#ghost x reader

[amaranthinespirit]

please PLEASE Can you write reader ovulating with Simon Riley, his dick would hurt by the end.

what happens to simon riley when you're ovulating (his dick would fall off if it were me tbh)

your sex life with simon is already active as is, so the moment you start ovulating, he's in trouble. serious trouble. you can barely keep yourself off of him. everything he does sends a throbbing want to your pussy.

manspreading? you're already on top of him, tugging his jeans down just enough to ride his heavy cock. his big hands find purchase on your hips, grunting lowly.

"fuckin' eager, huh?" he's only half hard by the time you're bouncing on him, and you don't get off until either of you can't speak, and you've ruined yet another pair of his jeans from the amount of slick and cum that stains the fabric.

rolling up his sleeves, seeing the way his forearms and veins flex? you're begging him to finger you, and he gladly listens.

"need me t'fuckin' fill ya full, don't ya?" bent over whatever surface of your house, stuffed full of his fingers knuckle deep as your walls clench around him. one orgasm isn't enough, two, three, four, five until you're babbling incoherently and spraying the front of his shirt with your release.

the thing men do when they reverse, placing one hand behind the passenger seat? belt, GONE. you make hasty work of his jeans just so you can suck his dick as he drives—bonus points if he's still reversing. half-way laid across the center console with a face-full of his throbbing cock, already leaking pre. he's a mess, whimpers spilling from his lips as he bites down on the plush flesh. he's pulling your panties to the side, burying three fingers deep in your cunt with ease at the sheer wetness of your pussy.

him, reading with glasses? you bet he isn't taking his eyes off a single page as he ruts into you from behind, book laid across your back slick with sweat. he might be a little mean, make you fuck yourself back on his dick, balls slightly slapping your clit enough to make your eyes roll back into your head. get a drop of cum on his book, and he'll punish you.

getting passionate about his interests? fuck in missionary so he can continue yapping as he toys with your clit and pounds into your throbbing cunt. his words are long lost on you—you don't even notice when his words start getting condescending.

"always gettin' in m'pants..." he grunts, the sound of skin slapping and mindless whimpers and mewls fill the room, "fuckin' slut, you tryin' to get pregnant? want me t'fill you? dirty whore..."

by the end of your ovulation phase, you might've definitely gotten knocked up, and his dick is no longer with us. (he still has his hands and face, ladies...)

[softaestluv]

more! | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweetest little wife, aren’t you?”

[lay-z]

Simon Riley, who discovers (and accepts) that he has a raging Mommy kink on a random Saturday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly as he checks out the new flavours of Ramen noodle cups.

And his spine goes rigid, when you address him directly.

"Big lad like you needs a proper meal," you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. "In my humble opinion." You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.

Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.

His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a "Have a good day, love." and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.

By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.

And he doesn't quite know what he's feeling in this moment, but he puts the Ramen back into the shelf, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.

Oh, Simon's going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping you'll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.

[cinnamongrl2006]

Simon Riley is a loverboy warnings: established relationship, mentions of pornography, very fluffy Simon Riley blurb

He loved you, that much was obvious. Your initials were carved onto the handles of his guns— messy handwriting, all passion and longing— and a wrinkled polaroid of you accompanied him everywhere he went. He'd stick it to the wall beside wherever he slept, stick it to the ceiling if he got to sleep in a bunk bed (one of those with the loose springs that shriek at every movement, that poked into his back and made him miss your touch more than ever).

Johnny had asked him about it one day, half mocking Simon, he was just in disbelief that their closed off lieutenant had found someone, and reasonably so. It was late at night, they'd been sitting still for hours, the target had yet to exit the building they were watching— Price had told them to wait.

So, he tried to make small talk, gossip a little. He said he'd seen that old polaroid in his quarters, seen it get tucked away in his pocket, tacked to walls and ceilings. He'd seen Simon hold it in his hands when he sat in bed— his breathing leveled, face hidden by his mask, mumbling something under his breath before he laid down to sleep. He'd made some stupid comment like what porno she sneak out of?, a comment that would usually earn him a chuckle and a tap on the arm, but that this time earned him a slap to the back of his head and a grumble.

"Respect my bird, Soap." He'd said, deep voice coated in annoyance, almost venomous.

It was obvious he loved you when, you came to pick him up after he got back from being deployed. Obvious in the way his gloved hands immediately found yours, in the way a weight seemed to lift off your shoulders; in the way his gaze, concealed with a balaclava, was so soft, so loving.

