#Cod x reader

[voxslays]

[girlfromflor]

simon didn't even say anything when you asked, he just complied.

"shh– 's okay, baby," he sushes your cries, hand brushing your cheek but his eyes are glued to where you two are connected. "i'm– shit— i'm halfway in already."

"halfway?!" you whine, and both of you giggle at the notion. well, nobody told you to ask your best friend to fuck you with his huge dick. "hate you, simon," you gasp, all bark and no bite.

he kisses your pouty lips, moaning at the way the movement makes him slip a bit deeper in you. "hm, tha' so, luv?"

no, you don't. he knows it and you know it, it only gets more obvious when he's bottoming out with a thumb on your clit and you're coming around him. he can only coo at you, "fuckin' hell– hate me, ya said?" slowly fucking into you. "don't think–" he's cut off but his own moan, you're still clenching around him as you come down from your orgasm. "don't think so, baby."

[thephantomsdream]

Soap: What did you do on break, Lt?

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

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

Ghost: ...

Ghost: Want to know what I really did?

Soap: (immediately interested)

Soap: Yeah!

Ghost: (pulls out his phone)

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

Soap: (his smile falls immediately)

Soap: Wh—

Ghost: I played Stardew Valley with the missus.

Soap: The mi—?!

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

Ghost: (swipes through more pictures of them playing)

Soap: (stunned silence)

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

Soap: Wait—

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

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

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

Soap: (still stunned, but nods)

Ghost: Because nobody will believe you.

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

Soap: (pained gasp)

Soap: Ye monster.

[ghouljams]

Saying your going to have shower sex with ghost is like giving a dog a slice of cheese with medicine wrapped inside. You let him wash your tits.... as a treat.

He gets to grab at your tits and paw at you all he wants while you soap up the washcloth. It's all fun and games when you're scrubbing his chest, letting him look at you and think maybe you'll start playing with his cock, but then you grab the shampoo and suddenly it's not fun anymore. He's getting soap in his eyes and trying to keep you from accidentally waterboarding him in an attempt to clean some of the grime off his face. Is this grease paint of dirt? Who knows but it's got to come off.

The backne on this man is severe. You gotta put topical cream on him afterwards. He pouts the whole time.

[softaestluv]

more! | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweetest little wife, aren’t you?”

[luvbabydoll]

Hi! You wanted requests? What about "innocent" Reader making Konig cum in his pants by "innocently" sitting on his lap and wiggling around to get "comfortable" on a car ride. Bumpy road***

you're squeezed into the backseat of a packed suv, the mission debrief droning on as the vehicle rumbles over a rough dirt road. könig's next to you, his massive frame taking up half the seat, thighs spread wide enough that you're practically forced to slide onto his lap to make room. "sorry," you mumble, all soft and shy, trying to sound polite as you wiggle, adjusting yourself to get comfy. you don’t even notice how your hips roll right over his groin, the tight space making every little movement press you closer.

he grunts, low and rough, gloved hands gripping the seat beneath him like he’s trying to anchor himself. "s’fine," he mutters, voice strained, but you feel the way his body tenses, the way his breathing hitches. the road’s uneven, each bump jostling you, making you bounce lightly against him. you’re oblivious, just trying to find a spot that doesn’t feel so cramped, shifting side to side, your soft weight rubbing against him in a slow, unintentional grind.

"this road’s awful," you say with a little laugh, turning your head to glance at him, all innocent eyes and flushed cheeks from the heat of the car. you don’t see how his jaw clenches under the mask, how his eyes squeeze shut for a second. another sharp bump, and you grip his knee for balance, your ass pressing harder into his lap. he lets out a choked sound, barely muffled, and you think he’s just annoyed at the tight space.

but then you feel it—something stiff, twitching under you, unmistakable even through the layers of tactical gear. könig’s hands fly to your hips, gripping hard to stop your movements. "stop… moving," he growls, voice thick, almost desperate. you freeze, confused, tilting your head like you don’t understand why he sounds so wrecked.

