#simon riley x y/n

[i-love-you-just-the-same]

as a cheeky birthday treat to price, the force makes the drive to the nearest hooters. they're in the states for a mission and the restaurants dot many of the towns they drive through. sure there are a few back home, but it's an experience. one they want to enjoy thoroughly.

when their waitress comes up, they stare wayyyy to long for her comfort. which is how you get swapped with her. you're known for being able to handle customers like this. you don't balk when they stare down your shirt, just turn and ask if you can get them anything else. they're pieces of work tonight, but they're polite and keep their hands to themselves.

they become regulars after that. they have to after seeing you smile wide (although not at them) during the birthday song for price. they always ask for your section and make small talk while flirting. one of them usually leaves their number on the receipt with a healthy tip, but you don't budge.

they show you how good and capable they are for taking care of you. they know its wrong to solicit someone during their work, but it's just this once (they've decided to not approach you elsewhere, no matter how much johnny pouts. doesnt mean they arent watching). simon breaks the fingers of the man who groped you saturday night, kyle knifed the fucker hiding around the side of your car, and johnny slashed your touchy manager's tires. you don't really know about these things, but john's tips alone should show you how well they can take care of you!

you slowly warm up to them. you learn their names and where they're from. they don't come on as strong anymore, but its obvious they're still interested when one of them walks you to your car. sometimes you'll wear their jacket and an arm will be around your waist. possessive glare on any another man who dares to look your direction.

when they come in after longer than normal time away, they see you with a little crown with pink fuzz around the bottom and "birthday girl" written in diamonds on it. youre obviously unhappy about the kid's crown so they don't say anything, yet their smirks tell it all. price buys you a dessert when you're finished with your shift. to their surprise you squish in beside price. you let them call you "love" and "doll." johnny even feeds you a spoonful and gaz wipes your chin when you get a crumb.

it's about time you come around to their affection. they've been waiting so long and so faithfully. they have everything you need in their flat, so why don't you quit on the way out the door. call your landlord and tell him that you're moving out soon. you're truly theirs now. happy birthday, darling.

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Y/N: I’m in love with you. Ghost: We called off the prank war last night at midnight, dork. Y/N: I know. Ghost: Ah. Okay. Um. Cool. Neat. Very cool. Cool. Cool. Coolcoolcool-

[starboye]

Kinktober Day 7

starring: simon "ghost" riley x male reader

request: Simon Riley breeding male reader over and over till you're filled with his delicious cum

warnings: smut, overstimulation, mention of male pregnancy, rough sex, breeding, stomach bulge, cumfilation, simon being a softy, big dick!simon, dub con if you kinda squint, butt plug, aftercare

simon had been fucking you for hours at this point, dumping load after load into your still tight hole, and it didn't seem like he was going to stop anytime soon, you were just so addicting and seeing you at the teams dinner tonight with that handsome suit on made him want you so much more than he already did.

but for you it was becoming unbearable every passing minute, your ass bruised and sore from the rough plaps of skin on skin contact making you more and more sensitive and you cock now gone limp after simon fucked each load out of you, face littered with tears and sweat from over stimulation.

no matter how hard you tried to push him off of you he pulled himself back into you and continued his assault on you plump ass "please simon just give me a break" you plead feeling you mind melt by the second "i promise this is the last one pup" he huffed gripping your thighs tighter against his chest as he stared down at you with hazy vision.

"you said that hours ago" you retort trying to push him off but he just keeps going, not even a little bothered by your attempt to stop him, he just wanted to fill up your tummy nice and big with his cum like you were pregnant with his babies that he always dream of you having.

"this is the last time okay love i fuckin' swear on my life" he groaned throwing his head back as he fucked you on his cock like a toy, did you believe that this was gonna be his last time? no but hopefully it was because it felt like one to many more loads and you were going to pop.