They all heard it in his voice, sweet, almost saccharine; saw it in the way you'd touch him, and he'd let you. You could poke his side after making a joke, and he wouldn't flinch, wouldn't bend your arm back or slap it away; he'd laugh, he'd hold your wrist in his big, calloused hand and laugh lightheartedly.

Soap and Gaz watched, enthralled, as you completely took over Simon's personal space, your hands moving up and under his t-shirt, your face settling in the crook of his neck as you held him close, squeezing him tight "to make up for lost time". They watched as Simon grunted out complaining, but lifted up the lower section of his balaclava and kissed your forehead, then your lips.

Ghost was their closed off lieutenant, but Simon Riley was completely wrapped around your little finger, and he loved every second of it.

────୨ৎ────

tags:@laceyfaeryy @cherrycolaheartss

[spurbleu]

holy fuck sorry just thought of something and I had to write it before it flew away.

you work at a men’s department store. unusual, next to the large mannequins and suit sets- dressed in heels and tight skirts with a measuring tape to tie it together in a centimeter marked bow.

but the pay is nice, and for the most part you’re a service for gentleman. heavy wallets. wandering eyes, but hands that stay in the pockets you alter.

it’s summer, a slow season for cotton suit jackets. but on your evening shift, you get an appointment notification. he’s polite over the phone, if not a little curt. normal.

the first thing you register is his size. tank of an individual. swings his shoulders when he walks due to their weight. a height that slouches his neck. wide arms.

the second is his suit is extremely worn.

tattered, ripped seams, thinning fabric. criticism tears it to bits when he reveals the event is a wedding. you send him a gentle look from behind your lashes.

“are you…sure you don’t want to buy a new suit?”

he scoffs, but doesn’t respond. you sigh.

“at least look at some of the options.”

and then you’re measuring him, and bless your soul it’s hard to keep yourself professional. hands following the thick ropes of muscle to get his wing span, around his arms to get his shoulder. realizing when you kneel in front of him to get his thighs, just how fucking large he is.

and then the bastard adjusts his pants.

hands pulling at the trouser waist band, thick fingers in the belt loops. and horrifically, just as you look up, you catch the imprint of his fat cock settling between his legs.

swells behind the fly zipper. you feel light headed when he lets go, and it bounces before disappearing. teased. you swallow thickly.

the corner of his mouth twitches.

“what do you think, sweet’eart. need a different size?”

[the-palelady]

it’s hard for simon to focus on anything other than the way water glides down the expanse of your softened hips, your curves swaying with each move you make.

the man is literally drooling when you bend over to place your bar of soap back where it belongs, breasts bouncing, glistening in the lights of the bathroom when you straighten. residual soap drifts down your arms, legs, the top of your chest, down the planes of your round tummy.

and it’s when you turn that simon realizes you’ll be the death of him.

he knew this from the beginning of course, honeyed eyes watching the curl of your lips when you first graced him with your smile, the sun peaking out from behind the darkest of clouds.

but it’s now, you standing here swollen with his child, that he feels those rain clouds disperse. the final puzzle piece sliding into place.

you turned, eyebrows raised in question as simon looks down at you, his eyes mimicking that of a man starved.

“si? is everything alright?”

he was sure he looked like an idiot, smirking down at you in such a boyish way while he placed his hands at the dip of your hips, one hand snaking down to squeeze the plump of your ass. he was met with a squeak and a playful smack to his arm as you leaned into him, breasts flattening against his chest.

he didn’t mean for his voice to sound so full of hunger, but it was hard when you looked up at him under those fluttering lashes of yours.

“s’nothin’, mama. just thinkin’ ‘bout what i want for dinner tonight.”

[thebookbutterfly]

Simon Riley absolutely refuses to let you pay for your own nails. He noticed them on your first date, so pretty and delicate.

When you’d texted him a couple weeks later, mentioning offhandedly that you were going to get new ones done, he had replied immediately. A generous amount of money sent to your account and a note. ‘Get somethin’ pretty for me, Lovie’

Any arguments on the matter were not accepted and eventually you got used to it. (You’d tried paying for your own set only once and the man had pouted for weeks).

Not that this was entirely altruistic, of course. Simon liked to provide for you, yes. But he also loved the feeling of you running your nails through his hair and over his back when he lay on top of you. Lord knows his military salary and hazard pay were generous enough to cover it.

What had really sold him was when you added a special detail to the nail on your ring finger. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time but the way he froze when he noticed was enough to make it a permanent thing.

That small letter ‘S’ painted delicately on the tip of your fingernail rewired his brain chemistry. He was half tempted to get a tattoo to match. But he’d settled for staring at it non stop. (For now) Caressing the smooth, shiny surface with his calloused fingers and thinking of a ring he could get you to match it.