"sorry, am i squishing you?" you ask, all sweet concern, shifting just a tiny bit to look at him better, and he sucks in a sharp breath, hips jerking up before he can stop himself. his grip tightens, bruising, and you’re still clueless, thinking he’s just uncomfortable. but the road bumps again, hard, and your body jolts with it, dragging you right over the bulge in his pants.

he’s done for. a low, broken groan rumbles out, his whole body locking up as he cums right there, soaking through his pants under you. you blink, feeling the sudden warmth, the way he’s trembling beneath you, and finally put it together. "oh," you gasp, cheeks burning, but you don’t dare move, not with his hands still clamped on your hips, his chest heaving like he’s run a marathon.

"don’t… say a word," he mutters, voice hoarse, refusing to look at you. you bite your lip, still perched on his lap, the road still bouncing you both as the car rolls on, and you can’t help the tiny, nervous giggle that slips out. innocent, sure, but you’re not that clueless.

[nthewriter]

Would you mind doing a hc about how the TF 141 react to reader coming up behind them and squeezing their chest 👀

I bet if you do that it collectively makes a squishy noise you know like those toys for dogs?

Kyle Gaz Garrick

Honestly, I don't see Kyle having a problem with it, especially if you are his romantic partner. If anything, he will just puff out his chest with a wink so you can continue as he works.

John Soap MacTavish

Jumpscare for MacTavish.

Especially if you have cold hands and you squeeze them. Probably yells so loud everyone comes to see what happened.

John Price

Utterly shocked. Just turn to look at you with a "What do you think you're doing?" look. Probably will punish you by making you clean the latrines for a whole month. (He doesn't want to admit it but he likes it. Makes him feel less of the old man he thinks he is).

Simon Ghost Riley

If you successfully approached and touched Simon, then you won't be able to live and tell the tale.

Especially if you squiz his chest with a squeezing noise and a little giggle.

One word: run.

[lay-z]

Simon Riley, who works as a hitman/mercenary for hire whenever he's forced to go on leave by Captain Price.

It started as a joke—a throwaway comment that Kyle made before Johnny chipped in to push and dramatise the topic. By the end of the conversation, Simon was already trying to figure out how to sign up on one of those shady websites to offer his services.

He doesn't care about the dangers lurking on the dark web. In fact, he is one if not the danger on the whole dark and deep web.

And he's almost forgotten about it all until he gets a rather encrypted message from the odd website he’d signed up on to the mail address he'd created for that purpose alone.

That's how he gets in contact with you, his first customer—asking so desperately for help to put the frighteners on someone. No killing this time, just some good old intimidation. Bummer.

Soft and sweet and oh so very naïve. Did no one ever teach you about stranger danger? About not sharing any personal details with some bloody bloke who calls himself hitman on the deep web?

With each exchanged message, it becomes clearer to Simon that you’re in bitter need of guidance, structure and protection. So, he does agree to take care of your problem. It’s what he literally signed up for to kill (heh) his boredom and make himself feel useful.

A pesty ex-boyfriend, or colleague, or boss. Truth is, Simon has stopped paying too much attention once he got you on the phone—because you’d agreed on a phone call all too eagerly to get everything settled fast.

But fuck it, if your voice isn’t saccharine. Soothing to him like warm honey and milk as he palms his throbbing bulge through his sweats with one hand while snaking the other under his hoodie to tug on a nipple as he lays sprawled on his tattered couch one evening, cracked phone screen pressed to his ear as he merely grunts in understanding every few minutes while you basically bare your soul to him.

When Simon hears how you choke back tears over the line, he tugs his sweats down to free his flushed, weeping cock with a strained groan and he spits into his palm right as you hiccup softly into his ear, causing a pleasant shudder to run along his spine and another pearly bead of precum to dribble down his thick shaft.

A bad, bad man he is, taking advantage of you like this, but he can’t help himself. Oh, how he is going to take care of your little problem, alright.

Twee, twee kitten, you—have you been waiting for him all this time, hm? Tsk, he’s going to have to teach you a lesson once he’s done over that bloke for you. Make you understand that you cannot trust anyone else but him to take care of you proper.

Once you’ve hung up and while he’s wiping this massive load off his pudgy stomach, he’s already fantasising about planting the next one deep into your gorgeous cunt—since you haven’t talked about his preferred payment method yet anyway.

[partiallysame]

Butcher!Simon

- Butcher!Simon who was having the slowest day until you walked in. The jingle of the door bell brought his eyes to your pretty frame stepping in his shop

- Butcher!Simon who watched you a little too intently as you looked at each cut of meat in his display case.