"y'know i love you so much right lovie, so fucking much, i wanna start a family with you and move to the middle of the woods where you can moan my name as loud as you want" simon cooed running his hand up and down your inflated cum filled stomach while occasionally squeezing your bruised hips from his over bearing grip.

but this usually did happen when simon would fuck you for hours on end, his thoughts running crazy as he feels this tightness of your hole he'll start spewing his thoughts about how he wants to make you a baby daddy and give you triplets, he knows you can't have babies but who says he can't challenge the laws of human anatomy and you know damn well he would if it came to you.

"mhm si i want all you babies, pump this pussy full of your cum" you moaned out leading to his doing one more deep thrust before cumming in you, his cum pushing out your belly even more making you whine at the sight and feel of his cock pulsing in you.

when he pulls out it's a fucking mess dripping out of you, cum pushing out like a fountain but how could you get pregnant if it doesn't all stay in to ferment into a little baby so he plugs you up with his favorite pretty butt plug before crawling into the bed to cuddle next to you.

for you the room was spinning and you were to tired to do anything but you still cuddled into his warm chest "i love you y/n" simon deeply spoke rubbing your back to comfort you and before you could speak you were fast asleep after being tuckered out with his cock.

taglist:@mailmango@spermeboy@ghostking4m@gayaristocrat@addictedtomalepits@staarb0y@crispysoup318@its-ares@gargoylesworld09@kadenvatsune@fuckshft@wompwomp-1mh3re

[xo-codbby]

when the two hour journey back from a failed mission had all five of you on edge, especially with you as the driver 🤭

price usually was the one to drive but he'd been caught in a bomb that had been too close, catching the shrapnel in his thigh and arm preventing him from using it too much. luckily he'd been fine, gaz and ghost safely removed the debris and bandaged him up. but now it meant that you were the next designated driver, not trusting gaz/soap especially simon to make it to the barracks safely. and poor price was all too stressed, brows furrowed as he rubbed the back his neck slightly in dire need of his bed and a drink

so it left him in the back seat with soap and gaz

soap who's absolutely restless and fuming and gaz who's brooding, eyes ticking when soap keeps squirming, "jesus just stay fuckin still for one fuckin sECOND!" "what tha FUCK did you just say??"

so now you have a brawl taking place and your hands are clenched so tightly around the wheel you're contemplating dumping them all on the side of the road and driving off

"enough! can you both just stop" you snap back lugging the empty gum container at them, it hitting the back of soap's head and bouncing off of gaz's forehead. cue another few grumbles as they finally separate, muttering curses and scowls

price decides to sit in the middle of them, to ease their tension and play mediator,"no more fighting lads. you're grown men. act like it" "i am! he's started it" "fuckin' boot licker"

unfortunately price's beautiful broad frame blocks the mirror and you need to see behind the car. so it leaves you back with the decision you hated

"gaz d'you mind sitting back in the middle?" "i do mind" "but-" "i. do. mind."

ego has absolutely crumbled 6 feet under from your comment, already on top of a failed mission it doesn't seem to be kyle's day at all. price sighs heavily, one minor inconvenience away from calling laswell and transferring to a new team as he grabs the back of gaz's top and pulls him back in the middle. soap is busy snickering away in his seat, thumping the back of his comrade's shoulder

"aye that's not so bad. plenty o'birds go fer tha small men" "yeah, you'd know from experience"

another fight breaks out and this time price steps in, snapping at them both. watching both seargents fall into their respectful seats after getting an earful from the captain with a matching glare

and ghost? oh, he's sitting all cute in the passenger seat like the little princess he is <3<3<3

that is, until he's suddenly become an expert driving instructor. telling you not to go too fast/watching out for the cars, "hey hey, watch out for the stop sign-" "coming from the same guy who almost crashed us in the heli several times??" "still got your arse from point a to b so what's the issue?"

and then soap has the bright idea to start pissing off the lieutenant, leaning forwards behind his seat as he starts sticking his fingers into ghost's ears

learns his lesson very promptly when said finger is grabbed and bent at an awkward angle threatening to break

it's silent for a moment as you drive, taking out a soft breath finally. it's then very quickly broken before ghost complains, moving in his seat annoyed

