#Simon Riley request

[moonriseoverkyoto]

I'm back on my platonic! bullshit! :D <3

Okay so what about Simon who's readers uncle and reader taking a vacation to visit him but him not being able to take leave and reader (let's suspend pit disbelief here) hangs around base to be around Simon more. Maybe they're the only family each other have. Maybe touch starved but shy!reader maybe Simon notices and gets more affectionate. Maybe some recruits see reader as Simon's weakness and give them a hard time and cue protective!Simon.

<33 hope you're having a good day!

Pairings - Platonic! Simon Riley x reader

Word Count - 1.5K

Warnings - little bit of angst but quick comfort.

Author's Note - I LOVE suspension of reality in writing. it's not quite what you asked for but I think it'll hit the same spots. Anyways enjoy!

My requests are open! Masterlist

Ghost didn’t have a family. He didn’t have somebody on his file to call incase of emergency, he didn’t have somebody to collect his body on the inevitable day that a bullet would finally find his skull. However Simon Riley did. Simon Riley did have somebody on his file. Simon Riley was an uncle to a little kid that Tommy and his wife left him after they passed in an accident. Simon Riley did have somebody to collect his body, which is why he fought so hard to keep it alive and breathing. Except, you weren’t so little anymore. You were growing every second, especially as you strided towards Simon at the gate exits of the airport. 

“Uncle Si!” your voice rang out in the crowd, he’d recognize it anywhere. The same tall-tale pitch that haunted his dreams whenever he was far from home, the one that brought him back. Your arms suddenly wrapped around his chest in a burly hug that the man should’ve expected. Your bags were long abandoned at your feet. 

“Nice t’ see you too kid.” The man gruffed out as he ruffled your hair. “Flight go okay?” 

“Yeah there was a bit of turbulence, nothing too ugly.” You responded as you let eachother go from the embrace. “Why’d I fly out to your base again?” 

“Because I wanted you to see what the big kids do here.” 

“Hey! Don’t go all recruiter on me!” You shot back. In the deepest parts of his heart, something broke in Simon. He would never want this life for you, it’s why he ran to the farthest parts of the world, to make sure you don’t see what keeps you safe. He swallowed his worries as the sound of his trunk slamming brought him back again. 

“Go somewhere besides here?” You questioned as you both entered his car. 

“Hm?”

“Want to go somewhere besides here?” You spoke again, an eyebrow raised. 

“Yeah, just give me a minute to start ‘er up.” Simon spoke again. 

“You and this old girl.” You laughed as the engine of Simon’s old truck roared to life. 

The drive back to base was silent, save for Simon’s vintage rock playlist that overpowered the sound of the engine as you drove. You didn’t miss how he slipped on a mask once you pulled up to base and the man let him in, without even needing his ID. He let you unpack your belongings in the 5-star hotel bedroom that was a spare barrack room. You both caught up over dinner before he sent you to bed. 

“Simon, I’m not tired I swear!” You whined as your eyelids fluttered with the promise of sleep. 

“I don’t have a bedtime story for you.” Simon spoke as he walked you into the room, he bristled at the idea of you sleeping here, somewhere that he only found a base level of comfort in. 

“Good, your bedtime stories were always scary.” You responded as you got under the covers. 

“Lights out, kid. One of my sergeants will come and pick you up in the morning. Don’t wander too far from him.” Simon said as he turned around to flicker off the light, but you were already asleep. 

Morning came early as a fist banged on your door, rowdy laughter barely contained by the frames of it. 

“Wakey Wakey Riley Jr!” A deep voice called out, one you only recognized from years of being around it.

“I’m up.” You clipped, not ready to deal with the twins of terror. You swung open the door, still clad in your comic pjs and a loose hoodie. 

“Aye there’s the little lassie.” Johnny grinned as he saw you. The Scotsman leaned on the left side of the door as Kyle leaned on the right. 

“We’ve been tasked with babysitting you today.” Kyle said softly, noticing how you turned away from the brashness of his fellow man. A groan left your lips as you walked into the bathroom, leaving to brush your teeth and collect your bearings for the full day ahead. 

Even over the sound of running water, you could hear Johnny looking through your open belongings. A sharp shiver running down your spine as you heard the crisp crackle of a book spine giving away. 

“Don’t touch that!” You barked out as Kyle gripped the photo album, but it was already too late. Photos on photos spilled out, full of your adventures but an old polaroid was the interest of the twins. 

Johnny swiped it before you could. The two sergeants holding it just out of your grasp as they studied it.

It was definitely an older photo, but a fonder one. Simon was holding the camera in a selfie position, his mask long gone and a glimmer still in his eyes. The man’s buzz cut blonde hair was grown out and he was smiling all big and gummy in the photo. Next to him was a scrappy looking kid, a few teeth missing but still returning the glow of youth to the older man. You were wearing a birthday hat as you held up a German shepard puppy in your arms, the unmistakable ribbon wrapped around its neck. The photo was captioned, ‘The Newest Riley :)’ with a few sharpie doodles on the edges. Simon looked down on you with so much love, the sergeants almost wondered if it was the same man they had bled with in the field.

As Johnny’s grip loosened while he studied it, you snatched it back. Kyle gave you the book willingly as he helped you pick up the photos. A sigh left your lips as you growled out to both the men. 

“Don’t touch my stuff.” You spoke, both of them looking like kicked puppies as you set everything back on your bed.

You didn’t speak again even as you watched the two sergeants lead recruits in sparring. Your brain is filled with the memories of each birthday. Simon always found a way to show up, that birthday he had given you Riley, your treasured guard dog to protect you when Simon couldn’t. She was much older now but you still kept the collar and ribbon that Simon had gifted you with. The stink of the room didn’t even bother you now as you watched recruits slamming each other into the mats, the image of a younger Simon being one of those men made your heart lurch. So lost in thought, you didn’t realize that the recruits had been dismissed. 

“Teach me how to do that.” You spoke. Kyle and Johnny froze as they exchanged a look. 

“Now lassie-”

“Teach me.” You insisted, a fire burning in your eyes. Johnny recognized that same look in your uncle as he looked at you. 

“I’ll teach you since Johnny isn’t the most gentle.” Kyle offered. You both made your way to the mat as Kyle talked you through it. 

“Now I’m not gonna go too hard ok-?” Before Kyle could finish, his back hit the mat, your legs had shot out and taken out his own. You stood above him with an amusing look. 

The sound of slamming against the matts bothered Simon as he passed by the recruits. They were leaving so who was in there? 

His answer came as he walked in and saw Kyle’s arms around your neck in a chokehold. His body filled with panic seeing you in danger. You were stuck helplessly in the choke. 

“Oi! The hell are you doing?-” Simon shouted out. Panic quickly filled Kyle’s body as he released you. 

“It was the lassie’s idea-” Johnny was quickly shut up as a glare was shot at him by both of the Riley’s 

“My idea of babysitting wasn’t throwing around my n-” Simon was then shut up as your voice rung out. 

“It was my idea! I wanted to learn how to do a couple of takedowns.” You spoke. Simon didn’t respond as he motioned for the two sergeants to leave, the men scrambling out. A silence filled the air as you stared at him, the stillness of the room causing Simon to let out a sigh, his shoulders relaxing. 

“Why? Didn’t I teach you enough?” Simon responded.

“I just wanted to have some fun-” Simon cut you off again 

“That’s your idea of fun?” Simon shot back. 

“Yes it is!” You faltered in your words and Simon saw straight through your lie. 

“The truth. Now.” Simon spoke. 

“I saw the recruits fighting and I just wanted to know what it was like when you went through it.” you said meekly, crumbling under the mans gaze. Simon’s heart ached again at that. He noticed how you crumbled away from him, just like you did on the first day he met you after the accident. 

“Get up.” Simon said. 

“What?” Your shackles are raised.

“Get up.” Simon said, you slowly got up only to be yanked into Simon’s chest. His warmth embracing you as your shackles lowered and you melted.

“I’m sorry.” Simon spoke into the silence. “I’m sorry for making you come here, letting you see what I went through. I’m sorry for not being there.” 

“It’s okay.” You responded, “you’re here now.” 

That would be for enough, for now. Simon may not be able to come home just yet, but he swore to himself he would as he imagined Price’s face when he asked for the transfer forms for a desk job.

[ghostlychief]

first off love your writing !!!!!! I was wondering if I could get a story about ghost where the reader is pregnant and they’re doing the baby shower and it turns out to be a boy and ghost is extremely happy???💞

thank you so much!!! apologies for such a late reply, I know you sent this in awhile ago. hope you enjoy <3

---

beautiful boy

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader

wc: ~620

warnings: none; fluff

---

You’re currently upstairs, laying on your bed, with a ribbon held in between your hands. A soft smile graces your lips as you look down at the baby blue material, thinking about the little bean growing inside of you.

