#simon riley x trans reader

[writing-mlm]

Will you love me again?

Summary: Simon’s returned home after 20 years but the suitors have finally grown restless of waiting for you to pick a new King of Ithaca. Pairing: King!Simon Riley x King!Ftm!reader Wc: 6.1k Tags/Warning: Canon-level violence, talks/planning of S/A, Epic the Musical Ithaca Saga spoilers! Most of the words are literally lyrics so ig song fic, oral (r!receiving), fingering, stomach bulge, reader has a vagina, no protection, creampie

His skin remembers the touch of your lips, the way they’d press against his tense muscles, the way they’d kiss his scars and carry soft whispers and songs. How your hands would touch him, run up his arms, cradle his face, and remove his helmet. He remembers the sound of your voice, how you’d talk to him while weaving against the window, your kingdom standing below your castle. 

The castle he’d built all those years ago as a declaration of his love for you. A castle that grew colder as the years stretched on since he’s been there; taken away for a war. 

A war, born from a greedy man kidnapping your cousin. A war Simon hadn’t wanted to participate in because, despite his oath to your cousin's husband, the Trojans have never helped Ithaca in their times of need. And even more so, he had you, his husband, and your newborn to watch over. To protect. He’d only agreed to help after he’d been tricked. 

A war that was supposed to be no more than five years had turned into a twenty-year journey. He’d left a twenty-year-old, rising to power in Ithaca with a newborn son. Now he’s forty, his home just out of sight, and his son would be twenty. He imagines how you must look now. How your hair must’ve greyed, how you picked the hyacinths and bluebells from the garden. 

He wonders how his son is doing, what he likes, and what he’s accomplished. How he’s missed his whole life. 

Simon strains as he pushes the raft from the island, the goddess he left on the sandy shores crying for him. Begging him to stay; she loves him. He loathes her. He loathes the years he’s stayed trapped on that island, how she’d been persistent on loving him. Gods, provided she wasn’t a goddess, he would’ve killed her the first time she even hinted at such. 

His head hurts when he remembers his fallen friends; Gaz, Price— and Johnny. He’d gotten his brother killed, he let all of them, all six hundred men die under his watch. The cyclops, Scylla, Circe— Zeus, Poseidon. He recognizes the pain turning into red-hot anger as he pushes past Charybdis. These past years cannot have been in vain. The souls that haunt his dreams won’t have died in vain. 

He’ll make it home, he’s sure of that. 

—

You stare at the suitors gathered at the palace gates, angry men eager to become the next king one way or another. All the while your son, Johnny, stands in front of them with a spear and your old armor. You know that look in his eyes, that Athena's determination he has because Simon had it, too. 

You sigh, undoing the threads you’d made the day before. For the funeral shroud you’ve been making for ten years with the promise that once it’s done, you’ll pick from the suitors and give Ithaca a new king. You almost laugh when you remember how many years ago that had been now. How foolish the suitors had been to agree to your demand. How you fear you’ll have to finish it one of these days. 

You look at your sword hung in the corner of the room. You remember your newly made armor, tucked in your closet, the new bow and arrow next to it. You remember the feeling of warm blood on your hands. 

Even if you must finish the shroud they’ll never get their wishes. No one will rule alongside you and if you must, you’ll take a queen. Perhaps some common woman with nothing better to do; drown her with all the things a queen would desire all the while you continue your duties as king. 

Standing, you close the curtains to the window and grab your sword. It feels like home in your hands, reminders of your time as a warrior of Sparta and then Ithaca. You’ve never forgotten your lessons, the teachings so ingrained in your very being they feel like second nature when you swipe the air. 

It’ll need to be sharpened before tomorrow. 

That night a storm rages on the coast of Ithaca. You watch from the balcony, the wind blowing your hair and clothes as you try to see inside of the storm. Poseidon fights, you can tell that much, and gods, you know in your bones. You know it’s time to set your plan in motion. 

You call a maid to send the news; the Challenge you’d set up after five years of Simon being gone was happening. You rush to gather Simon’s old bow, carefully undoing the string while the servants gather twelve axes from the armory. 

—

“I’ll be back soon,” Johnny promises the next morning. You stand at the pier, watching as he loads onto a boat; about to head off for a mission for the kingdom. 

“I know you will,” You smile, giving him a dagger that he places on his thigh strap. You don’t pretend to notice the group of angry suitors hiding behind ships, watching as you watch your son leave. Leaving you alone for who knows how long, the mission shouldn’t take longer than a day, though. 

As the ship leaves, you look at where the storm had raged, sure that you see a small object floating towards Ithaca shores. You smile, hanging your head before thanking whatever God had allowed him home and return to the castle. The suitors follow, ready for the challenge you’d sent messengers to talk about that morning. You ride your horse back, letting them climb the mountain to the castle as you prepare for what’s to come. 

Their footsteps are heavy, echoing in the halls as a maid guides them to the throne room. You sit at your throne, the half-finished shroud draped over Simon’s throne. His crown sits under it, shining like the first day it was made. A reminder to them and yourself that your husband is out there, that they’ll never sit on that throne as long as you’re alive.

As you look around, you inhale and look over the crowd of men. There are dozens of them, some bigger, some smaller. All of them hungry for power, all of them greedy in a way that makes your stomach turn. 

You stand, shoulders back and head held high as hold back a deep, etching frown. 

“The Challenge,” You start as the murmurs die into a silence that had overtaken the castle all those years ago. You grip the bow, raising it in the air for everyone to see.  “Whoever can string my husband's old bow and shoot through twelve axes cleanly,” Your gaze travels to the axes, lined up in a straight line, the hole only just big enough to allow an arrow to slide through. “Will be the new king and rule with me.” Cheers echo through the halls and you hand the bow to the first suitor before you take your seat. Your throne.

You hope Simon knows that you’re buying him time; that you’ve bought him twenty years of time to return. That he’ll climb the mountain from the shores to the castle before they grow behind restless. Bloodthirsty with one goal on their mind. You hope your son doesn’t come back to see you in such a state if Simon doesn’t make it on time. 

They grow more frustrated as the hours tick by and they find that no one can string the bow. Eventually, the sun sets and you tell them they can try again tomorrow. They all agree, with some grumbles and you take the bow back from a suitor who bares his teeth at you. He resembles a beast, a beast that you don’t dignify with a reaction. 

—

“Screw this competition,” A man that Simon knows all too well, Graves, snarls as he tosses his old bow to the ground. “We’ve been here for hours. None of us can string this; we don’t have the power. Screw this damn challenge!” He rakes his hands through his hair, the stress clear in his actions that make Simon proud. Of course, you’d set up something only he could do, of course, you’d waited all these years for him to return.

“No more delay. Don’t you see that we’ve been played?” Grave’s eyes travel amongst the men crowded around him. Men that are so easily swayed by simple words that it makes Simon seethe. “This is how he holds us down as the throne gets colder. Hold us down as we slowly age. Hold us down while the boy gets bolder.” Grave continues, daring to even hint about Simon and your son. “Where the hell is our pride and our rage?” A couple of the men agree, egged on by each other's stupidity. 

“Here and now,” Another man says as Grave smirks; clearly his plan is working. Like a moth to a flame, they take his bait. “There’s a chance for action; we can take control. Here and now we can burn it to ashes.” Too big for his pants, Simon assumes. 

He leaves for a moment, gathering their weapons and hiding them in the armory, making sure to leave it unlocked before he returns to their conversation. By that point more men had gathered; you’d long since left the throne room so Simon didn’t worry about you hearing their voices any longer. 

“Haven’t you noticed who’s missing? Don’t you notice the prince is not around? I heard he’s on a diplomatic mission and I heard today he's coming back to town.” Grave continues, and crosses his arms over his chest. Simon’s eyes dart down from his place in the room, overlooking the shores of Ithaca as a boat slowly approaches. 

“So…?” A different man speaks from somewhere in the crowd. 

“I say we gather near the beaches. We wait till he arrives, then when he docks his ship I say we breach it. Let us leave now, today we can strike!” Grave doesn’t feel the sharp glare that hits his head as he speaks. Unaware that his words have just set his fate into motion; a fate that Simon has become oh so familiar with these past twenty years. 

“Hold him down, till the boy stops shaking.”

He counts the men; seventy in total. 

“Hold him down, while I slit his throat.”

He’s taken down worse. More. 

“Hold him down, while I slowly break his pride, his trust, his faith, and his bones!”

He can’t wait to watch them bleed. The feeling of their blood on his hands; something he hadn’t realized could feel so good until now. He wanted to chase it like they plan on chasing you and your son.

“Cut him down into tiny pieces. Throw him down in the great below that way when the crown wonders where the prince is only the ocean and I will know.” 

Watch their light leave their eyes; hear their screams. Beg him to spare them. The gurgling sound as they choke on their own blood.

“And when it’s done,” Grace smirks. “The king will have no one to stop us from breaking his bedroom door. Stop us from taking his love and more. And then we’ll…”

He’ll savor Graves the most, he quickly decides. He won’t dignify him with a fast death. He’ll hurt him, hold him down, and break his bones. He’ll drag him by his legs into town, parading him around to not only show he’s home to his throne, to his husband and his son but to show that anyone who had thought any different will face the same consequences. 

“Hold him down.”

“While the gate is open.”

“Hold him down.”

“While I get a taste and we share his spoils. I will not let any part go to waste.” 

He rises from his spot, his hand a deathly grip on his knife as the men try to leave the halls, one of them pointedly staggering behind. Drunk on wine. The perfect way to announce himself. 

He doesn’t waste a second, stabbing the man in the throat and he watches as he gurgles on his own blood as he returns to his perfectly hidden spot. He watches with glee as the light leaves his eyes, staring down at him as his body goes limp. 

The men stop at the door, having heard the noise. When they turn they only see a dead man and then nothing around him. Quicker than they can react, the torches around them snuff out one by one, and then the door behind them locks. Like rats they scramble, searching frantically on the ground for anything they can use to defend themselves. 

“Twenty years,” Simon growls. “I suffered from the wrath of Gods and monsters to the screams of my comrades. Watched my men die like cattle. I come back to my palace, desecrated and sacked like Troy. Worst of all,” He reaches into the darkness, grabbing a random man who shouts, tugging at Simon’s wrist to be let go. 

“I hear you dare to touch my husband and hurt my boy! I… have had… enough.” He snaps the man’s neck in three motions before stepping over his now limp body as he watches the men scramble in the dark. He supposes he should thank Calypso for living on such a dark island, now he can watch them as they scramble for torches. Lighting them with the nearby lighters. 

He grabs his bow, stringing it with ease while the others run in the castle. The darkness that shrouds them is emphasized by the setting sun. Simon struts after them, listening to their footsteps and breathing like a predator. 

“We have the advantage; we’ve the numbers and the might.” A man says, clearly not knowing who he’s up against.

“No!” Shouts a man who does, he wonders if they fought together before. Somehow that makes him all the more angry as he grabs an arrow from his quiver. “You don’t understand! This man plans for every fight.” An arrow flies through the air, stabbing him through the neck and the others shout, watching as he drops and the torch rolls away from his limp hand. Everyone scrambles away, fleeing down the hall. 

“Where is he? Where is he?” Someone shouts, his eyes as wide as they can go and he looks into the darkness. 

“Keep your heads down, he's aiming for the torches!” Someone else hisses and they all duck, holding the torches as high as they can manage without dropping it. 

“Our weapons! They’re missing!” Simon grins at the fear in the man’s tone, stringing another arrow. 

“We’re empty-handed,” Someone says, the realization that they’re fucked dawning on him. “Up against an archer.” He mutters, looking around the dark room. 

“Our only chance is to strike him in the darkness. We know these halls our odds can be titled.” Someone tries to comfort him before flinching at the sound of Simon’s snicker. 

“You don’t think I know my own palace? I built it!” Another arrow flies, hitting a man in the head. He walks after them as they run away. 

“It’s the old king!”

