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mrmilomoo · 3 months ago

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Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ daddy kink, anxiety, reader is neurodivergent

There’s a splitting headache pounding behind your eyes.

It’s the only thing you can focus on for the first five minutes of being awake, reconciling it with queasiness, the ache of your joints. You feel like you drank an entire vat of vodka.

Jesus. How did you even get ho-

Oh god.

Oh my god.

Fragments of last night come rushing back, shattered clips out of order and full of nonsense, things that make no sense. Improbable things.

Captain Riley dressing you in his t-shirt.

Captain Riley holding your chin while he brushes your teeth.

Captain Riley wiping your make up off.

Captain Riley putting you in bed.

With him. Putting you in bed, with him.

The fabric of your dress, black with little blue and purple flowers, catches your eye. It’s sitting neatly on top of a dresser with your bra, your shoes just below, placed side by side, and the world crashes down around you. It shifts and shudders, reality roaring into focus.

This is his room. His house. His bed.

Your stomach turns, nausea swelling into a wave that washes over you, forcing you from the bed to the bathroom on stumbling, heavy legs, snatching your clothes on the way, throwing them to the ground as you lean over the toilet and lose what’s in your stomach, bile and water, the burn pulling tears from your eyes.

What did you do?

Shame rips through you like a knife, stabbing you between the ribs hard enough to make you ache. Humiliation, that’s what this is. You’re humiliated. Humiliated that you drank so much he had to take you home from the bar. Humiliated you couldn’t brush your own teeth or wash your face or change your clothes or put yourself in bed, humiliated you turned into an irresponsible, drunken mess. A burden.

You’re in his house, his room, his bed, your secret fantasies crumbled away into one big nightmare.

He��ll never look at you the same way again.

You know what will happen now, of course. He’ll stop coming by the shop, or if he doesn’t, he’ll just stick to polite conversation. He won’t text you, and anything you send will be responded to with clipped, brief responses.

It always ends this way for one reason or another, but this, blacking out and making a fool of yourself, is certainly a first.

A first you had with Captain Riley. The man you’ve spent every waking minute thinking about for months.

Dumb. So dumb.

You turn the sink on. Rinse and spit. Wash your hands. Splash your face with cold water, and then do it again, letting it mix with your tears, trying to use the shock of the temperature to slow your spiraling anxiety, your descent into madness.

The fabric of your dress on your skin and the sight of his t-shirt crumpled on the ground, still warm from your body, nearly drives you to hysteria.

You ruined it.

Knuckles knock against the bathroom door, and then he’s calling your name.

Your heart drops.

The bathroom window is too small to crawl out of, but you did see a pretty big one in his bedroom. Maybe…

“Open the door sweetheart.” You can do this. Just rip the bandaid off. Get it over with. You pull it wide, momentarily blindsided by what’s on the other side, Captain Riley in a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt, steam rising from a mug in his hand. A normal sized mug that for some reason, looks like a child’s toy. His gives you a once over before trapping you in his gaze, so deadly serious it keeps you rooted to the floor as he deposits the mug on the sink and pulls you close, warm palm settling on the side of your neck. “Were you sick?”

“No.” You croak, the lie is blatantly obvious based on the smell in the bathroom alone. His eyes narrow.

“Try again.” You can’t force yourself to say it, so you nod miserably. “Oh baby,” He tugs you into his arms, cupping the back of your head into his chest. “Why didn’t you call for me?” Jesus. Christ. He pities you.

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.

He’s being so nice, it makes it all worse. Makes the ache spread all the way to your heart where it pounds so loud you’re sure he can feel it. ‘U-uh, I… I…”

The severity of it all hits you like a truck, hard enough to make your knees weak, and you force yourself to step back, leave the warmth and safety of his arms, his body, his smell, his… everything, before you try to disappear in it. Burrow yourself inside him, seek permanent refuge from the storm. Hide behind him like a child running from a monster.

“I’m s-sorry about last night, th-this,” your stomach is queasy again, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “I… that was… I don’t usually drink that much, I’m… I’m sorry.” The walls are closing in, a sob so heavy you could drown in it builds in your chest, and you sink into the stark reality of what he’s probably waiting to say. It’s time to go. Get out of his house. “I’ll just… I’ll go.” You move farther of the bathroom, and he follows.

“You’ll st-”

“I need to go to work later, so I sh-should probably go home and get some sleep.” You’re scrambling, looking for anything that might make sense, might justify you sprinting out of this house. It’s amazing how solid your voice is, truly an impressive feat on your part, treading water in survival mode and trying to preserve a shred of dignity. “I have work. A lot of prep work. To do… later.” The uber app lights up under a stroke of your thumb.

“Sweetheart…” he’s got his hands out now, palms open like you’re a wild animal thrashing in a trap and he’s going to free you. “Everything’s okay. You didn’t do any-”

“I’m fine.” Your voice cracks when you cut him off. You can’t listen to him be nice to you after this. “It’s fine. But um… I-I… really do need to go.” You can’t describe the look on his face. It’s like he’s holding onto something with a shred of control, muscles in his arms tense, jaw tight. It almost looks like anger, mixed with concern, his eyes bright and focused, all of it making the edge of your vision blurry.

He’s got you pinned. It’s all you’ve wanted.

But now you’re standing in front of him, a mess, ashamed, horrified.

When he says your name it’s gentle, and patient, the underlying authority in it impossible to ignore, a leash drawing your eyes up from the floor.

Your phone chimes.

Uber.

“That’s my ride,” you rasp, looking away and towards the door. There’s a long moment where you think he might not let you leave, a thought that’s not frightening at all, but unexpectedly comforting. If he didn’t let you leave… if he wanted you to stay…

He takes a very long, very deep breath, the only noise existing between the two of you until he nods and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t want to push you too hard yet,” he pauses, scrutiny bringing his brows together in a barely there crease, “and I can’t box you in, can I?” It doesn’t seem like a question for you, just about you, one he’s asking himself, one you do not understand at all. The hangover is liquifying your brain, and nothing is making sense.