Your baby shower was today, and in fact, is still going on downstairs. You hear the muffled chatter amongst your guests throughout your house from upstairs, and a feeling of gratefulness washes over you. You’re currently five months pregnant, and as much as you love a good party, your feet were aching after standing for hours, hence the reason why you are currently in your bedroom and not downstairs with everyone else. You came up to rest only for a short bit, before you head back down and join everyone again.

You opted to wear a light yellow babydoll dress, wanting to be neutral for the gender reveal. You honestly did not have a preference, and were just ecstatic that you were expecting, and celebrating with all of your close friends and family. The light yellow, and the cut of the dress complimented you well, making your complexion glow, and highlighting your ever-growing baby bump.

Simon was speechless for a minute or two when you finally popped out of your bathroom, showing him your finished look before all of the guest arrived for the party. After his momentary pause stuck in awe, Simon breathed out, “You look absolutely beautiful,” and wrapped you in a warm hug. It was a quiet and intimate moment you guys shared before your house started filling up with guests.

Simon also decided to dress neutral but as your eyes moved up and down assessing his outfit, you noticed the subtle blue socks covering his feet. You always knew he wanted a baby boy, but you knew he would be happy and grateful for a girl or boy, just as long as you and baby were healthy. It’s just one more thing that makes you love him as much as you do.

You decided not to comment on the socks, and simple beamed at him saying he looked just as handsome as when you first met.

The gender-reveal itself went smoothly, and of course Simon was over the moon that you were having a baby boy, and since then, the quiet grin that bloomed on his face has not left.

The memory of the reveal plays over in your mind, and you’re lost in thought as you stare at the ribbon. You’re unaware that Simon has entered the room until you feel the bed dip behind you. Simon lays behind you, wrapping an arm around your middle, and his hand gently rubs on your bump. He rests his chin on your shoulder, looking down at the blue fabric you’re holding. He leaves a kiss on your shoulder, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and his embrace envelops you, and you feel tears start to form in your waterline.

You bring your hand up to rest over his that’s still on your tummy, and you manage to choke out, “I haven’t even met him yet, but I know that he’s going to be the most beautiful boy.” You lightly sniff, and the tears finally fall down your cheeks. Simon reaches over you to catch your tears with his thumb, and he gently caresses your face, giving you a kiss on your temple.

“I know, sweetheart.” He leaves another kiss on your temple, “You are his mom, after all. Of course he’s going to be beautiful.” You let out a laugh, and squeeze his hand.

Simon and you continue to stare at the blue ribbon, committing this day to memory, and dreaming of what’s to come.

[minimiance]

size difference kink but in the “i grew up being made fun of for being chubby so now the idea of a giant of a man being able to toss me around and tower over me without making my weight a problem makes me really horny” way, you get what im saying?

[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.”

[yeyinde]

caging a wolfdog

Simon Riley x Babysitter!Reader

18+ | groping. dubcon. infidelity. blue-collar Simon in a loveless marriage finds another way to entertain himself when his wife is too busy fucking her Pilates instructor to come home. victim blaming. future wife grooming. breeding. implied contraceptive tampering. spitting/spit kink. gross/mean Simon.

It's something to mend the gap between paying for college tuition, and surviving on more than air and the stale crackers they give out at the food bank. A job that takes up less space in your calendar than studying for finals or finishing up last-minute projects due before the end of the term.

And, in all honesty, the kid makes it easy.

Tommy doesn't fuss like most his age. He sits on the couch with his iPad perched on his knees, watching grown men scream in front of a camera for hours. Sometimes he stirs, asks for snacks. Something to drink. But mostly, he just scrolls YouTube Shorts, and puffs out peals of childish laughter at whatever he finds amusing.

It's the easiest job you'd ever had, really. He has no complaints about eating chicken nuggets and Kraft dinner on the nights when you stay later and have to cook something for him. Even when you try to make it healthier by chopping up celery with homemade ranch on the side, it barely makes him whine.

He eats. Scrolls. Pouts about his bath. Negotiates bedtime for ten more minutes with his iPad. And then he's sleeping by ten, hugging the device tight to his chest as a man hollers about Minecraft beneath him.

And that's the extent of it.

An easy job. An easy kid.

The problem, really, is his father.

And more specifically, the way he can't seem to stop touching you.

You're not sure why it happens, just that it does. Becomes some strange staple in this arrangement where you never leave his house without having his hands on you at some point.

But maybe the writing was always on the walls because even as he was showing you Tommy's bedroom, he folds himself over you, spine pressed against his chest, and murmurs in your ear about bedtimes and baths and all the things a babysitter is meant to hear—

But not with the hard, firm outline of their employers cock against their ass.

You should have said something then. Put your foot down. Rained hellfire and retribution over this man and his gross, foul perversions.

Should have done a lot of things, probably. But in the end, the span of his hand over your belly, so wide it threatened to swallow you up, kept you quiet. Docile as he shifted his hips—wife down the hall, flatly informing him she has a class tonight and probably won't be home, so don't bother waiting up, Simon—and rubbed his cock against you, grunting in your ear about how pretty you are. Such a sweet girl, too.

So good for his baby boy.

Keeping quiet seems to spur him on. Spreading the thick, heavy length of his body against your spine isn't enough to quench whatever sticky, awful desire brims in his chest. Insatiable now that he's had a little taste, he gorges himself on what he can get away with.

What you let him get away with.

(if you didn't want this, pretty thing, you'd have said so, wouldn't you? big, strong girl like you. you can 'andle yourself. but you ain't because you want this—)

Broad hands cupping your breasts as he leans over your shoulder and pretends to instruct you on how Tommy likes his lunches. Little more, he rasps, calloused fingers slipping under the band of your bra, and pinching your stiffening peaks between a too-big thumb and forefinger. The rough, dry graze of his scarred skin was some awful amalgamation of stinging, abrasive pain and pleasure. Likes his sandwiches cut up jus' like tha'—

Grabs a handful of your asscheek on the way out the door, pinching the flesh so hard, it aches when you sit down. Rutting into you like a beast when he comes home, and Tommy's already in bed. C'mon, he grunts, hefting you up from the couch. Gotta go an' check on 'im. But it's just an excuse to bend you over banister as you peer into Tommy's room, groaning as he shoves his clothed cock against the cleft of your ass.

Husks in your ear about how good you are for him. He and Tommy both. Such a good girl, ain't you?

It's strange. All of it. And maybe that's why you let it carry on. Continue even though you know he's married, and has a child. And—

He's odd. Intense. Weird.

Looms in the corners of the room sometimes, content to just watch you. Eyes dark, endlessly black. Fixed on every move you make. A wolf wearing a man's skin. A monster in faded blue jeans and black steel-toed boots.

Uncanny.

Scary.

Massive in a way that stole your breath the moment you laid eyes on him. A full body bloom of dread at the scale, the size, of him. Like staring at the face of a mountain, mind reeling over the incomprehensible height of it. Vertiginous. Dizzying.

Thinking about him always makes you feel a little bit sick. Lying on your back and staring up at the sky. Cosmic quasiness. Unease that trickles down from your ancestors and fills your pores with the bitter, acrid tang of fear.

But between the noxious, rolling worry—the unmistakable feeling of a starving man staring at you like you're nothing but a scrap of tender, fresh meat—is a heavy, sick sort of heat congealing in your belly.

It was easier, at first, to lie and say you stayed for the money. Broke college student with a sinkhole of debts already growing on the periphery, biding its time before it sucks you into an unfathomable, inescapable chasm. Bled dry. Used up. It'll crush you.

But this—

Simon works around your schedule. He's gone for most of the day—pulls twelve-hour shifts Monday to Saturday at the oilfield—and is fairly lenient when you have a test, sending Tommy to his uncle's instead. Staying the night is an unorthodox arrangement, you're sure, but it works itself out in the end. Being here to take Tommy to school before heading to your morning classes (the rest all available online), and then free to pick him up after and wait for Simon to come home eases the stress of a long commute to your dorm and then here, to the dorm and then back again. A small respite, sure.

And if he pushed, insistent, that you sleepover, well—

You can hide it behind a wall. Pretend he's just looking out for his son even if you have to lock the door in the spare bedroom at night, and wake up sometime to the sound of the knob rattling.

He lets you use his spare truck whenever you need it. There's always a pot of coffee waiting for you in the morning. He keeps a tidy house and a strict schedule, but money is always in your bank account or tucked into an envelope on the counter a day ahead of when you agreed he'd pay you.

But living on top of each other like this is almost unbearable.

You see more of Simon than you do your own family. Friends. Even his wife. A woman made of contradictions, it seems. Dutiful mother, but only when it matters—parent teacher conferences booked in advance, the darling starlet of his birthday party that passed—and you try to keep out of her way. Shame, maybe.

Do you know what Simon does to me when you're in the next room? Do you know what he says when you're bent into downward dog as your Pilates instructor fucks you on the matt?

Or just the knowledge that both of you, in your own way, are adulterers.