"you got any snacks? m'starvin" doesn't wait for an answer, already rifling through the glove compartment. pulls out a snickers bar brown eyes glinting, turning behind his seat to eat it and show off to the three in the back "oi you share some with me", "greedy bastard, give some over", "where did you get that??"

you have to stop at the convenience store to appease the rest of them

but at least the driver has full control of the aux and you play your own songs, a beautiful symphony of groans and complaints around you. but hey, it's nothing the music can't drown out

and finally it's quiet after an hour and half, turning around in your seat when you're in traffic. price is asleep, arms crossed over his chest, head leaning slightly with his bucket hat falling half off. kyle's head is on price's good thigh breathing softly as he remains relatively still eyes closed peacefully. soap is pressed into his back snoring softly, a very active sleeper you've learnt throughout your time being with the 141. and simon's head rests delicately on centre console, breathing gently as his balaclava is pushed up around his nose fast asleep.

with all four men finally knocked out you thank the universe, as you continue to drive a little gentle this time all the way back to base

not before taking a sneaky pic for memories, of course ♡

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

CW: throwing up.

Back then, Mother wasn’t like this.

Your childhood memories are a broken mosaic, shattered and scattered, much like the snow globe Daddy gifted you at Christmas before he disappeared. At the age of twelve, it seems like your mind finds a way to flush it all out. Now, there's hardly anything left to hold onto as proof that you weren’t born and started out as a sixteen-year-old girl.

Yet, somehow, you know Mother wasn't always like this. She didn't begin her existence as a woman who wielded her critical gaze like a burn, her lips all too willing to spew sharp words when she caught you wearing a dress she didn't remember buying.

Today was supposed to be fun—your lunch outing, “girls time,” as Mom would say. She promised to take you to the new Italian restaurant around the block, then you’d go for some ice cream and some shopping. You figured this was the perfect occasion to wear that beautiful white tweed dress from Auntie Joyce.

But, as you came to your mother’s room to borrow her perfume, her smile faltered at the sight of you. She stopped applying her blush, placing the brush on her dressing table.

“I don’t remember buying this one,” she said, tilting her head as if the fabric offended her.

You bite your lip, torn between telling the truth or lying. But, the dress is just too pretty not to wear.

“You did.” You reply, hoping she’ll buy your lie.

Your mother, however, deepened her frown—she didn't. Instead, she got up from her dressing table chair, striding over to touch the dress' fabric. Her fingers sent a shiver down your spine as she reached the back of your neck to yank the tag. She gasped as she read the designer's name.

“You think I’d buy you a Chanel dress?” She hissed, eyes wide as fury seeped into her voice. “Who gave you this?” she demanded.

Your heart was racing. You were about to respond, but you knew deep down that no explanation would be enough to quell her anger. She would not tolerate your silence. You let out a gasp as she seized your shoulders, shaking your body roughly.

"Who was it?!" She snapped.

“I-It was Auntie Joyce,” you whispered, shrinking under her gaze.

At your answer, her face became even more contorted, features twisting as she dug her sharpened nails into the flesh of your shoulders. “Why?! Why would you do this? Are you trying to insult me?!”

“No!” You pleaded, but she only paced faster, breathing heavily as if on the verge of explosion. “I just... I just liked it!” you desperately tried to explain.

“Liked it? Or was it just that Joyce could afford you what I can’t?!” she booms, spinning around to face you. “Do you wish Joyce was your mother instead? So she could buy you fancy dresses when I worked my ass off for you?!”

A lump formed behind your forehead, the ache intensifying as your vision began to blur. Glancing out the window, you notice the gorgeous weather outdoors—a deceitful illusion that had led you to believe this day would be a good one. You were supposed to go on a lunch outing to that new Italian restaurant.

You clenched your teeth, holding back your words. Did you really give off that impression, simply by wearing this dress? Was it disrespectful of you to accept Aunt Joyce’s gift when you were meant to spend the day with Mother?