“No! Our leader is dead!” 

“Old king forgive us!”

“Let’s have open arms instead!” He stops walking, notching yet another arrow as he’s reminded of Gaz. His chest tightens when he remembers his friend, his brother. 

“No,” The arrow flies, he doesn’t care to see who it lands inside of. He knows Graves isn’t with this group and heads the other way; towards where he’d hidden their weapons. He’ll deal with the others later, for now only one person has a giant target on their back.

“Dammit,” Grave hisses as he opens the door to the armory. “He’s more cunning than I thought. While we were plotting he hid our weapons in here.” He waves the torch through the room, each weapon highlighted by the burning flame. 

“I find it hard to believe that the sharpest of kings left his armory unlocked,” A man mutters, his frantic eyes looking outside of the room because he knows what’s out there, waiting for him. 

“So what?” Grave scoffs as he grabs his sword. “Let’s make the bastard rot.”

“Behind you!” He spins, watching as Simon stabs a man through the chest with a sword, his piercing eyes glaring at Graves over the man’s shoulder. The man collapses to the floor while Simon takes the sword out, flicking the blood onto the walls. 

“Put the weapons down and I’ll spare you,” He tells the men and immediately they do but Graves doesn’t. Simon tilts his head, eyes flickering to the ten men around Graves. 

“How do you dare? Haven’t you seen what he’ll do to us?” Someone asks him, his hands held up in fear.

“The prince!” Someone shouts and Simon makes the mistake of looking behind him. The men in the armory jump on his back without hesitation, shouting to attack the prince that way he’ll have to stand down. Simon struggles against them, his sword clattering to the ground when he sees the torches illuminating his son. 

He chokes as he sees his son falling to the ground, scrambling to his dagger that had gotten thrown in the fight. 

“Stop struggling and we’ll show you mercy,” Grave whispers in Simon’s ear, holding his hair in an iron-tight grip. 

“Mercy?” A voice cuts and Simon feels blood running down his cloak. He hears the sound of someone being impaled and then another in quick succession. The weight on his back lessens and he charges forward. 

“Mercy?” Simon bellows, taking harsh steps toward the now-fallen Graves. Unable to find his footing again as more men die around him. “My mercy long since drowned. It died to bring me home. And as long as you're around my family's fate is left unknown. You plotted to kill my son.” In one motion he scoops Graves up, bringing him to his feet and then against the wall. The tip of his blade presses against the man’s neck as his eyes squeeze shut, feet trying to find purchase aside from the tips of his toes on the cold marble floors. 

“You planned to rape my husband! All of you are going to die!” He stabs Graves six times, huffing as the body slumps against him and then against the wall when Simon shoves him away. 

He stands tall, listening to the shouts of the scared, trapped men as their fates quickly find them. He knows who is fighting at his side; he knows so well but he doesn’t register it until everyone is dead. Until the torches line the walls and he sees his foes splayed on the floors. 

“Father?” The sword in his hand clatters to the ground as he spins around. Johnny stands where he was once pinned down, blood dusting his tunic and his face. None of which is his own, Simon thanks the gods for that fact.

“Son,” His voice cracks as he takes a step forward. His chest heaves as he looks at his boy, and how he’s grown into a man. Johnny rushes forward, pulling him into a hug. 

“I’ve waited my whole life for you. Twenty years,” He cries into Simon’s chest, his sobs growing as he feels his father's tight embrace. 

“Oh my son, look how much you’ve grown,” He whispers, fighting back his own tears. “Oh, my boy. My sweetest joy. I captured the wind and sky for you.”

“My son, I'm finally home.” He finally cries, looking at his son's face for the first time in twenty years. He sees you in him, he sees himself. Simon presses his forehead to Johnny’s, holding the back of his neck as he cries. He cries and he weeps, relief, something he hasn’t felt in years, floods his body as all of the suffering he’s endured has been worth it. 

“My love?” He hates to look away but he does, his chest tight when he sees you removing your helmet. Your sword stuck in some man’s chest as your feet carried you across the hall and into his arms. 

He calls you, your name falling from his lips and you cry into his neck. You’d nearly forgotten the sound of it on his tongue. 

“Is it you?” You ask, pushing away from him after the initial shock. He’d warned you all those years ago, not to trust anyone who looked like him. He knew the Gods and their tricks; you knew them, too. “Have my prayers been answered? Or am I dreaming again?” 

“I am no’ the man you fell in love with,” He admits as your eyes scan over him. You pick apart everything about him that’s changed over the years as doubt creeps in the back of your mind. “I am not the man you once adored; I am not your kind and gentle husband and I am not the love you knew before.” You frown as he takes your hands, falling to his knees before looking up at you. With a gaze, you tell Johnny to leave the two of you for now. 

“Would you fall in love with me again if you knew all I’ve done? The things I cannot change. Would you love me all the same? I know that you’ve been waiting for love.” He begs, his bleary eyes unable to look at anything but you.

You nod, holding his face before guiding him up to his feet. “What kind of things did you do?” His head dips down in shame as the two of you move to stand outside in your garden. Free of blood and bodies as you sit under the olive tree he’d planted for you all those years ago. 

“Left a trail of blood on every island. I traded friends as though they were objects. Hurt more lives than I can count. But all so I could come back to you.” He cries, holding your face, his cries growing as you lean into the touch. “Tell me, please. Would you fall in love with me again?” 

“If that’s true,” You start, moving his hand from your face and he falters, eyes darting between yours as if they’ll reveal your choice before your voice does. “Could you do me a favor?” 

“Anything,” He nods. 

“Just a moment of labor that would bring me some peace. See that wedding bed? Could you carry it over? Lift it high on your shoulders and take it far from here?” You ask, your eyes darting between his own as you wait. Wait as you’ve done for twenty long years. 

“How could you say this?” He asks, his hand moving from your face. “I built that wedding bed with my blood and sweat. Carved it into the olive tree where we first met. A symbol of our love everlasting! Do you realize what you have asked me? The only way to move it is to cut it from its roots!” He shouts, almost standing due to the anger bubbling in him. 

“Only my husband knew that!” You sob, holding his hands again. “You’re real! My Gods, you’re real!” He calls your name as you shudder. You shake your head, pulling him close as your hands search his body, holding him impossibly close. 

“I will fall in love with you over and over again. I don’t care how, where, or when. No matter how long it’s been. You’re mine. Don’t tell me you’re not the same person, you’re always my husband and I’ve been waiting for you!” He blinks, brushing your tears from your face before he kisses you. 

You crumble under his touch, your hands shaking as you cradle his face. He holds you tightly, pressing your armored chest flush against himself. You pull away first, tucking his now long blonde hair behind his ears to see his face properly. 

—

You don’t get a chance to admire the new Simon, not between the kissing and his insisting that you share the bed with Johnny for the night. You agree, of course, the two of you squishing Simon while he happily holds the two of you in his arms as the night draws on. 

Simon wakes up first, he’s gotten so used to being forced to share a bed with Calypso that he’d made his body wake up early to escape her. He looks at you and Johnny for a while, softly crying as he knows he’s home. Eventually, he gets up, hating the way the two of you whimper at the lost feeling between the two of you. 

He doesn’t venture far, just far enough to grab a bowl of water and a blade. Settling in front of a mirror, he shaves his face for the first time since he set out to Troy and then cuts his hair. He’s never seen his grey hairs before. Despite knowing that he was aging while he was out there he hadn’t realized he was aging. He wasn’t twenty anymore, he certainly didn’t look it either. 

He has scars on his face, he has grey hairs, he has the starts of wrinkles, eye bags— he could list them for hours. 

He looks back at you as you sleep. At your grey hairs, at your wrinkles and he smiles. You’re just as beautiful as the day he met you. 

Stepping towards the window he sees the castle workers dragging the bodies out of the castle and into a carriage. Tossing them unceremoniously and he makes his way down. 

“Load them and wait. Do not touch them any further,” He tells one of the maids without looking at her, his gaze locked on the men who had dared to try and defile his family. “Send word to the people of Ithaca. Meet at the pier by noon.” She nods, waiting to be dismissed by the king but he turns on his heel and returns to your room. 

You’re awake, rubbing your eyes as your sleepwear slips from your shoulder. 

“Did I wake you?” He asks, crawling into the bed and kissing the exposed skin. You roll your head at the feeling, holding the back of his head to keep him in place. 

“No,” You murmur, head against his. “I missed you.” 

“I missed you, too,” He pulls you onto his lap and you let him, too tired to fight back as he lays down again. “Trust me, ‘m not leaving ever again.”

“I like the sound of that,” You yawn, rubbing Johnny’s hair as he reaches out for the two of you. “We need to get up, though. Clean the halls,” 

“Already taken care of, love.” You hum, head resting on his bare chest, fingers tracing against his skin.

“You cut your hair,” You point out. 

“Mhmm, like it?” 

“Ask me later; ‘m too tired.” He chuckles and pets your cheek with his knuckles. 

“Rest my love, I’m not going anywhere.” 

The next time you wake up, he’s engrossed in a conversation with Johnny. He’s still holding you, but now it’s sitting up on the bed while Johnny all but bounces around the room. He talks about his own adventures with Athena, how he’d almost beat up Graves this one time, how you always kept a place for him. He talks about the stories he grew up hearing about the great King Simon of Ithaca. 

Simon listens, committing his son's voice to memory while he inhales the smell of your hair. 

A knock at the door stops their conversation and Simon calls for whoever it is to come in as he pulls the blanket over your body. 

“It is nearly noon, King Simon.” 

“Thank you,” He nods, watching the door close before he looks down at you. “How long have you been awake?” He chides upon seeing your very much awake eyes on him. 

“Long enough,” You respond but make no action to move. “What’s at noon?”

“You’ll see.” He lifts you with ease, picking himself up in the process and you laugh, holding onto his shoulders while Johnny gags and rushes out of the room. 

In the tub, Simon sits first, letting you slowly sit with him before he kisses you. His lips and teeth pull and suck at the skin of your neck while you coo, squeezing his shoulders. The cold water wakes you up more than the kisses do, but when his hand dives between your legs you swear you’re more than awake. 

“Mmm-mm,” You shake your head as you reluctantly push his hands away, he pouts but doesn’t fight it. “I want it to be in bed. To reclaim it,” His pupils dilate at the idea, you feel his pulse against his wrist and you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“I can do that,” He nods, instead moving his hands to start washing the two of you. 

The two of you dress together in your finest tunics, adorning yourselves in the royal jewelry and colors before getting Johnny from his room. Again, Simon finds himself between the two of you as you head down to your horses. Even more so when you’re all squished into a chariot. 

The wagon of dead bodies follows behind you, the smell of death present as the townspeople watch. People gasp at the sight of Simon, and whispers of the long-since departed king's return echo throughout Ithaca. 

Simon steps onto the platform, bringing you up with him and you stand next to him while Johnny stands in front of the two of you. 

He starts a speech, making a point about the dead men. He talks of the disrespect to his house– to his family. He dares someone else to try to ruin his family, to hurt his son, his husband. He declares himself back, the two kings of Ithaca ruling again. Merciful, he calls the act of bloodshed the two of you had committed the night before. He calls the men’s mothers, their fathers, their wives, their children. He tells them they can weave their funeral shroud for them. Or else he’ll burn them to keep your room warm. 

He watches as they collect their sons, their husbands, and their fathers. He holds you close, fingers a bruising grip against your waist. 

The two of you head back; Johnny stays behind to venture around the kingdom. You think it’s so the two of you can be alone for a little while. 

—

“I’ve missed you, husband,” Simon says, his head between your legs. He’s thrown them over his shoulders, his hands kneading the flesh of your stomach. He’s dreamt of this sight for two decades and yearned to dive his head between your legs again. Savoring the taste, feeling the way you’d clench around him. 

“I’ve missed you, husband,” You parrot, reaching down to hold his chin. He leans into the warm touch, eyes closing as he savors it. You trail your hand up, holding his hair as he dives down. You gasp when he presses his tongue flat against you, slowly dragging up and down while watching you. 