But having something in common with the woman who is more of a guest in her own home, her child's life, than you are is a sickening thought. So you squash it. Ignore it.

All of it—

His hands on you, rough and proprietary. The foul, dirty things he whispers in your ear—Tommy's been askin' for a baby brother, 'bout time we gave 'im one, don't you think? Spread your pretty pussy around my cock and keep ya nice an' plugged until it fuckin' takes—when no one is around. How these incidents keep getting progressively closer to his bedroom door, his marital bed, and one day, you think he might drag you in there and not let you out again until those promises he forced from your lips are fulfilled.

You bite your tongue. Taste blood between your teeth hours after he leaves for work, and curl into the couch as the minutes tick by until Simon's supposed to come home. Trying to distract yourself as much as you can, but there's no escape from it. From the way there was something different about him this morning. Something heady. He didn't touch you, but just quietly observed you with those strange, unfathomable eyes of his. Sinkholes wanting to swallow you down.

Hungry.

And when you asked him if he wanted breakfast, he'd just said, oh, I'll eat, birdie. You can bet on that, and then left out the door without another word.

It takes you until noon to unravel the knots in his expression, and what you find makes your heart jump like a trapped rabbit in a snare.

Possessiveness. Want. Hunger.

But most damning of all—

Anticipation.

In the room over, Tommy giggles, high and shrill, at a video. The noise jars you back into reality. A car drives down the lonely street. The timer on the oven dings. Tommy gurgles again, the sound pasted over a loud, pitchy shout that rankles down your spine. Slowly, achingly, you unfurl your body from the tense crouch you collapsed into, head thick. Underwater. In a fog. Thoughts dripping down the sides of your skull in a slow, syrupy crawl.

Your eyes dart to the clock. Three hours.

oh, I'll eat, birdie.

"Come on, Tommy," you warble out, gingerly moving towards the kitchen. Three hours. There's a buzzing inside your head that grows louder, more restless with every step. "The pizzas done."

On the fridge, a neon pink post-it note mocks you. PILATES TONIGHT AND DRINKS WITH THE GIRLS!!!! DON'T WAIT UP!!

Three hours.

You lick the blood off your teeth.

oh, I'll eat, birdie—

He doesn't bother cleaning up before he goes home.

Caked in grime, sweat, dust from the fields, crudeoil glued under his nails—a walking biohazard of filth, but he lumbers into his truck the moment he's finished, cock already thickening, straining against the harsh fabric of his jeans. Sticky on his thigh where it lays, twitching at the thought of his little birdie sucking his dirty fingers clean.

And you'll do it. He knows you will.

You've been so good for him, haven't you? Sweet little thing.

He scrapes the top of his tongue against his teeth, pulling up the taste of stale, bitter coffee. It's acrid, sour in his mouth. Swallowing around it, he grips the wheel tightly and sifts through the multitude of things he wants to do to you as he navigates the familiar path home. Muscle memory, but there's an emptiness in his belly. An itch under his skin. If fizzles, cracks; want and desire thick in his throat.

He's been thinking about this all day. You—laid out on his bed, fingers gripping the sheets tight as he folds you in half, kneecaps to your ears. Feet kicking out behind the heft of his shoulder. Bearing all his weight down on you. Crushing you.

Pumping you so full of his cock, his cum, that you whine afterwards—too empty, Mr Riley—and he has to stuff you full again just to shut you up.

Whiny little thing, he'll coo, nasty and mean as he fucks you again and again and again—

Another scrape. Tongue against teeth pulling over tastebuds. Sourness in the back of his throat. So bitter, so nauseating, he can't wait to make you swallow it down and beg for more as you try not to dry heave all over his dirty boots and onto the clean floor.

More, please, more even as you gag.

He's too hyperaware for the drive to pass in a blur—it's all startling present, each second ticking down in technicolour—but when he finally slows to crawl in front of his house, he has everything he wants to do to you laid out in a neat, concise list. Left you a defiled mess in his head, leaking cum and begging for more.

Anticipation is a maw in his gut that growls and snaps its jaws, too eager to sink inside the pretty thing that's been playing House in his mind. In his home.

He left it unfed for too long.

And now, it's time to eat.

You're not in the living room when he enters.

It's silent. The idling television paints the room in a pale, neon pink.

The clink of his keys, the thud of his boots, are the only sounds popcorning through the dim, quiet room. He casts his gaze towards the stairs to the left, sees light spilling out from Tommy's room down the hall. The nightlight burning away.

He shifts on the balls of his feet, hums something under his breath. A relic from a bygone era when the man Tommy was named after might have pulled him aside and said man, this isn't you.

Simon keeps his boots on as he trudges through the still, winter night of the house, eyes shifting past each corner, every crevasse. More muscle memory he can't shake. All filed away. Catalogued. Meticulously scoured as he shifts through the hall, pausing only to crack Tommy's door open and steal a glance of his son. Knows he won't be able to sleep without it.

He finds him tucked safe and sound in his bed. iPad on the floor connected to the charger. The screen is frozen with the image of some brightly coloured game that'll hold his interest for another day before it becomes yet another thing Simon packs away. More memories on shelves. Something to feel scraped out, hollowed, when he grows another inch and Simon starts to see more of Tommy in him than he can stomach.

The air stings his nostrils when he breathes in. The burn gives him time to shift around the potent ache of fatherly affection he never thought he'd feel back into the guarded lockbox he keeps it in whenever Tommy isn't in view. With it tucked back in, safe and sound, he lets the thrill of the pursuit fill him again.

Another hum. He peels away from the door.

"Hidin' on me, birdie?"

He knows you're here. Your boots are still drying by the front door. The air still clogged with your scent. He follows it like a bloodhound until he reaches his bedroom door where he finds you on the bed. Waiting. Uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin he can't wait to peel off, run his fingers through the bloody mess until you're raw and aching; shiny new toy stripped bare just for him.

Your mouth pops open. The inside a pretty ring of pink. He thinks about it, about sinking inside that soft little hole, making you gag around the thick of him as he feeds you his cock.

Clean it up f'me, birdie

But it's clear from the way you flit nervously on the comforter that he'll have to work you up to that.

Slow and steady. It's not his usual approach—he's in the habit of taking what he wants. Still. He slows. Glacial. Notches his shoulder against the doorframe, staring. Waiting. Waiting—

And finally:

A shift. You tense. "Mr Riley—"

"Take your clothes off."

Your throat shifts when you swallow. "Mr—"

If you didn't want it, he reasons, you wouldn't be in his bed. Waiting for him.

"Now, birdie."

There's that pause he expects. The hesitation as you stare, searchingly (pleadingly), at him, trying to take a measurement of just how serious he is about this. But he knows he gives nothing away. Just stares with streaks of dirt on his brow, washed down by thick trickles of sweat. Eyes lazy, lidded. Mouth flat. Even.

You demure after a moment. Hands falling shakily to the hem of your sweater, curling beneath the fabric. Gaze downcast, staring wide-eyed at the curve of your jean-clad knees. Bemused, maybe, that it got this far. That you let it get this far.

He doesn't give you time to think about it. Cocks his head to the side, puffs out an impatient breath. "Hurry up. Ain't got much time before my wife comes back."

It's a low blow. He feels it skim his knuckles, a sucker-punch.

You suck in a sharp breath. He wonders if you'll make things difficult now. Fight back. This isn't right. What you're doing to me isn't right. We should stop, Mr Riley—

Instead, you peel the sweater off.

It's artless. Clumsy. Each movement wracked with nerves, uncertainty. There's no coyness to the action. It's not even sexy, or coquettish; nothing about it is done to entice, to seduce. This is an action completed twice a day, every day. Routine. It's mundane, perfunctory.

And yet—

"Fuckin' hell, birdie—"

Something about the latent unwillingness of it all chokes the air from his lungs.

Cock thick in his trousers, throbbing like a wound, he steps into the bedroom, making his way towards you in nothing short of a prowl. It's been building up since you first appeared at his doorstep, eyes wide and bright and scooped Tommy up into your arms until he squealed with laughter.

"I got him," you chirped when he reached out reflexively, dancing artlessly out of the way of his snatching claws. "Don't worry. He's fine with me."

This is your fault, of course. For looking the way that you do. For burrowing under his skin like a parasite. A festering itch. Being close to you always felt like a toothache. Dry socket. Something that made his head split.

"On the bed, birdie," he grunts, hands falling to his belt with a urgency he hasn't felt since he was a clumsy, knobby-kneed teenager. "An' spread your legs f'me."

You give a startled gasp that makes his cock throb, and he groans low in his throat at the waxen look in your eye, the slight quiver to your lip. You look queasy—torn between disgust and fear, eyes slipping to the scarred hands that yank hard on his zipper, cup the bulge that splits through the spread seam, dirty fingers gripping himself tight—and he has to roll his head back to keep from snapping at you to roll over.