The pounding in your head became more intense. Was the adult world this complicated? That every action had layers of implications that weren’t visible on the surface? You had hurt her without even realizing it. If the adult world was this confusing, then how were you going to survive after turning eighteen? Nothing was ever simple.

You stand trembling, picking at your fingers until they bleed. With trembling lips, you dare meet her glare.

“I-I can ch-change,” you stutter, hoping it will calm her anger, anything.

But her brows furrow lower, her mouth twisting in a sneer. A sharp look as she spat: “Too late. You’ve already ruined our day. This is all your fault!”

You struggled to control your racing thoughts and the growing panic. "Please..." You pleaded through shallow breaths.

“Get out of my room.”

Ignoring your desperate pleas, Mother directs her gaze to the mirror, her eyes fixed on her reflection. She doesn’t look at you, but you know she’s waiting. As quietly as you can, you slip out like told. You close the door with a gentle click, and the house falls silent once more. The heaviness in your chest becomes unbearable because you know this will mean two days of Mother treating you as if you were invisible.

Something broke inside you. Fresh tears streamed down your face as the excruciating pain in your temple pounded relentlessly. Your body trembled uncontrollably, racked by waves of sobbing.

Mother wasn't always like this before, but you weren’t sure about that anymore. It was hard to conjure the image of that other version of her, now that the venom had infiltrated your veins, weighing down your eyelids and convincing you that Mother had always been born and started as a woman scattering eggshells in her wake.

Or perhaps you’re the poison. Perhaps you're the one who scattered the eggshells. Perhaps Mother’s venomous outbursts were merely her attempt at retaliating, releasing a barrage of curses and what-ifs. Of another life she might have had if you hadn’t existed, had she never met Dad.

(But I don’t know why I’m here, either.)

Now, you’re sitting on the edge of the plush bed, in the room Sabrina gave you and Simon. The ornate carpet seems to be the thing that catches your attention, but in reality, your mind is more preoccupied with what happened an hour ago: Joyce introducing Simon as your boyfriend to Mother, Mother pretending she’d known all along—“There just hasn’t been an opportunity yet,” as she tells Joyce.

The way she touches you in a gentleness you never believe she was capable of.

Drowning in the depths of your thoughts, you remained oblivious to the shower ceasing or Simon exiting the bathroom in all his bare-chested glory. Droplets of water clung to his skin; a towel hung around his neck. He stares at you like a crossword puzzle, hands on the waistband of his pants.

“You alright?” he asks. 

Forcing a smile, you say, “Yeah, I’m alright.” 

Simon’s eyebrows raise slightly, his gaze studying you suspiciously. But he’s never been one to push people into things they don’t want to say. He moves to retrieve his shirt from his bag.

Unable to hold back your guilt, you blurted out, “Sorry about Sabrina. She shouldn't have acted that way towards you.” You fidgeted with your fingers, seeking a distraction from the growing unease.

Simon paused, then turned first his head and then his body to face you. He claimed the empty spot next to you, the bed dipping heavily under his weight. You didn't dare meet his gaze, fixing your eyes instead on where his shirt was still bundled at his elbows.

“That really what’s ‘ad ya so tangled?”

You let out a humorless chuckle. If only he knew how much his gaze seared you—how desperately you searched for a momentary reprieve by averting your eyes from him. Yet, avoiding him was an impossible task. You dared to look up to meet his stare, feeling your heart flutter against an invisible grip.

“Maybe,” you answered, leaving the question unanswered.

Simon huffed out a breath. It seemed like the situation weighed more heavily on your mind than they did on his.

Feeling brave, you added, “And I’m sorry about my aunt too. For how she labeled you.”

Simon gave a non-committal grunt, and now you were desperate to unload the heaviest guilt of all. One that he probably won’t brush off so easily.

“And I’m sorry about my mother,” you began, voice small and hesitant. But the sentence had been said, and you had to finish it. “I didn’t… I didn’t tell her about you like she claimed.”

