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#simon riley x f!reader
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thinking about Simon putting you in a headlock fucking you from behind and you’re just drooling because it feels so good :(
MDNI. controlled asphyxiation, doggy, rough sex :3
his prick is delicious as it drags itself back and forth through your tight cunny, slurping and suctioning him deeper so his fat cockhead punches your cervix with each thorough burial. and your cunt isn’t all that drools — gawking around his veiny width as it swallows him down, but your mouth is stretched open too; spilling saliva like a leaky tap because his dick feels so luscious slamming into your backside :(
you garble, eyes pricking with joyous tears and the deprivation of oxygen because his thick meaty arm has hooked you by the neck — capturing you in a secure headlock whilst his other arm fastens you like velcro to his front. your moans are choked and staggered, breathing laboured from the pressure on your throat but also the dizziness that’s amplified by your lightheadedness and slight circulation cut-off <33
your pillow is sodden thanks to your dribble and cries, the sheets you kneel upon dampening by the second from the juices that spew from your pussy as his fat cock continues to ram into it, pumping your cum out onto the mattress like a plunger :((
“so good, si. . .” you mewl, whimpered; little fingers clinging to his inked flesh of his flexing forearms — bicep tensing against the bobbing surface of your reddened, sweaty neck. “so so good- mm. harder~” your whines are lazy and drunken, barely audible and completely lacking in coherence. he ups his pace, hips slapping with harsher vigour against your arsecheeks, clapping bruises onto them like lewdly stamped reminders.
your pebble nipples graze the bed beneath, breasts kissing the sheets when he pushes your front further onto it, your back arching into him. he tucks you more snugly into his beefy stomach, sweat mingling with the crude sheen across your back, balls smacking your sloppy cunny whilst his spongy head massages the roof of your cunt with his agonising treatment of your hole.
your chin falls even limper than before as you gape — cumming so hard, jaws completely slack as you gasp against the crook of his thick arm. you love it when he’s rough like this, rutting into you from behind like a male in season whilst he expertly compromises your vitals. you feel faint and fragile — head spinning and vision ameliorated. you’ll continue to drool down his arm, your sticky pussy weeping down his milky shaft and all over his round heavy balls until you pass out from too much air denial :((
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dmitriene · 8 hours
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cw: mentions of groping and attempts at harassment, reader stays her ground, simon falls in love and kind of a horny mutt, smut is not the main curse.
simon keeps his distance from relationships, he has enough problems of his own, he rarely stays in one place because of deployments, and very often risks his life.
until simon observes a situation in a bar that turns his world upside down, making him feel a prickly warmth in his lower stomach and a whirlwind of thoughts consisting only of the same words
— “she's gonna be mine„
it was so easy, you only had to go to the bar for the first time in a long time to unwind, only to get caught by an annoying, nasty guy who didn't want to stop trying to touch you and whisper nasty compliments to you like — “your tits looks so good in this shirt„ “wanna get out of here with me?„ “don't play hard to get„
until it all turned into screams and pig squeals, as soon as you poured the drink from your hands on his gross self, ruining not only his clothes, leaving them sticky, but also his image, attracting the attention of almost all the customers and also the bartender, a clever one who immediately called for help to get the man out before he did anything worse, not to mention his squeals about — “fucking bitch! that how you react to some attention?!„
it's really easy, responding with rudeness to rudeness and not tolerating humiliation just for the sake of saving face, not even yours, in public, instead keeping your nerve and addressing rude people in their own language, before wiping your hands with a napkin and going back to relaxing by ordering another drink.
and simon is not at all ashamed to admit to himself that the whole performance, carefully followed by his thawed chocolate eyes, not only made him aroused, which caused him to fidget in the seat, spreading his legs wider and squeezing the prominent bulge in his pants, tenting against the fabric of the black jeans —
but also allowed him to imagine how it would have been in different circumstances, yelling at him about completely different things — while being on top of him, riding his fat cock with rough rolls of your round hips and loud slaps of your plush ass against his relaxed, muscular thighs, the warm, gummy walls of your cunny clench around his meaty cock so good, making him go delirious with just one imagination how hot you would sound with his name and orders slipping past your soft, bitten from his hungry mouth, lips — “h — haa, yesyesyes, simon! stay just like that, s' good!„
it's all enough to make simon break out of his habitual image in which he tries to keep a low profile, he calls the waiter to ask him to extend your drink at his expense, and it's really more than enough for simon, because you don't hesitate to find his gaze among the numerous tables when you're told that another cocktail you didn't ask for is a compliment from another customer, and simon doesn't hide his communion either.
he catches your gaze back, feeling a thrilling shiver in his body, and raises his glass of bourbon to the thin line of pale lips that spread into a smile of their own, accord when he sees your biased squint, but even though his slightly intimidating balaclava and broad physique, you nod, thankfully, your lips moving in silent gratitude — “thank's, sir„
that was his green flag, to sit in the bar until you were about to leave, leaving the room and his line of sight, slipping out if only for a moment, because simon couldn't let you go home alone after all that, coming out after you and as gently as possible touching your shoulder to make you turn, your gaze falling onto his warm eyes before processing the hoarse words he said
— “le' me wolk you home, hm? nothing more, jus' a safe wolk, lovie?„
and will you refuse? after all, no matter how hard you try to think otherwise, something in his whole form inspires of unexpected safety, so maybe he's the one who will be your normal company tonight.
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gloomwitchwrites · 1 day
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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader
Chapter Specific Warnings: swearing, brief mentions of terror, domestic!Simon, intimacy in the shower, hand job, vaginal fingering, brief oral sex (female receiving), non-penetrative sex, the mask comes off
Word Count: 5.8k
A/N: Part Fourteen of Ink & Needle
Simon doesn't see you again for two weeks. Amelia intervenes. Simon removes his mask in front of you.
Chapter Thirteen
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist
Repetition.
Fingers counting bottles. Counting colors. Counting labels.
White paper. Blank spaces. Pencil. Graphite tip.
Breaking. Breaking. Over. Over. Over, again.
Blue ink. Red ink. Black.
Simon counts the little rows, falling deeper into distraction. It’s a way to quiet his mind, to turn off the fucking noise that’s buzzing there in the back like an annoyingly curious bee. But all this inventory counting isn’t working. Nothing is keeping his thoughts at bay.
A week has passed. An entire fucking week and your absence is a festering wound. Simon isn’t taking it personally. Really. He isn’t. But fuck he misses you. Part of him blames himself, insisting that your distance has to do with something he did. It’s not entirely far from the truth. While Simon hasn’t exactly lied to you, he has omitted crucial information.
British Intelligence may very well be coming to call, but Simon doesn’t know that information explicitly. The situation is precarious. Delicate. The information Simon shifted through with Price, Kyle, and Johnny unnerved him.
Kit Walsh is not your local nationalist prick who spouts shit off in chatrooms or on social media for influencers to stitch. Kit Walsh moved beyond that. Beyond walking in to corner stores or a school or a church for innocent people to understand his lead-drenched wrath. Beyond a week or two of media frenzy. Beyond mugshots and a jury sentence.
This man moves between. One minute he’s supplying arms to opposing sides in another country to destabilize a region, and then turns around to whisper in some politician’s ear to convince them to “intercede” on the behalf of “global peace.”
He pushes weapons, pushes people, pushes drugs.
But he’s not a businessman. That’s just a front for his true intentions. Kit Walsh thinks on global levels and how he intends to make the world into his image. He takes his time. He observes and then moves.
It makes the man more dangerous because he also understands that acts at the local level are just as or even more powerful than the global ones. Nothing is more terrifying than when your own neighbor turns their words of hate into hateful actions.
Kit Walsh knows this.
Which is why Simon didn’t give a fuck when he received all those injuries. He thought he took the fucker out for good. That Walsh was a burnt-up corpse. Simon rarely considers any of his scars to be marks of pride. Yet the ones he received when he shoved his knife into Walsh’s chest were ones he didn’t mind having.
But none of that matters now.
Walsh is alive. And he might have fucking blown the back of Lord Archibald Williams’ head off. For what? Simon doesn’t fucking know. Price didn’t know either which means that British Intelligence likely doesn’t.
And you don’t need to know any of that. Why burden you? Why put any of these worries and issues on your plate when they might not land there at all? Why exhaust you further?
When you brought up Archie, Simon panicked, knowing you were already tired—already stressed. It’s not right that this happened to your friend, but Simon truly believes there isn’t anything to particularly worry about at the moment. That is reason enough not to dump this on you.
Simon’s fingers hover above the lid of an ink bottle. He pauses there, thinking, forgetting the number he just uttered.
Lost count. Starts over.
Blue ink. Red ink. Black.
“Fuck!” shouts Simon, his tatted knuckles turning white as the pencil clenched in his fist snaps in half.
Simon stares at the broken pencil. At the fractured graphite.
Sighing heavily, Simon drops the clipboard and steps away from the storage cabinets. He’s fucking distracted, and it’s not only because of the shit he read in Price’s file. Simon hasn’t seen you—hasn’t touched you in almost a week. Somehow, the separation is difficult, more frustrating than Simon previously thought.
He went three years without knowing your touch. But a week is now too much?
Simon clenches his fists. Releases them. Inhales deeply through his nostrils and exhales slowly through his mouth. He repeats until there isn’t any tension in his limbs and his mind quiets. Using the silence, Simon takes notes of the aches and pains. The leg that always gives him trouble isn’t hurting much today, but that might be a different story tomorrow. Everything else is dull and fine, better than it has been.
Checking his scheduling book, Simon pulls up the name of the next client, retrieving the sketches and preparing the stencil. This is work he knows. This is work that’s natural to him. Safe and secure. When the client arrives, Simon shifts into work mode, slipping into his professional mask, dipping into his creativity.
For these few hours, Simon doesn’t think about you at all and he certainly doesn’t think about Walsh. He’s only thinking about the tattoo and the client and the goddamn inventory sheet that looks ready to slip right off the desk.
But when Simon’s client leaves, and he is left in an empty shop with a snoozing Bravo, thoughts of you come roaring back to the forefront of his mind. There really is no reason to worry. It’s not like Simon is only receiving radio silence from you. You just haven’t been with him. That’s all.
The two of you have talked. Well—not extensively. It’s only been flashes of conversation, brief texts and even shorter phone calls. It is the tiredness and exhaustion that Simon hears in your voice every time he speaks with you that worries him. He knows why you’re staying away, and it’s not because of him. At least, that is what you tell him.
Yet Simon cannot help but linger in those spaces, questioning whether or not he somehow messed up. That he didn’t do enough. Worse, it’s not fair to you to think this way. You have been clear about why you’re not around, but it still chews at him. Simon stills wants to see you, to hold you close even if it’s for a fleeting moment.
He knows there is a baby. He knows you have responsibilities to your friend. He knows and yet Simon is fucking selfish because he wants—no. Needs to breathe you in even if it is just the sweet scent of your skin.
But evening comes as Simon closes up shop for the night, and there is not a text or call from you.
There are none the next day or the day after that.
By Sunday morning, Simon is boiling from the inside out, gripping his phone like a goddamn lunatic.