“I’m yours,” He murmurs, pressing sloppy kisses against your warmth while you twitch under his hold. “Only yours.” You pant, holding the cotton sheets for a reprise as his tongue makes figure eights around you, how he sucks and nips at your sensitive bud. He moves, sliding a finger into you; his eyes stuck on your face as your back arches. It’s an adjustment, just as it had been the first time you’d done this. 

Your body had almost forgotten the feeling of his fingers inside of you, how skillful they’d been during your marriage. How he knew your body inside and out, what points to press on, and how fast to go. He maintains a rhythm that makes you cry, your arm across your eyes as you try to compose yourself. Not let yourself come undone so fast. 

“Simon,” You breathe, trying to get to your elbows but he starts moving his finger. He's pushing and pulling, curling inside of you and it makes you fall back on the bed. He shudders, that tone in your voice, that feeling on his finger, the taste on his tongue. It’s all he’s ever wanted; it’s what kept him going all these years. “I need you,” You cry, eyes closed as your stomach tightens. He adds another finger, the added pressure makes your jaw drop. 

“You have me,” He swears. “Look at me, please,” You try, honestly you do, but the tightness reaches a high and your eyes screw shut. Your fingers tighten around his hair, your voice echoes in the room and Simon feels you clench around him. He almost laughs, not because it hadn’t taken much to push you to the edge but because he’d already come. It hadn’t taken anything, all it took was you saying his name and he spilled into the bedsheets. 

“You okay, moon?” He asks while crawling on top of you, his lips leaving scattered kisses across your body. You nod, face blissed out and eyes watery. “Can you take another?” 

“I can take a million more,” You breathe and he laughs, head dropping between your neck. You laugh along, legs raising as he bites your skin. He moves so he’s holding himself up with one hand, his other grabs his dick as it hardens again. 

“You sure?” He asks and you nod, kissing his shoulder. 

“I can take it,” You moan, feeling the tip move across your folds. It slips and prods before he eventually pushes inside in one fluid motion. Your back arches, pushing your chest against his as he fills you. 

“Full, ‘m so full,” You pant against him and he nods, moving your hair from your face. 

“Full ‘n’ tight f’ me, yeah?” He teases, slowly rolling his hips against yours. He relishes in watching your expressions, how your mouth drops open and you’re unable to control the sounds you make. “Waited so long f’ me, didn’t you?” As he’s speaking, he raises up from you, his right hand holding your stomach down while the left starts rubbing soft circles on your clit. “So patient, my love. Thank you.” 

His eyes dip down, looking at the bulge in your stomach as he slowly enters and exits you. He moans at the sight, eyes closing for a brief moment as he begins to pick up pace. You struggle to look at him, one hand holding the wooden headboard behind you while the other loosely holds the wrist that’s circling you. 

“Missed you s’much,” He moans. “Missed all of you.” He slurs, leaning down to kiss you. He bites your bottom lip before his lips capture yours, his hips pressing against your own with each thrust. “Gods, you’re so tight.” He grunts as he pulls away, moving your left leg to be over his shoulder while the right leg sits at his hip. He speeds up, twitching as your moans only grow louder. Your nails drag against his chest and circle to his back. 

He feels his scars under your nails, the sensitive skin prickling hot as you open his flesh. He hisses, the pain far easier to manage than anything he’s faced while away but so different. So loving. 

“Inside me,” You moan, finally able to look at him as you bite your bottom lip. It’s throbbing from the pain of him biting it but you don’t care. “Inside me, Si, please.”

“Who am I to deny you, my king?” He grins and then drops his head down to your neck, feeling your walls tighten around him. You hear him whimper and moan against you and it only eggs you on. He’d chased that feeling for years, spilling inside of you as your high starts approaching. He continues for you, continuing his bruising pace until your body stops moving, your mouth falls open and your breathing goes ragged. Tenderly, as he always used to do, Simon holds you close to him. Your head rests against his chest so you can listen and feel his heart beating against your ear. 

His hand stops circling your clit as he slowly pulls out from inside you. The sounds that come from him and you spur him on more but he contains himself. Instead, he watches as his cum leaks from you. On instinct, he pushes it back inside, loving the way your legs twitch when he does. 

“Do you need a break?” He asks, eyeing the sweat on your brow. You inhale, thinking about it before shaking your head. 

“I can take more,” You swear and he raises his eyebrow. “Please, Simon.” 

“Your wish is my command.”

[simonsrileyhusband]

Helloo!! Could we get nerd!ftm!reader x simon, pleaseee??? - reader would be talking a lot about his special intrest in the evening and simom would get bored and start to tease reader. But simon would want reader to keep talking while he playing with his €lit 💗 thank youu (LOVE YOUR WORK!!) - 🍀

nsfw

"mhm, what did ya' say love?" he asks, his breath hitting your neck, his hand buried deep inside your underwear, drawing little cirlcles on your clit.

"simon-"

"tell me, i couldn't hear ya" he mumbles, kissing your neck softly.

"i-i said that max verstappen got a new dog."

"oh, did he now?... interesting." he actually didn't care, he was too focused on making you stumble on your words or become so needy that you beg him to just fuck you.

"yeah, h-he likes cats." your voice gets shaky as simon pushes one of his fingers into your wet hole.

"yeah, i know." simon whispers, moving his finger inside of you. "you gonna keep talking about him or can i kiss you?"

[x-x-nyctophilia-writes-x-x]

This is a hastily made vent fic

Simon Riley x Reader

(Gender neutral reader, reader does not have gendered pronouns, but does mention having a period)

Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Mentions of hospitalization and surgery, mentions of strained familial relationships, mentions of periods

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You woke slightly startled by the sound of the front door to your apartment opening. Quickly checking your phone you noted the time; 4:37 pm. Simon was finally home from another deployment. You moved to meet him in the living room, but before you could even make it out of bed he was already standing in the bedroom doorway, looking at you with a hint of anxiety in his eyes.

You stared back for a couple moments before offering a weak smile and a quiet welcome home. He let out a sigh like he'd been holding his breath and said “There you are, love. I'd been trying to get ahold of you on my way over here, but you didn't answer. Had me worried.” 

You checked your phone again and this time noticed that he had called and texted you, several times in the last hour. You turned back to him, “I'm so sorry, I was… taking a nap.” 

Simon continued watching you from the doorway, staring like he was analyzing you. You had the blinds closed and curtains drawn shut, leaving your room dim despite the sun still shining bright outside. Simon turned on the ceiling light to get a better look at you, and you flinched. He sighed again as he took you in, this time less relieved. Your hair was a mess, you had dark circles around your eyes, your lips were chapped, and you'd been asleep in your day clothes. He moved toward you and sat at the edge of your bed.

“Lovie, what happened,” he asked, placing the back of his hand against your forehead to check your temperature, “are you sick?”

“No, no! I'm fine! I'm just… Tired.” you said, adding under your breath, “haven't been sleeping well.” You were avoiding looking him in the eye. Simon gently grabbed your hand with one of his, and turned your face toward his with the other. 

“Tell me what happened.” 

It was firm, but not a demand. Suddenly you felt tears prickling at the corners of you eyes. You leaned into him, your head resting on his shoulder, and his arms wrapped around you, instinctively, protectively, as you started to fall apart. 

“My dad… He's in the hospital! While you were gone he was diagnosed with cancer. He got rushed into surgery to remove the tumor. In a few weeks he starts chemotherapy. My mom and grandmother have been at each other's throats, arguing about what's best for him, who should take care of him during his recovery. Grandma's even been picking fights with the hospital staff! Even before all that, I got laid off! Something's gone wrong with my insurance, and I haven't had the time to sort it out, so I'm off my meds because now I can't afford them! My period started a week early last month, and I bled through my clothes, and this month it's a week late! I really haven't been sleeping well, my stomach is in knots, so I can hardly eat! And I missed you! I missed you so, so much!”

Simon just sat there with you, rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back while you let it all out. Once you had, he kissed your forehead and said a soft “I missed you too.”

Then he pulled away slightly to look you in the eye, concern evident on his face, but layered with what seemed like a little hurt. “Sweetheart,” he said more firmly again, “why didn't you tell me any of this was going on sooner? I know we didn't have a lot of chances to talk, but everytime I called you said everything was fine. Why'd you lie to me?”

You looked away, shame creeping its way into your chest while you found the words to answer him.

“I just… I didn't want you to worry. Your job is so dangerous, I didn't want you to be distracted by my problems while you were out there fighting.” 

“Your problems? Love, no matter where I am, or what I'm doing, your problems are my problems. I'm your partner, and I'm here for you, even when I'm not with you.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up into a bit of a smirk before he said, “And I'm no amateur. I'm more than good enough to do my job and care about you at the same time.” 

You couldn't help the small laugh that bubbled up out of you at his cocky attitude, and he smiled seeing the shell you'd crawled into start to crack a little.

You sighed as you gazed up at him. “I'm sorry, for not being honest with you,” you said. He pulled you into his chest again and kissed your temple. 

“It's alright, I know. And I'm sorry you've had to deal with so much by yourself.”

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence, finally able to enjoy each other's company again after being separated for so long, until Simon began to lift you off of his lap and make his way toward the door again. 

“Where're you going?” 

“Getting my phone, gonna order that dumpling soup you like. While we're waiting for it we're gonna take a bath, and you're gonna tell me everything else I missed out on while I was away. Good, bad. Everything. Get out that scented bubble mixture.”

And with that, he disappeared into the living room, leaving you with a smile on your face as you made your way to the bathroom to run the bath and find the bubble soap.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've been going through... a lot lately, so I wrote this to cope. Cheers.

[ghouljams]

Thoughts on male squirting? Thoughts on Johnny or Simon squirting?

yeah I can think about male squirting.

can think about Johnny squirming and begging and panting, he can't take another orgasm, please hen you've milked him dry, desperately trying to bat your hand away from his cock, push your head away from where you're sucking at the head, trying to pull himself up the bed so you can't finger his tight hole anymore. it's too much with no breaks, all he can do to shake and shudder and drool for you as long as your hands are on him. his cock twitches, trying so hard to come for you, his back arches off the bed with his mounting pleas, and you get such a pretty squirt of nearly clear come from his overworked cock. he can only hope that's the end of it, but with the way you coo at him for coming like a girl, it's definitely not.

or maybe we're looking for something a little more traditional? ghost smearing his cunt against your face, riding your tongue like it's his favorite toy, dragging your nose against his short fat cock with a grunt of pleasure. never a compliment to spare when he's working himself on you, only the low direction to "clean him up" after a long day. drenching your face in the musk of sweat and slick, sucking his cock between your lips to try and coax him closer to the edge, knowing that he'll have you drink every drop of his squirt, make you lick it off the floor if you spill some, and you'll love every second of it.

yeah i can think about that.

[lay-z]

18+ mdni | cw: transman!Simon Riley x fem!Reader; hybrid/handler dynamics; established relationship; heats

Your sweet cat hybrid Simon, who goes into heat while you, his handler, are running errands all day. As soon as you finally return home, you're greeted with a needy meowing—and a sight to behold once you step into the bedroom, his scent already thick in the air.

There he is, squirming and writhing on the drenched bedsheets, pale skin flushed and sweaty, tawny eyes hooded with lust, black tail curling and bristling with excitement as he spreads his thick thighs for you, presenting his pink, puffy pussy, his engorged clit twitching in anticipation.

"Oh, lookit that," you coo, dropping your bag on the floor while his ears twitch with another mewl. "My pretty, pretty boy, all wet and desperate for me, hm? I'm so sorry for being so late."

Simon purrs hoarsely, strong chest rumbling with the sound, hoping his little presentation is enough to coax you into fucking him stupid with your strap.

[starryey]

God, think of trans dombot! Simon with a very submissive subtop! reader and you are literally a monster but you can’t function without Simon’s voice giving you orders and you would follow him without question even if it costs you your life.

