#ghost
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pickled0ctopus · 2 months ago
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for study... of course
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ebodebo · 2 days ago
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more neighbor!simon… previous post
tw: somnophilia & slut shaming (not by simon)
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you sit in the center of your bed, your head propped on your knee, with nail polish in hand as you carefully paint your toenails.
you flinch, spilling the polish on your sheets, as you hear the familiar pounding of your front door and grunts from a low voice.
the door slowly creaks open, and you can hear calculated steps approaching.
“simon?” you ask hopefully, sitting up rigidly as your nail polish smudges.
bile threatens to escape your throat as footsteps enter your room, and instead of your kind neighbor, simon, it’s your insane ex-boyfriend.
“simon’s not here anymore, sweet girl,” he said with a toothy grin, a cigarette in his mouth as he carried a crowbar. “it’s just me and you. for now.”
you let out a shriek as he lifts the crowbar overhead. “always knew you were a slut,” he croaks, venom dripping from his tongue as he swings the crowbar down to strike you.
you stir awake, gasping for air as perspiration gathers on your forehead. you surge to sit up, eyes wide, as your hands press against your bare thigh to ensure it was just a nightmare.
you breathe a sigh of relief when you realize you’re alive and it wasn't real, but you also know there is no way you would be able to sleep alone.
that’s when you hear soft snores coming from your living room, and with desperation, you slip out of bed, wiping the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand.
you inhale another breath, still shaky as you pad along the vinyl floor to the living room. simon is lying on his stomach on the couch in sweatpants and no shirt.
his cheek is pressed into the leather as he snores lightly. his arm hangs off the side and grazes the cold vinyl.
he looks like the epitome of tranquility.
you feel bad that you would be interrupting his peaceful sleep, but you need to sleep too. maybe he’d sleep even better on an actual mattress instead of slumming it on your couch, even though his bed is right next door.
the whole thought tickles you every time you think about it.
he’d rather crash on your couch, than walk twenty steps to his bed.
what a guy.
“simon,” you whisper lightly.
he stirs a little, but he doesn’t answer.
“simon,” you say a little louder, tapping his bare shoulder slightly.
he flicks his eyes open. “you alright?”
you shake your head. “i had a nightmare.”
he hums, his finger tapping against the flooring. “want to sleep right here? i can sit on the other couch while you sleep?”
his offer makes you smile. “i was thinking you could…sleep in my room…with me?”
he nods sleepily. “okay with anything as long as you sleep.”
“i’ll sleep better if you’re next to me,” you murmur.
you swear you see him smile, too, but it drops as he moves off the couch before you can ask. he stands, stretching, as he follows behind you to your room.
“which side are you?” he asks, trudging behind you to your room.
“always right,” you say, slipping onto your side of the bed as he goes around to his.
“good. i liked left better anyway,” he rumbles, slipping into the bed without bothering to get under the covers.
“you want some covers?” you ask, already feeling more at ease with him beside you.
“no. sleep hot,” he explains, laying his head on the pillow, and shutting his eyes gently. “wake me up if you have another nightmare, yeah?”
“i will,” you mumble as you rest your head against your pillow, the soft lull of sleep licking your brain quicker than you thought.
you close your eyes, drifting off to sleep as you feel the cool sheets and warm presence beside you in just a few minutes.
in the depths of the night, you find yourself sprawled out on your bed, wide awake, completely naked. simon is on his knees in front of you, his hand tugging your ankles closer to the edge of the bed.
“fuckin’ soaked just like i thought you’d be,” he mutters with pleasure, making you squirm deeper into the mattress. “you gonna let me taste you, sweetheart?”
you chew on your lip. “please.”
“yeah? you want me to?” he goads, lips hovering over your dripping cunt.
“yes. fuck. please,” you push yourself against his face, urging him.
“greedy fuckin’ girl,” he mumbles, a smirk on his face as he licks a stripe across your cunt that sends a deep ache to your lower stomach.
“ah—simon,” you mewl as his tongue slides across your clit.
“what, baby? feel good?” he asks, tongue flicks your sensitive bud.
“fuck. yes,” you find yourself grinding into his face trying to coax your orgasm.
“oh, baby. fuckin’ insatiable, aren’t you?” he mumbles into your cunt as his tongue moves faster inside you.