He hasn’t heard from you, and the few calls and texts he’s sent have gone unanswered. If he were his old self, he’d have already gone to your place demanding to see you. But things have changed for him in some respects. Simon is trying hard not to fall into old habits and behaviors when it comes to you.
Simon has failed on several occasions, but he’s trying to be better. He’s trying to be better for you.
The decision he makes is like pulled teeth. Necessary sometimes but fucking painful without the proper numbing. Simon does not go to your place. Every step he takes in the opposite direction of Amelia’s home are dull razors against the skin. He forces himself to leash Bravo, to go to Dancing Faun, to sit down on his usual fucking stool and pretend that everything is fine.
Routine is good. Routine is comfortable.
Simon is going to leave it—leave you—and give you some needed space. There is a newborn in Amelia’s house, and the last thing Simon needs to do is to barge in and step all over that dynamic just because he hasn’t seen you in a few days.
“Look who it is,” chuckles Ben, the owner of Dancing Faun. He sets down a newly polished pint glass. “Thought you forgot about me.”
Simon grins behind the balaclava, the familiar face a much-needed welcome. “You’re forgettable. But your wife?” Simon whistles and settles on his usual stool.
Ben guffaws and wags a finger in Simon’s direction. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She’d leave me in an instant if you asked.”
“Better ask her then,” replies Simon, pretending to get up.
“Oi. Sit down,” mumbles Ben, shaking his polishing rag in Simon’s direction. “Cheeky bastard.”
Ben leaves and returns with Simon’s usual full English and tea. The two of them chat, Ben forgetting not to talk politics on Sunday while Simon listens and shakes his head, knowing the big guy does it on purpose to mess with him. After breakfast, Simon starts with a pint of dark amber ale, moving on to a second as the first customers begin to trickle in.
For a few hours, Simon forgets about the outside world. He watches a rugby match. Drinks a third beer. Considers whether he should switch over to whiskey. It’s just like all his other Sundays since retirement.
Routine is good. Routine is comfortable.
Simon lifts the pint glass to his mouth, downing the last of his third drink. He sets it down on the bar top, unsuspecting of the coming intrusion.
Reality is such a fickle thing. Sometimes it is a clawing, creeping blob that lurks in the corner of a dark room. Sometimes, it is an abrupt shaking, as if hands are on you, imploring you to look.
“Amelia!”
Simon’s stomach flips at the sound of Ben’s voice calling out to the older woman. Glancing away from the television, Simon turns, seeking you. Hope expands in his chest like an inflating balloon. Sparks pop off in his head with the belief that you will enter in behind Amelia. That you will walk through the door and Simon can finally see you again.
But you’re not here.
You’re not with her.
It’s just Amelia.
Her cheeks are rosy from the November cold, and her coat swallows her up.
“I have photos of the grandbaby,” she says, voice cheery as she removes her leather gloves and stuffs them in her coat pockets.
Ben’s smile widens. “Congratulations.”
Several patrons around the pub hold up their drinks in salute, echoing Ben’s initial statement. Without taking off her coat, Amelia travels from person to person, her wire rimmed glasses hanging on the tip of her nose as she scrolls through photos on her phone. She lingers with each person, telling the same story, showing the same pictures.
Simon patiently waits because that’s all he can do. Inside, he’s boiling in an agonizing twisting of alertness that pulls every muscle in his body taut with tension.
Is she doing this on purpose to mess with him? Did he really fuck up and this is her version of punishment?
When Amelia finally approaches Simon, some of that tension evaporates. Her smile is genuine. Soothing. She’s not upset with him. If anything, Amelia is relieved to see him.
“Morning, Simon,” she sighs, her shoulders sagging slightly.
“Morning,” he replies, not recognizing the gruffness in his voice. Simon swallows, tapping the side of his empty glass with a single finger.
Amelia holds up her phone. “Interested in seeing pictures of my grandbaby?”
Fucking hell, he can’t say no to her.
Simon only nods because he cannot trust his voice. Is he fracturing? What the bloody hell is wrong with him? Is it this distance? Does Simon truly miss you so much that it’s causing him to slip?
Amelia settles herself on the stool next to Simon. Bravo’s head doesn’t even lift in greeting. The German Shepard is out, completely relaxed and dozing on the floor. With phone clutched in one hand, Amelia begins to scroll through multiple pictures. Most of them are just of the baby asleep or cradled in someone’s arms.
“Her name is Lillian,” says Amelia, smiling fondly. “Named after Archie’s younger sister. Poor thing didn’t even get to see the age of three.”
The mention of Archie’s name twists Simon’s stomach. The file, its contents, and the conversation he had with Price, Johnny, and Kyle comes creeping back, wanting to sink its claws in.
“This,” and Amelia brings her phone a bit closer. “Is the day we brought her back.” Amelia hums softly. “So rosy cheeked.”
Simon grunts in agreement. It’s not the kindest response but it’s not because he doesn’t agree. Lillian is cute. She is rosy cheeked. Simon is good with kids and he likes them. But he just wants to know what is happening with you.
Amelia slides her finger across the phone’s screen only to reveal a glimpse of a possible answer to all of his questions.
This picture is one of you. In your arms, you are holding Lillian. This wasn’t taken at the hospital. This is at Amelia’s home on the sofa. Simon recognizes the fucking fabric. You’re smiling down at the girl as if she’s the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen.
At first, Simon’s mind is steady. Resolute.
But then, it drifts. Keeps floating. Floating further away until Simon is imagining that you are not holding Amelia’s grandchild at all. You are holding your child. The one you might have with him.
The thought—this image of you—is sudden and fierce. Simon cannot shake it. His mind fixates on this future as if it’s a completely plausible thing. It sticks to him like honey. Like tar. No fingers can dig in and scrape it away. No cleaning solution could scrub it off. There is no box or hole or wasteland that Simon can hurdle this idea into in the hope that he might forget it.
It has bloomed. Flowered. Roots sinking between the soft folds of his brain.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
“She needs a break,” says Amelia, her tone drifting to a far-off place, pulling Simon from his wayward dreaming.
She is looking down at her phone. She is looking at the photo of you. Amelia glances up at Simon, her features softening into gentle sadness. “That’s really why I came. Hoped you’d be here.” She shrugs.
“Here I am,” replies Simon.
Amelia nods. “Here you are,” she echoes.
Locking her phone, Amelia exchanges it for the gloves in her pockets. Simon glances over at Ben and lightly moves his empty glass in the man’s direction. He comes over and retrieves the glass.
“She’s working herself to the bone. Doing everything for Evie and I when it’s not necessary.” Amelia taps her gloves against her open palm. “And she’s too stubborn to hand the reigns over to me. The woman needs a break. Away from all of us.”
Simon understands. You’re too selfless to step aside. You need to be forced or prompted. Amelia knows this too which is why she came searching for him. Hearing that you’re overworking yourself displeases him, but he’s also bloody fucking happy that he can have you to himself for a bit.
“For how long?” asks Simon, smothering the hopefulness that wants to burst forth.
Amelia frowns in thought. “A few days. Maybe a week. If she accepts that.”
Oh, you’ll accept. Simon will see to it.
“Another drink?” Ben meanders over from the other side of the bar.
Simon shakes his head. “Paying out, Ben.”
Amelia smirks and slips on her gloves as Simon hands off what’s owed. The tension and confusion from earlier are now raw energy, pumping through his loins like electricity. The entire walk to Amelia’s is easy, all the aches and pains in his body suddenly silent as if they too are excited to see you.
When Simon enters Amelia’s home, he finds you sitting on the floor in the living room. You’re surrounded by piles of laundry. Closest to Simon are small stacks of papers. They’re scattered off to the side in some sort of organized chaos that he can’t figure out. Your laptop is open in front of you resting on an ottoman. You’re reading emails while folding laundry.
Bravo stands to the right of Simon but doesn’t move in. He’s waiting for Simon’s command but even he can feel the dog’s excitement to greet you.
You haven’t noticed Simon yet but he certainly notices you. While he’d love to stop and just bask in your beauty, there are so many other things catching his attention that give life to what Amelia was telling him.
Tiredness covers you like a weighted blanket. You’re slouched forward, each movement accompanied by a sigh and a delay that Simon doesn’t like. His gaze focuses and it is then that he sees the slight tremble in your hands as you smooth the top of a folded towel.
Behind Simon, Amelia shuts the front door. The sound of it closing jostles you. Your head snaps in his direction.
“Simon.”
It is a relief. A surprise.
The exhaustion in your voice is cold and palpable like butter right out of the fridge. You’re ready to fall over. Simon doesn’t need to guess because when you attempt to stand, you wobble a bit, reaching out to steady yourself on the sofa.
Amelia is right. You are overworking yourself.
It takes Simon three strides to get to you. Placing a hand on your shoulder, he lightly presses, indicating that you should sit back down. Without protest, you follow his silent command, and Simon sinks to your level.
“What is all this?” he asks, keeping his tone calm.
Beneath the mask, Simon is furious. Not with you but with himself. He should have listened to his instinct. He should have given in to those old impulses. If he had, he could be helping you right now and perhaps you wouldn’t be so goddamn tired.
The sigh you release if heavy like a boulder. It presses on Simon’s chest. His hand on your shoulder shifts, cradling the side of your throat, his thumb brushing against your jawline. You don’t say anything. You’re too defeated—too exhausted.
Bravo cannot reach you with Simon in the way. The German Shepard opts for the ottoman, resting his head on it, ears drooping slightly.
“Simon is going to take you for a bit.” Amelia’s voice drifts over Simon’s shoulder and your eyes widen as you glance at the woman.
“But—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” snaps Amelia. “You’re doing far too much. Let us help.”
That’s a fucking understatement.
Simon presents his other hand and you take it. His hand on your neck slips away to reach behind you to help you guide you to your feet.
 “Go pack a bag,” murmurs Simon, his palm splaying wide across your lower back. “You’re staying with me.”
Your lips part as if to form a protest but Simon isn’t having that. He arches a single eyebrow, daring you to question what he’s told you to do.
Your mouth snaps shut.
Simon leans in. “Good girl,” he whispers.
This time when your lips part, it is with surprise. You blink, a bit stunned, and then a flood of warmth rushes up your neck and cheeks, your gaze dropping to the floor, face turning away in embarrassment.
Your reaction is something. It is something other than tiredness. Other than exhaustion and weakness. This is a piece of you he’s seen before and wants to see again. You shouldn’t be shoving it away to take care of others.
Against his chest is your flattened palm. Your fingers curl inward as your embarrassed demeanor turns into observance. You’re staring at the laundry, upper body twisting back and forth as you look for something.
“What is it?” prompts Simon, following your movements as if he can read your mind and know what it is you’re searching for.
Reaching down, you toss a few unfolded pieces of laundry aside to reveal your phone. Retrieving it, you glance down at the screen.
“Shit,” you mutter. It doesn’t light up. Your phone is dead. No wonder you haven’t been answering him.
“We’ll worry about that later.” Simon nods toward the stairs. “Go.”