“I, uh… I-” His thumb presses to your bottom lip, stealing words, thoughts, logic, everything from inside you.

“I want you to get some rest when you get home. Take a shower, eat, and text me before you go into work.”

“O-okay. I will.” He rewards you with a smile, a small, proud smile that hangs like a blue ribbon around your neck. A shiny trophy from a soccer-roos game, a first place prize at the science fair, and for once it doesn’t feel like you’re looking out into the crowd for smiling faces that aren’t there.

That feeling is what keeps you warm all the way home, even in the nip of brisk morning air.

You should have gone home and slept, but you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You went to work.

You threw on a pair of throwaway clothes you keep in the office and tied an apron around your waist and disappeared into bakery.

You buried yourself into whatever you could think of, four different types of cookie dough, brownie batter, massive batches of buttercream, nervous energy bubbling up in your chest and spilling out through your hands, forcing them to work, to make, again and again until you can’t possibly do anything else.

The entire time, you ignore the world. Your headache, your stomach, the slow foot traffic out front. Weekends run on a skeleton crew and you’re never here anyway, so it’s not like anyone bothers you.

It’s just you, an entire bag of fresh rosemary, and a mountain of flour.

You could make rosemary focaccia every day and never get bored. It can be used for anything, eaten with anything, and-

the dough can take a beating.

It’s therapeutic, mixing and kneading it into pliable balls and then stretching them out onto sheet pans, chopping rosemary leaves into tiny little pieces so you can sprinkle them over the top with the olive oil. It’s easy to get lost in it, ignorant of the time slipping away, the shop out front closing, your phone rattling against the stainless steel tabletop across the room, the sun slowly sinking behind the skyline.

You push the world away until a heavy knock sounds from the back door.

Captain Riley is standing on the other side. He looks over your shoulder, a sweeping inspection revealing the facts of the matter, a truth that has your stomach sinking like a stone to the bottom of the sea.

You went back on your word.

“Hi.”

“You didn’t go home.” You gulp.

“No.” He turns you around and steers you back inside.

“You didn’t listen.” He hoists you up onto a stool at the end of your workbench.“Sit, and do not move.”

“I-” Fingers hook under your knee, pulling it against his thigh so you’re partially spread around him, and the contact is like a drink of water in a drought. A washed out memory forces its way to the forefront of your mind. Did you know you’re so big? “A-are you mad?” Your voice is tinny, steeped in anxiety, and his eyes soften.

“No baby, I’m not mad. You’re learning, you’ll make mistakes.”

“I will?” He nods.

“My instincts are never wrong. You didn’t run off because you were uncomfortable. You ran because you were embarrassed, and that’s my fault.” He murmurs, wiping at something crusted on your cheeks. Batter. Dough. You don’t know, all you can focus on is the rhythmic rub of his palm skating up and down your leg, squeezing the flesh at your hip before traveling back down to your knee. It’s like watching a pocket watch swing in front of your face, hypnosis taking over your thoughts until the only thing left is him. “I shouldn’t have let you leave this morning but I didn’t want to box you into a corner.” There’s a bowl of raspberry filling to your left, and he swipes his thumb through it, holding the red, pulpy sweetness to your lips. “Open your mouth,” tart sugar swipes across your tongue from tooth to tooth, and he holds you open, tips your head back. You’re holding your breath, hanging on the edge of cliff, dangling, wondering if the rope will be cut, if the rug will be pulled out beneath you, scrambling to put something, anything together to make this make sense. It’s rattling through your bones, twisting you up into knots…

all of it going quiet when his mouth finds yours. Tasting. Taking. Holding your head between his hands and breathing new life into you, tongue against tongue, raspberry swirl staining you both, dying your mouths so red it could be blood. Heat turns molten and you throb, thighs trying to close instinctively, seeking contact, pressure, an alleviation to the mounting ache blooming between them.

He pulls away and chuckles, thumb retaking its place in your mouth as he watches, studies. “My sweet girl.” You make a noise, a squeak, a little whine of pleasure. That’s you. His sweet girl. His. It makes you happier than you know how to explain.

And then he says something that knocks the wind out of you.

“You’re daddy’s girl, baby.” He lets it linger in the air, waiting for something, a reaction, but nothing comes except more agony between your legs, and a strange feeling of relief. “You’re mine, and I’m going to take care of you, every little piece of you, even the ones you try to hide.” Your eyes burn with tears and he wipes them away with his free hand. You wonder if you’re supposed to be disgusted, if you’re supposed to feel shame, discomfort, but none of those things are there. Only desire, relief, longing, peace. Hope.

He wants you. He cares about you. He sees you.

Daddy’s girl.

“Do you want that?” You nod and pull on his thumb like you’re trying to take more, and he huffs an exhale of a laugh. “Look at you, sucking on my thumb already.” He pops it free to cup your cheek, and you mourn the empty space between your teeth, leaning forward for more. More, more more- “I need the words.”

“Yes, I want it.” Your voice doesn’t shake. You don’t stutter. It’s the strongest you’ve ever sounded. He presses his lips to yours, lingering in the kiss before holding your face in both hands, tipping your head back, bringing your eyes directly to his.

“Yes who?” You lick your lips.

“Yes, daddy.” When you say it, it doesn’t sound foreign, or weird, or sinful. It’s right. For once in your life, your words don’t feel clumsy or stupid or mixed up. They just are. What you want to say, what you meant to say.

“Yes, daddy. I want it.”

#oof #not this fic reawakening my daddy kink #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you

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mrmilomoo · 3 months ago

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It’s been a hot minute since I read something that genuinely gave me that achy feeling of heartbreak in my chest.

Dead Disco

Main masterlist

It’s not easy, being the one that’s always left behind.

Ghost x Soap x female reader - throuple fic

AO3 All works are 18+ Minors DNI

Chapter 1 You should have gotten out.

Chapter 2 The guys discover you're gone.

Chapter 3 You open the door.

Chapter 4 Conversations.