[peachesofteal]

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

It’s too soon. 

The weight of this certainty is nearly too heavy to carry, his footsteps echoing with dread. 

You’re not ready. 

He’s not ready. 

It’s his fault. Selfishly, he’s encouraged your co-dependence, pulled you closer and closer into deeper water where he knew you’d have trouble swimming without him. He thought he’d have more time to help you develop coping strategies, to get you settled, moved out of your apartment and into his house. Now, he’s leaving you alone as you try to navigate an entirely different life while straddling two living situations, without him at your side.  

You’re at his house tonight. It’s becoming more common, three nights turning to four, then five and sometimes even six, letting yourself in before when he gets caught up on base. His brave fawn on stronger legs, taking self assured steps, and following his lead, his guidance. Your comfort in his home, this world he’s created for you, feeds the beast inside his chest, the dark one, the monster curled around your body in the night, possessive and obsessed. It’s a perfectly balanced scale, never tipping too far in one direction, all his parts and pieces perfectly arranged for you, expertly developed so he can love you in every way you need. 

He’s pleased you’re home and already in bed an hour before you’re supposed to be, curled in the middle with your kindle, your blankets and pillows arranged in the usual bird’s nest, lips parted, glasses halfway down the bridge of your nose. 

They became a new rule after he realized you were getting headaches from not using them. 

“What do you think is appropriate?” 

“For my recipe cards?” 

“For screens and your recipe cards, precious girl. Squinting and strainin’ your eyes is what’s causing these headaches.” 

“Oh right.” You nodded, and then lifted your chin. When you have rules, boundaries, you have security, confidence, support. You don’t have to think, agonize, try to step into a skin that doesn’t fit. All the things that worry you, frighten you, overwhelm you, they now belong to him, they’re his to deal with. You just have to focus on the rules. “Wear my glasses when I’m looking at screens or my recipe cards. Got it.” 

“Good girl.” 

He pauses in the doorway. 

You’re kneading. 

It started a week ago in your sleep. You’d find your way to his chest, rocking and rolling overtop his heart, working a rhythm into to his sternum as you slept, a physical manifestation of your peace, your trust, a subconscious recognition of feeling safe, and cared for, and loved. It’s become present in the quiet of the morning or an evening lull too, when you’re relaxed and content, kneading away on a pillow or his thigh. Such a simple, silent thing that says so much.

Knuckles thunk on wood, and you kick beneath the blankets, kindle falling into the pillows, your startle turning to surprise, and then the sweet spread of happiness colors your face. His drug. The way you beam and light up when you see him is the same way you bloom when you’re baking, or talking about baking, or feeding someone. Your bliss gets him high. A gift he could never repay, and something he’ll never give up. You’ve been able to venture outside of your comfort zone more and into his hold, no longer hiding yourself within his walls, cautious steps becoming more self assured. He knows you’ll always struggle, but he’ll always be here, ready to catch you when you fall. 

“Hi daddy.” 

“Hi sweet girl.” He leans over the edge of the bed to brush a kiss across your lips, little whimper falling into his mouth as he takes it farther, tastes you, nips you. You give him more and more, truly limitless in his arms, your home, exploring and testing, discovering both him and yourself. This willingness, this trust, is a precious thing like your heart. And it all belongs to him.

Your throat bobs when he pulls back and tugs his shirt over his head, sneaking a sly glance as he tugs his pants down next. “I need t’get in the shower. Stay put, keep reading your book, I’ll be a few minutes.” 

“Okay.” He’d have you get in with him, but you look so happy, so cozy, fuzzy socks on your feet, cuddled up in a sweatshirt, and he wants to leave you to your peace. 

Since he’s about to ruin it. 

Your hand is small in his, and too cold. The ice he finds there matches your frozen posture, your nervous expression buried beneath snow as you try to put on a brave face. His precious girl. 

“I don’t understand… I’m- a-are you…” you lose your words, hitch of panic in your breath as you scramble to find what’s needed, something, anything to convey the influx of emotions, the quick build of questions, and he squeezes reassuringly. 

“Take your time.” Normally, he’d just stay silent, give you the space and time, but right now, he knows you need more, recognizing the way you’re tearing yourself apart inside your head. You blow out a shaky breath. 

“How long… how long will you be gone?” 

“It’s hard to say, but I think it’ll only be a few weeks.” The flash of fear strikes through your irises like lightning.