A noise does spill out—an impatient rumble gnashing between jagged teeth—when you sit there, bared from the waist up, and watch him with wide eyes. Making no move to show him that pretty pussy he cupped in his palm before. That soft, wet heat in his hand that felt too delicate, too sweet, to be touched with his dirty fingers. Something that rankled down his spine, buzzed in the back of his head when he pulled them free—stained, nails blackened with dirt, crude oil, and glistening in the low light of the kitchen.

He wants it again—on his cock this time. Wants to see that soft pussy get him all wet as he ruins it. As he peels back, sitting on his haunches, and takes in the awful mess he left you in. Poor cunt swollen and abused from from being forced to take the full, fat length of him as he bullies it inside over and over again; puffy lips all sticky with his cum. Sore and stretched and used. Raw after such a vicious pounding—

"Pants off, birdie," he bites out, yanking his jeans down beneath his aching balls. "Ain't gonna like what 'appens next if I 'ave to ask again—"

You give a startled gasp at the rough, callous growl hewing his words, and he wonders if anyone has ever spoken to you like this before. So demanding. With an edge of cruelty slithering out. Demeaning—

No. No one but him, he decides, stroking his cock as he watches you clumsily kick out of your pants, demurring in a faux show of bashfulness as your fingers skim the hem of your panties. The picture of coy shyness as you drop your chin to hide the wobble in your lower lip, the glistening wetness in your eyes as you grapple with indecision. Child's play of modesty.

A farce.

Just the mangled growl of your name is all it takes for those trembling fingers to inch into the hem of your panties, tugging them clumsily down your thighs.

He could come, he thinks, to just that. This. The bloom of fear etching across your brow, panties tangled against the knob of your knees. Unwilling to bend down and push them off the rest of the way. Scared to, maybe.

It buzzes in the back of his head. The idea of paralysing you with nothing more than a sharp bark and crook of his finger; your fear as delectable as that little sliver of skin he can see peaking out at him.

"ain't go' all night," he cuts in with only a quarter of the ice he uses on the field, and feels a deep thrum of satisfaction purr through his chest when you squeak, flinching at his rough, brassy tone.

Your panties fall to the floor in a rumpled pile between your feet, toes curling into the carpet as you try to close your knees as tightly together as you can get them to hide yourself from his heavy-lidded gaze. A last play at modesty. Gaze inward, nervous. A skittish little rabbit with nowhere else to run.

The way you stand before him on shaking knees, trembling like a leaf, makes him want to sink his teeth into you and shake. Little virginal offering to a rapacious god. A feast all for himself. He wants to chew you up. Eat you alive.

But he opts, instead, to bite his tongue until he tastes blood, and bark at you to get on the bed as it oozes between his teeth. Feels something animal split open inside his chest when your eyes widen as he steps into the room, a slow pursuit, a prowl, and has to bite down on the urge to give chase when you flinch, backing away from him quickly. Naked and scared. Running from him with a nervous tremor, but he doesn't miss the way you make, quietly, for his bed.

Eager. Obedient. Fleeing from him like a scared little animal unaware of just how enticing you are.

"Good girl, birdie."

It takes three fingers to open you up, but even that doesn't feel like it's enough.

Not when he knocks your knees apart, wedging his too big, too thick body between them (and then stares, and stares, and stares at your bare cunt, slick and sticky from his hand; flesh left swollen from the brutal spear of three thick, dirty fingers shoving inside—less of a stretch and more a carve: he carved you open) and spits.

You weren't expecting it. Nothing could have prepared you for the suddenness of this degrading act—the nasty, demeaning way he spits on your pussy, and huffs, amused, when the foamy mess slides down your swollen clit to pool between your folds. His finger chases it, rubbing it into your skin, pushing it into your hole.

Ain't got lube, he says, words bordering on a strange equinox of bluntly nonchalant and utterly caustic. Should be thankful m'doin' this much.

Thankful.

Your fingers curl into the sheets, and you try not look at his cock again when he grips himself tight in his big, dirty hand.

He's too big. Too fat. It makes you a little nauseous to stare at it, him—his cock. Marbled like a bruise. Thicker at the base. Veiny. The head is swollen. The tip is soaked in a thick, paste-like spill of precum, and for a horrible second, you almost thought he would make you lick it off.

(later fills the empty space in your head, and you try to mould yourself around the idea until you can decide whether or not the feeling that blooms in the pit of your belly is really dread.)

His hands were rough. Scarred. Dirty. Caked in oil. Stained. He didn't even bother to clean up before he lumbered onto the sheets behind you, one hand falling to grip his cock through his dusty pants, the other heavy on your neck, pushing you down into the mattress that reeks of fabric softener and stale cigarette smoke. Old sweat.

He doesn't need to tell you that she doesn't sleep in this bed anymore, but the idea of it prickles in the back of your head as he pushes you against the sheets and undoes his jeans with an ease that's more muscle memory than thought. Practiced.

You don't have the right to be jealous, but it hums through you like a sickness when you think of him doing this to her. His wife, you add, just to make it hurt. A knife in your gut that aches when you breathe—

"keep breathin', birdie," he grunts, spreading his fingers wide apart inside of you. "Don't get all tense on me now, or I'll have to start over."

You're not sure what that means, but you think you know better than to test his tenuous patience anymore than you have, and so you still. Go quiet. Breathe as he spears you deep, deeper still, and carves a space for that monstrous looking cock to fit—

where it belongs, he'd said, hunched over you like a nightmare in the daytime. All shadow and sinew. Stitched from broken daydreams of a brassy voice in your ear murmuring soon, birdie as his wife pretended to pack a lunch in the kitchen and he rubbed your nipple through your shirt before he slipped off to work.

But it's over too soon. His dirty, stained fingers slipping free from your aching, sopping cunt, leaving you empty—bereft—for a moment as he shuffles up the bed, splitting your knees wide apart to make room for the asburd width of him to fit.

An impossibility, really, but as Mr Riley—call me Simon—is wont to do, he makes it so. Wedges his wide thighs beneath yours until your hips tilt up in his lap, opening you wide. Obscenely so. And—

A grunt.

He stared. And stared. And stared.

Just looked at the split of your cunt sitting invitingly in his lap, wet and messy from his fingers, the cruel push of his palm against your clit. Swollen. Aching already—

"Want it, huh, birdie?"

The words I'm not so sure anymore hitch in the back of your throat, rearing up as he reaches between your legs to grip himself tight, too tight, until he turns a sickly shade of purple around the head that looks wider than anything you'd ever had inside of you before. But he doesn't give you a second to think before notching himself against you, giving a little push that forces the swollen head to sink inside of you—

Just the tip, really, and it already hurts. Stings like a papercut as he stretches your cunt around him, sharp and sudden.

"Too big—" you whimper, tossing your head to the side, breathing in the tang of fresh linen and musk as he grunts above you, pushing and pushing—

Something has to give.

It doesn't surprise you much when it ends up being you.

"Tha's it, birdie. Open up f'me."

It's not so much an opening as it is a siege. A conquest. And with him perched above you, heaving like bull and bathed in shadows that glue alone the mismatched asymmetry of his face, making him look less like a man and more like a figment, a statue—this Stygian being that swoops down and presses his palm against your throat, the other digging into the pillow beside your head, grunting—you feel ever bit of the battered receptacle he turns you into.

Forcing himself into you with a rough grunt, a brutal shove that—for one dizzying, awful moment—you swear you can feel inside your throat, taste on the back of your tongue. Choking on it. But then he's sinking in. Splitting you apart with brute force and that little bit of slick that you know must be stained pink—

"Good girl," he's grunting again, shoving another inch into a space much too small for him to fit. Savouring it. Relishing in the whimpers, the hiccups punched out of you with every flex of his hips. Eyes rolling a little, just a touch, when you feel something warm tickling your cheek and realise you're crying. Shush, birdie, he says, a quiet coo, but he looked delighted. Don't cry. Not yet—

another flex. two more inches. it feels like being speared open; flayed alive. it hurts. it hurts so much, you can't even begin to think through the pain, but he's huffing. groaning low in his throat as he adds:

"—'cause m'not even halfway in yet, pup."

The admission shocks you so much, you barely notice him spreading his knees beneath yours, squaring his stance, until it's too late.

"Wait—!"

If it weren't for his hand tightening around your throat before he speared the last several inches into you, you're sure the wail you might have let out would have woken Tommy. A good thing, you think, dazed, still soundlessly howling around the burning ache of him using his absurd weight to drive into you (balls deep, birdie, he grunts, and sounds so ridiculously proud, you nearly preen—), making you take every last inch. Selfishly carving more space for himself inside of you. Hollowing you out until his whole cock is drenched in your pink-stained slick—

"Makin' me all pretty, aren't you?" Huh, birdie? Nice and fuckin' pink.

A sob bubbles up beneath his palm, and he coos when he feels it, shushing you with a groan as he keeps an awful rhythm, flexing into you. Grinding deep. Carving and cutting and hollowing you out—

"Tha's it, pup," he grunts, eyes masting in leonine pleasure as he bucks into you without respite, taking his bliss from the burning stretch of your cunt. And stupidly, you think about preening. Smiling wide and big and lying to yourself about how bad you want this, him, even as the tears dribble down your chin.