Back at his flat, Simon takes your packed bag and drops it off in the bedroom. You stand in the space between the living room and kitchen, lingering with your hands clasped in front of you.
“Sit. I’ll make us something.” Simon gestures toward the couch and you slowly unfurl, nearly falling into the sofa once you get there.
Simon rummages around in his pantry and fridge, knowing that it’s best to find a snack for you to munch on while he cooks dinner. When is the last time you ate a real meal or fucking slept? Would you even admit the truth to him?
He eventually brings you tea and a variety of crisps. Your “thank you” is slightly slurred like you’re close to falling into the lands of Morpheus. Bravo curls up next to you, one paw touching your thigh while the rest of his body reclines away.
Simon stays in the kitchen. When he emerges to bring you food, he finds you asleep, grasping one of the bags of crisps against your chest. The opened end is facing Bravo and the poor dog is having an existential crisis on whether or not he should stick his face in or leave the bag be.
He should let you sleep, but Simon also knows you need to fucking eat something.
Gently, Simon places your plates on the coffee table. He removes the bag of crisps from your arms before rousing you. The meal is devoured. Tea is had. Simon throws on a movie, and you snuggle up to him, sinking into his warmth.
 This is how it should be. With you in his arms.
Twenty minutes in and you’re asleep again. Simon doesn’t care at all. You are here. You are close. You are safe. Like this, Simon can protect you. He can take care of you. Simon finishes the movie by himself, deciding that only after he’ll carry you to bed.
As he shifts to lift you, you awaken slightly, arms sliding around his neck to snuggle closer. Simon turns his face into you, breathes you in, allowing your scent to fill his lungs. You’re drifting off again as he adjusts his grip and stands. His bad leg wants to give out but Simon bites back the quick flare of pain.
Fuck that. Simon is stronger than that.
In the bedroom, Simon bends at the knees, thighs straining as he tosses back the covers on one side of the bed. Sliding you underneath, he tucks you in. You turn over to face the opposite direction, arms curling around his pillow like it’s him. He watches as you bring it closer, nostrils flaring as if you’re inhaling him too.
Simon changes into more comfortable clothing before sliding in next to you.
For him, his sleep is absent of dreams.
There are no shadows or fire. No memory. Just blankness. Nothing.
He wakes early, well before the time he actually needs to open up the shop for customers. Simon doesn’t want to. He’d like to stay in bed all day with you, but he also knows that trying to rearrange today’s schedule just for a bit of personal gratification is a fucking rude thing to do.
Simon stretches, all the joints in his body popping as Bravo’s head appears above the end of the bed. The dog tilts his head and Simon gestures toward the door. Bravo takes off, heading outside to go guard the place from squirrels.
Shifting to the edge of the bed, Simon rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. More popping but the stiffness quickly recedes.  Glancing behind him, Simon finds you still asleep. Things have changed though. The bedding is twisted around your body and you’ve removed some clothes in the night.
He cannot help himself. Simon’s gaze glides over all the exposed skin. The itch to reach out and run just his fingertips across the curve of your hip is unbearable. Simon has to clench his hands into fists just to stop himself from touching you.
Pushing off from the bed, Simon enters the bathroom, seeking a hot shower. All his clothes including his mask go on the floor. He is aching between his legs, all the blood in his body rushing happily to his quickly swelling cock.
“Fuck,” he mutters, stepping under the water.
Wrapping his hand around the base, Simon begins to stroke. The small bit of underwear he kept as a token is still tucked away in his dresser, but he doesn’t need it. Not anymore. He now has the memory of you, and the fact that you are currently in his bed. It’s enough to drive that pulsing desire higher.
Simon rests his forearm against the shower wall. He leans forward, his forehead coming into contact with that arm. He’s so fucking busy stroking his cock, that he doesn’t hear the opening of the bathroom door.
He doesn’t hear it close.
Nor does he hear the shower door.
It isn’t until your hand slides over his that Simon realizes what’s happening.
Your other hand rests against his back, splaying wide, moving up and down in gentle passes.
“Let me,” you murmur and Simon releases himself, only for you take his place, stroking him perfectly in utter pleasure.
A shiver rattles up his spine. You’re not looking at his face. You stand off to his right, face lightly pressed against the right side of his upper back near his shoulder. Lips move against skin, leaving kisses behind. You give Simon these small gifts with each stroke of your hand along his shaft.
Do you know that your mouth and hand on his back are caressing his scars? Do you know? Because Simon does, and it make him feel unworthy. Those are no longer earned marks but ones of failure.
But it’s not like you know that.
Over the scars is ink. Black ink. Perhaps you feel their lines and ridges under the tattoos. Perhaps you don’t. Yet Simon knows, and he doesn’t hate the touch. Other people he’s fucked have touched them, commented on them, tried to even sexualize them.
You’re not touching the scars. You are but you aren’t. You’re touching him. Touching Simon.
With a gentle twist of your wrist, you glide down his cock and circle the head with your thumb. Simon groans, leaning into your hold. He imagines you sinking to your knees and taking him into your mouth. He imagines you spreading your legs wide in open invitation. Of him sliding into you, watching himself disappear into your welcoming body.
Your pace increases slightly, just enough to drag Simon toward his end.
He bursts, his release marking the wall, but Simon is already grabbing your wrist, twisting around to face you.
You’re fast. Already, you have one hand thrown over your eyes, a playful smile plastered on your face.
Simon doesn’t care. Not really. The mask is just habit.
Gently, Simon guides your hand away from your face and yet you still keep your eyes closed.
“Don’t want to look at me?” he asks teasingly.
You giggle. “Feels a bit wrong.”
Simon smirks and then grabs your shoulders, turning you around to face the shower wall. He leans down, pressing his lips to your ear. “Your turn.”
Your hands go out to steady yourself as Simon slides his hand between your legs. He moans softly at the contact. You’re already wet for him, and it’s not because of the water. You’re fucking aroused. Needy. All Simon can think about is fucking you with his fingers before he fucks you with his tongue.
Simon wants to give you more but that has to wait. When he takes you like that, he needs to have all of you. Without interruptions. Without distractions. That’s how he wanted it to be three years ago at Riot Room. He wanted to take you home and fuck you on and over every surface in his flat. He wanted to make you scream his name until your voice went hoarse.
He circles your clit with his thumb a few times before testing with a finger. It slides right in and Simon feels the gentle flutter of your pussy adjusting to him. With his other hand, Simon slides it up your body to grab the front of your throat, holding you still. He presses his lips to the top of your head, not caring that the water is close to running into his eyes.
Simon begins to thrust and swirl, inserting a second finger quickly, wanting to feel how you’ll stretch for him. You whimper when his thumb makes another pass over your clit. It is sweet and Simon grins against your scalp, drinking in your little sounds.
But you are also reaching for him, left hand dropping from the wall to move behind you, palming his cock back to hardness even as Simon’s fingers fuck your pussy. You rock back, indicating what you want.
Simon nearly loses it right then.
He nearly snaps.
All he has to do is arch your hips a bit, maybe bend slightly at the knee. He’d fucking slide right in. He could fuck you right here against the shower wall, watch you whimper and beg, pinned between two hard surfaces.
You arch your back. Rub against him. His cock slides against the spot where your cunt and his fingers meet.
A vision of you clawing at the shower wall as he fucks you senseless clouds his mind. It infiltrates. Digs its feet in.
Simon nearly gives in right then as you orgasm, squeezing around his fingers. He nearly breaks the promise to himself.
But he somehow controls himself. Instead of giving in, Simon removes his hand from between your legs and twists his fingers in your hair, tugging to arch your back and bend you enough so he can reach that gorgeous fucking mouth.
His lips come down on yours and you moan against him. Simon’s hand at your throat eases, slips away, trailing over breast and waist and hip before stabilizing on your lower stomach. With this support, Simon slides his cock between your legs.
He does not penetrate, just rocks back and forth. With your thighs pressed together, and the slickness of your orgasm freshly coating your sex, he can pretend he’s inside you. Simon knows it isn’t enough but it’ll have to do for now.
The hand on your stomach sinks lower, shifting to your pelvis. His fingers find your clit. You’re already so sensitive from the previous orgasm that the second takes moments to come to life. Simon savors it, allows it to feed his own movements until he cannot contain his own. Pressing on your pelvis, Simon keeps you in place as finishes, his cock soaking in your juices.
The water is growing cold and Simon is fucking smug.
Slowly, he eases his cock from between your thighs, perfectly content with what just transpired. But his cum is fucking everywhere. It’s literally dripping from your sex.
“Fuck,” murmurs Simon, gently wiping some of that away with water.
That’s something the two of you need to fucking discuss. The first time the two of you had sex, there was a condom. This time, Simon doesn’t want there to be any barriers, but that cannot fucking happen without birth control. You might not be on it, and if that’s the case, the two of you will have to figure something else out.
You press into him. “Simon,” you groan, lips parting in wanton need.
A growl leaves his throat as he gives you what he wants. He nips and sucks on your bottom lip before drawing away, leaving you to face the shower wall. Simon shuts off the water and lightly tugs on your hand.
“Come on.”
He tugs on your hand again but you don’t move. Frowning, Simon grabs your shoulders and forces you to turn.
He blinks and then bursts out laughing. “What are you doing?” Your eyes are closed and your mouth is a thin line. “You can look at me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Simon chuckles, releasing your shoulders. He places one hand flat against the shower wall. Leaning in, Simon drops his voice to low purr. “Think I’m monstrous?”
With his words come the pebbling of your skin. He watches in real time as it fans out across your body. He grins in triumph.
“The very worst,” you reply softly.
Pushing off from the wall, Simon stands tall, shoulders squared, chest forward. “Look at me,” he says, and this time it’s a command.
You suck in a breath before one eye opens. It’s more of a squint but then you open the other, blinking a few times.
For some stupid fucking reason, Simon is a bit nervous. He’s never been nervous like this. Not when it comes to his face.
At first, your eyes widen, and Simon’s chest clenches tight as if a ribbon is twisted around his ribcage. Then, your brow softens, and your mouth forms the most gorgeous smile he’s ever seen. Your hands instantly reach toward his face in eagerness only to pause just before making contact.
The retreat is shallow. You’re asking permission.
“It’s okay,” murmurs Simon, because it is.
You close this distance and Simon turns his face into your soft hands. Your thumbs stroke over his cheeks. Your fingers trace his brow and nose. Every touch is exploratory and gentle, but fucking bliss.
“Hiding all this from me?” you tease. “You’ve been holding out on me, Simon.”
He chuckles, happiness vibrating in his chest. Clasping your hands with his own, Simon brings them down to his chest. In one motion, the two of you are coming together, lips meeting. This is all softness. All tenderness.
Simon draws back, licks his lips. “Will you go away with me?”
“On a trip?”
He nods, stealing one more kiss before continuing. “Next weekend? I can move a few things around.”
“I’m not sure,” you say slowly.
“If you say no I’m telling Amelia.”
You laugh, almost snort, and shake your head. “Fine. Where to?”
“It’s a surprise,” whispers Simon.