When you finish, you brace yourself for his reaction—for his confusion and skepticism, questioning why your mother would say that in the first place. You've prepared yourself to respond truthfully: you don't know. After all, there were countless things your mother did that you couldn't make sense of, no matter how much you racked your brains. By then, you had braced yourself for his irritation, a demand for clarification—or even an accusation that you are trying to trap him, to reveal his existence to your family to ensure he can't leave you so easily.

Feeling indebted to redemption, you try again, “If you want to leave early, before tomorrow… I’d understand.”

“Ya think too fuckin’ much, ya know that?”

You stare at him as Simon tucks his shirt on, muscle ripping under inked skin. He stands, reaching for the cigarette pack he left on the bedside table before he showered earlier. Considering his words, you nod more to yourself.

“Maybe I do.” You reply softly.

“It ain’t fuckin’ ‘ealthy, love,”

Simon shoved the cigarette pack in his pants pocket. He was the last person to talk about healthy habits when he smoked several packs a day. But who are you to judge? Somewhere beneath your brittle bones, in your greenish-brown flesh, you are just as poisoned, if not worse. Every day your mouth spews acid from the rotten fruit growing in your belly.

Based on your self-examination, you offered a simple two-word response.

“I know.”

The great hall was alive with music and laughter as Sabrina led the crowd, Andrew by her side with his possessive hand resting on her waist.

“Tonight’s our last night of freedom before the shackles come on, people!” she exclaimed dramatically, drawing laughter and cheers to fill the room. “So let’s eat, drink, and have a good time! But for the love of God, try to keep yourselves in check; we still have a wedding tomorrow!”

With a glass raised high, she prompted the rest to join her in a toast, followed by a domino of clinks and enthusiastic applause. From your perch at the far end of the room, you watched with a smile as Sabrina blossomed under the attention. Her friends flocked around taking photos, their phones flashing on and off before bringing the blonde into a crushing hug.

The looming shadow at the edge of your vision grabs your attention, and you turn to see Simon's imposing frame returning from a phone call. You greet him with a quiet “Hey,” searching his eyes. “Is everything alright?”

Simon leaned in close to your ear. “Yeah, everythin’s fine.” He cast his gaze on the last-minute decorations scattered around the room. “Fancy.”

You followed his gaze, nodding and bringing your champagne glass to your lips. “It is rather fancy,” you agreed softly, taking in the view of people dancing to particularly cheesy music. “Could’ve Gone For You” blared across the hall—it was a wonder no one had complained yet. “The music could be better though.”

As expected, he gave a derisive snort from behind his mask. “Could’ve gone without that sappy shite, if ya ask me.”

You laugh at his visible irritation, and he smiles—crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes—either in appreciation of his own joke or something else. Looking around, you see Sabrina flitting from guest to guest with her fiancé. Your uncle laughs with a group your age, no doubt torturing them with his lame jokes and exaggerated stories.

As your eyes swept further, a familiar face appeared in the throng. Sabrina’s mother is greeting everyone happily... and beside her, her. Your own mother glided near with a faux smile, her gaze finding you instantly across the room before it landed on your hands. And her face contorted in dislike.

Your airway tightens, and your grip on the glass stem turns your knuckles white. As your mother says something to your aunt—causing her to direct that bright smile in your direction—your breath comes out in short stutters that you refused to acknowledge. But unbeknownst to you, someone else had noticed your suddenly quiet demeanor.

“Here’s my favorite niece!” Aunt Joyce exclaimed, pulling you into her signature suffocating hug layered with her fragrant perfume. You forced a smile, cheeks straining under the effort.

Releasing you, she turned her attention to Simon, brows knitting in the absence of a champagne glass in his grip. “And you, Simon! Where’s your drink?” she asked almost as if she were offended, and before Simon could answer, Joyce waved her hands dismissively. “You know what? I’ll get it for you! Consider this a special treat from the mother of the bride.”

“Bring me one as well, Joyce.”