Siphoned satisfaction, maybe. Or just the press of his fingers against that little thing inside of you that made you turn your cheek to his touches. Letting a married man shove his hands down your pants while you made breakfast for his kid and his wife called out to him from the next room about not waiting up for her too late.

Giving in.

That's what this feels like. A slow corrosion from the moment you knocked on his door and said you were here to help him with Tommy to now, buried under his bulk as he batters into your aching cunt, splitting you apart.

Sweat drips down his nape, pours off his face, and when it hits your skin, it feels like battery acid against your cheeks. But with his hand still lodged around your neck, there isn't much you can do except take it. Like his cock, his spit, his sweat. Let him ply you with all of it, every inch, until your body becomes accustomed to the ache.

"Fuckin' stranglin' me."

His cock hits something inside of you, and it isn't really pleasure that blooms in the pit of your belly, but something like a panacea. A wound that's soothed through touch.

Like a knife that hurts more coming out than it does stuffed inside.

But it' saws and it splits. Tears flesh. Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him, throbbing like bruise against the thick of his cock. A tight fuckin' fit, he says, and inches his fingers up to grab your cheeks. Squeezing until your mouth pops open, mewling at the deep, aching pain, and then he spits.

You don't need him to tell you what to do this time. You just close your mouth and swallow what he gives you, whimpering around the sudden ruck of his hips, a harsh jerk that slides his cockhead against the seal of your womb, dredging up a wave of pain that's soothed by the kiss of that fattened tip pressing against the sting once more. Soothed by touch. By the flood of endorphins.

Fitting, you suppose, since it feels a little bit like being eaten alive when he fucks you, grunting and snarling like a beast as he pounds into you, half-mad and starved, and you remember reading somewhere that people rarely experience any pain when they're bitten by a shark.

An oddly serene experience, out of body almost, as they're taken apart by razor-sharp teeth.

That's how you feel looking up at him, feeling the drip, drip, drip of his sweat splat on your cheeks. Warm, milky breath ghosting over your forehead. A barely there kiss when he bends down, growling into your hairline that he's gonna fill you up, pup; that Tommy's been begging for a little brother, 'asn't he? and ain't it time we gave 'im one?

You think no and don't. please don't, please, but your hands stayed curled into the duvet instead of reaching up to push him away. Knees dropping further apart as he bends down with a brassy grunt that you feel in your belly, between your hips, like molten lead. A pulsing flutter—sore muscles gripping tighter and tighter as he grunts again, and tells you to keep opening that pretty cunt up for him, birdie. Let him get even deeper.

The collar of his shirt dips low, unveiling a mass of moulted flesh suffused together in a pink ribbon array of crisscrossing scar tissue and burns. It's an odd time to notice that he hasn't bothered to undress, just shoved his jeans down his thighs and pulled his—monstrous, ugly—cock out, and forced it into you. But you do. And you feel it so acutely in your chest that even without his hand on your throat, you doubt you'd have been able to breathe. It just—

It says something, you think. Means something.

And maybe it hits you like a fist, too. A bludgeon to that little thing in the back of your head that keeps reminding you this isn't okay. That you're not supposed to be in this bed, with this man.

Marital vows, it says, all wrapped up in the scent of stale sweat and detergent. A whisper of Candy Kiss peppering the room when you arrive; a sweet sillage that tickles your nose whenever he leans down, cupping your breast in the palm of his hand. The flash of metal sitting snug on his thick ring finger. Cold and dry against your damp skin.

It crumbles under the sway of his big, thick body sawing away between your hips; turns to dust, dissolving into soot as the growls spilling out his chest tremble through your bones. The ring doesn't matter. It never did.

Not when he's decorating the space he hollowed out inside of you with these dizzying daydreams—weaving a damning tapestry with fingers bleeding from cuts made by the knife of his own artifice. Staining it red.

Pretty pink.

And eventually the ring warms between his hand and your heated skin until you can't tell the difference between metal and flesh.

(but in the smeared residuum of ash and rust, something stirs, asks if you ever really could at all—)

"Gonna make me a dad again, ain't you, pup?" Huh? He growls, rough and mean. Gonna have t'start callin' me daddy soon—

You're not sure when it started building, but the edge is suddenly there. Within reach. And he tells you in rasping groans that he feels it too. Gonna cum, biride, he says, and it sounds like a threat. A warning. It's a razor scraping against your nerves, pooling heat between your hips.

No, you think again, but your hips roll as much as they can with him bearing down above you, cradled between your slick, damp thighs—roughened up, chafed by the repeated scrape of denim. Eager for it. Hungry. Like you're starving.

And what did he say before? Oh, yeah—

Oh, I'll eat, birdie.

You feel that gnawing, gaping emptiness in your belly as he huffs, breath sticky and warm, glueing to your skin as he pants his desire over your flesh, inside your body. Pace stuttering on his next exhale, morphing into a choppy, clumsy grind—just the desperate, furious graze of his cockhead digging into that bruised, tender spot inside of you where pleasure and pain suture themselves together until one is almost indistinguishable from the other. Fear and desire warping around the edges until you're trembling from the urge to flee, but bearing your neck at the vicious spread of teeth gaping open above your caught jugular.

Simon presses his face against the side of yours, smearing sweat and spit over your heated, damp skin from where a cut in his upper lip leaves his teeth in a constant snarl, bared to the world in a vicious, brutal display of aggression, and the nudge of it against the softened, ripe apple of your cheek is what sends you over the edge before you're ready.

It's mean. A nasty, ugly climax that throbs more like a wound than a satisfying end; pulsing and spitting fire as you yowl into the bubble bulging along his ear, clawing at the duvet, and bringing your other hand up to twist into the wet fabric clinging to his broad back. Needing to hold on. To find purchase as he grunts into your skin with each brutal plunge of his hips, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse, drawing blood—

You're still clenching around him, throbbing like an infected wound, when he lifts his pinked up muzzle, bearing his crooked, bloodied teeth, and grunts with his release. Filling you with a burning, stinging heat. Painting the tapestry he hung on chiselled flesh. A home of his own making. The apex of your being is a crevasse for him to sink his desire inside until something grows.

Tommy wants a baby brother, he'd said, and as you knot your hand tighter around his sweaty shirt, you wonder if maybe you should have paid more attention to the pills you shoved into your mouth each morning, making sure they all looked exactly the same—

"Fuck, birdie," he snarls into your neck as he throbs inside of you, cock jerking until it lodges against the battered, bruised seal of your womb—soothing the ache, you think, giving a weak pulse, a little, desperate clench around him—grunting like this is all your fault.

And maybe it is. But he doesn't give you much of a choice when he ruts into you still in rolling, feverish humps that knock your teeth together each time you unhinge your jaw to tell him to stop.

(But you won't, of course—)

His hands are hot against your clammy skin, searing and rough as he pulls you back into his chest with a grunt, mumbling something about a cigarette as you pant into the sweat-slicked nook of his arm, trying to make sense of what happens next.

You should leave. And really—you're a little surprised he hadn't kicked you out already. Shoved you off of him, told you to pack your things. He'll call when he needs you next because with this burning desire of his sated, what else does he need you in bed for?

But he tightens his grip when you try to wiggle away from him with a salt-crusted, sleep-drenched noise of dissent.

He isn't done with you, he mumbles, pawing at the end table for the carton of cigarettes he left there this morning. Blue Zippo still tucked neatly inside.

It's something you'd noticed during the first week when you opened a drawer looking for Tommy's iPad charger and found his hidden stash—along with the rest. Little clues that piled up until the pieces fell, and you realised this was a strange, habitual thing of his where he needs to leave things lying around the house—a carton of cigarettes with a lighter; a duffle bag full of clothes for him and Tommy. Non-perishable food stuffed inside a rucksack. Cash. Knives. All within reach.

Most people live in their homes. Clothes in the drawers. Shoes on a rack or piled by the front food. Food in the cabinets. They carry their smokes with them or keep them in a convenient place for whenever they need them next. But Simon seems keen to uproot himself at a moment's notice. Bags within reach. Necessities all packed by the front door, ready to go. Each room has a satchel hidden somewhere. A carton of smokes. A lighter.

It means something, you're sure. Nestled between the layers of a restless, caged tiger circling its iron-barred domicile for the first chance at escape is a travesty written in spoiled ink. Chiselled into the bars, imprinted there like braille for you to run your fingers over until pockmarks make sense.

Like why Candy Kiss is left on the vanity, sitting atop a drawerful of untouched clothes. The smell of fresh linen. Pilates on a weekly basis. Don't wait up peppering the air; a soft echo cradled in the harsh snap of a door closing. Eyes barely blinking away from the flashing screen.