You pull back slightly, an amused expression on your face. Simon grins and steps out of the shower, bringing you with him. With towel in hand, Simon soaks up the droplets on his skin. He never takes his eyes off you as you dry yourself. The moment you’re done, Simon snags the towel from you and tosses it to the side.
“Come here,” he growls, needing you all over again.
You playfully bat at his hands but it’s all for show. You easily give in to him, allowing Simon to drag you onto the bed. He sighs as he pushes your legs wide, settling between them to drape one over each of his shoulders.
Dragging you to his mouth, Simon forgoes all teasing and closes the distance. Your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his head as his tongue penetrates your pussy.
It is morning.
He’s simply enjoying his breakfast.
And Simon won’t leave the table until he’s finished his meal.
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rileyslibrary · 2 months
Text
After suffering a gunshot wound, you wake up in a hospital bed with Ghost sitting by your side. Unfortunately, the effects of anaesthesia leave you unable to recognise him and, worse, confuse him with someone else.
A/N: Fluff. Based on a request I received a while ago. Hope you like it, anon!
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A machine on your left beeps rhythmically. The taste of something metallic lingers in your mouth, and the iodine smell stinks your nostrils. Your eyes open slowly, but the bright ceiling light forces them shut again. You lick your lips and attempt to swallow a couple of times. Dry. Your mouth is dry. You need water. Your hand moves towards your face, but a low, raspy voice advises you against it.
“Careful now,” it says, and a hand gently grabs your wrist. “Don’t pull the IV off.”
You turn your head towards the figure beside you and squint. It’s a man, but your blurry vision doesn’t help you identify him. Your eyes travel to your wrist and focus on the closest part of him: a skeleton’s hand.
You try to shake your hand off his grip, but it turns out futile. Frustrated, you give up and raise your middle finger at him.
“Not my time yet,” you declare. “Fuck off.”
“Pardon?” he asks.
“Not ready to go yet,” you reply, tucking your middle finger in your palm and lifting it back up again. “And also, fuck off.”
The man releases your wrist, placing your hand gently beside you. He clears his throat and leans forward. Though your vision remains blurry, you spot what looks like a human skull with a hood over it.
“How are you feeling, love?” he asks, his tone softer.
“How am I feeling, love?” you repeat. “Did Hell improve their customer service?”
“I’m not-” The man begins but pauses. He sighs, shakes his head and rests his elbows on his thighs. “Never mind.”
“Where am I?” You ask.
“Hospital.” He replies. “You took a bullet.”
Directing your attention to your body, you feel a dull throb in your chest. You wince as your fingers brush against the bandages.
“You are joking.” You reply and slap your hand on the bed. “Why? How?”
“Well,” He says and tilts his head to the side. “You exchanged a few shots with the enemy, your gun ran out of bullets, his didn’t, and here we are.”
“My gun?” You ask, shocked. “I have a gun?”
“Several.” He nods.
“SEVERAL?” You shout. “Why would I possibly need several guns?”
“It’s your job, love.” He replies.
“My job is to have several guns?” you ask. “And shooting at people?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he explains, “but it’s mainly for defence.”
“Well,” you shrug and wince at the pain. “Doesn’t look like I’m that good at defence—especially for having several guns.”
“I was really worr—”
“Water,” you interrupt and gesture at your mouth. “I need water.”
“Doctor said it’s not the time for water yet,” he replies.
“Why?” you ask, pretending to check a non-existent wristwatch. “What time is it?”
“No, love,” he replies and muffles a chuckle. “Doctor said you need to wait until you have some water.”
“You throw the ‘love’ thing a little too freely,” you mumble, licking your lips and lifting your index finger. “I’d be really careful if I were you.”
“Really?” he asks, leaning back into the chair and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Why?”
“I,” you say and point at yourself, “got a boyfriend, thank you very much.”
“Oh,” he exclaims and tilts his head. “Is that so.”
“Yup,” you nod. “And he can kill you.”
“Can he?”
“Can?” You say, and a smug smile forms on your dry lips. “He will absolutely, one hundred and a thousand per cent kill you.”
“Is he that good?” He asks.
“I mean,” you shrug, motioning at the bandages on your chest. “He’s much better than I am.”
“Oh wow,” he exclaims and leans forward. “Is he as good of a boyfriend as he is a shooter?”
“Far from it,” you reply, letting your hand fall to your side.
The man doesn’t speak. He doesn’t seem that comfortable all of a sudden. He shuffles in his chair, trying to find a better position, and when he does, he clasps his hands together.
“Go on,” he finally says. “Spill it.”
“Ok, so,” you begin, “first things first, he doesn’t listen to me when I want to vent, and whenever he does, all he says is nonsense.”
“The lad gives you solutions,” he snaps, “and you call them nonsense?”
“I don’t want solutions, man,” you reply, shaking your head. “I want him to just listen to me.”
“Even if the solutions he provides are literally the answers to your suffering?”
“Even then.” You confirm.
“Gotcha,” he nods. “What else?”
“Oof,” you sigh, “how much time do you have?”
“I’m immortal,” he reminds you, “plus the next reaping is in five hours.”
“Oh boy,” you reply. “Business not going that well lately, huh?”
“Not many deaths to take care of,” he spits. “I guess some people could use some serious training when it comes to their aim.”
“Speaking of training,” you say, “he’s always at work and never spends much time with me.”
“The guy’s trying to spend as much time with you as he can, for fucks sake!” he shouts, throwing his hands up. “He even lied to get you on his team!”
“How do you know he put me on his team?” You ask.
“I keep a close eye on him.” He replies.
“What did he lie about?”
“Your precision in aiming,” he jokes and motions for you to continue. “Next one.”
“I can’t think of anything else,” you reply. “Other than he doesn’t say how much he loves me.”
“You’re having a laugh now, aren’t you?” He says, and his tone feels almost threatening. “He’s showing it to you daily; offering advice, keeping you close to him, even risking the possibility of being accused of nepotism for crying out loud! He doesn’t need to say it as well for you to know it!”
“It’s just nice to hear it sometimes,” you sigh and twist a thread from the bed sheet. You turn your head slightly toward him, and he lowers his head to the ground.
“How about you?” You ask. “You have a girlfriend?”
“I do,” he confirms.
“Shut up!” You shout, widening your eyes and immediately closing them back again. “Where did you guys meet?”
“Hell,” he replies. “Right in the pits of it.”
“How is she?” You ask.
“Perfect.” He states.
“Bullshit,” you murmur. “No one’s perfect.”
“She is to me.” He says, shrugging.
“Do you love her?” You ask.
“Absolutely,” he replies, nodding slowly. “One hundred and a thousand per cent I do.”
———————————————————————
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groguspicklejar · 4 months
Text
[takes place right after this]
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you were going to combust. you can feel it.
the zip ties on your legs had been cut loose. but you came to realize that it was not for your benefit. your legs had been slung over a pair of broad shoulders, toes curling on his back. Gaz worked his mouth over you, his tongue stroking firmly through your soaked folds.
the other Sergeant, a Scottish man with a mohawk and the prettiest blue eyes you've ever seen, fondled your breasts and whispered the dirtiest things to you, drawing you closer to your orgasm than ever before.
the largest man, the one wearing a skull mask, watched on while Price circled your no-good husband like a shark, looking for answers. "so who else knows about the safe house?"
"i didn't tell nobody!" came his irate voice as he struggled against his restraints. you hissed sharply when the heat slinks down to the base of your spine because of having your swollen clit sucked and swirled upon by a feverish mouth.
a long moan drawls out of you, your head tipping back. delirium is starting to take over your senses. it's been building and building and for a while, they've denied your body what it needs. but now— now you think you're careening right towards the edge.
and this time, they have no intention of stopping you from hurling over.
"Soap." Price calls out, not looking away from your husband.
the Sergeant pulled his mouth away from your breast while he still played with the other. you whimpered softly, legs jerking when Gaz's fingers grazed the deepest sensitive nerve he could find inside your throbbing cunt.
"dinnae think she'll last long, Captain." he sounds as wrecked as you feel. "her legs are tremblin'."
he wasn't lying. Gaz had his arms hooked around your thighs, to keep you still. you moaned helplessly as he swirled his tongue against your clit, the fire in your belly licking at your pelvis. you catch the fondness in his eyes when you looked down to watch him, to watch the way his tongue licked through your folds.
he was so good— so fucking good at what he does. you bet they all were in different ways. but Gaz is the first to have you like this, and that is something you'll hold dearly to your heart.
you think he knows it too. when they found out that you've never had your pussy eaten, not even by your sorry excuse of a husband, he was the first to volunteer. and he took the task very seriously.
Blair fumed in his chair, trying as best as he can to kick and scream, but to no avail. the chair only makes a loud sound when it scrapes against the floor, yet he does not get anywhere beyond that. "that is my wife, goddammit!"
"doesn't look like it from my perspective, mate." Ghost muses, tilting his head. you think he's smiling underneath that mask.
"last chance." Price leans to down to look at Blair. "who else knows?"
"i don't know!"
Price sighs and goes to stand behind the restrained man, gripping his hair tightly to make him look at you.
"when she comes in his mouth," he starts, eyes trailing to your dazed expression, to the your glazed eyes as he spoke loud enough for all to hear. "we're each going to take turns with her and we're going to make her forget that she's even married." Blair hissed, eyes widening when the grip in his hair grew tighter. "and we're going to make you watch every second of it."
"hell, that's if she'll even remember your name by the time we're done with her—" Ghost cuts off when you wail, your back arching off the chair while your toes curled deliciously.
you think your head blanked. dark spots clouded your vision as the ecstasy consumed you. Gaz held fast, groaning loudly into your cunt, keeping his thumb firm on your clit while you gushed eagerly in his mouth, prolonging your pleasure. you slumped over the chair, panting deeply, when the high slowly came to a stop.
"tha's a good fuckin' girl." Soap cheered with a wicked smile.
Price chuckled. "Soap, you're first. Gaz, you're next."
"no, don't you fucking touch her—"
you were delirious and dizzy when the zip ties on your arms got cut loose. for a moment, you felt weightless, a hand cradling your head when it lolled back until you were set down on a dark surface.
someone was touching your legs, spreading you open, fingers sinking into your pulsing cunt.
"Steamin' bloody jesus, Gaz." a voice groaned. "she's fucking soaked. what did ye do tae the poor lass?"
"just a little magic trick." a chuckle followed before you were yanked further on the edge of the hard surface.
it's a desk. you were lying on a desk. your husband's desk. your eyes fluttered open to find Soap's heated stare lingering on your breasts, his cock hard and a hand cupping its base as he glides it through your slick folds. your leg instinctively curled against his hip as he pushed inside, a weak mewl escaping you.
"fuck..." his head tilts back as he drawls before he immediately starts fucking you in earnest. you don't get a chance to breathe before the next orgasm starts building up in your veins.
he's rough with you, praising you for taking him so well. places a hand on your stomach before it trails to your breasts as his thrusts hammer against your throbbing walls with a glint in his eye. he plucks your nipples, painfully pulling them, grinning when you mewl and make weak attempts to shove at his hand.
you feel it coming all too fast, your breath seizing in your lungs as the pleasure overrides your system. he fucks you harder, a howl escaping his mouth when he cums inside you. he's so mean about it too, especially when he mocks your husband.