“shit, simon,” you moan, grinding agasint his face faster. “so—close,” you choke out, hand coming to thread in his light hair to push him deeper.
his tongue moving and tweaking your bud, with precision. “come on my face, sweetheart. cover me,” he encourages, giving your hip a squeeze.
your body convulses as you come on his face, gripping the sheets under you for support as you ride your orgasm out.
you lean your head back with a satisfied moan, your eyes flicking to look at him. you pull his hair, so he looks at you.
when he lifts his head, his lips gleam with your fresh arousal, and his face and body morph into a dog right before your eyes.
before he barks, you jerk awake, horrified to find yourself flat against the side of simon’s body. your leg rests over his thigh, and when you look down, you see a large wet spot on his light sweatpants.
you drop your leg, pulling up your large shirt to see that a large amount of arousal has made your panties see-through.
you had a wet dream.
of simon.
and used him as your own personal vibrator and leaked your arousal onto him as he slept next to you.
the realization makes you want to die and let the earth swallow you whole. but since that’s impossible now, you flip over, moving to the edge of your side of the bed.
still in your soaked panties, you tightly shut your eyes, hoping that eventually you’ll fall back asleep, just grateful he didn’t wake up and catch you.
poor girl.
you didn’t even realize that as you were grinding against simon’s hip as you were sleeping, he had stroked himself two times over fast and hard until he came all over his hand with a deep groan.
each time he grabbed a small tissue from the side table to clean himself up and tossed them under the bed; he’d throw them away in the morning.
eh, guess some mutts just can’t be house broken.
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succubusvalentine · 5 months ago
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Simon Riley who never gets mad at his wife. No matter how angry he is. CW : None. Pure fluff
Simon was practically fuming. First he'd been ordered by Price to train a group of new recruits, then, the young recruits decided to be a colossal pain in the ass, and to top it off, he'd missed his lunch break where he would normally have some respite by calling you.
So now, he was shouting at the recruits. More than usual. The recruits all looked dead on their feet. But Simon didn't care, they decided to be annoying little pricks. They needed discipline or they'd never make it in the military.
"For fucks sake, you mongrel! Run ten laps!" Simon roared at a recruit, the others looking nervous. Not wanting to be the next one to face Simon.
"Uh, sir?" One of the recruits squeak.
"What?!" Simon roared, the recruit pointing behind Simon.
Simon turned with a low growl, clearly not in the mood for anymore antics, only for him to look down and see you. His wife, in a pretty little sundress and holding a Tupperware container full of something. It didn't matter what was inside, his stomach was growling at the thought of your cooking.
"Swee'heart" Simon sighed in relief, his shoulders visibly relaxing and his arms wrapping around your waist. He relished in the squeak that came from you as he lifted you up and buried his face in the crook of your neck.
"You alright, big guy?" you giggle. Simon grumbling in agreement. Making you laugh again.
Simon set you down, barking at the recruits to find Price and that he'll be taking over the training, before walking behind you with his hands on your waist to guide you to his office.
"Si, if you're busy I can go" you offer, and Simon can barely handle how fucking sweet you are to him.
Simon shook his head, taking off his balaclava and sitting in his office chair. Pulling you to sit on his lap.
"Made you some cottage pie" you grin, opening the container in your hands and handing it to Simon. God it was still warm. "I thought you were gonna yell at me with how mad you were at the recruits"
"Would never yell at you, princess" Simon said, rubbing your hips as you fed him a forkful of the cottage pie. He groaned at the taste, making you giggle.
"good?"
"so fucking good, lovie. Needed your cooking after how shit today has been" Simon smiled, bringing your left hand to his lips and kissing your wedding ring gently.
⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧
btw guys I pulled white lily cookie and dark cacao cookie while writing this :p
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orphicrites · 18 hours ago
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CRYING
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shinoko-oshi · 3 months ago
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Simon, tits or ass question
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Simon never understood the whole ass or tits debate.
It was the kind of question that got tossed around by the younger recruits, the loud, cocky ones who acted like they’d never touched a woman—probably hadn’t—let alone knew where to find a clit. He’d hear it in the barracks, in the gym, during downtime on base, always the same brainless conversation.
And every damn time, his mind went straight to you. His fiancée.
Sure, Simon liked your ass. Liked the way it felt in his hands, the way he could squeeze it in public just to hear you scold him, swatting his arm and hissing about other people being around—like he gave a shit. He liked resting his head on it, treating it like a pillow when you laid on your stomach, liked feeling it press up against him in the middle of the night when you shifted in your sleep.
But he also liked your tits.