Chapter 5 The three of you go shopping.

Chapter 6 The guys propose a field trip.

Chapter 7 It's better when they're here.

Chapter 8 The guys gets back

Chapter 9 Simon struggles with the aftermath of his words

Chapter 10 You held onto the hot pan too long, and now you’ve been burnt.

Chapter 11 Johnny struggles

Chapter 12 You make a decision

Chapter 13 Johnny comes home

Chapter 14 The storm Epilogue

Other works: Help I'm Alive Calculation Theme - the first time On a Slow Night / On a Slow Night - follow up ask / On a Slow night precursor ask Combat Baby Front Row How did the guys meet darling?

Asks: Marriage Q Chapter 3-4 Q Dynamic Q Job Q Period Q Couch Q The fights Q The threesomes Q Simon + Darling Q

Sick fic Q

Not canon angst: No way RIP What if MW3 was real for Dead Disco

Moodboard and playlist

Dead Disco AUs

#ghost x soap x reader #simon riley x john mactavish #ghost x soap #ghost x reader x soap #ghoap x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader

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mrmilomoo · 3 months ago

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Haven’t even read it yet, but I saw “sleep token reference” and “religious undertones” and I knew I’m going to cry and cum over this later.

the wreckage of ruination. | simon ghost riley

the one where simon comes home from deployment.

“Does this,” he sucks at your throat again, all teeth and tongue and it’s violent just like every breath he manages. “Feel gentle to you, love?”

WARNINGS - 18+ smut mdni. reader afab. simon essentially finding therapy in your pussy. heavy topics. rough sex. size kink. denied orgasm. a whole lot of simon riley psychoanalysis. a few sleep token references. a ton of religious undertones. piv. fingering. im gonna be honest chat idk if im horny or sobbing after this one.

It’s quarter past one when the front door swings open, and you pause with a dish towel in hand — listening as it slams closed again with enough force you half expected to hear the sound of shattered glass following it. Next comes the footsteps, though you already felt those, the dull thud of boots dragging across carpeted floorboards with the type of heavy set gait you could detect with your eyes closed. And then, there’s the rustling —the faint sound of a belt buckle unfastening.

Fuck.

It’s all you can think as he rounds the corner with a slow exhale, standing there in all the shadows of the early morning hour. Your eyes meet, and you see it there in all of its familiarity — the hunger.

It’s a languid look that he gives you, but one you know all too well. The kind that burns with intention backing it. The kind that turns the usual brown of his irises to something molten. A bonfire raging amidst the ashes. Inspiring the familiar sensation low in your gut that spreads through your nervous system like an infection. Sickly. You’d think it was a perfect description — because the next symptom is a tightness in your chest, one that comes robbing your lungs as you rake your eyes over him.

And it’s his hands, of all things, that really get you. The raw, crimson knuckles. Split from months of use. Battered by the wreckage of ruination — remnants of violence still fresh on his skin.

You wonder, stupidly, if he even notices the way you stare. Soaking in the lean lines of his torso. Studying the way his muscles shift beneath his skin with each inhale and ex. The way his dog tags sit against the hollow of his collarbones. The way his shirt sleeves are taut around the sinew bulging against his biceps. You wonder if he knows you can see the aftermath of the past few months in his eyes, the adrenaline still thrumming through him so violently it makes your bones ache.

When he steps forward, you know you have your answer.

“Nightgown.” His voice is a rasp. Gaze busy pinning silk to your skin. “Y’making this easier n’ easier f’me.”

You swallow the shock factor and smile while digesting it. He’s in front of you now. Close enough to feel the heat of him.

“Missing the chase, Si?” A tilt of your head, a tease in your tone. “I could run if you’d like.”

“Y’wouldn’t dare.” He all but hisses — two massive paws grasping your hips to tug you into him. There’s a breath as his mouth finds your hair, and then he inhales. “Much prefer y’right here. Like this.”

And it’s that simple admission, the one tucked behind the few extra syllables and whispered into the strands of your hair that has you leaping for a breath all over again. That has you forcing your sight to meet his with something a little too close to hope blinking in your chest.

“You feeling gentle?” You ask, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

Because his reaction is immediate. An answer in itself. And you’re not sure if it was the question on its own or the way you sounded asking it — but he’s catching your jaw in a grip just shy of bruising, forcing your eyes to hold the darkness in his. Then, he’s leaning in, breath brushing against your cheek, jaw, throat — growing back his sharpest teeth as he nips, tongue lavving out to soothe the sting in what you know is his crafted offering of mercy in a moment where he’s unable to provide much else.

“Does this,” he sucks at your throat again, all teeth and tongue and it’s violent just like every breath he manages. “Feel gentle to you, love?”

It doesn’t. It never has been on the nights he returns and you know this. So you take it for the warning sign it is and inhale the adrenaline permeating the air around you — offering him the closest thing to an answer you know he’ll ever need. Within seconds he’s crashing his mouth to yours with force nothing shy of feral. Wild and demanding, unhinged in the way you know he needs right now because this is how it goes on the night of his return. The beginning of his resurgence — ascension from the depths of the hollow he’d carved himself to be.

After all the war and destruction and damage he inflicts, you are his redoing. So you let him take, in whatever form he needs to, as he swallows everything you give and uses it to feel whole again.

You’re crushed against the counter next, and then he’s lifting you onto it — thick fingers fumbling for the edge of your nightgown as he presses between your thighs, kissing you hard all the while. You can all but taste the desperation on his tongue, the kind fuelled by lust and violence and everything else he needs to draw on just to find himself buried inside you in some capacity. It doesn’t matter to you much which way he chooses. You’ll take it all the same. And that, to him, means the world. The kind of catharsis he can’t get anywhere else.

He fists your hair, jerking your neck back as another hand trails up the heat of your thigh. You squirm and he bites your bottom lip for it, enough to make you squeak. You wonder then, as he drags his tongue along the hurt, how it can be as brutal and rough as it is while still feeling like something you can’t quite name. Something that makes you burn with the very same need.