Or—why your clothes disappear each time you do the laundry. Lace panties and satin bras first—an almost banal perversion that barely made a gurn at. Then tights. Sweaters. Shirts. Jeans. All missing with a nonchalant shrug of a massive shoulder, and a stare that didn't much pin as it skewered. Flayed. A flat, even dunno, birdie. Maybe the ghost knicked it.

Tightly wound artifice you'll never make sense of beyond the bags and the cigarettes. The stares that make the hair on your neck stand on end—

"Fuckin' hell, pup," he grunts suddenly, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as the other slides down your curved spine, grabbing a handful of your asscheek in his palm, giving a vicious, painful squeeze. "Can feel your little cunt leakin' all over my leg—"

He slips the filter between his teeth with an appreciative hum when you jerk, a mocking huff spilling out when you try to clamp your legs shut around the thick split of his hip wedged between them. You can feel it, too—the thick, sticky ooze of him leaking out of your sore cunt, smearing pink-tinged cum all over his jeans. He hadn't let you get up after rolling off of you—just barked at you to leave it. Keep it, birdie. Gotta take, don't it?

A barb you hadn't said anything to, opting to ignore that, like everything else he does. Did.

Will do because you can tell, even beneath all those hidden layers, that this isn't a one-time thing. No. This isn't just a man stuck in a bad marriage fucking the nanny because he can. It's deeper. Worse, somehow, than a gross older man with a fetish for younger women he can financially control. Another pervert slaking his lust on whatever artless little thing falls into his web.

No. No—

This is missing clothes stuffed inside bags kept around the house. Pills that leave a strange aftertaste on your tongue of something a shade too sweet—

You think about running. Slipping out of his hands, this bed that reeks of stale sweat and sex, putting on your clothes, and leaving this house. Burying yourself in debt again, schoolwork, and limping (with your tail between your aching thighs) back to your landlord. Never looking twice at an ad for a babysitter in your life.

—and maybe spend your whole life wondering why people mix wolves and dogs to create something that never truly feels at home in the patchwork skin it wears; pieces of ancestors it can't relate to;

But you don't.

(—you never do.)

You lie there and take it. Like the leers he aimed at you when you first showed up on his doorstep, reeking of financial desperation and swallowed down the litany of things he said to you under his breath with a wobbly grin and your eyes fixed on the tile, convincing yourself it would pass. That you were more than just a pretty face he couldn't wait to cover in his cum. A soft ass he wanted to sink his teeth into before getting his cock in there next. Tight little pussy he was so eager to break in. Pantin' like a bitch in heat, ain't you, pup? can hear you gaggin' for it a mile away—

Biting your lip so hard it bled. Blood between your teeth. Your hands curling into the coarse, starchy fabric of his work shirt when he leaned down, permanent snarl on his face from the manmade cleftlip, and reached down to grab a handful of it. Testin' the merchandise, he cooed, low and mean and ugly. Words wrapped up tight in barbed wire. Brassbound. Said nothing as he pinched your nipples through your shirt, or when he shoved his hand beneath the hem and groaned at how soft you were.

Dirty hands leaving stains all over your skin you couldn't see, but felt like a fresh, weeping tattoo. Pulsing with infection.

(Such a needy little thing he trusts with his son while his wife is gettin' railed by 'er Pilates instructor, huh? But that's fine, ain't it? Need another one, anyway. A better influence for Tommy. Someone who'll give him that little brother he's been buggin' for—)

And so, you slacken your jaw when he grunts, barking at you to open up. Say nothing when he drags his hand back up your body to grip your jaw tight in his palm, squeezing your cheeks until they pop open. Let him spit in your mouth, and swallow down the foul, stale tobacco taste of him on your tongue.

Nod, like an obedient little pup, when he says good, ain't it? and let him roll you onto your back again, wrenching your thighs apart so he can see for himself the mess he made. The one you let spill all over his jeans.

Good ones, too, he huffs, eyelids slicing over the jaded edge of obsidian into a derisive pantomime of a contented cat squinting to show affection. Half-mast in pleasure as he says he'll wear them again tomorrow an' let all the boys see what a mess you make of me—

His gaze drills into the wet, slick seam of your puffy, bruised cunt, grip tightening—vicious, possessive—until his blunt nails sink into your skin. Branding. Bruising. His fingers clench down until it almost feels like he'll break through muscle to touch bone, but just when it starts to really hurt, pushing past that strange equinoctial point where pleasure and pain wrap around each other on a razor's edge, he peels back with a grunt. Leans over you to spit in your mouth again, a wet, foamy glob that hits your bottom lip before it oozes into your mouth, tasting of stale smoke and bitter tobacco. A flavour that reeks of permanence, and smells of an incipient wolfpack—all animal musk and wildness brimming up against stale sweat, laundry detergent, cigarette smoke, and sex.

Cruel, almost, like the gurns etched into his face by the missing chunk of flesh on his upper lip. Snarled and deadly. Mocking in a certain light. Like a constant sneer. Derisive and dangerous.

But not nearly as terrifying when he lists forward, dropping down to catch your jaw in his hand, the other planting itself in musty pillow beside your head, caging you in, and says:

"—and now you're makin' me a daddy again, birdie."

There's a taste in the back of your throat that's much too sweet for the dirty, oil-stained fingers he slips between your slack lips, scratching over your tongue. It reminds you of a spoonful of sugar. Grape-flavoured medicine poured over the top. And you wonder how quickly the pills you have been taking would dissolve in water when you sprinkled the white granules down the drain.

Something else you won't mention even as this house he burrowed inside changes shape—clothes in drawers, bags in the closet; the lingering scent of Candy Kiss a spoiled, stale sillage hidden under the smell of newborn and warm milk. Crushed animal crackers and Nicorette. The sound of a gaping, newly formed maw yowling for attention clashing sharply against the exaggerated screams of a grown man howling about a video game on Tommy's iPad.

thanks for hiring me and don't worry, Mr Riley, I can manage him morphing into a new sound, a continual echo of welcome home, and she called again asking about custody, daddy.

Something that throbs like a fresh wound before knitting itself together again into a thin, pink line; skin all shiny and new. Pulsing with the echoes of everything you dipped your chin again, mumbling around the malformed words of please, and don't, and now,

don't stop, please don't stop

What else are you supposed to do, really, other than lettingnhim slake the remnants of his lust between your sore, slick-stained thighs until he grunts, coming inside of you again to the damning symphony of a creaking bed, heels against the floorboards, and the sizzle of a cigarette burning away in an ashtray.

"Wait—" swallowed down by a mangled mouth. A hooked, crooked nose slides along your sweaty cheek as he all but purrs in satisfaction.

All his, he says.

And you don't fight it even as the blood pools between your teeth because you knew that from the start.

[ink-n-shadow]

Being knotted in John’s lap as he mumbles that he’s gonna breed you full of his babies right here in his office

(Or literally any of them bc 🫠🫠)

Or your boys rubbing their faces in your neck before they go to work in the morning bc they’ll be damned if they don’t go to work smelling like you

the second idea is so adorable heLLO???

SCENTING

𝜗𝜚 the one about how the pack!141 scents you (almost) every day

𝜗𝜚 pairing: packforce!141 x omega!reader 𝜗𝜚 cw: slight smut at the end (minors—DNI), scenting, kissing/sucking scent glands, fingering (reader!receiving), allusions to threesome at the end

it would become so routine and mundane for the five of you, something that came almost as natural to you as breathing.

the routine would begin at around 4 in the morning when john begins stirring in bed, mumbling out your name as his hands pat around the mattress and other bodies for you. once he found you (which was curled up with johnny, most of the time), he’d tug you against him, instinctively burying his face into the side of your throat and nudging your scent gland with the tip of his nose. he would lap at it, give it a bite or two, smother it in soft almost feathery kisses, anything to make your sugary sweet scent stick to his skin.

and once john’s had his fill and gets out of bed to amble downstairs for coffee and a cigar, simon’s coming up from behind, tugging your back against his chest and holding your throat in the palm of his hand as he immediately attaches himself to your gland. he’s more primal in his movements than john is, taking long (almost lewd) drawn out sniffs from your neck as he rubs his stubbled cheeks in the smell of you. (he may or may not dip his fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear, sliding through the wetness there before bringing his fingers up to lap at hungrily. but hey! at least he makes you come!)

seeing you whimpering and slack across the mattress is what makes kyle move over in bed, gathering your now jellied form into his arms and pushing your head into the crook of his neck. because kyle’s a beta, there is no scent gland for you to nuzzle into, but the smell of soap and lotion on his skin is enough to have you further relaxing in his arms, head still spinning and clit still throbbing beneath your underwear.

johnny only scoots over in the bed and cuddles up with you from behind when he notices the lack of body heat against him, making him whine sleepily and paw at the mattress until he finds you against kyle. by now, you’re drowning in the different scents covering your skin, not to mention the new scent of arousal and slick festering between your thighs. johnny finds comfort in them all, which immediately has his brain feeling dumbed and his cock twitching to attention.

if it’s not too late, johnny will let you ride him, with kyle in front of you and guiding your movements with his large hands pawing at your hips. if it is too late, then kyle’s drawing johnny out of bed with promises of a blowie in the shower

©️ ink-n-shadow 2024

do not copy, plagiarize, steal, borrow, or repost any of my work without my expressed permission

[simonscumdump]

Clawing at the walls thinking about car sex with Simon. He'd be extra feral and gross nasty and I know his dirty talk would be so damn raunchy ugh uhdhsndnfndn

OKAY OKAY LISTEN.