- Butcher!Simon who raised his eyebrows in amusement when you pointed and asked so sweetly for “that one”.

- Butcher!Simon who had to hold in a genuine laugh when he asked you “Tri tip or flank” to which you responded with “yes” and the cutest look on your face

- Butcher!Simon who had to grab onto his apron to ground himself when he said “I gave you two options sweet’art” and you blushed so embarrassed looking at him with the sweetest innocent eyes.

- Butcher!Simon who asked “you ever been in a butcher shop before” and when you shook your head no he did let out a laugh. “Talk to me sweet’art. What’re you making and then I can get ya what ya need.”

- Butcher!Simon who listened so intently when you described the meal you wanted to make, hoping to impress your boss and his wife.

- Butcher!Simon who went into the back to get you his best cut and wrote down instructions on how to cook it.

- Butcher!Simon who’s heart swelled up when you walked in the next day so excited to tell him that it went well and to thank him for

- Butcher!Simon who wasn’t going to let you walk out the door again without getting your number (and giving you his favorite cut of meat and promising to cook it for you)

[beloveds-embrace]

YOU GET MEEEE LIKE YES THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I HAD JN MIND FOR MAIL ORDER KONIG TOO 😩😩 and the dialogue was too good not to add, so thank you sm ☕️ anon!! <33

Reader x mail-order soldier könig

You weren’t proud of the choices that led to this.

In your defense, when your unhinged, narcissistic ex-fiancé decided to take “I can do better” as a personal threat and “leave me alone” as a flirtation, your options shrank quickly. Police were useless, restraining orders were suggestions, and the panic room catalog had a three-month shipping delay you really couldn’t afford at the moment.

So you did what any desperate, slightly unhinged person with Wi-Fi and a bottle of wine would do at 2AM: you shopped online.

Not for a therapist- you didn’t like being robbed more than once per month- and not for new locks, and not even for a machete and a training montage or karate lessons.

You shopped for a bodyguard. And not just any bodyguard- mail-order, military-grade, possibly-black-ops (you didn’t know exactly what that meant, but you knew black belts were the strongest in karate so it probably applied here too) bodyguard. Because you weren’t looking for subtle; yoh were looking for make him cry and question his choices.

The site was slick, you could admit. Black and red and sleek fonts, the kind of design that screamed we definitely waterboard people but make it ✨fashion✨. The site also billed itself as Elite Protection Services: Discreet, Deadly, Dependable. It might as well have been Bodyguards R Us. You scrolled past the profiles like you were picking out a toaster.

“Ex-Interpol, trained in Systema, bilingual in seven languages.”

Nope. Too smug-looking. Kinda reminded you of Johnny Bravo but without the appeal.

“Specializes in anti-stalking protocols. Former MMA champion.”

Too pretty. Psycho ex would take that as a challenge.

You scrolled past endless profiles: more ex-SEALs, ex-spies, people who listed training styles like they were personality traits. Everyone looked like they were auditioning for a movie about stopping nuclear threats with emotional damage and well-fitted tactical pants.

Until you found him.

KÖNIG.

That was it; no last name, no smiling profile pic. Just one blurry photo that looked like it was taken from a security feed during the purge. A massive man mid-stride, face obscured by a tattered executioner’s hood (does he like cosplay?), one arm casually holding what was either a high-powered sniper rifle or a small medieval ballista. Just the quiet threat of do not attempt to engage unless you are fireproof and have no dreams… and hopefully have a will.

His bio was just as minimal as his name, but thankfully not bolded and capitalized like he was the living version You-Know-Who: Former special forces. Classified background. Urban combat. High-threat asset protection. Temperament: Reserved. Languages: German, English. Hobbies: [Redacted]

And honestly? He was perfect.

You hit “Hire” with all the solemnity of pulling a lever on a guillotine.

The meeting, then, was scheduled at a “neutral location” (aka: a converted warehouse that probably used to be a meth lab but now boasted folding chairs and bulletproof windows and claimed to be state-of-the-arts just). You were told to wear neutral colors and avoid sudden movements like he was a military contractor-slash-deer.

He was lucky you didn’t have a driving license or car yet.