“Okay.” You nod, but it doesn’t stop. You just keep nodding, trying to steady yourself, and he doesn’t think you know you’re trembling a bit, lower lip start to peel away.  “What if something bad happens?” It’s a question for the ages, one he’s wagered his entire existence. A longstanding bet with the reaper, one he never made a fuss about.

Now, he’d barter his soul for one more moment.

“Nothing bad is gonna happen, I’m very good at my job.” He tries to soothe you, but you’re already lost, tangled up in a web, one he should have cleaned up before.

“B-but you can’t promise that, right? I mean, you can’t be sure. Right?” 

“I’m going to be just fine, baby. I want you to focus on yourself instead of worrying about me, alright? You’ll follow all your rules and take care of yourself. Do you understand?” You have a faraway look in your eye, responding like he didn’t speak. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not handling this… I feel… I’m overwhelmed, I don’t…” He pulls you close, and you don’t waste a second, placing your cheek to his chest, ear just over his heart. 

“My good girl, following her rules,” you look up at him, so tortured, conflicted and scared, and his heart aches. “There’s no reason to be sorry. I should have prepared you for this, and I didn’t. That’s daddy’s fault, not yours.” You’re drowning. You’re too far underwater, trying to reconcile what you know with what you fear, kicking and swimming against a current that keeps sweeping you out to sea, desperately clinging to him, searching for your lighthouse in the storm. It’s too much, he knew it would be, and if he could put it off he would, but this is one mission he can’t delay. It’s a rescue, in the bloody jungle, one squad already failing to reach the other. He has no choice.

He curves around you, pulls you down into the blankets and pillows, kissing your salt soaked cheeks. “I know you’re scared baby, I know. I’m sorry.” The guilt stings and bites, a serrated blade between his ribs. He did this, it’s the consequences of his failure that you’re facing now, your uncertainty and fear all created by him. 

Your face presses into his neck as he applies pressure to your nape, murmuring against the shell of your ear, surrounding you with himself, blocking out the rest of the world. 

That’s where the two of you stay, long past the conversation, your tears turning to quiet whimpers before you fall asleep, snuffling against his skin, still holding him tight. 

“I’ll be good daddy, I promise.” He’s got a duffel slung over his shoulder and a backpack at his feet, truck running in the driveway, waiting. He should have left ten minutes ago. Fifteen even, but he can’t let go, still standing in the foyer cupping your face, memorizing every detail. There’s not much he can do now to fix his mistake. It will have to wait until he comes back, a razed city left waiting to be rebuilt.

“I know you will sweetheart,” he brushes his knuckles over the apple of your cheek, “everything is going to be fine.”

“And you’ll call when you can?” He kisses your forehead. 

“I’ll call when I can.” He’ll need to release all of this before he steps on the plane, but for now he allows himself to feel it, ruminate and own it. He’s worried. This is his fault, he’s pulled the rug out from beneath you without any semblance of a warning, he’s changing your routine, your life, again, uprooting you just when you’ve started to feel comfortable. You’re vulnerable, and he’s abandoning you. Ripping a freshly healed wound wide and pouring salt in it.

You lean in, turning your cheek to press your ear over his heart. “I’m going to miss you.” 

“I’m going to miss you too sweet girl, so much. But I’ll be home soon, I promise.” His younger self would scoff at him, chastise him for making such a promise, but it’s different now. 

He’d dig himself out of grave all over again just to crawl home to you. 

[succubusvalentine]

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

[ghouljams]

Big, scary guy and small, frilly dog is such a powerful combo. And you're completely right that Simon would be swimming in pussy. As a dog lover I would absolutely be kneeling down to greet a darling Cavalier, bombarding Simon with a million questions.

"What's her name?" "How long have you had her?" "Oh, she's so well behaved. Such a sweet girl." "She has such a nice coat, you must take good care of it." "Do you usually walk in this neighborhood? Maybe I'll see you two around!" "I swear I could just eat her up! If you're not careful I might steal her and bring her home with me."

Meanwhile, Simon is standing there looking as intimidating as ever as I fuss over his dog.

You see him walking around the neighborhood, stopping in the same shops in the evening, the same cafe at night. Always with a little copper Cavalier trotting beside him, little pink bows on her ears matching the thin pink leash that's hooked lazily around his wrist. Sometimes he has a shop bag in his other hand, sometimes not, but always the god walking beside him. Her little legs tip-tapping as fast as she can manage to keep up with his long strides.