Liked watching them bounce when you ran on the treadmill in that little sports bra and shorts. Liked sinking his face into them after long, brutal days, letting himself get lost in your warmth. Liked sneaking up behind you while you got ready, pressing his hands over them just to hear you sigh, half-exasperated, half-amused.
But then there were your eyes.
Simon fucking loved your eyes. Loved that he could stare into them whenever he wanted because you were his and that meant he had that privilege. Loved the way you squinted when the sun was too bright, how you’d complain about it getting in your face while he just stood there, mesmerized by how it made your irises glow. He got grumpy whenever you wore sunglasses. Not that he’d admit it, because it meant he couldn’t see them, just his own damn reflection staring back at him.
And your hair. Jesus.
Then there was your hair—your sweet-smelling hair that he could sit for hours just breathing in. He loved the way it felt against his skin, whether it was soft, loose or styled with care. Loved when you let him play with it, even if he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing half the time. And when you slept, he didn’t mind if it ended up in his face, didn’t care if it tickled or got in the way. he’d just bury himself deeper, content in the warmth of you.
Then there were your legs.
Simon liked them no matter what. He liked the slight prickle when your hair started growing back, liked running his hands up and down your thighs just to feel the texture. But he also liked when you let him shave them, taking his time, careful and precise, making sure not to nick you. Didn’t matter if they were smooth, stubbled, or fully grown out—he just liked you.
Your hands. Your belly. Your arms. Your face. Every part of you.
So no, Simon never really understood the whole ass or tits question. It was too small, too simple.
Because he didn’t just like your ass or your tits.
He liked you.
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rawme-price · 8 days ago
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Ripped ghost truthers come to my doorsteps to die.
Edit for clarification: ripped = extremely defined muscles.
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mollybeenoel · 8 months ago
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Via Cats with Pawerful Aura (catswithaura) on X/Twitter
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ollies-station · 3 days ago
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Tobias with his ghost fandom children
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let's be spiky with mama
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ethe-realfantasy · 4 days ago
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It's late and you’re curled up on Simon’s couch as the movie you were just watching comes to an end. Riley lays snoozing at your feet, one of her paws twitching in a dream. You're nestled into Simon’s side beneath a worn but warm throw blanket. When you shift beside him, suddenly overcome by sleep, you let out a soft, high-pitched hum. A tiny release that escapes you as you move, a little sound of contentment.
Simon’s body freezes immediately.
You don't notice it at first, with your eyes still half on the screen, half lost in the sleepy afterglow of the movie. But he does. Every nerve in him reacts to that sound like someone flipped a switch inside him. He is rock hard in an instant.
His jaw clenches and his heart starts to race.
You tilt your head toward him, catching the sudden tension in his body. “What?” you ask gently, with curious eyes.
He blinks at you like he's trying to rejoin reality. “Do that again.”
“Do what?” you ask, genuinely confused.
“That sound,” he says, shifting slightly away from you, like he needs space to get a grip on himself. “The little sigh. Just… do it again.”
You narrow your eyes, now smiling, but still confused. “What sound, Simon?”
“You know what sound," he says and his energy changes. His voice is low, almost a growl, but playful. "C'mere."
"You're hearing things."
"Am I now?"
You sense the shift in his energy and move slowly toward the edge of the couch. “I didn't do anything!” you giggle.
His eyes flash and there is something hungry behind them. Without warning, he shoots up and you shriek with laughter, jumping up from the couch as Riley blinks awake and watches the sudden chaos unfold. You dart toward the hallway, still giggling.
“Simon!” you squeal, laughing breathlessly as you dodge away from him into the kitchen. He's already chasing you. "What's gotten into you?"
“Do you think you can get away with that?”
“I don’t even know what sound you mean!”
He catches up in three long steps, grabbing you gently but firmly around the waist and lifting you clean off the ground. You laugh even harder now and it echoes through his flat like sunshine. Both of you are breathless, both smiling like idiots.
“You’re insane,“ you laugh, as he presses his face into your stomach, ”put me down!“
„You have no idea what that did to me.“
You twist in his hold, cheeks flushed and your arms come up to wrap around his shoulders as your giggles soften. “You’re being ridiculous."
“Let’s see if you can make more of those,“ he murmurs, already carrying you back to the couch.
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anghimalaaynasapuso · 4 months ago
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GYM CRUSH SIMON
sfw + nsfw. unsafe sex. womb fucking. no condom.
you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.
you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.
there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.
at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.
midnight schedule it was.
it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.
the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.
and then there was him.
tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.
the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.