"she's so fucking tight when she cums." he pants, grinning. "bet ye've never felt tha', have ye?"
Gaz is a little softer with you. takes his time dragging his cock in and out of you, watching your expression twist to that of pleasure. but he's just as heinous to your spouse as Soap while moans spill out of your mouth.
"you've never made her sound like that, huh?" he scoffs, chuckling with a shake of his head. he wasn't referring to your moans, but the lewd squelches of your pussy as he jerks his hips. "some husband, you are. it's fucking pathetic."
you don't know why that made you clench tightly around him, but it takes him by surprise. "oh, you like it when we talk shit about him?"
and just like that, the small comment opens Pandora's box.
"such a good little wife you are, putting up with him." he says. "he doesn't deserve a sweet cunt like yours."
Ghost makes Blair listen to every one of those insults. how his cock was only ever good for nothing. wasted on a good pussy like yours.
"aww, gonna cry?" Gaz cooed mockingly when he saw Blair's cheeks flushed red from rage and his eyes were glazed with tears.
"what a muppet." Price muttered. "poor thing needed us to save her."
Gaz makes you sit up so he could still fuck you but pressed his lips your ear, whispering for only you to hear, "he doesn't deserve you, love."
that was what tipped you over.
your breath catches in your lungs as you hold onto him, his hips stuttering when your cunt squeezes him. he floods your pussy with a muffled groan against your shoulder. your heart ached when he lays you back down and slips out of you, pressing one last kiss on your lips and handing you over to the next man.
"oh, no, ye don't." you barely had the strength to shift your gaze to find Soap angling Blair's head towards you. "keep watching them do what ye couldn't do."
Ghost walks over to you, passing by Gaz, who pats his shoulder.
"go easy on her, Ghost." he says. "she's fragile."
"noted." the masked man replies before he reaches you.
you were a little scared when you noticed how broad he is up close. he slowly parts your legs, fingers dipping inside you for a moment, a small whimper leaving your throat.
"fuckin' hell." he drones hoarsely, eyes darkening at the cum dribbling out of you. "you boys did a number on 'er."
to your surprise, he flips you over and spreads your legs. he bends one of your knees on the table
"brace yourself, love." you barely had the time to hold onto the edge of the table. a squeak bursts out of you when you feel the tip slipping inside.
oh, he's big. you breathe through your nose, your forehead pressing against the table. he pushes in slowly, drawing a strained moan from you.
when he pulls back, you're allowed a moment of respite before his hips snap. a sharp cry is heard out of you as he settles inside your cunt, humming deeply as he relishes the feeling of you.
"taking me so well, love." he begins a low pace, letting you adjust to his size. his hand grips your neck and he pulls you close, your back to his chest, making sure your husband saw every detail. "did he fuck you like this, sweetheart?"
your spine prickles with heat as his thrusts continue to increase in speed. you moaned softly, his hand squeezing your neck while the other played with your breast.
you manage to shake your head, eyes rolling back as he flicked one nipple with his fingers. "no? well, that's a damn shame."
your eyes catch a glimpse of Gaz leaning back on the couch as his hand squeezes his cock while he watches. Soap palms his cock as he was standing behind Blair, whispering something in his ear that you couldn't quite catch. but the gleam in his eye when his gaze finds yours made you whimper.
you feel Ghost's lips at your ear. "if you were mine, i'd fuck you in every position ever known to man on ever piece of furniture in sight."
you whine at the idea. of being fucked like that. of being his. of being theirs.
it makes your cunt pulsate, makes you tremble in his grasp. "oh, fuck."
his hand slides down until— your eyes squeeze shut as a shaky moan leaves your parted mouth, "ah!"
the salacious noises are all you could hear besides his grunts in your ear. his fingers swirled around your clit until you squirmed and ached, clawing at the hand at your neck.
"cum on my cock, lovie." he urges softly. "make it yours."
you think you screamed when you plummeted to the abyss. you don't know. hard to hear above the ringing in your ears, but you felt it all. Ghost gently laid you down, your breasts mushed against the expensive wooden desk and turned your head just enough for Blair to take a good long look at your dazed expression.
all the while you felt Ghost's cock plunge in and out of you at a brutal pace, making you drool all over the table until his cum bursts deep inside your pussy. some part of you felt guilty for enjoying this. yet the other part enjoyed the way your husband's face crumpled at the sight of you.
not because you were being fucked by someone other than him. but because you liked knowing he was made aware of the fact that he couldn't fuck anyone to save his own life.
"saved the best for last." you heard Ghost's voice.
you panted softly as you waited. Ghost's cum leaked out of you, dripping on the desk. you didn't think you could take much more.
you thought Price was going to take you from behind like his Lieutenant did, but no. he gently flips you on your back, eyes immediately dipping to your messy cunt.
"pretty little thing, ain't she?" he muses.
"damn right, Captain." you heard Gaz's voice, his breaths a little unsteady from where he is. "feels like a fucking dream too."
"is that right?" a dark chuckle follows the rhetorical inquiry. he's then interrupted by faint struggling, eyes shifting to what you assume is your husband.
his screams are muffled this time. you crane your view just in time to see him getting smacked in the face by Soap.
"keep him quiet." Price commanded. "i want to enjoy this as much as you boys did."
your eyes widen when he lifts your leg and rests it on his shoulder, faint rustling sounds and a belt clinking. your eyes drop low to find the red tip smearing all over the mess the others left on your folds before he taps the head on your clit a few times.
your toes curled and your head softly falls back on the desk. he presses inside just a bit, causing you to wince, the stretch a little overwhelming already. "relax a bit for me, darlin'."
he pushes deeper, your hand presses against his stomach as you whined, "i can't—"
"yes, you can, love." he draws back, giving you a moment to breathe. "just one more, come on." your eyes peered open and you found his gaze. "one more and we'll have a nice bath drawn for you and then we'll put you to bed."
you don't know how you've lasted this long. you don't even know if you're still going to be alive by the time he's done with you.
he held your gaze as he dragged his cock inside, prompting a lewd moan from you. one snap of his hips and you were already clenching down on him.
"fuck, gonna cum f'me already, love?" he hums before throwing your other leg over his shoulder and bends you in half. "we're just getting started."
a broken sound comes out of you when he really starts to fuck you like he means it. the position allowed him to sink in so deep in the way that's going to haunt you for weeks.
he rocked his hips, each thrust had you gasping for air and clawing at his arms, stroking your sensitive walls like he wanted to carve himself into you forever. your weak cries didn't go unheard as you tried to shift away from the way his cock rammed into the deepest, most sensitive nerve.
"take it, darling." his hands grip your hips, his pace becoming more brutal, a white ring gathering at the hilt of him.
"please—" you mewled, but you don't know what for.
"take everything i give you. which is more than your husband ever did." he groaned when you tightened around him, reaching a hand between your bent legs to rub your clit.
heat flared all too rapidly and you felt like you imploded. your back arched as he pressed a firm hand on your stomach, groaning out loud as your pussy spasmed around his hard shaft. your mouth hung open but not a sound came out of you as his rapid thrusts dragged out your high.
you heard a hoarse shout and the sensation of his hot cum shooting into your pussy before you blacked out.
you woke up later on the softest bed in an unfamiliar room, wrapped in a fluffy pink gown. you smelled like shower gel and your skin didn't feel as sweaty and icky as you expected it to be. exhaustion had long settled into your bones, so you don't feel like getting out of bed.
someone opens the door and enters holding a tray filled with food. it's Gaz. he smiles as he puts down the tray on the dresser. "you must be hungry."
you think you might get used to this for a little while.
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yawnderu · 23 days
Text
>Silly sex with Simon Riley. 💗
“Fuck, love...” Simon's needy voice hits your ear, calloused hands roaming up and down your body as if his life depends on it, leaving a track of fire that burns from within.
“Don't call me love, mate.” His thrusts falter for a second, letting out a small chuckle before he starts moving again, his meaty cock slipping in and out of your needy cunt. Simon's grip tightens on your body, not leaving a single inch of skin untouched.
“Don't call me mate. Feels like I'm shaggin' one of the lads.” Your little giggles hit like music to his ears, even when they're interrupted by moaning the moment his tip slams against your cervix, letting you feel every single inch of his veiny dick.
“Bet you'd like that, wanker.” Your playful insults do nothing but act as fuel for Simon, the little amused smirk he shoots you as he starts to thrust deeper into you, the sound of his muscular thighs slapping against your ass ring around the room, only adding to the atmosphere you both set minutes ago.
“'S much better than wanking.” His face only seeks deeper shelter into the crook of your neck the moment you try to push him away and call him gross while giggling, allowing his burly arms to wrap around your waist only to bring your warm body closer to his, open-mouthed kisses planted all over your neck despite the chuckles escaping his lips.
“What kind o' mints do soldiers use?” Simon couldn't let the quiet gasps take over— not when he had you underneath him, looking prettier than ever, eyes glossy from laughing and the most lovely smile he's ever seen.
“What?” You ask after a few seconds, getting lost in the way Simon looks straight out of a porno— a thin layer of sweat covering his pale skin, muscles bulging out of his skin with the strain from thrusting into your sopping pussy, his face slightly scrunched up the moment your walls tighten around him.
“Tac-tics.” You try to hold in your laugh— truly, you do, yet the cheeky grin Simon gives you is enough to make your resolve falter, giggles mixing in with the moaning at the feeling of his thick cock throbbing inside you, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks just to bring him in closer, keeping eye contact even as his eyes crinkle, deep chuckles escaping his lips despite himself.
Simon's lips crash against yours last second, part of him not wanting you to hear just how good you're making him feel, your warm walls wrapping around him like vice, making him thrust deeper and harder into you, shooting ropes of cum right into your cunt way earlier than he would've liked, yet the feeling of your wet tongue sloppily wrapping around his is enough to make him forget about any worries.
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celestialwhoree · 2 months
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💍🎀
More domestic hubby Simon cause I'm yearning💕
His wife is some bigshot in her field, fully wears the pants when he's not away on deployment. The moment he met her fiery attitude and quick wit he was whipped.
The guys (except Price, who is also fucking obsessed with his wife) make fun of him for how down bad he is.
When they're at home though? When there's no one around to judge or stare? They're fun as fuck.
He brings her coffee in bed every morning, gives her little kisses all over the forehead and nose and cheeks to wake her, fingers digging slightly into her sides so that she wakes with that hazy, giggly smile that makes him go actually weak.
Even after two years, she still looks at the small boulder on her ring finger after tough meetings or bad days, to remind herself of all the love and devotion that awaits her as soon as she crosses over the threshold of their cozy house.
When they first bought it, they scoured antiques markets and second hand shops for cool things to decorate with, spent days in the bright sunshine poring through posters and lampshades and things that slowly made the bare bones of their house into a home.
She sits curled up on the stools of their breakfast bar every morning in one of his shirts and some little panties (a combo which still gets him hard after years together) browsing through her emails, tongue poked out the side of her mouth in concentration whilst he makes some kind of healthy smoothie breakfast bowl thing.