When he kisses you, it’s like he’s trying to break you. When you kiss him back, it’s like you’re trying to mend him.

He pulls back then, just long enough to shrug out of his shirt — the muscles of his tatted chest gleaming under the low light of the overheads. He’s scarred. Bruised. A little bloodied. But he’s a beautiful mess. One you can’t force yourself to look away from because it’s here that he’s his most vulnerable — it’s here that he’s as beautiful and as dangerous as he will ever allow you to see.

The only time you catch glimpses of the ghosts etched into his irises.

“Never gets easier.” He mutters, both hands smoothing up your thighs now. “Gets harder each time.”

You know he’s talking about this. The way he comes home with the weight of the world on his shoulders, the bloodshed and horrors of what he’s seen still too fresh to call memories. You know. But still—

“Harder how, baby.” You breathe against his lips as he tugs your nightgown up around your waist.

It takes him a moment to speak, and you allow him all of it. In your time together, you’ve come to realize Simon Riley isn’t a man of many words. But when he does speak, you memorize every breath and syllable.

“Harder t’leave.” He admits, and you shiver at the words — or maybe at the fact his fingers are reaching up your thighs now, in search of the heat between them. “Harder t’come home. Harder t’be gentle like y’deserve.”

You close your eyes at that, wrapping your arms around his neck as those same thick fingers find your slit, and soak in the slick there. You let out a whimper, and he brings his lips to your temple, all while you turn those words over in your mind in search of their frontfaced meaning.

To anyone else, that might sound conflicting. But you’re not anyone else. You knew Simon before you knew Ghost — though in learning about him, many unanswered things made sense. You knew that there was always something stuck in the back of Simon’s throat that he could never quite swallow. Something thick. Something unmoving like grief. And you think, rather aimlessly through the pleasure he starts pouring into you, that after all the days and weeks and months he spends going through hell — for him, coming home has always been the harder part.

And there’s something poetic about that, beneath it all. The fact that even after all of it, he can still find it in himself to give you the remnants — the fractured remains of himself that are still in their infancy.

That he can be honest with you, in this way of his making. Letting you into the space beneath his mask.

So you moan. A sound of reward as he teases your clit. “S’good, Si.”

“No,” he whispers, swirling in easy strokes. “M’not good, love. Never have been.”

And that, you know he believes.

He’s a man made by violence. A weapon forged by war, by destruction, by the world that tried to break him just to turn him into the thing it fears most. To them, he’s destruction made flesh. But to you, he’s your salvation made in ink. And despite his best efforts, despite what he’ll always think, your Simon is so much more than he thinks he is. So much more than he’s ever been given credit for.

And you’ll tell him that. Over and over and over again if he wants you to.

“You are so good, Si.” You whinge, hips jerking to his touch. “You are so fucking good.”

There’s a moment, until there’s a hum. “Just as well. It’s not the good in men that keeps em’ aimin’ straight.”

He murmurs, almost to himself, and you know he’s not looking for a response. He’s unloading. Because it’s his truth. And everyone has a truth of their own. You try not to let him see how much his hurts you — the way he thinks his worth is based solely on the man he is behind the mask.

“It’s the men who try,” you mutter against his lips. “And despite your best efforts, sweetheart, you try so damn hard.”

His finger slips inside of you, slow. Like he’s making a point to prove you right. Like he’s showing you he can be good and gentle and patient. All the things he thinks you need him to be.

When you hiss at the stretch, his lips twitch and he pushes in another. “F-fuck, Si.”

You clench around him, and he exhales. “S’fucken’ tight f’me.”

You nod against his forehead, with barely a lung of breath.

“I missed this, you know. This feeling.” You roll your hips against his hand, taking his digits deeper, revelling in the way his cock throbs against your stomach. “This feeling I get when you come home with that wild look in your eyes. Like you’re too dangerous to be around if you’re not inside me.”

He nods, lips twitching again as he pulls back slightly to watch you. Watch his hand work you open with a crease in his brow — with a clench in his jaw that only intensifies as his other hand grips your hair too tight to be soft. You know he thinks you need this — the preamble. You know it’s taking every fucking bloody shred of his sanity to give it. But you don’t want him to be thinking about you right now.

This night, above all else, is about him.

“You’re breaking.” You choke with a smile — just to needle him — and that’s all it takes for his patience to crack.

Your nails drag against his shoulders when he pulls you off the counter — arms winding around his neck as he maneuvers you through the darkness of your living room. And it’s then that you realize you forgot just how strong he is. How the walk from the kitchen to the sofa only seems to take a few steps because he’s carrying you over his shoulder like you weigh less than the bag he left at the door.

He tosses you down onto the couch with a force that knocks the air from your lungs — not giving you a chance to gasp for a replacement before he’s rucking your nightgown up and spreading your legs wide as he settles between them. You watch as he works at his zipper, tugging down his pants just enough to free himself — cock all twitching and glistening with the same need that’s blaring through the rest of him. He strokes it a few times, watching you watch him — watching your hunger meet his in the middle.

“M’breaking, sweet’eart.” He’s growling, that’s the only way to describe it. Deep inflection rolling over you like rain. “But so are you.”

And then, he’s pushing in — burying himself inside the struggling wet walls of your cunt with a force that makes you cry out, back arching toward his chest as he leans over you — caging you under him with two strong forearms on either side of your head. The feeling is rendering. Euphoric in its agony. Thick head working you back open after months of thinking your own small fingers sufficed. But nothing compares to this. Each time a little like the first time — the only difference is back then he let you adjust, gave you all the time in the world to whine and cry about it.

You know that’s not the case now.

He’s selfish, like this. A thing of beauty. This man made from the earth you’ve claimed. A brutal kind of beautiful that most admire from a distance. Wolfish. Best to be kept at arms length — so rough and rabid he could eat you whole if he let himself. But instead, all he wants is this.

“Fuck.” He grunts into your hair as he bottoms out, snug against your cervix. “Gets tighter every fucken’ time.”