The facilitator, woman named Claire who radiated HR department energy and quiet terror, greeted you with a nervous clipboard smile.

“Please remain calm during the introduction process,” she said, like she expected you to run. Like he was a bull and she forgot to tell you not to wear red even though you were very sure bulls didn’t actually get bothered by the color. “Sometimes clients are… startled.”

You waved her off; you were not going to be startled. You were in charge. You were the employer. You were cool and rational. You were the man-

And then the door opened, and he walked in.

It wasn’t so much a walk as a tectonic shift, honestly. The lights dimmed- or maybe your brain flickered like a dying flashlight trying to process the sheer volume of the man now in the room with you because the damn profile and profile pictures absolutely did him no justice at all.

Easily built like a walking mini-cathedral, every step he took echoed with the weight of someone who didn’t walk so much as advance steadily like a cursed forest creature with war crimes on his résumé.

The hood was real, by the way. Not a vibe, not a metaphor, not a cosplay prop. A literal ragged executioner’s hood, like someone had looted a plague doctor’s wardrobe and decided to lean in (actually… were those shirt sleeves-)

Anyways, he said nothing, and so you stared with your mouth half-open and your neck craned and your buffering. There was a pause, the kind of silence that usually precedes a boss fight or a marriage proposal but without the music for both, and you weren’t sure which direction this was going to go.

Claire cleared her throat with the delicacy of someone trying not to disturb a sleeping lion.

“Well, if you’re not feeling a connection, we can always-“

“Don’t you dare.”

It came out louder than intended and far more desperate than you’s ever hoped anyone would hear you. You pointed at König like someone calling dibs on a rare Pokémon, and almost gave yourself a whiplash from how quickly you turned your head to glare at her.

“He’s perfect. Get your own!”

Claire blinked and König didn’t move. But you could feel him blinking behind the hood, probably wondering what, exactly, he had just been spiritually adopted into.

There was another pause.

König tilted his head, then slight nod that was just enough to suggest acknowledgment… or possibly pity. You’d need to peer into his eyes and make him do different expressions so you’d understand what he was thinking behind that hood, because you weren’t sure if his nod meant I accept this job, please never yell again, or you are an unhinged rat and I respect that, but either way: he was yours now.

You turned back to Claire with all the confidence of someone who had definitely just bought an armored tank off Craigslist.

“Where do I sign?”

Claire, likewise, slowly handed you the paperwork like she was passing off custody of a weapon of mass destruction. Something like an armored tank bought off Craigslist.

“…Please don’t antagonize him.”

“I would never,” you replied, already mentally redecorating your apartment to accommodate a seven-foot medieval cryptid with probably boundary issues. You couldn’t imagine anyone with those backgrounds not coming with built-in issues unless they were rich and old.

König, for his part, said nothing. Just stood there, looming like an ancient ruin that had wandered into a security job. But you swore- when you weren’t looking directly at him- you caught the faintest rise in his shoulders. Like a chuckle.

Or maybe a sigh.

Either way, you’d take it; you had a human mountain now. And your ex?

Was going to shit bricks and you’d be there to film and enjoy every. single. second. of it.

“C’mon, big boy,” you grinned at him, taking one of his big hands and tugging uselessly. “We have so much to do!”

[amaranthinespirit]

Simon Riley who causes readers jaw to lock mid giving him head? ( or maybe an individual reaction list thingy for the tf141?) (please stay w me here)

simon riley causing reader's jaw to lock mid blowjob the image is cracking me up T-T (simon can lock my jaw any day...)

simon wasn't going easy on you. hips fucking your face with primal ferocity bordering on feral. your chin coated in saliva and pre, glistening under the low warmth of the bedroom lights.

the angry tip of his cock repeatedly slams the back of your throat, your nose brushing the trimmed hair at the base of his length. your breathing is labored, chest heaving up and down as you do your best to breath through your nose.

your scalp stings from the tight grip simon has with his hands tangled in your hair, only further pulling down on his dick while he uses your mouth. your pussy is sopping like you've sprung a leak between your thighs, throbbing and begging for a hint of stimulation.

a throbbing pain aches throughout your jaw, and, instinctively, you try to shut your mouth despite the obvious obtrusion in the way. it only serves to make the aching worse, a wince making your eyes twitch and water further.