Then she spoke, unexpectedly. Joyce and you fell silent, exchanging a surprised glance. Mother abhorred drinking, berating even the most moderate drinker within sight of her. Yet here she was, requesting a glass of champagne, with a smile still not reaching her eyes.

Joyce hesitated. For a brief moment, as the conversation lingered in limbo, you hoped she would refuse, that she would stay and not leave you alone with her. But alas, your aunt left the conversation without questions, melting into the crowd with a resumed cheery demeanor and a “Coming right up!” abandoning you and Simon, betraying the image of a good host.

Mother smiled—a perfect picture of a mother—as she turned to Simon. “We haven't really had a chance to talk more, have we?”

The game starts. You wait for Simon's part in their exchange, fingers twisting white-knuckled around your champagne flute. Your heart races like a caged bird's, pounding against your ribs while acid explodes in your stomach.

Simon gave her a curt nod. “I s’pose not.” He answered so casually.

Mother chuckled softly, a sound like ice cracking. “My daughter right here"—she places a manicured hand on your shoulder, nails digging possessively into your exposed skin—“she's very shy, believe it or not; which is probably why she hides so many details from me about you.”

You despise the way her voice assumes a sweet, innocent tone—a mask to deceive yet another person to fall under the impression that she is a "good" mother and to normalize her prying into the lives of the people in your life with the excuse, "I'm just a mother who is worried about her daughter."

Something old, almost ancient, creeps up the walls of your stomach—rising, rising, rising like a tidal wave. Acid scorches your insides, your mind twisted in anxiety. You try to catch your breath to keep your expression schooled.

Mother smiled again, then asked, “What is it you do for work, Simon?”

You yearned to reach out to Simon, to tell him that he was under no obligation to answer. He valued his privacy above all else, you know, sharing little even with you. You wanted him to know that he doesn't owe anyone an explanation, least of all this woman who had so abruptly ambushed him with impudent questioning.

“Engineerin’ stuff, mostly.” came Simon’s reply.

You feel a spark of relief at his lie—one that tells you that he knows he owed this woman nothing. That he, like you, saw through her guise to the poison beneath. And in that, a dark triumph bloomed despite your raging gut. Perhaps it was a sick, twisted thing—the thought of another seeing Mother as she truly was and not as the loving mother she's pretending to be.

Proof that you're not crazy. That you're not the ungrateful, disobedient child who left home as she described to her relatives in pursuit of sympathy.

“An engineer, interesting,” Mother replied, though her smile remained cold. “It’s good (Y/N) has found someone so… capable.”

As she turned to you, you saw it—that brief flash of disgust, dislike, and something more threatening on the curve of her lips. A flash of fangs before the strike. The sour taste of acid reached your epigastrium as your head sank into déjà vu. It was like all the other times, when the family reunion was in full swing and she would tell a series of “jokes” about you.

Which, then, you soon learned was humiliation.

Mother would do it again, this time to Simon. She would paint you in a worse light and portray you as a weight that he would be wise to shed. And then later, after he was gone, Mother's arrogant triumph would be cemented in her chant as if she had proven a point, as if she was right once again.

As if people didn't leave you because of her.

To prove your fears, Mother sighed delicately. “It's too bad I live so far in San Francisco. If I were nearer, I'd be sure to give her lessons to improve herself—she still has a lot to learn, and I wouldn't want my daughter to burden you.”

At this point, the pain had already hit your head. Your mouth shut tightly as you desperately attempted to suppress the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm you. In your efforts to maintain a semblance of composure, you missed Simon's concerned glance.

“Reckon if anyone’s a burden ‘ere, it’s meself. But she don’t seem to mind it none.”

Feeling Simon’s hand squeeze your shoulder gently should have melted the tension away—but it didn’t. If anything, it only served to twist the knife deeper. Then, shame bloomed in your chest.

Under Mother’s watchful eyes, even his touch now felt tainted, as if it were something it shouldn’t be. A sin you had no right to. And you hated this—how easily she could twist even this, turning a comforting gesture into something dirty and wrong. It wasn’t, you knew, yet still you couldn’t banish the sickening guilt that writhed within like an eel.