It’s a compliment, unspoken in the way he threads his fingers through your strands — because it’s the only way he knows how to handle everything he is. Because violence is second nature when being kind is so hard to come by. Because he’s learned that the only way he can exist is in the middle ground of it.

And fuck, if you don��t love him for it. The trying.

“N’you—ah—g-get bigger—“ you mumble, all exasperation and lust.

“Y’like that, yeah, pretty girl?” His voice is a deep rasp in your ear, a hint of the beast in his tone as he grinds deep. “Like how it feels when I fill you, s’fuckin deep.”

He bites down on your throat when you try to answer him and whatever you were going to say becomes a moan instead. Breathing. It’s all you can focus on as he draws out and then slides home — stretching you to an almost painful point as he pulls his hips back to do it again, his grip tight enough that it makes you wonder if his fingertips will bruise your skin the same way they do everything else he touches.

“Mmmfuck, Si—“ you hiss as he sets a desperate pace, each devastating thrust making you see all the stars in the heavens and then some. “G-god—“

He nods, even though mumbling the name of god right now is ironic at best. There’s no god for men like Simon. Something he’s long come to terms with and knows he no longer needs because you — you are his salvation. His safe haven. And you’ll help him rebuild himself, placing each of those broken pieces back together with all the benevolence of the most graceful god — even if it burns your hands to cinder in the process.

It’s an addiction — your addiction, his addiction, a feverish kind of thing made of violence and love in the same breath. Something that somedays you know you’d die for. You’d die for the fire he brings to life inside your soul. And you can tell by the way he holds you that he knows it, too. Your name a broken incantation on his lips like you’re a prayer. Like you’re his deity — the only one who ever made him believe in something greater than himself.

“Fucken’ missed you.” He buries his face in your hair as he says it, pace slowing, two digits searching for the mess between your legs and swirling. “Oh yeah. Missed y’so fucken’ much.”

It almost hurts, how your breath stutters in your chest — how you hips jerk up to meet where his fingers bully your clit.

“I—fuck. I missed you too.” You wail, climax dragged to the edge of your consciousness as he thrusts in slow and deep. “Ohfuck. Si m’gonna—c-cum—“

He grunts in your ear, the way he only does when he’s trying to regain control — and you know without words that he isn’t going to give you what you need just yet.

Instead, he pulls back — his tip just barely nudging at your entrance a moment before he’s tugging your knees to your chest and slamming back into you deeper than you’d thought possible. It’s so much, and it’s almost too much when he stills. You cling to him, whimpering like he’s stolen a limb with how he takes a second to just wait before he leans back over you — forcing himself that much deeper, lips going to the tip of your ear where the shell meets the edge of the cartilage.

“Not yet.” He mutters. “You’ll end me.”

It’s all a haze then, your consciousness a fragmented thing as he uses you to rebuild. As he uses you to heal the invisible wounds that war has left on his body and on his soul. Every thrust of his hips is an effort to force out the rage and replace it with something that can be good. That can hold you with open palms rather than crush you with clenched fists.

And you know, for all that he is — it’s a miracle then, to love him so freely.

“S-simon—“ you’re babbling, shins tucked to your chin as he ruts deep into you. Every thrust shoving you that much closer. “C-can’t—n-need to—“

“Go on then,” he grunts, reaching up to grasp your hair again. “Y’can—“

And he’s leaning closer still, until there’s not a single inch between you and your lips are brushing — frenzied breaths mingling hot in your mouth.

“But m’gonna right after you.” He punctuates it with a devastating punch to your cervix. “Got months t’give you, sweet’eart.”

You almost scream then, the sound echoing in the dark of the room and it seems to ignite something in him. A match to a kindling. His hand tightening in your hair as he thrusts in hard to the hilt over and over and over again. You’ve never seen him shake this hard. Never seen the way his eyes search yours like he’s memorizing everything you could mean. The way they hold you in yours, making you feel seen in ways you’ve never fathomed. And you think, then, even while the pace at which he drives into you is frenzied, vicious — not even giving you time to draw a breath before he’s slamming back inside — you’ve never been so fucking inlove with the entirety of him. All his broken and all his beautiful. His raw and his vulnerable. His spoken and his unspoken.

And it’s with that thought, that your orgasm bludgeons you across the chest — and you’re clenching and cumming around him, coming face to face with the stars you know he’d dragged down for you.

“S-si! Ohfuck—ohyes—“

He groans. “Mm. That’s it. S’good. S’fucken’ good f’me.”

And when he follows you down to the depths of them, it’s your name that he breathes — a ragged thing that sounds so sweet coming off his tongue you’d think it was sugar — spilling the months of pent up need deep into your bullied cunt, teeth barring against the edge of his lip as it’s ripped from him by the sheer force of yours.

And then, it’s quiet again. Nothing but your heavy breaths to mark the stillness. Your eyes find his in the low light — and you know then, that the storm has passed. He shifts so your legs can wrap around his waist before he cages you under him again — forearms under your neck as he holds you there, softening inside you.

“Fuck.” The exhale. The emergence.

“Welcome home.” You whisper it, and it holds every word you could ever manage.

It’s a while before he speaks. And when he does, it’s rough. The word he gives you is simple, but it means everything — the weight of his soul beneath it like an ancient thing.

“Home.”

#simom riley x reader #dark simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley smut #ghost smut

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mrmilomoo · 3 months ago

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“Silly cow” actually sent me over the moon

Divine Hammer

Summary: You bring up something new to Simon. He's more enthusiastic than you expected.

Warnings: What else but smut, HEAVY UK slang usage (me and si come from the same area of England our slang is v similar) Simon slaps reader once, fem reader, oral(f), fingering in BOTH holes, pussy juice as lube, anal duh, simons fat cock, sprinkling of a size kink, mean Simon, kitchen sex mmm, no beta we die like soap (sorry), lmk if I missed anything!