Calls her 'the wife' and 'Mrs Riley' just to see the way she smiles and wiggles her ring finger so the stones on her wedding and engagement band twinkle in the light.
Maybe (Definitely) bought her the biggest ring that he could find so that everyone knows she's spoken for, even when he's not there beside her.
He wears his wedding band when he's not deployed, and keeps it on a chain looped around his neck when he is. Probably has one of her other favourite rings nestled beside it too, kisses it when he goes to sleep and imagines he's kissing her instead.
He has her initial tattooed on his ring finger for when he can't wear his ring because he can't stand the thought of people not knowing he's hers.
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lethalchiralium · 3 months
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Simon sleeps best when your head is on his heart, knowing his heartbeat lulls you to sleep most nights. Your arm on his chest, the other tucked underneath your side and your leg thrown across his hip - no matter how bony you say it is. “You have no cushion there, Si,” you always say, “You need to eat more. They don’t feed you enough when you’re working anyway.”
His head is either back on his pillow, eyes staring at the ceiling or he’s looking at you. Baby monitor on his side of the bed, wanting you to take more rest. I’ll be awake anyway, he says. Damned sleep schedule, he says. He’s asleep ten minutes after you are.
He sleeps second best when his head is settled on your stomach. Hands cradling your lower back, eyes drooping as the TV hums from across the room. Your fingers in his hair, your body wash lingers on your skin. He rubs his cheek a bit on your stomach, just to make you smell like him.
He sleeps the third best with the dog pile - Mellie on his chest when you finally allow her to sleep in the bed, Winnie tucked into his side in a ball, and your head on his shoulder and hand gently settled on his belly button - near Mellie’s socked feet.
He doesn’t sleep much when he’s far from home, far from the woolen blankets, loud laughs and soft cries. He can’t rest when you aren’t beside him, holding him through the nightmares and the dreams that make him cry silent tears. He doesn’t sleep well without knowing his home is safe, that his girls are asleep soundly - whether they’re in his bed or their own, all three of his Riley girls are safe and sound.
That’s all he’ll ever care about.
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starryylies · 6 days
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can we get baby fever simon when we tell him we're pregnant?!?
ੈ✩‧Simon when you’re preggo *ੈ✩‧
✰☺︎✰~ Bby fever: manifested to reality ~✰☺︎✰
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🍼 Simon whose eyes betray him when tears flow out when you give him the news
🍼 Simon who falls to his knees on the ground kissing your stomach thanking you over and over for giving him such a blessing
🍼 Simon who gets right to it, finding baby supplies, trollers, pacifiers etc
🍼 Simon who buys a crib from ikea which leads to him cursing the instruction paper calling it stupid and badly explained
🍼 Simon who completely stops drinking infront of you, quitting it to release himself from the past.
🍼 Simon who makes you sit at home and relax like a pretty wifey so you don’t exert yourself
🍼 Simon whose praises for you are constant the entire day, from when you get up till when you sleep
🍼 Simon who gets very overprotective of you like a guard dog.
🍼 Simon who finally has the courage to visit his fathers grave only to look down on it and say he will never treat his kids like that
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lundenloves · 6 months
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dad!simon masterlist | taglist | masterlist | request info
dad!simon who will near fall asleep on the sofa, sat upright with wide legs and his arms crossed, only opening one eye to pretend he’s listening while one of his daughters rambles about school drama.
dad!simon who scoffs when another monthly subscription or amazon payment goes through his card, brows knitted together after asking just why the house has to be subscribed to four separate streaming services.
dad!simon who never remembers his kids’ friends names. it could be his daughters best friend of seven years and he still wouldn’t remember.
dad!simon who visually could not care less about the gossip his daughter waffles about, mumbling “mhm” every so often to appear engaged though shrugging when called out on his evident boredom.
dad!simon who tsks at all the parcels that come through the door day-to-day. living with three daughters and a wife, it’s constant. he detests being the only one home and having to sign for something — will actively ignore a knock on the door when there’s other people in the house.
dad!simon who (when drunk) is the height of amusement for his eldest. many snapchats exist of him being handed the phone already recording and goofily grinning into it while looking up at her “what am i supposed to be looking at?”
dad!simon who sticks post-it notes in bold handwriting to the fridge whenever anyone has an appointment due the following day. “don’t forget.” complete with a fullstop and a harsh underline of the time in military digits.
dad!simon who replies sarcastically to almost every obvious question with his natural glare, something each of his kids had genetically taken: “don’t ask stupid questions and you won’t get stupid answers.” he loves them really.
dad!simon who silenced the family groupchat as soon as he had figured out how to, only replying every other day with a thumbs up reaction or more likely a thumbs down.
dad!simon who side eyes his kids. he doesn’t mean it, yet it happens. watching throw away tv? side eye. talking too loud on the phone? side eye. wearing a questionable outfit? side eye.
dad!simon who has a firm routine. he fucking detests being interrupted, and or spoken to from the hours of five till seven in the morning. he’ll get up, have food and go to the gym all in this time frame before anyone can dent his peace.
dad!simon who sighs avidly. a long and painful sigh after any merely simple question is asked or he’s to pick up one of his kids from a night out. “fucking well told ‘er not to expect me past twelve.” while accidentally slamming the door behind him, keys jingling around his finger.
dad!simon who struggles to show affection in any other way than a short pat of the shoulder or a one armed hug, pulling his kids into his chest for mere seconds before stepping back.
dad!simon who groans whenever anything gets moved in the house. his military mind in favour of keeping things in one position, untouched and moved for preferably ever unless he was told. though, having kids didn’t quite work like that.
dad!simon who: “do i ‘av to do fucking everything in this house? eh?”
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simon ‘ghost’ riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbird @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @liishook @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @takeomisbitch @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @mistydeyes @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkbbyx3 @gressseyy @fwibblefwobble @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @airghostlyfox @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @dilfdotgov @cliosunshine @bloobewy @lazybutsmexy @maki-z @yyiikes @tieflingteatime @cosmoscoffeee @lilvampirina @cinnabeanz @bubbyblob
˗ˏˋ university is still kicking my arse into next week. i joined the football team too, fuck knows why i’m making myself busier than i have to be. alas here we are, and i’m feeding the pigeons! aka sprinkling dad headcannons until i get traction again. pls love me, pls follow me, pls reblog, pls validate me.
the reason i tag this as ‘x reader’ as it’s ur fuckin family with him. no one bite my head off man i can’t be bothered tonight.
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ivysoul · 8 months
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i just… i just think that simon, who came home being the neediest he’s ever been, wouldn’t be able to stop himself from bullying his hard and aching cock into your sweet cunt. you could feel how much he’s been craving you during his time away with every thrust, every sloppy kiss to your shoulder or neck.
he couldn’t have been bothered to fully strip either of you, yet he needed to feel every inch of your skin. his hands dipped under your shirt and travelled to your tits, giving them a firm squeeze a couple of times before pinching and tugging at your sensitive nipples.
he hadn’t even realized how overstimulated you were after cumming a dozen times. the tears streamed down your cheeks freely, your nails dug into his back, creating lines of red along the length of it. the pain of being used mixing with the pleasure of being fucked so good had you dancing across the line of satisfaction.
simon was too far gone to stop now. he was a babbling mess on top of you. “f-fuck, lovie—‘m so close, please—pleaseplease let me cum in you. need it s’bad. y’feel so good—oh my g-god…”
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konigslittleliebling · 2 months
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## cockwarming simon whilst he bench presses <33
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“you’re doing so well, love.” you encourage him from your proud perch on his cock. it’s after hours, the gym is empty. perfect for the two of you to train in privacy. simon grunts as he benches the impressive weights on the barbell, pushing it away from his pumped barrel chest until his arms are straight above him.
your hands are resting on his soft tummy, slightly strained beneath your fingers whilst he uses his strenuous might to complete the set. his meaty thighs flex against your arse causing your cunt to flutter around his width and you twitch, fingers curling into his sweat-drenched hoodie. “a few more then you can rest before your last round.” the double entendre is absolutely intended and you feel him swell within the sleeve of your cervix.
you’re aware the circular plates on either side of the bar probably total to double your weight, and still, you could comfortably assume the bar itself weighs at least a quarter of that alone. so you know it can’t be easy on him, working his muscles so intensely all the while one ‘muscle’ in particular slots inside of you — plugging you on its stiff strain. you can feel him pulsating against your spongy sheath, the blood and adrenaline pumping to more regions of his body than one.
simon grits his teeth, jaws locked beneath the fabric of his mask as he makes his final push. and he tenses beneath you, his legs shifting which inevitably readjusts you on his cock. you both groan and he almost drops the bar onto his chest, but he regathers his composure and you position your hands so you can catch it should it fall — not that you trust yourself to be able to hold such weight.
when he finishes the set he drops the bar somewhere behind him, exhausted arms dropping so his callused hands can fall to find purchase on your spread thighs, feet dangling above the floor from his sturdy lap. “well fuckin’ done, my love.” you smile, leaning forward so you’re chest-to-chest. his throbbing dick follows your reposition, ultimately bulging in your belly due to the deepened angle.
simon smirks, peeling one palm from the skin of your thigh to collide it with the curve of your arse. you jolt, his cock hitting that gummy spot perfectly as a result. “c’mon then, dove. gimme my reward ‘fore my next set, yeah?”
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dmitriene · 8 days
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cw: tooth rotting fluff, comfort, shameless smut, established relationship, obviously ooc simon, domestic things, cuddling, intimacy, simply getting off to simon, pinv, pet names, praising, creampie, brief mention of multiple orgasms and overstimulation, aftercare. pairing: bf simon ghost riley x gf fem reader
simon riley is a bulky man.
a large mass of pumped up muscles that he has honed with diligence and hard work, wide biceps and thighs, a large chest that looks proudly forward when he folds his arms behind his back and straightens, bulging veins, rippling muscles with every movement, full pack of chiseled abs, a beautiful back and strong shoulder blades.
but he's also a soft man.
a small, accumulated over the years layers of fat on his sides, gathering into small folds when his body turns sideways or leans down, a slightly protruding, soft belly that is covered with a slight scattering of blonde hair and white, pale pink scars, his chest and shoulders still wide, but paired with the acquired softness, look softer, and feel the same.