You hate yourself for this.

Mother scoffed at Simon's reply, annoyed he refused to rise to her bait. “That's a surprise. You seem to like my daughter very much.”

The acid hit the tip of your throat. Setting down your champagne glass, you fled the room as fast as your unsteady legs could carry you, one hand clamped over your mouth. You burst through the nearest bathroom door just in time, collapsing in front of the toilet and retching violently. Stinging tears rolled down your cheeks. The acrid fluid spilled through your fingers, stripping your throat raw until there was nothing left but dry heaves.

Sitting on the cold tile, you feel as small as that sixteen-year-old girl again. Everything you’ve tried to do—leaving home and moving to a new continent, changing your phone number, making minimal contact with people who might tell her about you—now feels pointless. Foolish little girl.

How bad was it all those years ago? It's ironic that the memory has been blurred, yet your body still reacts the same way to her. Suddenly, a hole forms in your heart, a vacuum where all the big emotions are drained away, leaving only a hollow emptiness. Nothing. This yawning void is no better than everything.

Lost in the numbing fog, you jumped when the door banged open suddenly. Simon stormed in without a knock—very much in his character. The black mask obscuring his expression, but you could see his eyes burning with some intense emotion that you couldn’t place.

Judgment? Pity? Disgust? You don't know, and you're afraid of finding out.

Instead of answering your "questions," he crouches down in front of you, brown eyes sweeping over you, assessing your condition.

“You alright?”

His voice came out gruff, but there was an unusual edge you’d never heard before. Nodding slowly, you rasped, “Yeah, must’ve been the champagne.” It was a lame lie, but you were too tired to offer a better one.

Simon must have realized that too. He looked at you as if he knew what this was about, as if he had seen plenty of this. But, alas, you were a coward, choosing to avert your gaze and pretending his eyes didn't strip you bare to the bone. How could you explain to him that this was all because of a mother?

“Come on, let’s get ya back to the room, yeah?”

In that moment, you are reminded that Simon is not like her; he doesn't pry or make demands. He doesn't ask questions you fear to answer or force explanations you don’t want to elaborate. Whether it's kindness or indifference, you don’t know, but for now, it’s comfort.

Even as you wrapped yourself in a cocoon as soon as you reached your room, Simon let you. He closed the door after returning from another smoke, turning off the lights and letting the room bask in the pale moonlight coming through the window. The bed groaned as he joined you, his big, warm body close yet distant.

You fervently wish he would embrace you.

Fresh flower arrangements filled the air with a sweet scent; the wedding arch looked stunning with the decorations Joyce had mentioned the day before. On the long-awaited big day, the manor was bustling with excitement and nervousness. Bridesmaids were running around the hallway in their beautiful gowns.

Clicking his tongue, Simon wrestled the buttons of his suit jacket with effort. To think that clothes meant for his smaller, younger self years ago would fit his now bigger body was foolish; however, this was the only formal wear he owned back home. Besides, he had never been one for fancy parties (his life was more about simpler, boring affairs). If it weren’t for you, Simon was sure he wouldn’t be attending any more similar events in the future.

His lips released an exhale as the final button slid into place. Walking to the mirror on the far side of the room, Simon couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. His broad shoulders were stretched to their limits, almost tearing through the black fabric with every movement. Like a grown gorilla stuffed in boy’s clothes. But it’d ‘ave to do, he supposed. Not like there’s time to run out for a new one now.

“All set then?” you asked Simon as you walked out of the bathroom after finishing your makeup and hair.

Glancing around, you saw his tie laid out neatly on the bed. You lifted the silk tie and turned to him, stepping closer to close the distance between the two of you. “Here, let me do this for you.” You offered him.

Simon inclined obligingly, lowering his head to allow you to loop the tie around his neck. The next part proved to be a challenge. Trying to bridge the gap between your heights, you rose up on your tiptoes, hands straining to cross the wide satin over the narrow one, but still fell exasperatingly short.