Notes: Listen the taboo of anal just gets me going alright , also this has been in my drafts since JAN 9TH help

Wc: 2.5k

Simon's stare was unnerving. Well, it was always unnerving, to a degree. But he found ways to utilise it. Deadpan humour, emphasising points of conversation, scaring away would-be hookups from you in the pub. But here, it was unnerving in a whole other way.

It felt… intrusive.

Simon stared at you like he could see through your clothes, your body, into your mind to expose your deepest darkest fantasies. You squirmed under his penetrating gaze, tugging at the hem of your jumper.

After a little while of silence, you shook your head, scoffing at yourself;

“-No, nevermind um.. I'm.. s-sorry that was weird-” “Didn’ say tha’ ”

You gulped, gaze nervously fixed to the floor. Simon was still. Staring. At you. Never before had you felt so exposed, too embarrassed and, if you were honest, a little scared to look at your boyfriend face-on.

“Was just wonderin’ since when my bird was such a slag.”

His baritone words rolled down your spine, sending sparks of a deep, taboo satisfaction through you. You whimpered, and hid your face in your hands.

“Don’ act like a prude love, we both heard what you wanted just now.” “I shouldn't have said anythinnnggg-”

Conceptually, anal had… a certain taboo charm to it. From your perspective at least. Sure, it wasn't technically the “right” hole… it wouldn't feel the same, but the idea had always fascinated you.. intruded your shadowed thoughts at night with your fingers rubbing your clit and edging nervously to an opening further on than your cunt.

So, gently, you'd broached the topic one time you were both in the kitchen together- thinking, in hindsight foolishly, that it'd be something he'd instantly dismiss, or at least… talk about later. In the bedroom. Not in the middle of the kitchen… but now here you stood, in the hole you'd dug for yourself;

“On the contrary, I'm relieved you've finally admitted it to yourself.” His footsteps were heavy against the floorboards as he approached you. Confused, you peeked out of the gaps between your fingers to look at him;

“W-what?” “Don't be fuckin’ coy w'me love.” Simon towered over you, cadging you next to the kitchen side.

“Always suspected there was some depraved shit up here, yeah?” He poked your temple with his index finger, “Turns out my intuitions were correct then?”

“T-thats not-” “Oh yes it is sweet’art.” Simon's eyes grew more intense by the second, even more than before- you struggled to even picture them in your mind for fear of his retribution.

“Ay- fuckin’ look at me when I'm talking to ya.”

He could have been a lot harsher with the small smack he delivered to your cheek, but that knowledge did nothing to dull the pain, and your eyes watered a little at the sensation. He grabbed your cheeks between his fingers, squishing them till you pouted and shaking your head lightly, as if to keep hold of your attention.

As if you could look anywhere else…

Forced to return his ferocious gaze, you crumbled, knees bucking like a fawn under you- Simon grabbed you and roughly hauled you back up, manhandling you to bend over the kitchen counter. You allowed him to, biting your lip in an attempt to muffle your unintentional sounds of appreciation.

It earned you a harsh smack to your rear, and Simon's big paw of a hand tugging your hair. He leaned over you, “ ‘M not ‘avin any of tha’ yeah? You're not gonna be hidin’ how much of a slut you are from me anymore sweet'art.”

The juxtaposition of his words and the way he sweetly kissed your temple after he said them was almost comical. The grip on your hair disappeared, replaced with firm and consistent pulling at your clothes until you shuffled out of them- Simon wasted no time running his warm hands up and down your body, rumbling out various admirations of your physical form.

He slunk down your body, nipping and pressing hot, open mouthed kisses down your back, and then to each of your cheeks, all the way down to your pussy. Earlier on, when you'd ridden yourself of your panties, Simon had laughed at how wet they were. “Already?” He'd asked, “Y'that turned on already? Whore. Like a bitch in heat f'me, ey?”

He had no further comments to mock you with, not now at least. He was busy approving of the view of your wet cunt in front of him- out of the corner of your eye you spied him nodding to himself as if he were appraising fine art.

You huffed, a little impatient, petulant you wiggled your bum at him- only all you got from him was another spank.

“Be patient.” He said curtly.

You whined, but otherwise did as you were told, meekly resigned to your fate as Simon's personal eye candy.

“Why ya’ into it then?” You made a noise of confusion, Simon huffed.

“This.”

One of hands had moved to idly grope and squish your bottom while he'd been down there, and now his thumb creeped ever so slowly over to press on your rim. You keened- suddenly understanding what he meant.

“Well?” His thumb pressed in deeper, you gasped- “I-i don't know!” “Hmmm…”

You could tell from his tone he didn't quite believe you. He kissed your cheek again.

“I'm sure I'll find out.”

With that said, his thumb remained almost gently rubbing at your hole, his free hand moving to pull his balaclava up over his nose- wasting no time in burying himself in your cunt. He sighed contentedly at the taste, smell, feel of you, lazily lapping at your cunny with his broad tongue. His thumb still rubbing you in slow circles, almost.. in a comforting manner.

There was no one more intimidating than Simon- at least out of all the people you've ever met, and yet here he was, eating your pussy like it was a home cooked, three-course meal. You looked over your shoulder, and bit your lip; The visual of big bad Simon Riley on his knees for you, make you shiver and clench.

Simon seemed to be secretly a telepath however, as the way he suddenly roughly pinched your clit between his index finger and thumb- tugging on it cruelly, came off as a punishment. You whined loudly, panting into the counter, drooling a little. Vaguely, you could hear Simon humming thoughtfully to himself. He released his hold on your poor clit, though quickly replaced it by rubbing small, soothing circles on it instead.

It quite quickly becomes a lot more intense, Simon grunting in approval as he plunges his thick tongue into your cunt. Your breathing is staggered, coming out in short, little huffs- you reach behind you to tug at Simon's head, shoving him closer. Again, he groans in appreciation, eagerly nuzzling between your thighs closer, the rhythm of his tongue and fingers rubbing at your clit increased a hundredfold;

Like lighting, your orgasm crashed through you, the noises that left your pussy- wet, squelching, the drip of your juices against the floor, should surely have had you feeling at least some shame, but no. You were too twitchy, too fucked stupid on Simon's tongue to care.