Simon isn’t usually one for car sex, it’s stuffy, it’s small and he can’t exactly do everything he normally would in a car.

But on the odd occasion that he really needs to feel you and isn’t patient enough to wait until you both get home….

He’ll pull the car over into somewhere a bit more secluded, his chest would heave slightly like his own desperation was making it hard to breathe.

“Get the fuck over here love.”

His hand would be tugging you over the center console, sitting you right in his lap before letting his hands wander over your body like it’s the first time he’s ever touched you.

“God I need to fuckin fill this pretty cunt, y’gon let me? Yeah?”

His mouth would end up everywhere it can reach, your neck, your collarbone, your jaw.

He doesn’t even find the patience to rid you both of your clothes properly, instead he’d have you rest your back against the dashboard…bend your knees slightly and tug your pants down enough just to access your drooling cunt.

He’s not gentle, not loving, not sweet.

He’d have a desperate hold of your thighs and would be ruthlessly fucking up into you.

“God….fuck missed you…missed the way you fuckin’ feel.”

He’d end up tugging your pants down a little further just to give himself the sight of his cock filling you over and over. Groaning in such a feral manner that it almost vibrates out of him.

He doesn’t care if he’s sweating all over his damn car seat, doesn’t care that the glass is fogging up and you’re so loud that even someone passing by would be able to tell what’s going on.

“Look at ya…fuckin’ hell…take it…”

It’s that almost obscene squelch that rings out every time his cock buries tight into you that had him losing his damn mind…

But when he’s close, that familiar tone would fall from his lips.

“Oh fuck please….shit…m’gon cum…yeah…fuck…oh take it…be good…be good and take it…fuck…”

[ellacove]

simon riley who has the biggest cock you’ve ever seen and he knows it. there’s an arrogant smirk on his lips as he watches you gulp down the lump in your throat—pretty eyes widening at the sight of it that never seems to alter despite the countless of times you’ve seen it. you swear he grew since the last time. and the time before that. he loves the way your hands always shake slightly as you grab onto his shoulders for support, head tilting up to look at him nervously as you sigh quietly. “‘s almost in love, i swear” he always assures you when he’s stuffing the monstrous thing inside your aching cunt, a small hum sounding from your throat as you close your eyes and lean back. “i know you can take it” he praises into your ear—head coming down to rest in the crook of your neck and give it a small kiss as a reward for being so patient for him. “seen you do it before.” you’re his perfect girl—taking his cock so good for him, every damn time.

[hannibalised]

Simon who's known for his dry sarcasm and bland remarks, it doesn't matter what one says to him. It's his natural instinct at this point — to jab back or give a solid burn.

So it happened like this, he was injured after one of the mission, minor wounds, one misplaced bone from wrong landing, but it was the hollow eyed look, the roughed up and neglected state that made you double take over the lieutenant.

“Oh god,” you muttered under your breath, pressing the syringe up in air to check its ejection, “You look terrible !”

The last part was directed on him. Simon whose eyes were pinned on your back moved ever so slightly when you turned around.

“So do you.” He said like the words were placed on his mouth tip and were uttered as soon as his lips parted.

The statement wasn't wrong entirely, there has been shortage on staff and so it's only you and a handful of other nurses over the double hour shifts.

You glanced back at him, regarding, and assessed the minor wounds and some of which were not at all minor whatever the Lieutenant Riley had insisted on to the poor Doctor who was very happy leave him at that and assign the rest to you, a count of stiches and tablets and x-ray sheet rolled through your mind, unaware of the way Simon was biting his lips and looking very alerted. Like he was practicing something in his head.

“I didn't mean it.” He said quietly.

“mmm” You sat beside him, looking for the certain nerve and angling the syringe carefully over the pale wrist.

“I didn't mean it,” Simon said again, all hesitancy gone now replaced with a blazing edge, dragging his gaze along with you.

You could've laughed upon the urgency he said it with, the desperation came off in supersonic waves.

“I know, Simon.” You smiled kindly to his sincerest eyes. The sharp tip penetrating under his skin and emptying transparent vitals into his body.

“I think yer very gorgeous.” He blurted out and was torn between looking away or never letting go, at last he lowered his eyes where you applied little pressure oved his hand to redirect the circulation.

You pressed the gauze with eyes only on him, a sweet shy smile blooming across your exhausted face. “alright, rest now.”

And he did just as he was told. Probably the first time ever.

The last time he'd said, “I would rather rest in peace, than here.” And the doctor who had just dropped the bullet back on grey tray was horrified enough to ask whereabouts of the anthesia guy ASAP.

So if a certain nurse happened to smile throughout the thirteen hour shift, and if a certain soldier was thinking of ways he could end up in medical infirmary again. Then it was purely coincidence.

Masterlist

[pippynsworld]

Ghoap getting ready for the 141 halloween party

[guhbwuh]

For requests, how about soapghost on a day off? Or ghost asking soap about his call sign? Love your art, please keep being awesome!

Day off! ❤️❄️

[gomzdrawfr]

Happy Easter!

[ghostlychief]

I was wondering if you could make either sfw or nfsw story abt ghost ??

you guys have a mango tree in the backyard and your bedroom balcony is facing out towards the yard so you go out and are in a like blue sundress picking mangos and ofc look beautiful and the whole time Simons watching

thank you if you do fill this request!!!💞🙏🏻

thanks so much for requesting! I hope what i threw together is what you were looking for. enjoy, sweet anon! 🖤

~*~*~

Under the Mango Tree

Ghost x fem!reader

wc: 1400k+

warnings: fluff; smut; NSFW; MINORS DNI; fingering

~*~*~

Ghost can’t remember the last time he woke up this peacefully.

Usually, his mornings consisted of running around trying to get dressed on the dime and leaving a quick kiss on your forehead before he had to report to base for some covert mission - way too early in morning. The sun itself was almost never up. His socks would be mismatched, coffee to go, and there would be a semblance of longing for you whenever he shut the front door. But the weekends, they were his time to relax and recharge, and of course, spend time with you – his favorite person.

When he finally squints his eyes open, the sun is already peering through the curtains in your shared bedroom, creating a warm glow around the room. The only thing not making this a perfect morning is the fact that you’re not currently in bed with him.

He’s used to waking up, face buried your vanilla scented hair, with his body molded to you, and you’re secure in his safe embrace. Mornings like this usually resulted in being wrapped up together beneath the sheets and not getting out of bed until well into the afternoon. Ghost would emerge with tinted cheeks, and you would have a new found radiance and maybe a slight wobble in your step.

So, when Ghost finally came to this morning, he was a little disappointed your face wasn’t the first thing he woke up to. Nevertheless, he let out a groan and stretched before getting out of bed. He washed himself up in the bathroom before heading to door that leads out to the balcony that looks over your backyard.

Hi lazily leans against the railing, just in his black boxers as he looks down at you. You’re currently perched on a wooden stool, picking fruit off of the mango trees that have miraculously sprouted. There’s a basket at your feet, already half full with mangoes. Ghost can’t help it when a smile immediately forms on his lips at the sight of you.

The morning sun shines brightly off your hair, seemingly creating a warm glow of a halo. Your locks fall down your back, and ends just at the center of your spine, and this is definitely Ghost’s favorite hair on you. (He never fails to mention this)

You’re sporting a baby blue sundress, one of Ghost’s favorites, and that familiar thread of longing twists it’s way around his heart. The dress stops just above your knees, but the back is wide open, only small twines of fabric crisscross over your back to hold the dress up, giving him a perfect view of your soft skin.

To put in simply, you look ethereal in the morning light, and Ghost continues to gaze at you from above. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but Ghost realizes it’s been long enough of admiring you from afar. He enters back into the bedroom and throws on a pair of shorts before making his way downstairs.

The morning air is humid when he enters the backyard, and from this distance, he can hear your light humming as you continue to teeter from the stool, reach up into the leaves of the tree.

Ghost quietly comes up behind you and places his hands on your waist, already in protective mode to make sure you’re steady as a rock on the stool (even though the stool is only 2 feet off the ground).  Silly, he realizes, but you’re precious to him.

He hears a soft gasp leave your lips, and then you turn around to smile down at him. “Simon! You scared me.” Your sweet laugh fills the warm air.

“I’m just making sure you don’t fall, dear.” A playful grin crosses his face.