And every evening when you pass him on your way home you stop to coo over the little dog. "Commander," he'd told you when you first stopped to scratch her tiny head. You figured it was one of those compromises that men often have with their girlfriends, "you can pick the dog but I get to name it." Choosing something that felt masculine to make up for the frou-frou dog. It didn't matter to you, it was easier to let your guard down around a man you assumed was already taken.

Crouch to scratch the dog's tiny chin, giving Ghost a nice view down your shirt. Never once thinking twice about bending over to pet her little head, or smiling at the big man in the skull printed mask.

"What a good girl you are," you coo at Commander, as she leans into your hand, "I could just eat you up, you're so sweet."

"You like sweets, pup?" Ghost rumbles, deep voice sliding thick down your spine.

"I bet you do," You squeeze her little face in your hand, "I bet daddy gets you pup cups when he goes to the cafe, doesn't he?"

"Wasn' talkin' t'the dog." You glance up at him, heat flashing over your face as you meet his eye. "Gonna keep callin' me daddy, pup, or d'you got somewhere t'be?"

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Y/N: Its so nice to be wanted for once Price: You're wanted for murder! Ghost: Don't listen to him babe, you're wanted for much more than that

[dmitriene]

distant inspiration picture.

simon ghost riley is familiar with how needy you can become when he gets deployed for a long couple of weeks, he doesn't even has to imagine, really, because you text him and send those tease pretty pictures with your body barely clothed and bend over to flash out a pair of squishy tits or plump, perched ass, and oh, you make it hard to him in more ways than one.

the issue is, that when he returns home, his body barely cooperates with his mind, sluggish, boneless, every limb is worse than jelly, with his mind fogged from exhaustion and a bone deep settled need to just slump back against something cushiony and let himself drift off, but you welcome him so eagerly, mold your sweet, gorgeous body against his, wrap your dainty hands around the clasps of his grimy gear, helping him get out of all the heavy, tight layers.

every wound tight, sinewy muscle drooping in tension beneath the tender ministration of your feathery touch, pulling, unraveling, pushing, until all of his tactical gear drops heavy and useless at his foot, body now clad in nothing but casual, military outfit, shirt pulled tight around wide, firm pecs and soft skin hidden underneath, flexing when you lay a palm over where his heart kicks up a notch in response to your proximity, as you reach over to get his mask off.

he get's his face peppered with smudged, eager kisses, tugged over to the couch on his unsteady feet and tripping over untied shoelaces of his boots, your fingers all the way to cup over his bristled, rough cheeks and stroke over the tissued skin underneath, sneaking towards the nape of his neck, clinging, tangling in the barely outgrown hairs there, mussed and greasy, but unable to reappreciate, simon can only groan deep from his throat and plant his hands lazily over the curve of your hips, squeezing.

it's good you and simon have a box saved for this special occasions, when he's too tired to indulge in getting his cock stuffed in the tight, gooey clutches of your cunt, but there's a couple of toys that can get you well sated and all trembling, enough to help you with this gut winding neediness, so you bring it out from your bedroom, settling down kneeling at the rug in front of his feet, while he straps the dildo to the toe of his boot, and a wand vibrator tight around his shin.

that way, you can get your fill, your dripping hole stuffed full, every short buckle of your hips making the silicone tip scrape teasingly against your spongy spot, not nearly as pleasurable as if simon's own were battering against your every sweet spot, the thought of it making your movements quicken, sloppy, desperate, hips rolling down to where your clit keeps grinding over the rapidly vibrating wand beneath, and that's enough to make your toes spasm and curl, pussy gushing wet.

and simon can get a pretty view of his darling getting off on his boot, getting it all shiny with your slick, your hands looped tight around his leg, forehead brushing against the rough fabric of his pants, as you nuzzle in there to hide your warming, blissed out face and mouth drooling, agape in a chorus of broken, chanting moans, his palm stroking over the crown of your head, soothing and anchoring, honey warm eyes heavy and watching how you come apart, repeating his name.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[machveil]

Roommate!Simon Riley who learns the names of your stuffed animals. Quietly sitting on your bed as you introduce them, gaze locked on the soft stuffie in your hands. every time you pick a new one up his eyes stay on the previous one for a few seconds before trailing back to you. he gives the occasional nod, a gruff hum when you tell him where you got it from. he forgets to speak sometimes, seemingly dull gaze boring into you. he sits up a little straighter when you start to glance away thinking he’s lost interest, but no, “Does tha’ one get along with the big fella?”