With much reluctantance, Simon hauled himself off of your puffy pussy. He'd gladly stay nestled between your kegs for the rest of him life, at least from further away, he could admire his work.

At this point, you thought perhaps he'd finally get to the meat of what you'd suggested.. Simon wasn't finished yet though- two of his deliciously thick fingers were swiftly shoved into your sopping pussy.

You cried out at the sudden penetration, shivering and trembling.

“What? ..silly cow.” Simon told you gruffly, somewhat annoyed that you'd dare disturb his probing at your cunt with your exclamation of surprise. You whined at his degradation, but were still coherent enough to recognise the underlying affection in his tone. Huffing, you leaned forward to lay your torso fully on the cold, sideboard. The cool temperature of the marble was sharp and sudden, but soon soft and gentle to your hot body, palliative to your hard, puffed up nipples.

He lazily pumped his fingers inside you for a few moments, before curling his fingers forward, dragging against that spongey spot deep within you, and eased his fingers out of you.

You were left huffing and panting like an animal into the counter- Simon had cupped his two fingers- the ones that was just inside of you- just under your clit.. then abruptly he slid them upwards, slowly, pressing down hard.

You squeaked, struggling not to quiver too hard. Simon's fingers kept creeping up and up and up, gliding firmly over your cunny, finally halting at your rim. The hot, wet sensation of Simon rubbing your own slick into your hole as lube had you trembling.

“How's tha?” You heard Simon mumble from behind you, his accent had gotten a little thicker. It always got thicker when he was “in the zone”.

“Oh.. uh..” Seemingly irked by your lack of response, your boyfriend slapped your clit harshly with the back of his hand.

“G-good!! It's good! Good!!” You choked, and whined again when you heard Simon chuckle lowly at you. He tapped his fingers twice on your hole- you nodded shyly at him;

Simon hummed, cautiously easing one of his broad fingers covered in your slick into your ass. The noise of utter debauched pleasure you let escape your throat was nothing compared to Simon's groan-

“Oh fuck that's tight..”

God it was, you felt how hard your greedy hole swallowed up his thick finger. You huffed and puffed- vainly attempting to breath consitently, but your body was too sensitive, muscles pulled too rigid inside you to keep your thoughts on one thing alone.

Simon was your rock, somewhere in the thousands of feelings inside you, was a certainty that he was holding back. Taking it slow, just for you.

You felt the hazey cloud of sex overwhelm you, rendering you more or less unable to speak, only babble incoherently into the counter, your pretty eyes filled with tears as Simon took his sweet, sweet time opening you up.

By comparison to how rough the pads of his digits were, they were remarkably soft with you, even as Simon squeezed one more of his fingers in you. You coughed and hiccups at the fullness of it.

“Tha's it.. good girl.. cmon.. open up luv.. there we go..”

You head him whisper, and you moaned impatiently. You wanted to politely express your readiness for his dick, but all the you were able to whine out was “C-cock-!”

Simon laughed, which was always a nice, comforting rumble. “I know sweet'art, gotta get you a little looser f'me first yeah?”

Even as you keened and begged, Simon would not budge. Occasionally, if he was feeling particularly mean in that moment, he'd flick your poor clit harshly, you'd squeal and twitch. This continued for a while, and by the time he deemed you “ready” you might have passed out, the electric fizzles of pleasure that sizzled between your legs kept you awake.

Simon could tell you were tired, he was gentle with the way he slipped his hand under you tummy to push your bum in the air, and tender with how he cradled your hip. Your clit was kindly soothed with slow, small circles rubbed in by his middle finger.

You sobbed into the side- “cock…” you babbled, sniffing and feeling sorry for yourself. You felt a kiss to the base of your neck;

“Mmmm.. I know baby, I know, m' so mean aren't I?”

Vaguely, you heard yourself murmuring in agreement. The metallic sound of Simon's belt loosening and then his zipper coming down had warm excitement flutter over your body.

You felt the heat of his dick before it even touched you, whimpering when it finally did. Simon rubbed his thick cock up and down the apex of your thighs, right up to hole and then back down to your clit. When you would whine at him, he'd hum right back.

God, he was so much bigger than you. He leant over you and covered your entire body with his bulk. You felt him throb at your rim. A kiss was levied at your neck- “Y’ready?” He asked, voice low, and you babbled back something that sounded like impatience. Simon chuckled and kissed your neck again, bracing one strong arm against the counter next to you.

All of a sudden he was inside you, not all the way but he was inside you and that's all you could think about. You gasped, inadvertently holding your breath and then once more remembering to breathe. Simon had stayed silent throughout this.. you reached backwards for him with one hand;

“Si?” “Y-yeah, yeah m’here, g’ve us a minute love-”

His voice came out ragged and shaky, and from the sounds of it he was doing the same forgetting-to-breath thing you were.

You both needed occasionally little breaks from him sliding his cock inside you this time, either of you would cum too quickly. But soon, all of him was pressed snugly inside you. You drooled on the counter and Simon's head had dropped to rest on your back, taking slow, steady breaths, grounding himself.

The both of you stayed like this for a while. It was almost peaceful. Soft. Till Simon decided he was fine to move and dragged his dick alllllllll the way back out and then in again in one thrust. It left you choked for breath, Simon too, he was more vocal this time than any other time you'd fucked.

Neither of you lasted long, specially not after your boyfriend had clasped his big paw of a hand under your leg, and lifted it up onto the counter next to you, an entirely new and more intimate angle. You were cumming before you even realised Simon had crept his hand down to pinch your clit. He was so mean about it too- that same hand then came up to shove to of his fingers into your mouth, creating a spit-slicked mess. And when he came it was an event:

He threw his head back and moaned more desperately than you'd ever heard from him before. The rhythmic squelch that narrated your encounter kept going even after he'd cum, if anything it was louder now. His and your cum dripping down out of you and puddling on the floor beneath you. Still, meekly, Simon kept thrusting into you, as if the orgasm was too good to end. Though finally it did, Simon's weight all but collapsing ontop of you.