Think of how dombot! Simon puts a collar with leash on you while he’s lying back in his seat with his legs spread wide for you. Your thick cock stretches his already wrecked hole mercilessly as your heavy balls slap against the plump mass of his ass over and over again.

Dombot! Simon holds the leash to keep you in check, giving you a few tugs every now and then and keeping constant eye contact. You can see his lustful, commanding eyes through his mask as your already labored breathing hitches, he’s so handsome you just want to make him a baby just as cute

You continue pounding his pussy like a vice, listening to his moans and incomprehensible ramblings until your orgasm becomes imminent and you begin to beg him to let you cum, it's what you deserve after having done such a good job on your last mission

You cum as soon as Simon gives you his confirmation, leaving your fat cock stuck to the hilt as your balls empty into his swollen and reddened pussy, he'll probably get angry as soon as he comes down from his own ecstasy, but that's not important right now.

Dombot! Simon has the leash tightly gripped with his eyes rolled up and mind totally blank, the only thing he can feel is the pleasant stretch of your cock and your baby batter filling him to the brim. Just as you had anticipated Simon scolds you a while later, but you cared little when you were busy admiring your baby batter dripping from his pretty, abused pussy

Oh how you adore this man

[voxslays]

CANDY — SIMON RILEY

PAIRINGS: Yandere!ghost x Sweetheart!Fem!reader A/N: Y’all need to relax. I’m not gonna post anymore COD content anyways.

ꨄ To Simon, you were strange. One of his teammates—an irredeemable psychopath with no remorse, whom was one of the sweetest people he had ever met? It was somewhat unnerving.

ꨄ The way you shot your opposition with a skillful ease—yet always gave him that sickly sweet smile afterwards? Ghost was addicted, like bees to pollen, like a moth to a flame.

ꨄ You were Ghost’s drug, his light that he never knew he needed. And now he’ll never let you get away. He’ll keep you with him forever. No matter what.

[dukestags]

Pairing: Poly!TF141 (Price/Ghost/Soap/Gaz) x Trans!Male!Reader (Medic)

Genre: Action, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn Romance and smut but not detailed.

Summary: Being Task Force 141’s combat medic means you keep them alive. But somewhere between the blood, bullets, and quiet nights in war zones, they start to keep you alive too.

The hum of the helicopter faded behind you as your boots crunched into the gravel. You had your rifle slung, medpack strapped tight across your back, and a thousand-yard stare that came from too many nights tending to bullet holes and shrapnel wounds that always felt too personal.

"New doc’s got edge," Soap muttered, watching you from under his mohawk and half a smirk.

"You mean he's competent," Gaz corrected, flicking his eyes from you to Price.

"Means he’s still here after Kandahar and Rio both," Price said, lighting a cigar with a tired sort of respect. “That’s not edge. That’s grit.”

Ghost gave a quiet grunt in agreement, masked face unreadable. But you felt their eyes on you—measuring, testing. Not cruel, not cold. Just...cautious.

You didn’t expect easy. You were the new guy. A trans guy. A medic. A walking contradiction in a world that didn’t always know how to handle any of those things, let alone all three wrapped in one person.

But you could stitch a wound under fire, hold a man’s hand while he bled out, and patch your own damn self up when necessary. That earned you a place in hell. Or, apparently, in Task Force 141.

You dropped your gear next to the barracks door, glancing at the four men already halfway through a post-op debrief.

"Someone bleed out while I was gone?" you asked, raising a brow.

Soap snorted. “Nah, doc. But you left me emotionally scarred.”

“I’ll put in a requisition form,” you deadpanned, and that earned you a snicker from Gaz.

Ghost didn’t laugh, but his gaze lingered a second longer than necessary. Price just took another puff of his cigar.

“You’ll fit in just fine,” he said, and that was the closest thing to a welcome you were gonna get.

Your first week with 141 was quiet, in that chaotic military way. No one questioned your skills—your hands were steady, your voice calmer under pressure than some of the grizzled vets. What they did question was how long you'd last. Not from prejudice—but from painful experience.

You patched up Gaz after a frag nicked his side. He winced when you pressed the gauze too hard, but didn’t complain.

“You always this gentle?” he asked.

“Only with pretty boys who don’t whine,” you replied dryly, and saw the faintest blush under his stubble.

Ghost was next—knife wound, shallow, but you worked in silence. His eyes followed your hands.

“You don’t flinch,” he said after a pause.

You didn’t look up. “Neither do you.”

That night, Soap offered you a drink during downtime. He grinned wide, all charm and chaos.

“Tell me something real, Doc.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like?”

“I dunno. Why’d you sign up? What keeps you here?”

You hesitated. The truth was sharp, buried deep. “I’ve lost people before. Now I try to stop others from losing theirs.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded, then clinked his bottle against yours.

The next week, you caught Price watching you clean your rifle after a mission. It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time he spoke.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

You glanced over. “You expected someone broken?”

“I expected someone hiding. But you’re not. You just… carry it differently.”

You didn’t answer. But something shifted after that. They started inviting you in—quiet moments after ops, shared cigarettes, deeper questions over late-night watch rotations.

They were protective, too—not in a condescending way, but in the way soldiers who had learned the hard way to value what keeps them human protected what they loved.

You weren’t part of them yet. But you were on the edge of something real.

Something more.

The mission was clean. No one died—on your side, anyway. When you returned to base, bruised and riding the high of success, Price called for a toast.

“Earned it,” he said, pouring the whiskey like it was water, his voice rough and low. You clinked glasses with him, Soap already half-gone and loudly daring Gaz to arm-wrestle him. Ghost watched from the shadows, eyes on you more than the bottle.

One shot turned into three. Laughter turned into touches—shoulders brushing, Soap leaning in too close to tell you how “bloody good” you looked patched up and shirtless.

“You’re dangerous like this,” Gaz murmured, eyes hooded. “Kinda unfair.”

You didn’t remember who kissed you first—only that someone did. Rough stubble, hot mouths, calloused hands pulling you between them. You gasped against someone's throat, fingers gripping a combat vest still half-zipped open.

“We don’t have to stop,” Price growled at your ear, his breath hot, possessive.

And you didn’t want to.

They took their time, like they knew exactly how to handle you. Each of them had a different rhythm—Soap, eager and teasing, Gaz smooth and reverent, Ghost quiet but deep, and Price… commanding. They didn’t fight for you. They shared you, like you belonged to all of them.

And maybe, in that moment, you did.

The room was dark, just the soft amber glow from a desk lamp left on. Your back hit the mattress, breath caught in your throat. Warm hands tugged at your shirt, and you let them—let it all fall away, piece by piece.

Soap was first—mouth hot, movements hungry, the kind of desperation born from weeks of tension and unspoken touches. His accent was thick in your ear as he bit at your neck, his hips grinding down against yours.

“Wanted this since day one, doc,” he breathed. “You have no idea.”

You moaned into his mouth as Gaz moved behind you, hands steady on your hips, lips brushing your nape.

“Let us take care of you,” Gaz whispered, fingers teasing where you were most sensitive. “You’ve patched us up so many times… time you let go.”

Ghost didn’t say a word—he just knelt beside you, mask pulled up just enough to kiss, his mouth hot and consuming, his eyes locked on yours. When he finally touched you, it was careful, deliberate, like he wanted to memorize your reactions. Your body trembled under his touch, your breath hitching at every glide and press.

And then came him—Price. Solid. Grounded. The kind of presence that demanded attention without a word. He came to the edge of the bed, watching as your body arched between the others. He pulled off his gloves slowly, eyes dark.

“Spread your legs, soldier,” he said, voice low with command and heat. “You’ve earned every bit of what’s coming to you.”

You did as told, dizzy with pleasure and whiskey, breath stuttering as the room closed in around you. Hands—everywhere. Mouths, tongues, sweat-slick skin pressing to yours. You couldn’t tell where one of them ended and the next began. All you knew was heat, the sound of their voices coaxing you further, the way they praised you, touched you, held you down like you were theirs.

And god, you were.

Over and over, they took you—each of them claiming you in their way. Soft praise, rough thrusts, gentle kisses, punishing grips. You lost track of time, of names, of everything but the burn and the pleasure and how much you wanted. How good it felt to be wanted back.

By the end of it, you lay tangled in limbs and sheets, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. Soap’s arm thrown across your waist. Gaz curled behind your back. Ghost’s hand resting over your sternum. And Price… sitting beside the bed, still watching, protective and proud.

“You still with us, doc?” he asked, voice soft now.

You gave a breathless laugh. “Barely.”

“Good,” Ghost murmured from your side. “Means we did it right.”

[thegnomelord]

if you write a thing about the creaming the zussy i will kiss ur boots

The boots better be shining when you're done.

How To Cure Zombies 101

CW:NSFW MDNI, crackfic obv PiV sex, TLOU Clicker trans Ghost, Top Male Reader, established relationship, happy ending, dub-con because Simon consented before he got bit but reader is apprehensive, zombie sex (does it count as necro?) how does this work? idk porn logic. Don't ask me how this happened, i hope this doesn't become what my blog becomes known for.

When the Cordyceps spread across the planet and turned millions of people into shambling mushroom infested undead, the world ended.

When Simon got bitten. . . your world ended.

You still remember it like it had been yesterday; He came back bloody, an empty look in his eyes as he showed you the bite on his arm. Your hands shook as he wrapped them around the grip of the gun and aimed it at his head. You both ended up on the floor with you crying into his chest, unable to pull the trigger.

You remember the resigned look in his eyes when he had agreed to let you do whatever you needed to him to cure him, but both of you knew there was no way, what made you immune to the fungus was as mysterious to the rest of the world as it was for you. His lips had been burning hot when he laid a soft kiss on your forehead, the last sense of warmth you've felt since the docs took him to where they kept the infected for study, your heart leaving with him.

And now?

Now the scientists that have been prodding you like a lab rat since Simon got bitten nearly a year ago say they have a way to bring his mind back, to get Simon back.

And the way to do it?

"So let me get this straight?" You begin, your voice tense, your body even tenser. "You want me to fuck the corpse of my lover? And that will cure him?"

That. You're not sure how the eggheads arrived to this conclusion, frankly all of their scientific jargons had flown over your head. All you understood was that the man you had fallen since the first time you met him could be brought back.

You sincerely hope you won't make some type of super fungus through this.

Words can't describe what you feel as you look at Simon's (is it even Simon?) bound body writhing on the gyno chair, naked and bare to you. You doubt you even know what you feel, hope and fear simultaneously curling in your stomach— You hadn't had the courage to look at him ever since the scientists took him away; The harsh laboratory lights make it easy to see the mycelium filling his veins beneath the ashy pale skin, mushroom caps growing beneath his pecs and across all other scars he has. Red and yellow mushrooms have eaten away his nose and spread out to follow the contours of his face, growing in a way that makes the mushroom caps blend together into a skull shape.

Your heart aches when you see his eyes haven't been eaten away yet, the once deep brown turned milky white and staring lifelessly past you, thrashing about in the bindings, rotten teeth gnawing on the ball gag in his mouth, small hisses and malformed muffled clicks echoing through the room.

You try to look down and you stop at his stomach, forcing yourself to breathe in and out slowly because your heart is beating so fast it feels like you'll have a panic attack. You have no idea if this will work and doing this to Simon only to find out it's as useless as all your previous attempts to cure him. . . you're sure it would break you. Closing your eyes and counting to ten you will yourself to focus, your eyes opening slowly and following the trail of little mushroom caps down to his groin.

It's not what you expected., but it's. . . a lot; Mushroom caps have replaced the lips of his cunt, similar to the hard growths on his head but these look thinner and longer, almost like flower petals framing his cunt, bright red at the corners and getting progressively lighter as it nears his hole. A sort of morbid curiosity compels you to reach out brushing your fingertips against the caps. They're surprisingly softer than you had expected, smooth and slick with some kind of slime. You can't help but notice how a longer stalked mushroom grows from what had been his clit.