simon is too fucking gone to notice, but three taps on his thigh makes him wilt like all blood rushed away from his previously swollen cock.

his vision clears from the haze, his tight grip on your hair becoming a soothing massage against your scalp as he looks down at you.

you're a mess—and the prettiest thing he's ever seen in his life—but his heart stops as you clutch your jaw. the guilt he feels once he realizes what happened is immense.

he grunts. "fuck, baby, y'okay?" he's profusely apologizing, cradling your face in his hands as he works to clean you up. "sorry, love. jesus, should'a been more careful, hm? fuck, yer gonna be okay."

he swipes the tears from your face with his thumb, his touch gentle as he dresses you and himself. simon isn't taking any chances as he rushes you to the nearest medical center, restraining himself from squeezing the life out of you in fear he could hurt you further.

the nurses ask you what happened when you arrived, and leave it to simon because you obviously can't speak. the stuttering, flustered mess he becomes is comical, you almost laugh—you try to, actually, but the pain makes you cry out softly.

lets just say, simon bans blowjobs for at least three to four months after that. he doesn't want to take the chance of hurting you, so actually make that all intimacy because he's scared he'll cause you pain in some other way—regardless of if its deliberate.

he's not taking his chances.

[tojisteddy]

Can’t take My Eyes Off of You

or: John Price who ends up doing after care with you after a little fling.

cw: 1k< words (probably), mainly fluff, small nsfw, age gap (price late 30s, reader mid-late twenties), your friends are shit, no use of y/n. unrealistic after care.

He fucked you silly in the bathroom of a dive bar.

And John genuinely didn’t mean to, he truly did not mean to. But you felt too good, clenching like you were made for him when he pushed himself inside your syrupy walls, even more when you came around him the first time. And of course you took every inch of his aching cock, with a nod and a lazy smile, nails clawing at his broad shoulders, it’s like you couldn’t get enough of him.

“Can you walk love?” he has to snap in front of your face once to see if you’re there. But you’re not. Still blissed out, looking at him with heart eyes. He holds you steady when you try to stand on your own.

“My legs’ll fall right off if you let go of me,” you giggle. You had such a bright smile, cute.

He mumbles a curse and sighs, sitting you right on the bathroom sink, “You stay right here, I’ll go find your friends.”

“A-okay!” You send him off with two thumbs up and he disappears into the crowded bar to find your friends, who you were with when John saw you dancing with them. You were tantalizing, a pretty little thing in your oversized jersey and shorts that hugged your curves, dazzling eyes when you found the older man staring at you. A one night— well— less than an hour. A simple quickie. He just didn’t expect it to be fantastic.

Finally his blue eyes land on your group of friends and just as he’s about to say something they get up from the table, laughing. And it’s something snide that catches his ears that makes him refuse to take you to them.

“[+]’s such a fuckin slut leaving like that, she can find her own way back.”

John doesn’t even think twice— he’ll take you home. Or just somewhere safe. Somewhere not with them.

He’s quick to get back to you, and you’re there, swinging your legs back and forth on the sink, eyes closed and leaning against the sink.

“Hey! Don’t fall asleep on me, we gotta get you out of here.” He squeezes your cute cheeks once to get your eyes open. Your mocha eyes open but you slouch, toppling over as the older man wraps your arm around his neck.

One side of your plump lips curve up, “Oooooh are you trynna take me home? You’re a slyyyy dog, John.”

He grunts, lifting you off of your feet, “Yeah I’ll take you home, come on.”

John manages just fine putting you in his car, it’s getting you tell him to where your house is that’s the problem. You keep mumbling incoherently, avoiding the topic. The windows were all the way down, the cool summer breeze kissing your skin, hair blowing in the wind, Happy Together by The Turtles playing on the radio. You’d found yourself playing with his large hand. The other on the steering wheel, your fingers brushed between the calluses and creases.

“They don’t like me…” you mumble, biting the inside of your lips.

“Who?” He glances over at you, John knows who. But he’d rather hear it from you, hear your voice first another second.

“My friends— I mean- my roommates. We always butt heads. A lot. I’m surprised they’d even invited me out tonight. They must’ve had a change ‘f heart.” A smile grows on your face, almost like you don’t want that feeling to end, you don’t want the night to end. But it pains John, because he knows the truth. They’re shit. They don’t deserve you, and John knows this even in the short amount of time he’s known you.