he eats well and feels comfortable in his body, not stopping to exercise in the morning and swinging in his free time, but nevertheless not losing weight, but only continuing to gain, and this is definitely to your credit, because he cannot refuse a plate of steak and vegetables held out from your hands, standing before his eyes in your charming apron and murmuring so sweetly — “made this for you, si, i noticed you liked the meat last time„
and simon can't refuse, especially when you like his new body shape so much, where your hands gently stroke his sides, and your head is almost always on his soft belly uf you're relaxing on the couch, and once you're in bed, you can't get away from his chest, snuggling up and nuzzling against his body until you fall asleep, letting his hands squeeze you harder than gently because you asked for it — “don't be afraid, si, i like it„
and fuck, you would be the death of him, especially when you bend so sluttily to arch your back for him and rise your plush ass to the air, pleading him with sweet mewls and tiny wriggle of your hips so he would fuck your dripping pussy from behind, just so you would feel how the fat on his stomach rubs against your back with gentle drags as simon curls on top of you, his hand intertwined with yours, his meaty cock bottoms in your weeping cunt fully as he hisses cursed praises — “good, good fucking girl, feel so nice and snug for me„
your eyes fly to the back of your head immediately as he picks up the pace, fucking in to you fully and knocking your cervix with each sharp thrust as his broad hips and soft thighs snap against your reddening ass, cunt clenching around his meaty shaft rapidly, sucking him in snuggly as you fuck yourself back on him vigorously, just so simon would pin you down with his soft, big body against the messy sheets, rolling his hips and taunting you when you drool beneath him — “fuck, look a' you, drooling and clamping on me like that, that's wha' i do to you, lovie?„
and you just nod dumbly, brain is a mush that he fucked out long ago with each drag of his fat cock inside your gummy walls that try to milk him for all his worth and each spurt of thick milky seed, letting it leak out just so simon would fuck it back, his body sweaty, muscles constricting and thick, bear like palm squeeze your breast, almost crushing, as you mewl and whine pitifully, begging him not to stop — “yea — yeeah, pleasepleaseplease, d — don't stop, sii!„
and simon wouldn't, until you lay unmoving beneath him, gargling some delirious moans when he pushes his cum deep in you even through his cock aching from overstimulation, till he slips out to wipe you both and tuck your naked body against his under the covers, letting you nuzzle satisfiengly against him with soft sighs.
that's more than enough for simon to never think for once to start lose weight, because fuck, he sees what it does to his filthy girl.
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springtyme · 5 months
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hii!! i saw ur inbox open and was wondering if i could request this; so, imagine dad!simon (or konig idm!!) having his son / daughter see his face for the first time since they were born and theyre just kinda sitting there like :000?? hes so pretty?? while yn is just screaming in the back?? <33 have a great day n thnaks for reading x
𝐔𝐧𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 ♡
Thank you for the request, I had such a good time writing this! I love writing dad!Simon so much! ♡ but also, ngl, the image of this big bloke wearing a mask in front of his baby seems borderline comical to me.
Simon Riley x afab!reader || Masterlist || Ghost playlist
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summary: Your daughter finally sees her father's face for the first time.
word count: 2.2k
warning/tag: Mostly just dad!Simon fluff with a little hint of angst. No gendering terms are directly used for the reader, but they are pretty fem coded. It's mentioned that they were pregnant. No use of y/n.
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As the soft morning light filters through the curtains of your bedroom, you slowly begin stretching your limbs and blinking away the remnants of sleep. As you slowly settle into wakefulness, you hear the screeching sound of the baby monitor on your nightstand coming to life and you feel how your heart flutters happily in your chest as a familiar sound comes through. The sweet sound of your daughter’s happy coos, accompanied by Simon’s deep, gentle voice, fill the room with sweetness. 
“Morning, sweet pea,” Simon’s voice crackles through the monitor followed by the sound of your baby happily gurgling at her father and then exclaiming a little more whiny sound. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re hungry, but we have to get you changed before we can make breakfast, lovie.”
A smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you lie there, basking in the warmth and comfort of your bed. The love and joy that echo through the monitor remind you of just how much love fills your home. It’s moments like these that make your heart swell with an indescribable sense of happiness.
Your mind wanders, and you find yourself reminiscing about the journey that brought you here. 
From the moment you and Simon first met, there was an undeniable connection, a spark that ignited and grew into a love that was both fierce and tender. However, it hadn’t been that easy to convince him that he in fact was deserving of such love. He had been scared that he would mess it up, mess you up, convinced himself that he wasn’t able to make anyone happy and that he was broken beyond repair. But you had been rather insisting, and he had finally let his walls crumble and let you into his heart. 
And as you had expected, all his worries had been unfounded. He is the best, most loving partner you could ever have dreamt of. 
The love you share with him is a love that feels like home.
And then, the arrival of your daughter added a new dimension to your love story. From the first time you had held her tiny hand, you knew that your family was complete. Watching Simon transform into the most loving and doting father has only deepened your admiration and affection for him.
And as you lie here,  reminiscing on your life, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of gratitude for the love that surrounds you. 
With a content sigh, you finally pull yourself out of bed, ready to start the weekend with your little family. 
As you make your way down the stairs you can hear the sound of your daughter’s laughter from the kitchen, filling your heart with warmth and you can’t help but smile and make your way towards the source of the joyful commotion. As you enter the room, the morning sun gently illuminates the kitchen, casting a soft glow over the room, and you are greeted by a heartwarming sight. Simon is standing at the stove, stirring a pot of millet porridge, your daughter’s favourite, while she is sitting in her highchair, which has been moved away from the kitchen table and closer to the counter, so she can see what Simon is doing, clapping her hands in delight.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, mingling with the comforting scent of the porridge. You can’t help but feel a surge of immense love and gratitude for the man who stands before you, effortlessly balancing the roles of partner and father.
Simon turns towards you. “Good morning, love,” he greets you, his eyes twinkling with warmth, the bottom half of his face covered by a black mask. He had started to wear it around the house again after your daughter had been born.  
“Good morning,” you reply, your voice filled with a mix of amusement and adoration. “I see you two are having quite the breakfast party.”
Simon laughs softly and nods. “We thought we’d surprise you with breakfast in bed, but it seems that someone couldn’t wait,” he says, glancing at your daughter, who just giggles in response.
You walk over to them, planting a soft kiss on Simon’s masked cheek before planting another on your daughter’s, much chubbier, one. “Well, I can’t say I’m disappointed. This is the best way to wake up,” you say, gazing at your little family with a heart full of love.
Together you finish cooking breakfast, porridge for the baby and scrambled eggs and turkey bacon for you and Simon.
You begin to set the table as Simon picks up your daughter, supporting her with one arm as he settles her on his hip, so he can move her chair back to the table, but before he can grab the chair he stops dead in his tracks.
Your little girl has grabbed a fistful of his mask in her tiny hand. She doesn’t seem to be pulling on it, or otherwise trying to take it off him, but she also doesn’t seem to want to let go of it when Simon gently takes her hand to get her to release her grip.  
“Sweetheart, please…” Simon says softly, but he trails off, a wave of emotions flickering over his eyes, but they end up having a sort of determinant look to them as they lock with his daughter’s.
You feel how your heart skips a beat as Simon lets go of her little hand to instead grip the place his mask is fastened.  
With a deep breath, Simon removes the mask, revealing his face to your daughter for the very first time in her young life. You feel goosebumps rise along your arms as Simon’s features come to light. The room falls silent, and time seems to stand still.
Your daughter’s gaze is fixed on Simon, you can see a whirlwind of emotions flickering across her little face. 
It’s a pivotal moment that holds the power to change everything. You can see how Simon, too, feels a mix of emotions coursing through him. 
He has once mentioned to you that he was afraid that his scars would scare her, but you have had a suspicion that something else might be the reason he has kept the mask on in front of her for. 
He does have a few scars from his work, but they are nowhere near severe enough to scare anyone. You do have another theory to why he has kept it on, one he hasn’t directly confirmed, but a conversation from your pregnancy has stuck with you. 
He had voiced his concern that something would happen to him on the battlefield. not because he was that concerned for his own wellbeing, he knew what the risks of his job was, but because he was afraid of something happening to him, leaving you and your little one alone in the world. He had, on the whole, had many worries about becoming a father. 
He had been worried that his past had broken him so severely that he couldn’t be the dad your daughter needed him to be. Like the fear he also had about you and your relationship in the beginning of it, the fear that he couldn’t be the man you deserved. 
He has, in all the time you’ve known him, done everything to disprove that concern, he is the best partner you could ask for and now the most lovable dad to your little girl, but you know that he still has his concerns and that his feelings about them are valid. 
You think the mask has served as a sort of safety blanket for him. Like he thought that it would be easier for you and your daughter to lose him if your little girl couldn’t remember his face, or something like that. You find that thought heart rending.               
You know that his job comes with a risk, you had known it when you got together and you had known it when you married him and you had known it when you got your daughter. Losing him on the battlefield would be your worst nightmare come true. You know that he is smart, strong and capable, but you also know that there are no guarantees in war, which, to you, is just all the more reason for  your daughter to know her father’s face, but you have let Simon choose for himself when he was ready for that.  
But you don’t want to think about any of that right now, so you push those thoughts away, and instead let yourself be completely mesmerised by the sight before you   
Your little girl focuses on his, now revealed, face, taking in every detail. Her eyes widening in surprise, curiosity, and perhaps even a hint of fear, her little mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ of surprise as she absorbs every detail of her father’s face. 
“It’s just me, princess,” Simon tells her, his voice filled with a mix of amusement, nerves and an overwhelming love for his little girl. His eyes, once guarded, now shine with warmth and affection. 
The confirmation of his voice is what convinces her. A wide smile spread across her little face, revealing the adorable dimples she has inherited from Simon, on her sweet, chubby cheeks. She lets out a happy squeal, as she realises that it really is her father who’s now smiling down at her, a set of dimples matching hers on his cheeks.    
She giggles happily, which, to you, is the most beautiful sound in the entire world. Her little hands starting to explore Simon’s face, her tiny fingers tracing the lines and contours of it. It’s a gentle and tender gesture that speaks volumes. You watch in awe as the beautiful moment between your daughter and her father unfolds in front of you. It’s a moment you will cherish forever. 
When she finally seems satisfied with her mapping of his face with her small hand, she turns her head to look over at you with an excited expression on her little face, one that conveys something along the lines of ‘you seeing this too?’ Her eyes lighting up, reflecting the genuine joy that fills her little heart.
“Yeah, baby, that’s your daddy,” you smile at her, and she lets out another happy shriek before looking back at Simon again, happily nuzzling her little face into his neck. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?” You continue as you step forward, placing a hand on her back, rubbing gentle circles over the dusty rose bodystocking that she is wearing, one that Simon picked out when he got her ready and you still laid in bed.   
You look up at Simon, a soft smile on his lips as your eyes lock. 
“He never wants to believe me when I tell him, but he is actually the most handsome man I know,” you say, with a playful glint in your eyes. “He’s probably the most handsome man in the whole world, actually.”           
Simon chuckles, his cheeks turning slightly pink. “Oh, come on now,” he replies, his voice a mix of embarrassment and amusement.“I think you might be a bit biassed there, love.”
You shake your head, a warm smile spreading across your face. “Nah, I don’t think I am,” you state, wrapping your arms around both Simon and your little girl in his arms. “Just stating facts. I actually got the most handsome husband and the most beautiful daughter in the whole wide world.” you say with a content sigh, hugging your little family tightly.  
It’s a hug that speaks volumes, conveying love, affection and acceptance. In this embrace, you know that you truly have the most beautiful family in the world.  
As you finally let go of them you place a sweet kiss on your daughter’s little nose. She giggles joyfully, and you can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratefulness over what a happy little girl you have. Simon seems to be thinking the same as he smiles down at her.  