You jerk your hand back when a second brush of your fingers makes his body to jerk back and attempt to fight against the restraints, more angry clicks vibrating his throat.

But you also notice a kind of… sweet scent in the air and it's coming from him. Cautiously you brush against the caps again, slowly dipping your fingers under to touch the gills underneath. You keep your hand where it is when he thrashes again, but you're certain that smell is stronger now, and you catch the glimpse of clear viscous slick slowly leak from his hole.

Carefully you push a finger into his hole in an attempt to stretch him out. Logically you know that he probably doesn't feel it, but it feels wrong to just stick your cock in him; He's cold. You know he's dead but you had held out some hope that he would be warmer, that there would be some signs of life despite how stupid that sounds.

He's dry right now, but more of that clear fluid seeps around your fingers and lubes the way as you experimentally push your finger all the way up to the last knuckle, and you felt his muscles flutter around you, clenching down as if trying to draw you in deeper. His head continued to thrash around, no change in the feral behavior, but you still try to be gentle, pushing one then two fingers in and slowly scissoring him open.

You pull your fingers out when his hole has relaxed enough to let you easily slide your fingers in and out, and he's produced enough slick to completely drench your hand. You try to look at him as you press your cock against his fluttering hole, but the sight of his milky eyes almost makes you soft on the spot so you screw your eyes closed and slowly slide in.

Despite how cold and wet his cunt is, you haven't felt anyone's touch, even your own, since he got infected, and a part of you feels disgusted at how a bit of pleasure traces up your spine. He continues to hiss and click as you bottom out, his hips bucking wildly you have to press them down. You set a slower pace than you're used to, keeping your thrusts even and consistent, afraid to tear anything but your fear is seemingly misplaced. He's so much wetter than he'd ever get before he got infected, slick wetly squelching as you bottom out over and over again, clicks and snarls accompanying every move you make.

You're ashamed to say you don't last long. Fuck, is he tight you've been ignoring your body for so long that when you accidentally brush against the stalk growing from his clit and his cunt suddenly tightens up like a vice you cum on the spot, your hips doing little minute twitches as you empty so much of your cum in his cunt that your balls hurt. You pull out just as slowly, both of your mixed fluids leaking out and almost getting caught by the soft mushrooms framing his hole.

You muster up the courage to look him in the eyes, and your heart breaks when his lifeless eyes blindly stare back at you.

You feel like a fool when the first time doesn't work, he's still just a body pupated by a fungus. And you feel like an even bigger fool when you agree to do this a second time.

But the third time. . .

You don't know if it's just wishful thinking but he seems more. . . alert. His head always follows you when you approach him but now his milky eyes almost seem to be looking at your face instead of staring straight through you. He's strangely still on the chair, teeth gnawing on the ball gag but he doesn't try to get out of the restraints.

He doesn't screech when you gently caress the soft outer mushroom caps framing his cunt, instead his chest vibrates with more deep clicks. Nor does he start to wildly writhe on the chair when you slowly sink a finger into his cunt, finding it's already wet with slick. If anything he almost seems to chase(more like stumble) after the sensation, his hips doing small little movements to push your finger deeper into him.

Emboldened by childish hope you do something you hadn't before and reach with your other hand to slowly trace the long stalk of the clitshroom (not a term you coined), before rubbing the base of the cap like you would your own cock.

You nearly jump out of your skin when the gentle pressure of your fingers makes him buck into your hands and let out an ear-piercing screech that the gag has trouble muffling. You pull your hands away and that worsens the problem, the shrieking turning into literal chest rumbling snarls as Simon starts to struggle against the bindings.

Panic rushing down your system you put your hands were they were, gently stroking the 2 inch long mushroom growing from his clit. His hips buck up to chase after your hand, the snarls reverting back into shrieks, but as you stroke him longer they gradually die down to low pitched clicks and whistles. You're stumped; the clicks sound a lot like a cat's puff, his hole fluttering and clenching around your fingers as you slowly push them inside.

He's warmer now, not quite how he was before, but not cold as a corpse either. You know that you've gone completely mad by the fact he starts to gyrate his hips— grinding down just as you get knuckles deep so your fingers can brush against the sensitive spots inside him — makes your mind think that it's a bit of your Simon coming back.

You shake your head and pull your hands away, taking hold of his trembling thighs. You're greeted with another deep snarl but he quiets down immediately when you start to slowly push into him. He feels even tighter now, and you watch how his head falls back on the headrest, a long series of low clicks and whistles squirming past the gag.

His hips move to meet your slow thrusts, tight warm walls squeezing down every time you attempt to pull out just like he used to do. And that thought has your body increasing the pace automatically, your balls slapping against his ass, every sharp thrust hitting something spongy inside him and drawing out a sharp click, the rough pace leaving you panting.

Mindlessly you look up, too caught up in the moment remembering how Simon loved eye contact to remember the situation you're in.

He's looking straight at you.

You halt mid thrust, the low hiss he lets out falling on deaf ears as you tilt your head to the side. You're not insane, his eyes follow you. They're still milky, but they don't look through you. He's looking at you.

Another rough clicking sound leaves him and he thrusts his hips down against yours with enough strength to bruise, almost impatient. Despite how stupid it is you reach out and quickly unbuckle the gag with trembling fingers. "Si?" You say, unable to hide the hope in your voice. "Are you there?" You lean over him, looking hopefully into his eyes. "Do you remember me?"

His jaw moves like he's munching on a survivor, but all that leaves his mouth are more clicks and rough grunts.

Fuck. You are a fool.

A sob tears through your chest before you can stop it, ducking your head down to lay it on his chest. You're unable to keep the fresh tears from falling on him, watering the damned mushrooms that had taken him from you. You can't stop the sobs from coming, your back bowed and shoulders shaking as you cry just as much as the day you first lost him.

His chest vibrates with another long series of clicks and whistles, just pouring salt on the gaping would in your chest.

Your name rights through the room.

It's scratchy, rough, almost incomprehensible to your ears, but it's your name.

You look up so quickly you almost snap his neck. "Simon?" You whisper, staying in him even as you feel yourself soften. "Are you in there?" You slowly reach out to hold his face, careful not to cut your hands on the sharp mushroom caps along his cheeks.

He looks at you back, jaw moving still, but he doesn't try to bite the flesh of your palms despite your hands being right there. "Ckckck-" He clicks, pupils going from pinpricks to blown out, "Ckckrkck- Mo- ckck-ve." He manages, a thrust of his hips accompanying the order.

Your heart leaps to your throat and you can do nothing but follow it, sliding one hand down to dig your nails into his thigh, looming over him as you pull out until only the head is inside and them slam into him that there's an audible clap of skin on skin as you bottom out. A half shriek half click half "Yes!" escapes him as he throws his head back, slack jawed.

A whole range of noises escapes him as you hammer into him with all you've got, one hand remaining always on his face. You can feel him getting hotter the longer you pound into him, body shaking as each thrust nails his sensitive spot. He gets progressively tighter and tighter as you fuck into him, and you let go of his thigh to carefully strike along the long shaft of the clitshroom.

He shrieks at the top of his lungs and his cunt clenches down on you like a vice, fluttering around you and gripping your cock like it doesn't want you to pull out. It pulls you into an orgasm,

"Simon?" You whisper, staying in him even as you feel yourself soften. He's too silent compared to how vocal he had been a few moments ago. "Are you in there?"

His head rolls a bit, peering at you through through his lashes, tongue moving heavily in his mouth and lips twitching up into a soft of barely-there grin. "Cckck- l- ckckc- love- ckrk-you -ckkckrkckck-"

Taglist: @dead-end-stuff

[writing-mlm]

Hii!! This is my first time request so if you feel uncomfortable you can ignore this!

So Plus size male reader who was traumatized by getting bully in the past and body dysphoria. So he always wears baggy clothes and long sleeves shirt that cover his bruises and his body. Simon Riley is curious why reader always wear that types of clothes until he knew the reasons. After you confronted to him, he always cherish and praise you every where especially on the bed and tell you to wear more revealed clothes just for him!

To be loved

Summary: Simon’s trying his best to show he cares and you’re trying to open up Pairing: Simon Riley x Male Reader Word Count: 2.3k Tags/warnings: talks of prior bullying, sexual themes, talks of body issues, I still struggle to write accents, reader is offhandedly mentioned to be a firefighter, soft Si, plus size reader, mild hurt/comfort A/n: gasp is sharky projecting neverrrr anyway the first draft of this is gonna be part 2 that won’t come out for a while

“Nah, mate, you’ll love him!” Gaz had promised after Simon had finally agreed to a blind date. Soap was going to set it up but Simon didn’t exactly trust his taste in partners. And, believe it or not, Gaz was right. One blind date turned into five real dates and now a six-month mark in dating. 

He stares at you from across your apartment, cleaning up after a sip n paint kit your sister had gotten you as a birthday gift. He’s cleaning the dishes— well, he was. Now he’s leaning against the sink and watching you. 

Dressed in a long, extremely baggy sweater and pants, he tilts his head and tries to see your face. There’s some sweat building on your forehead and he’ll have to admit the apartment is pretty warm and he’s in a t-shirt and jeans. 

“Lovvie,” He calls and you hum, looking up from where you’re wiping up some drying paint. “It’s burning in here, you sure you don’t want to get changed?” 

“Mm-mm, I’m fine, baby,” You reply, tossing the cleaning wipe into the trash bag. He hums and pushes off from the counter, crossing the room over to you. You laugh as he hooks an arm around you and pulls you over to the couch. 

“Come ‘n’ sit, watch a movie,” He nearly begs, pulling you onto his lap. You pause, shifting so you’re not pressing all of your weight on him before sliding down so only your legs are. 

“What movie?” Plucking at the sweater so it stops hugging your chest and stomach, you look over at him. “No more RomComs please!” You beg while reaching for a throw pillow to place over your lap. 

“You pick,” He shrugs while his hands make work at going under your sweats by the ankle cuff and massaging your calves. You’d been called to a search and rescue earlier and came back with a bruised arm and leg— not that he saw. He found out because you were complaining about it over the phone. Apparently it was huge and hurt like a bitch. 

He can tell because when he presses, you wince and nearly jerk away from him before apologizing. 

“Why don’ you change so I can help?” 

“I’m fine, Si, it’ll heal in a couple of days. Just a bruise,” 

He sighs, not loud or frustrated. Just, he wants to take care of you and it’s hard when you don’t let him. When you’re in those clothes that’re going to cause a heat stroke, in pain from bruises he can’t even see the extent of, and you won’t even sit close enough that he can cuddle up with you. 

“Love,” He slowly says and you look over from the movie selection. “It’s blazing in this flat and yer dressed like it’s the middle of winter in Alaska.” 

“I’m fine—“

“You’re sweating and it’s dripping onto the couch. Don’ lie to me. What’s so wrong about changing into a bloody shirt and shorts?” You sigh and rub your face, collecting the sweat before wiping it on your pants. 

“I just…” You shrug, looking away to think for a second. “If I do change, can we turn the lights off?” He wants to say no, he wants to be able to see you. If he wanted to be around you with the lights off, he would’ve offered to turn in for the night. He wants to tell you that whatever you’re worried about cannot possibly be worse than what he sees in the field. But he doesn’t think that’ll help much, at least not right now. 

“Can I ask why?” Chewing on your bottom lip, you shrug, making a point to avoid looking at him. 

“It’s just… guys always made fun of my body.” You explain, your voice smaller than it was earlier. The smallest tone that he’s ever heard you speak in before, to be honest. “I don’t like talking about it but I just, it’s better for me if you don’t see me.”

“I want to see you, though.” He stresses, holding your face in his hands. You shrink under his gaze but he coaxes you out with ease. “And if I ever think about making fun of yer body, take my gun and shoot me in the head, alright?” You laugh and nod. He smiles, a small barely there smile that hardly moves his lip scar and removes the pillow from your lap. 