Glancing down at the ground you say, “I think I’d survive.” You turn around so now you’re facing him while he continues to hold you, and you rest your hands on his shoulders. The stool gives you a good height advantage over him (for once), and you lean down and gift Ghost a kiss on his plush lips.

When you break away, he says, “Still wouldn’t want to risk it.” He then tightens his grip on you and whisks you off the stool, and places you on the ground. He now has the height advantage.

He spins you around and then wraps his arms around your middle, his hands now resting on your tummy. His chin rests on the crown of your head, but occasionally he brings his head down to leaves whispers of kisses behind your ear and on your neck. With each passing of his lips against your sensitive skin, he feels you lean further and further into his chest. He gently sways you in his arms, and you enjoy each other’s’ company in the quiet of the summer morning.

He leans his head down again and his stubble tickles your cheek as he whispers into your ear, “You know, this is my favorite dress of yours.”

He feels you lean more into him before asking, “Is it now?” Your hands rest on his forearms, your nails leaving light crescents into his skin.

His grip tightens a little, “Mmhm.” One of his hand stays splayed across your tummy and his fingers lightly dance around your sensitive middle. His other hand trails down until it reaches the hem of your dress.

He faintly tugs at the material and hikes it up a little, before his hand disappears underneath your dress. He quickly finds your center and gingerly starts to rub you on top of your underwear. He starts peppering kisses down your neck, then down your shoulders as his fingers continue to stroke you. He can already start to feel the wetness pooling underneath the fabric of your underwear, so he pushes the fabric aside and continues his movements on your center. When he feels like you’re slick just enough, he enters one finger into you, and can immediately feel your plush walls contract around his finger.

His hands, and subsequently his fingertips, are a little rough and calloused, he knows. However, he also knows that for you, it only heightens the sensation when he touches you like this.

He gently pumps his finger in and out of you, and soon enough adds a second. He can hear your shallow breaths as you take his fingers. Your head is tilted all the way back, resting on his shoulder and your eyes are closed.

Your hand is splayed on top of his that is still holding you across your stomach and your hand other trails down his arm that is preoccupied, and you grasp his forearm, your hand tightening around his arm every so often. A low moan leaves your lips and you let out a quiet curse.

It’s moments like these when Ghost appreciates the solitude of your backyard and house. He can have you anyway he likes, and not a soul would ever see or know.

He adds a third finger to really stretch you out and you can’t help but squirm in his hold. While his fingers are stretching you out, his thumb makes sure to rub our clit, stimulating you in all the right ways.

Ghost’s hand that’s still resting on your stomach momentarily moves upward, trailing your side. He then cups your breast, squeezing lightly. He stays here for a bit then trails his hand back down to rest on your middle, continuing to hold you up.

He knows your close because your breathing starts to pick up and your walls keep contracting around his fingers. He’s sucking on your neck now, no doubt leaving a bruise, but he doesn’t care. You’re his and he’s yours.

He quickens the pace of his fingers, which are now soaked. You let out a high pitched, yet soft whine when you come, and he’s glad he’s still holding you, when you do so. He fears you may have crumbled down to the ground otherwise. You still heavily leaning into him, basically panting when you say, “Well damn, what warranted that?”

You quickly add, “Not that I’m complaining or anything.” A smile grazes your face as you turn to look up at him, your back still pressed to his chest.

He shrugs, “Nothing in particular.” He’s never been a man of many words.

You turn around in his arms, and wrap yours around his neck. “Hmm, ok, whatever you say. But why don’t we head inside? I’m hungry for breakfast.”

Ghost notices the twinkle in your eye, understanding the double meaning. He follows behind you as you lead him inside your home. He can’t help but smack your ass on the way small trek back. You let out a mock gasp of surprise as you turn around.

A smirk breaks across your face as you say, “Oh, you’re on.”

Ghost can’t help but smirk back before he sees you turn and race inside, giggling as you run up the stairs, Ghost not far behind.

~*~*~

ghost masterlist

[minimiance]

Ghost who fucks NASTYYYY, he gets so sweaty and he’s licking the tears off your face, licks away sweat on your neck.

NASTY!! Has got you in a tight grip, one arm wrapped around your throat and the other wrapped tight around your waist to move your body against his as he thrusts harshly. Can barely moan because you feel like he’s stealing all the air from your lungs.

Licks your teeth until you open up and let him kiss you. Barely lets you breathe between kisses. When he gets close he just starts to thrust harder. Going as far as to get a foot on the ground for better leverage to pound into you.

Finally cums inside of you, rubbing you until you cum too. Loves the overstimulation of you squeezing around him after he’s painted your insides. Lets out the closest thing he could to a whine from the feeling, pressing his body as tightly against you as he can while he bites into your shoulder.

God he’s so gross and nasty i love him….

[softaestluv]

hii cherri,,, imagine bimbo!reader being a medic on base n simon who exaggerates his pain & gets hurt intentionally,,,,, just to go see reader over and over again. n bimbo reader just accidentally(or maybe not) brushing up him every single time and he always ends up leaving with a boner,,, teehee. would love your insert on this. no pressure !!

He was there a week before with shoulder pain— ‘Soap, the bloody bastard, tackled me during sparring. No respect for his lieutenant.’

The week before that with hamstring tightness— ‘didn’t stretch well ‘nough before runnin’, love.’

Three days before that with a sore ankle— ‘landed wrong jumpin’ out the heli, would’ya believe that, bird?’

You see him most weeks than not, injuries you take seriously because he’s an important asset to the team, can’t have your lieutenant fucking up a mission because he tore a muscle.

You think it’s normal that the first place he stops after a mission is your office, you’re a nurse for crying out loud, he’s supposed to be cleared of injury. That is, until Soap is sat in your office one day, a routine check-up.

“Do not know how ye do it, bonnie. Price used tae drag LT ‘ere. Refused tae see any nurse before ya.”

Your brows form a knot, lips dropping in confusion. You’ve never had to wrangle him into your office, in fact it’s the complete opposite, you can’t get him to leave half the time.

You take it up with the other nurses. Surely Soap’s just teasing you, but they giggle when you ask. Tell you that you’re too innocent and clueless, don’t know how you haven’t caught on that he refuses to see any other nurse but you.

Maybe you were willfully ignorant, thought that what he did was normal. Sure he was a little handsy, even more so when he returned from an extended mission. Nudged his thigh right against your stomach, slotted his shoulder into your breasts, brushed his fingers along the seams of your pants, held your hip whenever you leaned over him— ‘just helpin’ ‘s all, love.’

Simon would be apologetic, but it’s not his fault that you’re the only pretty sight on base. He can’t help himself when you’re such a sweet thing, so gentle with him when you dig your fingers into his ‘sore’ muscles.

He thinks it’s quite cute when you try to lecture him with your hands on your hips and tell him he needs to be more careful because he’s your most injury prone patient. He nods along, just pretends he’ll be more careful for your sake and you pretend you don’t watch him walk on the ankle that was ‘sore’ or that you don’t notice the tent pitched in his trousers.

[dvchvnde]

He doesn't bother cleaning up before he goes home.

Caked in grime, sweat, dust from the fields, crudeoil glued under his nails—a walking biohazard of filth, but he lumbers into his truck the moment he's finished, cock already thickening, straining against the harsh fabric of his jeans. Sticky on his thigh where it lays, twitching at the thought of his little birdie sucking his dirty fingers clean.

And you'll do it. He knows you will.

You've been so good for him, haven't you? Sweet little thing.

He scrapes the top of his tongue against his teeth, pulling up the taste of stale, bitter coffee. It's acrid, sour in his mouth. Swallowing around it, he grips the wheel tight and sifts through the multitude of things he wants to do to you as he navigates the familiar path home. Muscle memory, but there's an emptiness in his belly. An itch under his skin. If fizzles, cracks; want and desire thick in his throat.

He's been thinking about this all day. You—laid out on his bed, fingers gripping the sheets tight as he folds you in half, kneecaps to your ears. Feet kicking out behind the heft of his shoulder. Bearing all his weight down on you. Crushing you.

Pumping you so full of his cock, his cum, that you whine afterwards—too empty, Mr Riley—and he has to stuff you full again just to shut you up.

Whiny little thing, he'll coo, nasty and mean as he fucks you again and again and again—

Another scrape. Tongue against teeth pulling over tastebuds. Sourness in the back of his throat. So bitter, so nauseating, he can't wait to make you swallow it down and beg for more as you try not to dry heave all over his dirty boots and onto the clean floor.

More, please, more even as you gag.

He's too hyperaware for the drive to pass in a blur—it's all startling present, each second ticking down in technicolour—but when he finally slows to crawl in front of his house, he has everything he wants to do to you laid out in a neat, concise list. Left you a defiled mess in his head, leaking cum and begging for more.

Anticipation is a maw in his gut that growls and snaps its jaws, too eager to sink inside the pretty thing that's been playing House in his mind. In his home.

He left it unfed for too long.

And now, it's time to eat.