fix him. he thinks distance will do him some good, but—

“please,” you whimper, voice trembling with the weight of your heartbreak. “please, just talk to me.”

(you are just as beautiful as he remembered.)

simon digs his fingernails into his palms, hoping that the stinging of his skin hurts more than the pain swelling in his heart.

of course it doesn’t; nothing will hurt more than leaving you.

and simon knows this, but—

“there’s nothing to talk about,” he finally replies, forcing the nonchalance in his voice. he fakes a smile. “what’s got you worryin’, huh?”

your lips wobble. “how could you?”

“c’mon,” is all what simon could force out, ignoring the way his tongue feels like it’s sticking to the roof of his mouth. “y’ve got no reason to be throwin’ a tantrum like this, kid.”

he sees the moment your hackles rise, hurt bleeding into fury.

“oh, fuck you, riley,” you spit out, vitriolic in the way it dribbles from your snarling lips.

(your anger will be the last memory that simon has of you. he knows he will regret this moment.

he already is.)

but—

this—you, leaving him, and him, forcing it all to fall apart—is for the best.