“Get changed into something better, please, love. Yer killin’ me in that outfit,” Reluctantly, you agree and leave the room to change. He waits, and then continues to wait. Nearly ten minutes have passed before he gets up and ventures down the hallway to your room. 

He knocks, once, twice, and goes for the third when you speak up. 

“I just—“ You shout before stopping yourself, hands shaking as you look at yourself in the mirror and then the door. “I need a minute, Si, please.” You don’t even know why you keep that mirror, you hate it. It must be one of those funky mirrors because you swear you don’t hate yourself that much that you don’t like staring at your body. 

And now with the bruises, the way it wraps around your extra skin, how your stretch marks seem more visible than they have the potential to have an audience other than yourself and your primary doctor. Hurriedly wiping your face, you look at your shirt. You only really have work shirts, button downs, and sweaters. Your parents didn’t let you buy normal t-shirts growing up, and you guess that stuck with you. 

This was a gift, a silly firefighter pun t-shirt the whole squad got as a Christmas gift from the chief's wife some years back. It even has your last name on the back. You’ve never worn it, though. Aside from the one time everyone did a group picture when they got it. 

“Love, I—“ Simon pauses, unsure if he’s about to make the situation worse. “Can I come in?”

“No!” You quickly respond and toss the t-shirt on just in case he didn’t hear you. “I’m done. I’m coming out,” 

“Okay,” He takes a step back from the door, waiting for you to open it. He waits a while, longer than it would take to walk around the whole apartment, let alone your bedroom. But the door knob twists, slowly. Painfully slow before the door cracks open.

“Please don’t laugh,” You urge, looking at him through the crack. 

“Never.” He promises and you nod, looking away before opening the door. The first thing he sees is the massive bruise blooming across your left leg and then your left arm. “You should be resting! Go and sit, I’ll get ice for ya,”

“No, it’s fine. I bruise easily, iron deficiency. It’s not that bad,” 

“Go and sit.” He points to the living room and you decide not to argue because he didn’t make fun of you. And you owe him that much, right? 

“Why did you think I was going to laugh?” He asks, coming back with two ice packs. He lays one carefully on your leg and you hiss, tensing at the sudden coldness. 

“Most guys do,” 

“Am I most guys?”

“No,” You smile.

“Then why?” He pushes and you realize that he’s serious— about this and about you. You might as well spill your guts now rather than later when you’re in too deep to take it away. 

“There was this guy in my high school. Mitch, he… was a fucking asshole. Star player for our sports team— I think it was basketball— he got everyone to call me Tubs or Snorlax. Someone decided to be original and write LardAss on my locker for a week straight. The school and guys were popular enough that it stayed with me through college. Every guy I’ve dated has known one of them somehow, they always slipped up and called me that.”

“I doubt a couple of names made you like this— no offense,” He backtracks, eyes wide as if he’d made a grave mistake but you shrug. 

It’s true. You hardly cared about the names, sure it stung the first couple of times, but then they just got boring. Just sounds. 

“They’d try and shove me in lockers, tied me to the flagpole using rope, tripped me during the mile run, and would loosen the screws on my seats before class. We went on a trip to a farm once…” You trail and cover your face with your hands. “They fucking locked me in the cattle chute. They took pictures and they posted it. I… I was—“

“I get it,” He nods. “You don’t gotta continue,” 

“Thank you,” 

“Don’t thank me, lovvie. Now, c’mere,” He pats his legs and you shake your head. “No, ‘m serious. Take a seat, I promise you’re nothing compared to what I have the recruits lift.” Reluctantly, you agree and let him pull you up. It hurts a little, with the bruise and all, but he puts you so your back is to his chest and rests his head on your shoulder. 

“See, light as a feather,” He says, feeling that you’re still tense so he starts messaging your sides, easing you until you’re fully relaxed against him. “Wanna watch Scarface?”

“You hate that movie,”

“I can make an exception,” 

—

When Simon’s deployed, you don’t hear much from him. There are the letters, all of which you’ve saved and cherished greatly, texts, and sometimes you’ll get a package. This is one of those times. 

It’s a plain box, crudely wrapped in tape and sent from Brisbane. So he probably sent that out ages ago since he’s currently stationed in Ireland for some intel. 

“Oh, something from Lieutenant Simon?” Your sister grins as you grab a pocket knife to cut the box open. He’d gotten you that as a gift after you spent longer than two seconds staring at it in the mall.

“Yes,” You laugh, sitting with your legs tucked under yourself. The basketball shorts ride up a little and you wince as the tape scrapes against your skin, quickly pulling them down. “From Australia,”

“Careful, it might be a giant spider!” She giggles as she makes crawling motions up your arm. “Turn you into Spiderman!” Laughing, you open the box and grab the letter on the top. Of course she leans over your shoulder to read it too. 

“Aw, he’s so sappy!” She cries. “Wait… ew, I didn’t want to read that part.” She leans back and you cackle, hiding the letter. “I can't wait to be suffocated by your legs for a change! Oh my god, you two are gross!” She gags and moves away from you, wiping her eyes as if that would erase the words from her memory. 

“Don’t read a love letter, then!” You huff, carefully folding it and setting it to the side. The inside of the package has some clothes, stuff you know he sent because he wants to see you wearing it, and others because he figures you’d like it. Then there’s some snacks, along with some lollipops with a note that your sister shouts at again. 

“You two are freaks!” She cries. “God, wait until I tell James!” James, your older brother, as if he was the high authority. 

“Fuck is James gonna do?” You huff and she just shouts, unsure of what to say. As you roll your eyes, you see a call is coming in from Simon. “B-R-B!”

“I don’t wanna hear phone sex!” She calls as you walk away. 

“Then leave!” You shout, closing the bedroom door behind you. Picking up, you flop down onto your bed as Simon’s face takes over your screen. You’re glad you convinced him to upgrade his phone from the stone ages.

“Hello, love,” He greets, removing his mask. 

“Hey, Si, how’ve you been? And I got the package, the clothes are really nice?” 

“They came?” His eyes widened a fraction as you nodded. “You should try them on. Right now, on the phone,” Shaking your head, he nearly groans and sits on the corner of his cot.

“My sister is here, she’s already traumatized by the letter and the lollipops.” He laughs at that but apologizes. “But I’ll definitely try them on later. If you’re free around ten, call.” 

“I should be,” He nods and licks his lips. It’s more out of habit than anything. He looks up and then rolls his eyes. “Ah— Gaz says ‘ello. Bloody bloke won’t leave me alone,”

“Ah, hey Kyle! Tell him to come over when you guys are done and come back home. We haven’t seen each other in ages now,”

“You’ll be busy after I come back,” He promises, the innuendo doesn’t go over your head and you bark a laugh. “Gaz can wait until the week after,”

“I really hope he didn’t hear that,” Unfortunately, Gaz pokes his head into frame and plugs his ears. 

“I hear too much about you, mate. Please come ‘n’ get your boyfriend. He talks about when he sleeps!” Simon promptly shoves him away and looks down at you before nodding. 

—

Simon’s been back from deployment for two days now, two days where the front door stays locked and your phone was left turned off. Unfortunately, you had to go back to work so you were eating breakfast while he was coming back in from his workout. You’re in your uniform, a short sleeve navy blue shirt with the station logo and matching pants with leather shoes. 

Sitting at the dining table, you cross your arms as you watch the news. They’re reporting on a fire you’d been called to the night before, it had wiped out an entire building. But thankfully no one had died, a couple of hospitalizations but nothing beyond that. 

“Sit on my face,” Simon says as he walks past you. Fast enough that you don’t register it for a second before you laugh and look back at him. But he pretends to not notice as he grabs his mug from the cabinet. 

“Wanna repeat that, baby?” 

“Hmm?” He looks over at you. “Oh, I said your arms look good in that shirt. You should wear it more often,”

“You just like my arms flexed,” He shrugs and walks over, leaning down to kiss you on the lips. 

“I just like you,”

[simonsrileyhusband]

Heeey! I love your writing, could I get ftm!reader getting punished by Simon? Maybe spanking, edging, whatever you'd like!

- New anon (⚔️) <3

nsfw (degradarion-ish)

simon isn’t a big punisher, he tries to give you a stern look to make you behave or a tiny and cold "baby" when your comments get a bit too cooky.

but sometimes he knows he needs to put his foot down and remind you why he is in charge.

he usually waits, lets you act stubborn and bratty, lets you whine and complain about nothing and when you calm down ge lets out a soft "you done?"

and that's when he puts his foot down, putting your body over his shoulder as you paw at his back, a little panic in your voice as you whisper apologies.

"down, now" he mumbles as he puts you on the ground, his big frame sitting at the edge of the bed, his big hands undoing his belt agressively, grabbing you by the hair and forcing his dick into your mouth and he is ruthless about it, pushing his hips up, making you gag and droll all over him. and he doesn't even give you the satisfaction of making him cum, he pulls away and manhandles you to lay across his lap.

"you think its fun to act like that, huh? thought you were my good boy, turns out you like to behave like a bitch" he speaks lowly and lays a spank on your ass, pulling your pants down along with your underwear.

simon makes you count, and acts like he didnt hear so he does it again and again and again. until you are squirming and begging for him to be more tender.

he isn’t.

simon pushes you into bed, going down on you and pushing two thick fingers inside of you. "yer fucking wet, d'you want this? thats why you act like a fucking brat all the time, huh?"

his trust are ruthless and deep, making you scream and gasp. his other hand slapping your sensitive clit. "hold it, you dont get to feel good tonight"

[cupidsworstcrime]

FTM!Simon x f!reader

thinking about this....

smut under the cut

You were straddling his lap.

You've been together for months and he's been putting off sex, cause sex meant telling you. But, fuck... How can he resist you?

God, that look in your eyes—half-lidded, wicked, hungry. Your fingers were already under the hem of his shirt, dragging it up like you were unwrapping a gift you’d wanted for years. And he let you, because he couldn’t bring himself to stop you.

Because this was everything he wanted—you, pressed up against him, whispering dirty little things in his ear, mouthing along his throat like you were tasting him.

Your hips rolled down against his and he felt himself get slick, even as a bolt of anxiety shot through his gut.

You don’t know. You don’t know what’s under these pants. And when you do… are you gonna look at me like I’m a fraud?

He clenched his jaw. He knew he had to say something. But then your mouth was at his neck again, your tongue flicking his skin, your hand palming him through his pants with a pleased little noise.

When you feel nothing—certainly not the bulge you were expecting—you pause for a second, then purr softly, "Not excited yet, baby?"

That was the tipping point. He grabbed your wrist—not harshly, but firm. And suddenly you were looking up at him, confused, cheeks flushed, pupils blown.

“Wait,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “I… I need to tell ya some'ing b'fore this goes any further.”

Your eyes searched his face, waiting. He swallowed thickly.

"I kinda... I kinda don’t have a dick?”

He cringes at his own awkwardness and the silence that followed made his stomach twist.

“If that’s a dealbreaker, I ge' it. Just… tell me now.”

Your expression didn’t shift the way he feared. No pity. No disgust. Just heat. And something more dangerous.... desire. You didn't even flinch when he said that.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“You think I only want you for your dick? No, Simon. I want you. All of you. Now shut up and let me make you feel good.”

His breath hitched as you pushed your hips against his again, grinding slow, unhurried—like you knew what that kind of friction did to him. And you did. You felt him, every twitch, every tremble under your hands.

Fuck. You’re not pulling away.

You kissed him—deep, open-mouthed, like you wanted to consume him. Your fingers slid under the waistband of his sweats, not rushing, just exploring. And he let you. It was terrifying. And it was liberating.

Your voice was a low murmur against his jaw:

“Tell me what you like, Simon.”

Not what you expected, not what he should be into. What he liked. You wanted him—really him. The way no one had before.

“You sure?” he rasped.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

So he nodded, barely, throat tight. His heart was racing, nerves and need tangled up in a way that made his skin burn.