Two hours at best.

But he doesn’t say anything, just lets you keep tracing his hands, keep you happy. Just a little while longer. The night can’t end so early.

“Wind feels so nice,” you say, letting out a breath. And you climb out the window, just enough that your top half of your body is handing out the window, John keeps a firm hold on your of course. Just in case he needs to yank you back in, but the streets are empty, it’s late. Just you, John and the road. Riding l around until you finally call it.

You’re sight to behold, curly hair dancing with the wind, arms out, screams of laughter filling his ears, skin glowing under the streetlights glow— you’re free. Like a bird taking flight. And John can’t get enough of it, his eyes stuck on you. You make the man’s heart beat faster than it has in a long time. It’s different— he likes it.

You suddenly gasp, something catching your eyes, “Fuck! It’s an ice cream truck! Let’s go get ice cream John!”

He can’t help but appease you, you’ve got a giddy on your face. Why not? Filling your stomach a little would make you feel even better, wouldn’t it?

You both get cones, your get your favorite (with sprinkles of course), John gets chocolate & vanilla swirled. You two take off again, through the streets of town, intaking the cold treats in your hands like kids.

You nod your head at the taste, eyes closed in satisfaction, “It’s so good.” You look over, smiling— “Thanks John.”

“No problem baby.” The words just roll of his tongue, they’re perfect on you. Only for you.

And he can’t help but admire you in this dazed state. It’s probably when he realizes maybe falling in love with someone in the first day you know them is possible.

You blink a couple times, taking in your surroundings and that you stupidly left a bar with a stranger, by a single chance of luck him genuinely taking care of you.

“I’m sorry, I’ve held you up? Havent I?” Your voice is mesmerizing, and you’re looking at him with big puppy eyes. Too adorable. He had to have you. See you take flight once again, have you in his arms once again—

A dove. His.

“No!” The bearded man almost yelps, his cheeks turning tomato red, all the way to his ears. “No, not at all.”

In fact, you were right on time.

Perfect.

a/n: I know this isn’t realistic in any shape or form, I just thought it’d be a little cute. Yeah. Luv you bubs.

most recent masterlist

[wintersongstress]

18+, Simon Ghost Riley x Female Reader - in which Simon can't help losing his head a little whenever you make out in the early stages of your relationship.

❈❧

Simon loves kissing you, but kissing you while standing doesn’t allow him the angle he prefers. You’re much shorter than him and he has to crane his neck and scoop you close to embrace you properly. While your first kiss was perfect, and he wanted to take things slow in the physical realm of your relationship, Simon knew that he wanted to kiss you for long, longer moments at a time, and would like to have you laying down beneath him to indulge in the act. That would only lead things further from there, but he could not help how quickly his mind lost its command over his restraint—not when your lips were soft and pressing, catching and lingering, parting and seeking his again. He’d groan deep in his chest and you’d feel it against your roving hands, and the resonance of it made your obliging legs tremble.

Simon felt them as your knees brushed against his sides, against his ribs, dangerously close to enfolding around him. He’d watch your eyes flutter open, blinking away some haze to find him.

“Pretty girl,” he’d murmur, entranced by your softened, gentle mouth and thumbing the plump edge of it, and fuck, if he didn’t get hard right then and there at your contented smile and the fond caress of your hand as you hooked your palm over the back of his neck, nails seeking his hair. Your upper lip enveloped Simon’s aimless thumb and took him into the sweet warmth of your mouth, tasting the salt of his skin, and the bulge in his jeans made itself at home right against your pelvis.

You’d give a surprised and pleased moan at the feel of him before he could feel ashamed (Christ, what happened to taking things slow?), and it would be so easy to fumble with each other’s clothes, kissing all the while he unbuttoned your jeans and pulled them down your thighs, pinning your knees to your front because he’s too impatient for his access. Freeing himself, tugging your panties to the side so you were exposed, and then the perfect, seamless slotting together ascending to firm, yet gentle thrusts. God yes, Simon thinks, rutting against you now, it’d only take a few, and he could circle and press your clit so you’d come as quickly as he would lost in the grip, the warmth, the sounds of your moans and slick sex and the delirious motion and rhythm of moving within you until he peaks and you leak with his spend. 