(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)
he moved through his workout with terrifying
efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.
you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.
“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.
you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”
“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”
you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”
he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"
“i do not know his entire workout routine.”
your friend raised a brow.
you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”
his brow lifted higher.
“…and arms on thursdays.”
silence.
“right.”
“shut up.”
you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.
the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.
and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.
What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.
so, you stayed quiet..
until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.
in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.
“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”
“i use it,” you protested.
“you walk through it.”
okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.
you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.
you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.
the bar didn’t budge.
you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.
okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—
"y’need a spotter?"
you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.
you swallow. "uh."
his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"
"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."
he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.
your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.
"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.
you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!
he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.
"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"
you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"
"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.
you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."
you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.
he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.
a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.
but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.
"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"
he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."
you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?
he hesitates. "depends."
"on?"
"the day."
you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."
"sure it is."
you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.
it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)
you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.
"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."
and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”
he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”
you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.
"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."
you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.
“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”
“drop it.”
“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”
“drop it.”
some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.
it’s unbearable.
like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”
you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.
you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.
the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."
you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”
he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."
you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”
his eye twitches. “just drink it.”
and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.
one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.
you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.
simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.
"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.
you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”
he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.
"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.
you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—
his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.
"fix that grip, sweetheart."
you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.
"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."
your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.
his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."
you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.
you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.
and then— "good girl."
barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.
your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.
you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.
and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.
"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."
simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"
your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."
his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"
"yes."
he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."
you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.
"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."
your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.
"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."
low, warm, approving—
"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."
simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.
"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”
“please.”
the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.
simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.
his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.
his hips roll up.
you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.
he does it again.
your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.
"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."
his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.
his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.
you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.
"fuck-"
he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.
"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."
your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.
"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"
you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.
his patience snaps.
one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.
simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.
he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.
the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.
simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”
he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—
he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.
"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"
"yes- yes, please-"
"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."
he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.
the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.
"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"
you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.
his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.
“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”
your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.
simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”
you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”
he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.
your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.
his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”
then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.
you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.
simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”
he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.
his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”
you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.
his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.
“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”
he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.
then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.
his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”
the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.
simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.
he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—
he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.
"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."
your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"
"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"
you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"
"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."
you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."
he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."
then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.
you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.
"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"
you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.
"s’not fair," you mumble.
"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.
"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."
you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.
"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"
you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.
when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.
then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—
you take him.
the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.
"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."
you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.
breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"
"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."
but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."
his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."
"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"
he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."
then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.
"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.
simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."
the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.
"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"
he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.
it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.
but you’re already gone.
your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.
"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"
you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.
he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.
"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."
"s-simon-"
"what, love? too far gone already?"
his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.
you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"
"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."
he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.
"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.
"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."
he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.
"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"
"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.
"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."
then he fucks you properly.
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swiftiedaisies · 2 months ago
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rip 2012-2014 tumblr, you would have LOVED thunderbolts*
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thephantomscrewdriver · 9 hours ago
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only if you're ready for bayrum, cedar, and notes of citrus over a soft scent of sweat musk and a lightly permeating scent of vaginal fluid while i take care of my darling's flesh through this heat wave.
can i come over and inhale your scent
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ex0skeletal-undead · 1 day ago
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Moorland Haunt - MTG | Innistrad: Midnight Hunt by Daria Khlebnikova
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Martha Wayne's ghost: Thomas for the love of god put the wrench down-
Thomas Wayne's ghost: he's butchering my *baby*
Martha, desperately holding onto her husband's arm: it's a car!
Thomas: IT'S A 1974 CHEVY-
*ghost fight ensues, Bruce is blissfully unaware as he headbangs to emo rock and welds bat wing fins to the car*
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mockerycrow · 2 days ago
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i heard people are leaving gaz out again? IVE PLAYED THESE GAMES BEFOREEEEEEE.
i dont give a fuck, if you leave him out of a 141 post, i WILL think you're racist. i literally wrote an entire character analysis on this man. he is NOT the boring guy you think he is.
half of the reasons i see for leaving him out make absolutely zero sense. ive been in the call of duty fandom so so so so long. I've been in the fandom since i was a little child. this is a long running issue with leaving characters of color out. if you need help writing him, literally hit me up. i am willing to help people develop a style for him.
this is my link to my character analysis. USE IT.
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