“Touch me,” he said. “Just—go slow.”

Your hand slid lower, and when your fingers finally cupped him, the real him, through soft cotton, his hips jerked involuntarily. The moan that left him was low, strangled, real.

“There,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, yeah, righ' there…”

You nuzzled into the side of his neck, your voice a dirty little whisper:

“You’re so fucking sexy like this, you know that? Doesn’t matter what’s between your legs. You’re dripping for me, Simon.”

His whole body tensed at that, hips grinding up into your palm with a groan. That praise—God, it did things to him. No hesitation. No weirdness. Just filthy, honest want.

You peeled his sweats down slowly, reverently, and kissed your way down his stomach as he leaned back against the couch, panting, one hand fisted in your hair.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” you whispered. “Wanna taste you. Wanna hear how loud I can make you moan.”

Simon’s face was flushed, pupils blown wide. He was already so wet for you, aching and sensitive, and you hadn’t even put your mouth on him yet.

But when you did? When your tongue flicked against him, slow and deliberate?

He fucking whimpered.

And in that moment, all the fear, the shame, the doubt—it melted under the heat of your mouth and the way you worshipped every inch of him like he was exactly what you wanted.

Because he was.

You spread his thighs gently, reverently, settling between them like you belonged there. Simon was already flushed pink to the ears, his mask long gone, his eyes locked on you with a hunger laced in disbelief.

He didn’t flinch when you looked at him.

He flinched when you didn’t look away.

Your hands slid up his thighs, thumbs brushing over the muscle, and your voice—steady, soft, but thick with want—cut through the thick tension in the room.

“You’re so fucking perfect, Simon. Let me take my time with you.”

He groaned, head falling back, exposing his throat.

You leaned in and kissed the crease of his thigh first. Then another kiss, closer to where he was already soaked. And another—until your mouth was right where he wanted it. Right where he needed you.

You licked a slow, deliberate stripe through his folds, feeling the way he trembled, how his big, strong thighs tried to close around your head—how he gasped, sharp and broken, when your tongue circled his clit.

“Fuck—oh, fuck—”

Simon wasn’t used to this. Not the attention. Not the care. Definitely not the worship you were giving him now, mouthing at him like he was the sweetest thing you’d ever tasted. He was wet, aching, and already close because he’d never let himself want this before—never like this.

Your tongue flicked against him, slow and rhythmic, and your hands kept him spread wide, grounding him when his hips bucked, when his breathing went ragged. You groaned into him, the sound vibrating through him, and he nearly came right there.

“You taste so good,” you whispered against him, then sucked gently on his clit, and his whole body arched.

“Jesus—shit—don’ stop—”

You didn’t. You devoured him, flicking your tongue just right, circling, sucking, moaning into him like you were the one losing your mind. And when he finally came—loud and shuddering, hips rolling helplessly against your face—it was with your name on his lips like a prayer.

He was panting when you pulled back, lips slick, eyes blown, and God, you looked satisfied. Proud. Like you’d just tasted something holy.

Simon looked down at you, chest heaving, and for the first time in years, maybe ever, he felt seen. Desired. Worshipped.

“You okay?” you asked softly, lips still swollen, pupils still wide.

He reached down, hand cupping your jaw.

“I’m fuckin' incredible.”

And he meant it.

You barely had time to recover from the orgasm you just pulled out of him before he surged forward, grabbing your face in both hands and kissing you hard—deep, filthy, desperate. His mouth tasted like sweat, like need, like himself, and you groaned into it, dizzy from the rush.

“My turn,” he murmured, voice thick and gravel-rough. “Lie back.”

You blinked, half-dazed, still catching your breath. But he was already easing you down onto the couch, big hands trailing over your body like he needed to memorize every inch of you.

Simon kissed down your chest, your stomach, dragging his tongue over your skin like he was starving—and honestly? He was. Not just for sex. For this. For you.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, mouth hovering just above the waistband of your pants. “I want to hear it.”

The way he looked at you—eyes dark, intense, focused—made your whole body thrum. You told him. Maybe with words. Maybe with a moan and a grind of your hips. It didn’t matter.

He got the message.

Simon pulled your clothes down with a kind of reverence, like he was unwrapping something rare and dangerous. And when he saw you—laid out, exposed, wanting?

He groaned like it hurt.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he muttered, before lowering his head between your thighs.

The first swipe of his tongue was broad, slow, claiming.

You gasped—hips twitching—and Simon smiled into you.

“That’s it, pet,” he murmured. “Let me hear you.”

Then he went in with real purpose. Flattening his tongue, then circling your clit, then flicking just right—testing, adjusting, until he found the exact rhythm that made you moan his name like a confession.

He didn’t let up.

He held you there—one arm slung over your thigh to keep you open for him, the other hand sliding up to squeeze your breast, fingers rolling over your nipple in time with his mouth.

He was everywhere. Tasting, touching, worshipping.

And just when you thought you couldn’t take any more—when your body was tensed, shaking, right on the edge—he pulled back just enough to growl:

“Cum for me. Wanna feel you fall apart on my tongue.”

You did.

With a cry, a gasp, a full-body tremor—you came hard, hips rolling against his mouth, thighs trembling as he licked you through every last wave.

He stayed down until your body eased, until you whimpered from oversensitivity and tugged lightly on his hair. Then he came up, lips slick, face flushed, and kissed you like he was proud of what he’d done.

Because he was.

And when he finally settled above you, holding you close, he whispered against your hair:

“Yer mine now, yeah?”

Your answer? A breathless, satisfied yes.

You were still catching your breath when Simon shifted, his thigh slotting between yours like it was meant to be there. His skin was flushed, slick with sweat, eyes blown wide as he hovered over you—cheeks pink, lips kiss-bitten, and something wild flickering behind that gaze.

“Wanna feel you,” he growled, voice low and ruined. “Wanna feel you against me. Just—fuck—let me…”

You barely had time to nod before he was stripping the rest of the way, shoving off his sweats off this thighs and climbing between your legs again. When your cores finally met—hot, slick, aching—you both moaned.

“Oh, fuck—Simon—”

He rocked against you slowly at first, grinding your hips together, clits dragging in a rhythm that made you both shudder. The friction was perfect—wet, messy, intimate as hell—and his mouth dropped open like he was about to fall apart.

“So good,” he gasped, voice cracking. “You feel so fucking good—”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, dragging him down so your chests touched, so you could feel his heartbeat thudding in sync with yours. His body was solid and warm above you, but the way he moved—desperate, needy—made it clear he wasn’t in control anymore.

He was feeling everything.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, nails raking down his back. “Simon, don’t you fucking stop—”

He didn’t. He found a rhythm that made you both cry out, hips grinding together in tight, delicious friction. You could feel every roll of his body, every desperate grind of his slick against yours—your clits dragging over and over in a rhythm that left you shaking.

It wasn’t slow anymore. It was hungry. Frantic. You clung to each other, skin slapping, moans spilling raw and loud into the room.

“Gonna cum—” he gasped, forehead against yours, sweat dripping from his brow. “Fuck, I’m gonna—you’re making me lose it—”

“Then lose it with me,” you breathed, bucking your hips up to meet his. “Cum with me, Simon—please—”

And when you both tipped over that edge—hips grinding in a feverish, sloppy rhythm—your cries tangled together like prayer and possession.

Simon shook against you, muscles seizing as he moaned your name into your neck, and you held him through it, grinding through every last pulse of pleasure until your bodies were trembling wrecks.

Afterward, you lay tangled together, bare and sticky and breathing hard, Simon’s thigh still pressed between yours, your fingers laced together across his chest.

“Didn’t know it could feel like that,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

You kissed his shoulder.

“It does. When it’s real.”

Self Indulgent Bonus

The smell of bacon hit first. Then the sizzle. Then the warm, golden spill of sunlight through the kitchen window, lighting up the lean figure standing at the stove.

Simon stood barefoot, hair a mess, wearing nothing but a pair of low-hanging gray sweats and the faint flush of fresh, satisfied sex. His back was to you, muscles on display under that broad, freckled skin, one hand lazily flipping the pan while the other lifted a mug of coffee to his lips.

You padded up behind him in one of his old T-shirts—huge on you, practically a dress, sleeves hanging past your elbows. You wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed your face between his shoulder blades with a sleepy little hum.

He chuckled low in his chest.

“Mornin’, dove.”

You didn’t answer right away—just let your hands wander up his stomach, over the taut stretch of his chest, then cupped both his pecs with a gentle squeeze.

Simon let out a snort, shoulders shaking.

“Got rid of those a long time ago, dovie.”

Still half-asleep, you just mumbled into his back, voice muffled and thick with morning rasp:

“Just lemme touch your tits, Si…”

He lost it—laughing so hard he nearly dropped the spatula. He set it down, reached behind him to grab your wrists gently, and turned in your arms, still grinning like an idiot.

“Tha' what this is now? Tiddy crimes first thing in the mornin'?”

You peeked up at him through messy hair, eyes bleary and full of mischief.

“I’m a criminal. Arrest me with your mouth.”

He barked a laugh, leaning down to kiss you, one hand sneaking under the hem of the shirt to grab a handful of your ass.

“You keep talkin’ like that, we’re not eatin’ breakfast."

You gave his chest one last greedy squeeze.

“Worth it.”

i am so so so so so so so normal about this i swear im not insane .... also, i figured out how to em dash and im making it your problem.

Part 2

[dimlylittorch]

18+ drabble MDNI

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x pre-op!transmasc!sweetheart!reader

My Masterlist🌱

small synopsis: so.. hear me out. reader with daddy issues x simon ‘ghost’ riley with mommy issues (2k+)

the dynamic between the two of you was like night and day. He was big and broad and rough around the edges. Meanwhile you were a sweet, pretty little thing that had fallen right into his lap. He wasn’t sure what to do with you at first- you seemed breakable. And he wasn’t exactly known for his gentleness.

The way you met was.. a little less cute than a typical meet cute. It was slightly on the creepy side- but hey, neither of you objected. You had been riding the subway, hand wrapped around one of the poles since all of the seats were full. At one rough stop in particular you’d lost your grip, landing right into Simon’s lap. On instinct his arms had wrapped around you, and when you froze he just.. didn’t move. He would’ve pulled away if you’d moved away- but you hadn’t. You just- sat in his lap. Like you belonged there.

Now, little did he know you had a bit of a fawn response in situations. You usually submitted to what the other person wanted, it taking a small while to gather yourself and work past the anxiety surrounding confrontation. When you felt his arms around your waist, you couldn’t help but go with it, sinking into his grip. You were already touch starved- why not let some big guy on the subway hold you for a minute?

The two of you were at a loss for words, and no one seemed to notice you were out of place. No one could see the flush on his cheeks under his mask, and no one seemed to care how you squirmed in his lap ever so slightly, making him take a deep breath. Anytime the car jostled he held you a little tighter, one of his hands gripping your thigh to keep you nice and steady in his hold.

When it was time for you to get off at your stop, you gently moved to get up, heading for the doors. It wasn’t until you were on the platform that you realized he followed you. Turning and looking up at him, you can’t bring yourself to say much, shying away from the embarrassment of it all. Maybe you just happened to be heading in the same direction?

Well.. next thing you know he’s at the door of your apartment building with you. You finally stop and look up at him, the shyness clear in your eyes.

“You sat in my lap.” He said blankly, his eyes on your own.

A pause, followed by your small voice. “You let me.”

Another pause.

“You were warm.” You whispered faintly.

Was it healthy to get this easily attached to the large, hulking man you just met? Probably not. But that was kind of hard to think about when he was on his knees, face buried against your boycunt on your couch in your apartment. His mask pulled up, arms wrapped around your thighs to keep you within reach. Your pants and underwear were thrown somewhere onto the floor, your dignity no where to be seen either.

Christ, here you sat letting some big strong man take care of you, giving you exactly what you’ve needed for months on end. Getting eaten out was nice enough, but feeling protected? Cared for? Fucking hell. Dad sure did leave you with a hell of a lot of unsolved issues, didn’t he? Settling for some stranger who probably didn’t give a damn about you- but fuck did he feel good.