At the sudden, soft inquiry of his name and your waist curving into him to meet his fervor, he snaps out of his reverie. He pulls away and sits up, breath ragged, with the last of his restraint.

“’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to get so carried away.”  

❈❧

[ghouljams]

It's Soap that turns to him and goes "why dae ya smell like pussy?"

of course it’s soap the one that can smell pussy from an hour away, i knew we were going for realism with this one, but this was the nail in the coffin lol

also ghost just shrugs and takes another sip of his drink as if eating pussy in the alleyway behind the pub was his regular wednesday night

and the rest of the 141 just go back to their regular conversation too, like yeah i guess it does happen sometimes, who are they to judge anyway? they’ve all done something alike in the last month for sure

- Morph

Johnny spends the rest of the outing moping and trying to convince Ghost to point you out. Surely anyone willing to get eaten out in an alley once is willing to let it happen twice. It's not like Soap is above sloppy seconds, hell he's eaten enough come out of enough birds to be considered a dump himself, and unlike some people he actually washes up after training. He doesn't understand why he isn't allowed to go after Ghost's bird! The only reason he doesn't try to sniff you out is because Gaz grabs his shoulder and forces him back down into his seat, telling him to stop bothering the locals. God he's like a damn feral cat, absolutely decimating the native songbird population.

As if any of them are better than him. Price snuck off to the bathroom not even 30 minutes after they'd gotten drinks and Gaz is posting up to fuck the bartender as soon as they close up shop. Soap's the only one not getting any and it is entirely because he is being a freak about it. Calm down my man, there's plenty of pussy to go around, you don't always have to clean up after your mates.

[softaestluv]

I've been thinking about this for a while, but could you write a drabble or something about Simon's reaction to you trying to sleep on the couch after a fight?

Would he be mad and fight with you more or drag you to bed or silently let you sleep on the couch??

lmk × ×

It’s rare the two of you fight.

Argue? Sure.

Purposefully annoy each other? Definitely. Simon loves crawling under your skin just so he can watch you ride your frustrations out on his cock. He can’t help it, you’re cute.

But fighting? Petty comments, growling harsh words at each other, suffocating tension, silent treatment, and stubborn avoidance? You and Simon don’t do that.

Simon admits, he’s not exactly the easiest person to date, but you’re incredibly patient with him, even when he’s not communicating the way you need him to.

He’s a work in progress.

So, when you walk out of the shower, tugging on one of his oversized shirts, he thinks you’ll crawl into bed next to him like always. Instead, you grab your pillow, an extra blanket, and leave the room. Riley follows behind you, his own dog betraying him.

You have to be teasing, trying to teach him some lesson, remind him what it feels like to sleep in an empty bed if he doesn’t straighten up. He should be the one out there, sleeping in the dog house.

He lets you lay out there for exactly 12 minutes.

When he scoops you up, you pretend you’re asleep. Even when he lays you down on your side of the bed and slides in, you keep up the act.

“Oy,” He grumbles, pinching your cheek lightly, “I know you’re awake, dove.”

A breath of a smile twitches at the corners of your lips, but you turn your face into the pillow. No problem, he hoists you in his lap easy enough, pressed against the bed frame, and rests his hands on your spread thighs.

“Why the bloody hell you sleepin’ out there?”

You scowl at him, “Don’t wanna sleep with you.”

“No?” He tilts his head, smoothing his palms under your, his, shirt, “Why not, pretty girl?”

“Mad at you.”

He huffs a laugh, “Wearin’ my shirt, but don’t wan’ sleep with me?”

You start to peel the shirt off begrudgingly, but he swats your hands away, holding you in place with his thumb on your chin.

“ ‘nough of that. What kinda man d’ya think I am? Letting my bird sleep on a bloody sofa.” He says, “Send me out there.”

“But your feet hang off the edge.” You frown and it tightens his chest, even when you’re mad you’re thinking of his comfort.

He’d wake up with a hunched back and cramped legs if it made you happy.

“Exactly, ‘ts why we both belong right here.” He pats the mattress, scooting back down the bed to lay down, holding you against his chest. He presses his lips against the crown of your head, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”