But your adorable little troublemaker doesn’t seem to be done with causing havoc yet.   
She reaches out her tiny hand and grabs for the mask again. Simon hesitates for a moment, looking down at the fabric in his hand, the symbol of his past, before letting her have it. The mask, once a symbol of his doubts and fears, now becomes a simple toy for your daughter as she happily shakes it up and down, a cheeky grin on her little face. 
You and Simon lock eyes, and then the two of you burst out in laughter.  
As your laughter fills the room, a sense of pure joy washes over you. You look at Simon, his eyes sparkling with happiness, and you know in this moment, that the love and bond the three of you share is unbreakable, and it fills your heart with an indescribable warmth.
With a deep sense of gratitude and contentment, you take a mental snapshot of this beautiful moment. It’s a memory that will forever be etched in your mind, a testament to the strength of your love and the joy that radiates from your little girl.
As the laughter subsides, you gather your family close again, embracing the love and happiness that surrounds you. In this embrace, you know that you have everything you could ever need.
Your daughter’s laughter and Simon’s unwavering love fill your life with immeasurable happiness, and you couldn’t be more grateful for the beautiful family you have created.
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rileyslibrary · 3 months
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You burst into the office and slam the door behind you. Ghost jumps from his seat and looks up from the paperwork he’s been filling out. His eyes widen as you sprint towards him.
“What the f-”
“Just play along,” you interject, dragging a chair and plopping down. You grab two sheets of paper from the pile next to him and snatch the first pen within reach.
He keeps staring at you dumbfounded before managing to utter something.
“Can you at least-”
“Nope,” you cut him off while focusing on the papers and nibbling on the pen. “No, can’t do. You need to trust me on this one.”
“Define what ‘this one’ is.” He demands.
“Shhhh,” you hush him, waving your hand dismissively and glancing over your shoulder at the door. “He’s coming.”
“Who’s com-”
The door swings open, and footsteps approach. They settle beside you, and a hand slams on the desk. Ghost looks at the hand, then upward.
“Captain,” he says. “What brings you in-”
“For the love of everything you hold dear, Simon, you better not be involved in any of this,” Price warns. He slams his hand on the desk again and looks at you. “Why were you running away from me?” He asks.
You stare at him with furrowed eyebrows before removing the pen from your mouth.
“I wasn’t running away from you, sir,” you reply, pointing the pen at Ghost. “I was late for my meeting with the lieutenant.”
Price turns towards Ghost, seeking for an appropriate answer. The lieutenant sits up straight on his chair, clasps his hands together and motions with his head towards you.
“Very punctual, this one.” He says.
“Cut the crap, Simon,” Price orders and turns to you. “What were you doing inside Bravo Unit’s barracks last night?”
“Bravo Unit has barracks?” You ask Ghost. He shoots you a side-eye and raises one eyebrow.
“Stop playing dump and answer the question,” Price warns and points at Ghost. “And don’t look at him—he’s not covering for you this time.”
“How about you start from the beginning, boss,” Ghost interjects. “What happened?”
“Someone broke into Bravo Unit’s barracks last night and stole every inch of toilet paper they had,” Price says, looking at you, then turning to Ghost. “And not just toilet paper, mind you! Kitchen rolls and tissues are gone as well.”
“Tsk tsk tsk,” Ghost murmurs, shaking his head. “Such an inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience, Simon?” Price whispers, leaning on the desk. “The entirety of Bravo Unit had to wipe their ass with parchment paper this morning.”
Ghost brings his hand to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. He lowers his head and takes deep, laboured breaths. Price is already fuming, so you decide to intervene.
“I was never inside Bravo Unit’s barracks, sir,” You state. “I just happened to walk through it once.”
“Oh, I see, I see—you walked through it once,” Price repeats, nodding. He removes something from his pocket and slams it on the desk.
“The instigator left this behind,” he states, looking back and forth between the two of you.
You and Ghost look at the garment on the desk—it’s a skull balaclava that once belonged to the lieutenant. He gave it to you last Winter since your ears and nose tend to get cold during patrol.
“Now,” Price states, “would you care to brief me on who this belongs to?”
“Hm,” you murmur, setting the pen and papers on the desk. You pick up the mask and start examining it. You look at Ghost, who stares at the mask with his eyeballs threatening to pop out of his face. He shoots you a deathly stare, and you redirect your attention to Price.
“That looks like it must be the lieutenant’s,” you reply, lifting the balaclava next to Ghost’s masked face. “With the skull and all—it’s a perfect match, actually.”
You both turn to Ghost, whose expression has transformed from utter disbelief to an inexplicable calmness.
“Indeed, that looks exactly like the one I lost,” Ghost confirms, taking the mask from you.
“Is it now?” Price asks in a high-pitched voice, tilting his head to the side. “Do me a favour and smell it for me, Riley.”
Ghost does exactly as he’s told. He brings the mask close to his nose, sniffs it, and nods. “Yup,” he confirms. “Smells exactly like me, too.”
Price sighs, takes a bottle from the pocket of his cargo pants and slams it on the desk. “So you want me to believe you use ‘Magnolia Blossom with Moroccan oil’ as a shampoo?” he asks.
“I’ve got dry hair.” Ghost shrugs.
“You should try coconut oil instead,” you suggest to Ghost, “it’s cheaper.”
Price kicks the chair next to you, and you both turn to look at him. He presses his lips together, and a red flush creeps on his neck, threatening to reach his head. He opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him.
“Why did you go through peoples’ stuff without their permission, sir?”
“Oh, I wasn’t going through anyone’s stuff,” Price explains. “You just were dumb enough to ditch the balaclava right behind the barracks. The detection dog picked up on the smell and led us to your stuff—it was a perfect match, just like you said.”
“You had sniffer dogs involved in this?” Ghost asks.
“I had to.” Price replies. “Pair the parchment paper with a day full of training, and Bravo Unit developed the worst rash they had since wearing diapers.”
A chuckle escapes Ghost, and he tries to silence it with his hand. He takes quick gasps of air, and you try to retain your laughter, too.
“Please tell me you’re not laughing!” Price shouts.
“No, boss,” Ghost says and wipes his tears, “It’s just so-”
“-sad,” you say and wipe your eyes as well. “It’s so sad.”
Price looks at you, then at the lieutenant. Now defeated, he sighs and throws his head back, shutting his eyes.
“I’m done with both of you.” He says, lifting his arms and dropping them to his sides. “I expect all toilet papers to be returned today. And as for you, you are responsible for cleaning Bravo’s toilets for the entire month.”
“For the whole month?!” You shout and wince at the idea.
“Be glad I didn’t make you wipe their asses as well.” He shouts as he walks to the door and slams it behind him.
Ghost recovers from the laugh and directs his attention to you. He tries to be serious but his teary eyes betray him.
“That was a hazardous operation you did back there,” he says.
“I didn’t do anything.” You reply, still vouching for your innocence. “But whoever did it taught Bravo Unit not to mess with our thermostats again.”
Ghost shakes his head. “I just happened to walk through the barracks once,” he says, repeating your earlier statement. “What were you thinking? Who walks through barracks?”
“I don’t know,” you reply, shrugging. “Ghosts would be my guess.”
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groguspicklejar · 5 months
Text
Simon brain-rot took over🥴 +18 smut incoming
it is a universally known fact that "just the tip" is a troupe that goes to Soap. but what if you're begging Simon for just the tip when you've ran out of condoms and you're not on birth control but you're so fucking horny it hurts :(
and he might roll his eyes and grumble something along the lines of "needy brat" but deep down, he wants to throw all caution to the wind because he's got a breeding kink that has never been allowed to see the light of day until now.
with eyes so heated as they land on you, he slowly backs you until you fall on the bed and he crawls on top of you. he slips a hand under your skirt to find two things. one, no panties. and two-
"you're fucking soaked, luv." it's impossible not to moan as his fingers card through you wet folds. "want my cock that bad?"
you nod vigorously and bite your lip when he undoes his belt. he doesn't even fully take his pants off, just shucks them far enough down his thighs so his cock can sprint free while he spreads your legs wider to accommodate his hips.
but oh, you don't need much prep. you're already so wet that it makes his fingers prune when he teases you and makes you whine and beg for more. so he obliges you.
gives you more just like you ask. the tip of his cock, swollen and flushed and leaky, nudges your entrance while he thumbs your needy little clit. he throws his head back, groaning loudly while you mewl and squirm under him, rocking your hips to get more of him inside you.
he presses a hand on your stomach to stop you from moving too much or he's gonna blow his load too soon. "stay still, love."
but you don't. you're pawing at his arms, his stomach, begging him to come a little closer to you..
"stop squirming." he barely registers your legs wrapping around him, ankles locking at his back, pulling him. his cock sinks deeper inside your cunt, he catches the sight of your lip trapped between your teeth. "getting desperate, are we?"
he gives a shallow thrust that draws a high-pitched moan from you. you're so needy today, it makes him all soft inside because he's never one to deny you what you want. not when what you want is him. knowing that, knowing that you get off from him, that he's the only man who can get you like this, it gives him some sort of a power trip on the inside.
"want me to fuck you that bad? is that it?" you nod, glassy-eyed. "fine." he pries your legs off of him and pins them to your chest, slowly pulling his cock out until only the tip stayed. "have it your way."
a sharp cry punches out of you at the first snap of his hips. he's so deep, he's kissing your cervix. that delicious stretch makes your eyes roll back.
he keeps his thrust sharp and direct, groaning at how wet you are, you're practically creaming his cock until there's a white ring at the base of him. "fuckin' hell, begging for it like the needy little thing you are."
your trembling hands grasp onto something, his arms, nails digging in and denting his skin the way his fingers do to your thighs. a testament to the ache in your bones, the sheer longing your souls have for each other.
it's filthy. depraved. fucking messy. no condom. he can see it in your eyes just as you see it in his. there's no going back from this. no better feeling than this. no barrier to prevent the feeling of his bare cock sliding in and out of your cunt raw for the first time. it makes you both lose control.
'just the tip' has long since been tossed out the window and forgotten as he fucks you with full intent, sinking his shaft right down to the hilt. every precaution drowned in the depths of the ocean floor as your voice calls out his name in shaky moans until your cunt starts to tighten and you arch your back when the pleasure spikes, toes curling as the words in your mouth muddle.
"fuck, fuck-" Simon closes his eyes because it's so fucking erotic watching you cum. but he can't escape it, your pussy milks every bit of him, coaxing the roar in his ears to drown every thought he's had of pulling out.
he wants to maintain some semblance of control. one of you has to be rational about this. but no amount of reasoning will ever be as good as fucking you without protection.
the lewd sounds become louder and louder the more he grabs your hips and ruts wildly into you until your orgasm melts into another one, until it triggers his own. his hiss cuts through the air when his hips stutter as tries to pull out, but it's already too late. your cunt's too hot and too tight to let him go anywhere far and his hips draw back in and out while his cum spirts out before he can even think about it.
his long drawn "fuck" echoes through the room when he gives up, falling victim to the pleasure, letting his cum flood your pussy.
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