Roommate!Simon Riley who wants you to talk about your plushies and knickknacks. he likes listening to you talk, listening to your voice, watching the way you gently handle your stuffed animals. it reminds him of the rare plush or two he had growing up, gnarly and hidden away somewhere forgotten, tucked away in a dusty box. they made him feel safe when he was little, something to hold onto, and seeing you carefully arrange yours makes his chest feel lighter. heart a little achy when you let him hold one in his calloused, rough hands. soft, thumb grazing over the fabric, smoothing over stitching

Roommate!Simon Riley who brings you a stuffed animal after he goes to the store alone. he’s learned your preference towards them, too plush, too firm, not the right material - a texture you can’t hold for long, he knows what to avoid. he doesn’t feel embarrassed standing in the kids aisle sifting through brightly colored toys, but he does feel some eyes on him. but it’s for you, and a little bit for him. “Simon, you didn’t have to—”, he silently loves when you say that, gives him the opportunity to respond, “Wanted to.”. he wants to make your day, add to your collection, see you smile and love on it. gives him an excuse to go back to your room and introduce the newbie

Roommate!Simon Riley who misses you when he has to leave on deployments. he knows you miss his presence, even when he scares you by not making himself known. that you miss the way he fills your apartment, bulky figure padding around from room to room. “Got ya this. Don’t miss me too much.”, as he hands you a new stuffed animal before he leaves. one that feels holdable, something you can cuddle with and squish. one with a recorded message, Simon’s gravely voice coming from the comically cute stuffie. he doesn’t look you in the eyes, hands shoved in his pockets as he stands in the doorway, “And don’t think that’s replacin’ me.”

“Thinkin’ of you, lovie.”, a small pause in the recording, his voice a little softer, “Take care of yourself.”

[chamomiletealeaf]

Of course inspiration hits during finals…

But I need a really reallyyy slow makeout session with Simon.

Like imagine straddling his lap on the couch, one of his hands gripping your thigh and the other at the nape of your neck while you cup his face with your hands.

It’s just so slow but passionate, soft but rough at the same time. Mouths opening and closing painfully slow to taste each other’s tongues.

Like it’s just so fucking hot. Taking your time with each other. Letting yourselves indulge in one another. It would definitely start to get messy but it’s just such a dirty, nasty make out session with how slow and deep it is…

And him eating you out the same way…

Taking his time, slowly sucking and lapping you up, leaving long, drawn out kisses to your clit. Him pulling back from sucking on your folds with a “pop” noise to admire your pretty pussy before going back to suck and lick you nice and slow…

Can you tell I want to kiss suck and fuck Simon Riley so good and passionately it actually soul bonds us forever…

[spurbleu]

the way to the his heart is...

if you make johnny laugh, he’s in deep trouble. intentionally or not, bringing a chuckle out of that man will have him asking for his grandmothers ring. think he’s used to being the comedian of the group- almost always the one breaking tension, or carrying the conversation. and frankly, part of him can’t help it. but if you allow him, at least for the length of a joke or a retort, to be on the receiving end of laughter? he’s a goner.

traditional in nearly every sense of the word, john’s stomach and heart are essentially the same organ. cook him a meal and he’s renovating his kitchen so you’ll have more room when you move in. especially loves taking brown paper bags you make him to the office, and softening at your sticky note hearts. missed it dearly when deployed, but he’ll follow the smell of baking from across the world if it means getting to tell you “love it, darl’” over dinner one more time.

simon isn’t the first person you’d pin a comforting presence on, so imagine his surprise when you start searching for it anyway. running your nails across his neck as you slowly wake, holding his arm on a crowded train, returning from work and burying yourself in his chest. the microscopic, subconscious efforts to be as close as physically possible to him makes him melt. don’t even know you do it, but the fact your first instinct when searching for calm is to find him forces his hand and puts him on one knee.

the first time he caught you wearing one of his shirts, kyle thought he might just propose then and there (it had been 3 weeks). finds the ‘getting ready’ routine to be extremely endearing- especially if he’s involved. dressed in his sweats, peeling off the morning and swallow another day. there’s a specific vulnerability in it- allowing him to see you both at your start and your end. pulls him into the other room without resistance when you offer to fix his jacket.

special thanks to @goatgoesmbe for the help with gaz <3

[bloodybunniprincess]

simon helping your aching heart with his aching cock !