You stayed like that for a while, still connected. Basking in your respective afterglows. Simon kissed your neck again and you croaked out a satisfied noise;

“Fun..” The man behind you laughed, “Yeah fun was it? Just fun eh? Just fun~?” Cruelly he reached under you to tickle your sides- you squealed; “More than f-fun!!” and that seemed to sate him, releasing you.

“Yeah, s’what I thought…..” He drummed his fingers on the counter..

“Bath?” “bath….”

#his dialog was so damn good in this #he’s so gross and mean #and i love him for it #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost smut #ghost x reader

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mrmilomoo · 3 months ago

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target practice

#simon ghost riley

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mrmilomoo · 3 months ago

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You only learned that you should be disgusted with blood when it first stained your underwear.

Thick endometrium and stale ichor, expunged from your body like a pest, sticky between your thighs, rotting in the core of you—keep it quiet. You'll make the men squirm if you open your pretty lips about it. Suffer in silence. Wrap agony with a pale, baby pink bow and grin with teeth as iridescent as pearls; nothing less. Everything more.

The boy in your biology class cringes at the frog you slice open during lab. Heart long since stilled, webbed hands and feet pinned open and wide, tender stomach ready to dive into—he gags, and the sympathetic puker that is his partner nearly spews over his shoes.

Later that year, after sustaining a bloody nose during a football game, he grins—wears the crimson proudly as it pours into his lips as if he realizes for the first time that iron tastes and awful lot like victory.

Blood is a fickle bitch.

It haunts your dreams. A wide, open sea of red that pours down your throat, coagulating in your chest, spilling into your stomach until you're bloated. Clawing for the surface, the sky asks why you aren't satisfied—have you not had enough death to satiate your hunger? They speak as if this is what you wanted; a choice you actively pursued, and not someplace you ended up.

As if there would be anywhere else that would welcome you with open arms.

Hands wrapped tight around a wheelchair, you gently lead your patient down the hall. She said she wanted to go for a walk, but her legs don't quite work the same anymore. You don't mind. It gets your steps in, and you're able to hide from the EVS tech who can't quite keep his eyes off of your ass.

She tells you about her grandson. Freshly jellied just two months ago—a tiny thing with predictably small hands and fingers and a scent she can't ever get enough of. She asks if you've ever experienced anything like that, and you smile and say you have.

You don't tell her about the blood that stains your shoes, or how it belonged to a seventeen year old boy, or the glass that was lodged in his throat, or how he couldn't live even after you patched him up.

Oh, I could never do something like that.

It's the default expression someone shares when you talk about your work. Tight lips, clenching jaws, twitchy feet—they speak like they don't know how beautiful blood is, like pomegranate juice flowing beneath overgrown thumb nails, or the fortitude it takes to see beauty when nothing but death has been shoved down your throat your entire life.

So you look for something else to sear your throat instead. A good pint, usually.

Shoved in the corner of a dilapidating pub, far out of the way, on the fringe of a wicked swing shift—the glass warms in your lips. Your hands tap against the table. No matter how many times you wash your hands, you can't get the stench to go away. Of blood. Of an emergency department.

Death approaches you with a black jumper, blue jeans, and eyes darker than a moonless night—his name is Simon Riley. Something he grunts out when you ask who the fuck he thinks he is for joining your table uninvited. Unfazed, sipping on his glass of whiskey neat, gaze fixated on the football game that drones on the telly too far for him to properly see.

You let him stay only because he smells familiar. Gun powder and cigarette—nicotine thick on his skin that even the faintest sniff leaves your blood buzzing. A culmination of all things dark, of things that get most people to flinch away, of things you lean into because you learned to smile through the fear and now you crave it more than anything else.

That night, you let him fuck you, only because you're curious to see if his blood tastes any different than your own.

Cock buried deep enough inside of you to snuff out the ache, you unhinge your jaw to fit him all in. Maw closing around his neck, teeth dipping where they shouldn't, you expect him to squeal like a stuck pig—instead, he laughs. Lips red like rose petals and viscera, Simon laughs. Wipes his fingers along his shoulder. Shoves them down your throat.

Yeah. Nasty fuckin' girl. Knew you were. Nothin' good ever smells this sweet.

Your whole life you have spent mending people—sewing them back together—that you never once stopped to think what it felt like to be torn apart. Simon does it beautifully. Practiced hands clawing through your cunt, dipping where you need him to, cleaving you clean in two just to lick you clean with the flat of his tongue. Trembling fingers trace every scar on his body as he skewers you, chest vibrating with each thrust, blood yearning to spill free just as he releases into you.

He kills for a living. The antithesis of you. The zenith of what you should despise but can't. Bullet through brain, knife through throat—he visits you before his boots have the time to shake off the gore. When he's still feverish with a fresh kill, and in desperate need of something sugary sweet to cleanse his pallet before he can't tell the difference between the taste of offals and rot.

Still, you work. Bedside manner. Water cups. Smiles over screams. Inhale blood. Wipe down the bed once the body is gone—bring the next one in. No need to glove up, you're not afraid of the cancer; not anymore.

No matter how hard you suppress it, you know that in the end, you get to go home. Cheek to Simon's chest, middle finger tracing his sternum, pressing into his xiphoid process, hand bouncing with each beat of his heart. You smile through the gushing blood and sour sweat as he pushes his fingers into your mouth.

Atta girl. Just need that dumb brain of yours turned off every now and then, huh? Yeah, me too, sweetheart.

Deeper. Enough to claw into your throat. Thick cock in your cunt, fresh blood on your lips, a grin peeling over sharp canines—your death rattle arrives with an arching back. With tense fingers in taut skin. With a whisper against your skin.

La petite mort.

Little death.

And as Simon drips on you—fresh, and red—you can't help but think about how good it feels to love something that death can touch.

#beautifully written #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley

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