Meanwhile Simon was going through a very similar thought process. His mommy issues were a mess, not easy to explain and not easy to work through. Constantly grappling with an inherent need to protect someone, almost to make up for how his mother never protected him. He’s felt emotionally stunted compared to his peers, struggling to show affection in a ‘casual’ way, always going all or nothing. It’s hard to understand something you lacked for a large portion of your life.

And now that led him to kneeling on some guys apartment floor, eating his cunt like there was no tomorrow. He just wanted to make someone happy- to make someone feel good for once. He could never satisfy his mother- he was never good enough. But with how you seemed to be enjoying this? Fuck, consider his ego stroked. Which arguably felt better than having his cock stroked. What he never expected- was how fucking good it felt when your fingers trailed along his skin, finding the patch of hair that was now exposed at the base of his neck and tenderly combing your fingers through it. That gentle touch? That he should’ve gotten from a loving mother, and has been ever so deprived of? Fucking hell. You were not good for him- he could already tell.

You tried to hold it in- you really did. It had turned a few guys away, and it wasn’t like you had very many sexual encounters. Successful ones, anyways. Your thighs clamping around his head, muscles spasming as you start to babble. “oh f-fuck- d-daddy” you hiccup in a weak voice, trying your best to keep that embarrassing dirty secret hidden away. You hadn’t seen his face, but you could tell just by the scars on his neck that he was a good bit older than you, satisfying that little empty spot in your chest that craved the care of an older figure.

Hearing your words he groaned against your boycunt, letting your thighs tighten around his head. Nothing felt as good as this- knowing he was probably corrupting some sweet little thing from a nice family, making that sweet boy cry out for daddy like he was all he could ever need. He was completely roped into this now, letting his inner urges get the best of him, simply wanting to keep you safe and in his arms. “fuck me.. good boy” he grunted against your cunt, his eyes rolling back slightly from how good you tasted.

You choke out another whine, tensing up in his arms at his words- praise. The one catalyst that really sent it all into motion. Quivering in his arms, pleading for your daddy as tears start to form in your eyes from pleasure and pulling him as close as his mouth can get to your pussy. He takes it all with stride, getting you to your peak as quick and dutifully as he could.

After you had cum he sits back on his knees, looking up at you with his chin covered in your slick. He’s fully prepared to go another round, wanting to fuck you until you can’t walk. But he watches as you tiredly sit up, eyes hooded from trying to come down from your high. You look down at him for a moment before leaning forward and gently kissing him, your hand on his cheek. “Was.. that okay?” You murmured softly. “For you?”

He looks up at you, body frozen as he tries to process your words. He’d never been touched this softly. And you’d never had someone big and strong to dote on. He nods ever so slightly as he gazes up at you, trying to calm himself down. He quickly snaps out of his haze when he sees you try to stand up, heading for the kitchen on wobbly legs. He shoots up after you, grabbing your waist and pulling you against him. “What do ya need?” He asks quickly. “Don’t- don’t do that” he stutters out when you try to push past him, so he simply holds your arms a little tighter.

“I’m just gonna get you some water” you murmured softly, looking up at him for a few quiet seconds. “And some pain killers. Either your jaw or your knees will be hurting soon.”

He stares at you blankly for a moment before bending down slightly, pressing you against his hulking form and picking you up. When you squeak with surprise he lets out a faint chuckle, walking you down the hall and stopping when he sees your bathroom. “Yer wet.” He murmurs, more to himself than anything. He wanted to care for you- but he wasn’t exactly well versed in how to do that. “Do ya want a shower?” He asks lowly as he sits you down on the toilet lid. “Or just.. ya know. Dry off.”

You smile at his words, pointing to one cabinet in particular. He quickly stands and opens it, his face being met with different medicines- not the towels like he wanted. “Take some of those pain killers.” You muse softly. He grunts, closing the cabinet back and looking for towels in one of the other ones. You sigh, head tilting as you look over him. “You’re silly.” You smile faintly. “All big and tough.. it’s cute.”

As he reaches for a towel he pauses at your words, sighing faintly. “Can tell yer still all fuzzy.” He mutters. “Made you cum so good yer calling me silly? Christ- ‘m better than I thought.”

You giggle sweetly, gazing up at him as he rolls up his sleeves, his muscular forearms on display and littered with different tattoos. You smile faltered when you brain started to feel a little less hazy, realizing everything he was doing for you- and you hadn’t even returned the favor. You quickly felt that pain in the pit of your stomach- you weren’t kind enough. Polite enough. Sweet enough. “I’m sorry.” You whisper faintly as he shifted to stand in front of you, a towel in hand.

His head cocks to the side in slight confusion as he stares down at you. “F’r what?” He mutters as he sits you up slightly to get the towel underneath you.

“W-well-“ you stutter softly as he gets another cloth, running warm water over it. “You didn’t cum.” You spit out, eyes downcast with slight embarrassment. “I didn’t.. help you cum.” You reiterated.

He hums as he shifts to sit on the edge of the bathtub, his hulking form taking up a good bit of the space. His eyes trail over your form, a hint of a smile on his lips as he hands you the warm cloth. “Looks like w’re in quite tha pickle now, ain’t it?” He muses.

You can’t help but laugh when you look at him, seeing the playful smile in the corner of his lips. It wasn’t hard to make you laugh- not by any means. But it was hard to make you truly laugh.. not just a fake one to appease others. “Okay- okay, I kind of see how stupid that sounded.” You smile as you take the warm rag from him, cleaning yourself up slightly. “I just.. you know.” You murmur. “Do you want me to buy you dinner? Or- I don’t know.. take you out?”

Simon’s heart stops for a second. No one had ever offered to buy him dinner- not a friend, not a date. Half of the time his mother didn’t even bother to feed him. “I.. don’ think yer in much shape ta go anywhere, love.” He murmurs, gesturing to your legs. He could already tell you still would have trouble keeping steady for the next small while.

You glance downcast, nodding slightly. “Yeah.. yeah.” You murmur. After a small moment of silence, you shyly glance up at him. “You could.. stay. For a while.” You said softly. “We could order something- watch a movie. Just- just if you want to. If this is a one and done kind of thing for you- I get it.” You ramble.

He hums thoughtfully, glancing downcast. He’d never stayed after a hook up before. It wasn’t really his style- he’d give someone a mind blowing orgasm and then disappear, never to be seen again. He’d always vanish before they could ask for more- which would eventually turn into asking for too much. But you.. you felt different. “I reckon I could stay for’a while.” He murmurs.

You smile sweetly as you clean yourself up, tossing the towels into the hamper and opening the cabinet to grab the bottle of pain killers, your legs still wobbly. You toss them to him and he catches them in an instant, an amused smile on your face before you move across the hall into your bedroom. He huffs, standing up and following you, sitting on your bed while he watches your ass as you bend over.

Shifting through your dresser drawers, you pull out a pair of briefs, followed by a pair of sweatpants and two sweatshirts- both noticeably oversized for you. You hand one to him and his eyebrows narrow, looking down at the design on it. ‘Hopeless Romantic’ it read in red letters with a little heart. He grunts, looking up at you with disbelief. “Tha’ fuck is this?” He mutters.

You grin as you look down at him, putting on your briefs, followed by your sweatpants. “I figured you didn’t have anything to sleep in” you chuckle. “And you’re a big guy- that’s like the biggest one I’ve got, alright?” You muse as you turn your back to him, slipping off your shirt and putting on your own sweatshirt. Simon very begrudgingly put it on, and he hated to admit it fit him quite well.

The two of you ended up on the couch with a pizza and drinks, watching some crappy rom com you had picked out. Before you even got half way through you dozed off against Simon’s shoulder, and he swears he’s seen heaven now. This was it. Good luck getting rid of him in the morning <3

[ryanisasleep]

FTM READER

YES....

I just came across a video of a trans man (ftm) saying that he could not stretch his arms after his top surgery so like...trans reader? This may be goofy af

Like chat you just got your top surgery, you can finally walk around shirtless but you are hungry. Now you go to the cupboard (is that what is it called?) and you need to feed your mistical cravings.

Sadly the food you need is on the highest shelf and you just stare at that like the monster under the bed stares at the hand of the kid that his touching the ground while asleep.

You just stare at that, the mythological box of food you need being just a few bits away, normally you could've just gotten it by reaching it with your arms but no, not now.

Enters Ghost

"Got those godly cravings again?"

"Yes."

"Need help reaching it?"

"Yes"

You stare at that like a mad man. He swore he could see a thin string of saliva escaping your parted lips.

*He gets it*

"There you go"

"Yes"

"What is this?"

"Food for the growing man"

"...."

"I'll be able to know what is like to have a cold as a man...."

"...."

You go out munching a good chunk of food

Ghost is there like: "have the hormones messed up your ADHD brain again?"

"Yes"

-The end

-yes

[chamomiletealeaf]

i need trans ghost to scissor me

-🐇

So real. He’d be so dominant and mean about it too. All like:

“Yeah that feel good? Rubbing myself on your little clit?”

He’d laugh at you too all condescendingly when you moan and cry tears of pleasure as he holds your leg up and over his shoulder under him as he grinds down against you. Hard and rough.

“What, gonna cum already? Aww little birdy can’t handle it can she. Can’t handle a big man rubbing his cunt against hers hm?”

[rodricksreid]

Munch Simon Riley x FtM! Reader

shout out to my trans men i adore yall

cw — oral (reader receiving) , use of the word ‘ cunt ’ and ‘ pussy ’ , brief dirty talk [maybe?] , sub! simon if you squint.

Your breath hitched as you felt the familiar sensation of Simons flattened tongue against your slit, your thighs instinctively trying to close around your boyfriends head until they were forced open once more.

“ No, love. Keep ‘em open. Gonna go down on you ‘till I’m satisfied. ” Simon rasped, his calloused fingers digging into the plush of your thighs before immediately burying his face against your center.

The tip of his thin nose nudged against your sensitive clit, eliciting another soft gasp from you. Simons tongue prodded at your entrance, flicking against you in an almost playful manner before pushing in. He forced his tongue deeper and deeper, feeling the slight burn from the strech on the underside of his tongue.

But he didn’t care about that.

All he cared about were those pretty sounds leaving your throat, the way your gummy walls squeezed around his tongue, the breathy sound of his name, how fucking good you tasted.

His large palms found their way to your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh so hard you were almost certain that you were going to have some sort of finger-shaped bruise on your body.

Fucked out in your bliss, you heard the muffled sound of Simons moan, his brows knitted together in concentration as he focused all of his attention of tongue-fucking you. To this day, it was kind of surprising that Simon could moan and probably even cum just from going down on you.

“ Fuck, you taste so good. Wanna eat this pussy for hours. Keep my face between these pretty thighs. ” He rasped, his voice vibrating against the sensitive nub of your clit.

Your stomach tensed slightly, back arching off the bed as you felt the familiar knot of release straining in your lower abdomen. Your breath quickened, chest rising and falling faster and faster until the knot finally snapped. You let out a muffled squeal, trying to stifle it as you bit down on your lower lip.

Simon looked up from where his face was buried in your cunt, his brown eyes staring straight up at you as he watched your own eyes roll back in ecstasy. The familiar crows feet on the outer corner of his eyes formed, a smirk forming on his lips as he licked you through the orgasm until you let out a little over-sensitive whimper, letting him know you’d had enough.

He propped his chin up on your thigh, the lower half of his face shiny with your juices. You panted as you recovered from the height of your pleasure, gazing down at Simon as you brought a hand down to cup his cheek. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out a little sigh of relief.

“ Did I do good? ” Simon asked quietly, his voice rough.

“ Mhmm. ” You responded hazily, mind still mushy and trying to piece itself together.

“ Then we can go another. ” He said, his tone almost excited as he hooked his arms around your thighs once more.

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