MDNI 18+

{wc : 2k} simon is a bit of a meani :(

it wasn’t a surprise, not a shock to your core that you had expected. not the same overbearing despair of when your mother left the ground, or even when your first puppy came to join her. more of a relief. fresh breath of air that your lungs had been begging your weak body for. he was gone, down in the ground, six feet deep, hands finally releasing its tight grip on the glass bottle.

the funeral was a breeze. it felt nice. relatives sobbed like they were close with him. they didn’t know how he charged towards you behind closed doors—how you would be on your bruised knees, desperately trying to clean up the broken shards of glass that he had broken. having to look over your shoulder every few seconds to make sure he hadn’t risen off the floorboards he had passed out on.

yet, despite your fathers antics—you visited. you gracefully set down flowers on his grave that were supposed to be a bouquet you would carry down the isle, arm hooked with his. soon they would be shriveled up and you’d come around like you had to—like it was your duty, making another delivery to his headstone. if no one else did it, he’d be forgotten, and you couldn’t come to terms with whether you’d want that or not.

“still bringing posies i see.” it’s gruff, and you recognize it easily. his voice was reassuring, but you wouldn’t let yourself be pliant in it, to bask in it. you were bowed in front of your fathers name, as if he deserved the treatment. simon wanted to take that from your father. you being a good pup for him instead. “it’s not gonna go away easily just because you act like you don’t give a shit.” the grass next to you withers underneath the weight of his heavy knees, but to you it felt like the earth shook.

you let out a breath. “you don’t know that.” your tone is sharp, words eager to leave your mouth and you don’t care to control the anger in them. you’re closed in, shoulders crunching together solemnly, a shield to protect yourself. it was built nicely and with care, took years to get to its full potential.

sooner or later you’d crack, realizing your deadbeat dad was set out in the ground and left to rot. and simon was sure of that. dark eyes peering over you, you felt them. he could easily get under your skin and plant himself there, but he never took that advantage to his use yet. it’s been thought about, resting in the crook of his brain that dark memories settled coldly.

“never taught ya how to ride a bicycle, how to tie your own shoes, how to do your math homework. did he?” you waited for his words to go in one ear and out the other but it stuck right in the center of your brain. mocking. and simon did it well.

“wasn’t there for ya first day of middle school. wasn’t there when you got your first car. didn’t give a shit about prom, or your first boyfriend and when the scumbag left when the pureness was fucked right out of you.” you flinch.

simon watches you like you’re his prey, to see how you would fold. how you would crumble and roll over into his arms, away from the man below them. watching as your tightly knit shell unraveled and laid out for him to tear apart even more—and then sew it back together again. to become that new higher figure for you to go to. that shoulder to lean on.

your mouth is wired shut, teeth running across the fronts, waiting to be pried open and let out some harsh thoughts, to prove he was wrong—defend your father who had nothing worth defending. but you had none to give. you couldn’t. simon was there for all those events. the special ones that should’ve been photographed. when you’re dad was knocked out cold on the couch, simon was on the front porch watching you like you were his own. simon acted as that overprotective father when your prom date arrived, eyes low and prowling, ready to rip of the boys head if he dared touch you the wrong way.

“your father sure is somethin.” you didn’t make the move to correct your date that he wasn’t your father—you two weren’t even related. but it didn’t feel necessary to tell that fact. would it really be all that untrue? simon was that father figure you needed. he was gentle. firm but encouraging. all he wanted was the best for you—make you come out a bit better than you would if he wasn’t around.

that or maybe he wanted to be the owner of you. make you bow down to him just like you were now at your fathers grave. make you need him. and in return he could lick up your tears and kiss down on your cheeks with mock care. cooing sweetly before managing to press his lips against your soft, pouty ones just to be able to stick his tongue down deep and rough later. he didn’t care about your well-being, just how far he could make you go until you caved in, to let him indulge in his cravings.

the tears that refused to come out at the ceremony ran loose as it all settled into the nook of your skull. simon knew he had you now. his lips tighten in a straight line in a way to seem distressed by your behavior, eyes holding mock pity but you saw it as sympathy. saw a person that cared, that was willing to take you under his wing—like he always had. simon kept you safe and tucked in his arms, to comfort you from both the situation and the cold that started to creep up your arms as night settled in. you had caved. pliant in his strong arms scarred from stories he swore to never tell you—and he was firm on that. to keep you unaware of the harm he could do. to keep you thinking he was your savior, the only one you could rely on.

the cloth of his black t was stained with your salty tears, he knew what they would taste like. he’d imagine countless times before—darting his tongue out to draaag the roughness down your cheek, receiving a pathetic whine of displeasure from you. maybe even a little shove to get him away, only for him to drive you back into his bulk, forcing you to let him clean you up.

he’d like to see you squirm—propping you up in his lap so you could feel his very noteworthy bulge resting against the skin of your thigh. get you all warm and comfortable with his hard, make you wet enough—that you would give into the intensity of the throbbing sensation in between your legs. make you needy. not for some silly boy—or even the need to be comforted by your father. but for him. for his comfort. for his body, for his cock. have you mewling for it, foaming at the mouth like a little puppy dog. scratching against his chest, as if it would hurt him. as if it could make him give in.

he was trained to not give into his desires, his dirty fantasies he’d been having since you were in highschool. he was able to wait—and he’d wait until you were begging, sobbing for some sort of relief. make you grieve over it, your cunt soppy from ceaselessly grinding against the clothed bulge, already imagining it stuffing you full. keep you from needing any kind of meal.

and now he wouldn’t have to imagine.

his cock was wrapped snuggly in your tight hole, warm and just so pleasant. the warmth of your pussy making him go a bit hazy, eyes barley open but the smug look on his lips was clear. though, you couldn’t see it for your face was buried deep, deep into the crook of his neck. hiding your face, the shame of being seated on your father’s friends lap. right in front of his grave. ashamed that it felt so good—but so disgusting.

your tears were hot. simon found them hot. falling on his neck making him grip your hips with an unknown amount of pressure you had ever felt before—it made you squeak. your tears made him hard—making him want to fuck you hard, enough for you to loose consciousness, enough to make you sob, to cum right into that tight little hole that had only been fucked once.

simon saw the guilt—chagrin on your face. god he loved it. “dirty girl.” he purred, mouth pressed against your ear, breathing heavily into it. “sittin on my cock—right next to daddy, huh? and just so worked up for me.” your pussy quenched around him, sucking him into your sloppy folds.

you shook your head—trying to defend yourself. make a practical excuse that you wanted to make yourself believe. “please—please don’t s-say that.” you’re shaking, hands trembling as they grab his wide shoulders for some sort of support.

“why, afraid he’s listening?” his laugh his predatory—mocking. he got you on his cock so comfort was needed no more from his part. though, he couldn’t help his thumbs from rubbing small circles on the sides of your hips, the slightest bit of comfort in the pain you were facing.

simon was huge, thick and girthy, more than enough to fill you up to the brim, leaving his oozing, pink tip brushing against that sweet spot that hadn’t been touched effectively before.

he sighs deeply, “ya know…he probably is listenin. looking down—or may i say up—at us. cursing me, cursing you for being such a filthy, nasty girl. a whore as his daughter.” his mouth his pressed firmly on your cheek as he speaks, forcing you to listen and take it. “thinking where he went wrong. alcoholic tendencies is my guess.”

you couldn’t help but feel your slick run down your thigh, bouncing with little strength you had with moans that made him chuckle lowly. his words were so cruel, hitting your heart but hitting your cunt deeper. “come on darling. gotta apologize to daddy for being such a dirty whore.” he muffles. a sharp spank to your ass makes you jump with a whimper, pussy quivering around him.

“i…i’m sorry, daddy!” you squeal. tears rolling down your eyes like a little babi. so cute. you feel his hands grip you tighter if it was even possible—slamming you down on his cock, making you cry out with a mixture of pain and pleasure. “i said i was sorry! i’m so, so sorry.”

simon’s heavy pointer lazily circles down to your clit, his movements softer but anxiously slow. “sorry about what? be specific, darling.” he feels your hips jerk forward in attempt to get more out of him, causing another sharp spank to your other ass cheek, and gently massaging the reddened skin afterward.

“i’m sorry for being—being a d-dirty, whore! i’m sorry for disappointing daddy.” your plea is whiny, your clit aching for more stimulation. eyes are strained—everything is. tight and wanting permission to let loose.

“don’t just say it to me. say it to him.” his chin nods to the headstone just a few feet away. you could practically smell his rotting corpse melting in the dirt, making you queasy. mortified, eyes shaking from left to right. you wanted to ask if it was necessary—to lock eyes with something that would make you feel so much more than shame. but the look on simons face was firm.

your head turns and locks eyes with your father name engraved on the stone, barely visible from the lack of light left in the sky. “i am so sorry daddy. im sorry for being a filthy whore—for sitting on s-simons cock.” the words are slurred and easily fall from your lips. and you’re rewarded with his fingers moving the slightest bit faster on your clit, simultaneously moving you up and down his cock.

“there ya go, sweetheart.” he drawls quietly, lips pressing a soft, sticky kiss to your forehead and then to your collarbone. “thats a good girl, ain’t it?” his brows are furrowed, breaths a bit ragged now. your movements hasty, grinding to get his dick to hit just the right spot. “gonna fuck you nasty right on my cock—don’t worry, i’m sure daddy will understand.”

➽───────❥ masterlist . . . navi