Releasing a sigh, you looked up into his eyes. “Could you maybe... bend down a bit? I can't reach up there." You said.

A wry smile quirked his lips, and for a moment, you thought he might refuse just to give you a hard time. But after a beat, Simon stooped lower so your faces were level. “How's this, then?”

“Much better, thank you.”

Simon watches your hands work deftly, tucking the strip of silk beneath in a half-Windsor knot. You pull it taut in the direction of his collar, then flatten out the delicate fabric's dimples on the sides. The tie is completely symmetrical after one last tug.

“There.” You smooth the silk against his broad chest.

You turn to do your other preparations, while Simon walks over to the standing mirror to take one last look at his appearance. Satisfied, he turns to watch you insert yourself into your light blue dress.

“Can you help with the zipper?” you ask.

Simon’s footsteps approached before you felt his big palm meet the skin of your back. Your breath hitched, goosebumps running down your spine. He worked the zipper until a brief hissing sound was heard, signaling it’s all set. “All done.” He announced.

Before Simon could stop himself, he leaned in to brush a ghosting kiss by your ear. “Ya smell nice as always.” His warm breath caressed your delicate shell, and you squeezed your eyelids shut as you tried to calm your pounding heart.

Turning to meet his brown eyes, you pause to take in the subtleties of his face, which you know he will conceal once more. The slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes in his rare smiles, the curve of his lips amidst his light stubble. He blinks, and those pale eyelashes flutter along with the butterflies in your stomach.

To be one of the few allowed to see him so unguarded feels like a privilege in its own way.

Your lingering gaze prompted him to ask, “What?”

You simply shook your head with a small smile. “You smell nice too,” you replied, barely more than a shy whisper.

None of you moved. The ceiling fan whirred on ceaselessly, filling the silence with the soft snores of its motor. Outside, the rustling of leaves in the wind waved along with the thin branches that tapped on the window. Your eyes returned to his lips as if it were the only way home, and you wanted to wipe their dry surface with the touch of your tongue.

All of a sudden, the fantasy of the future plays like a presentation inside your pretty head. In the countryside of England, what would it be like if this were your wedding instead of Sabrina’s? If Simon were the happy groom instead of Andrew. There would definitely be his favorite bourbon. You’d wear this classic, timeless wedding dress with a long veil and a waterfall bouquet. His parents and siblings (if he has any) would fill the front rows to watch you exchange vows.

Would Simon want that? Has he ever thought of a wedding with a previous girl? Your heart is gripped tightly by the green monster's hand. He was your first, and yet there was someone before you and another before them. Your chest weighs with the realization that his neck has been bared on lips that aren’t yours.

While you were lost in your own thoughts, Simon was fighting his own. And before he could stop himself, he was leaning in, pressing his lips against yours in a nearly desperate kiss. Your eyes widened, mind compelled to be dragged in as he yanked your waist to bring you closer. He grunted into your mouth as he walked you back, causing your back knees to meet the bed and you to sink into the soft mattress. Your hands curled around his neck by their own accord, clinging to him like a mooring rope that kept you in place.

You weren’t the first, you know.

You weren't the first, and that fact ignited a fierce anger within you. Your fantasies, so cherished, now tear apart like shreds of tissue. The desire to be the first skin he ever touched in lust, to be his living mannequin as he explored a woman’s anatomy and poured his pornographic imagination into you... all seemed like a distant pipe dream shattered by the harsh truth of reality.

These desires... they had almost been wiped away, replaced entirely with a fierce anger and a fierce urge to rid the world of any evidence of him having touched a woman who wasn't you.

But as his tongue expertly sweeps over yours, hooking and tracing the cavern of your mouth carefully, you find yourself lulled once again. His kiss like a prophet spreading a gospel, and surrendering to him is no longer an option. You know you weren't the first, yet you present yourself to him like a willing cattle to a slaughterer all the same.

The boisterous shouting outside the room grew louder, snapping both of you out of the moment. The hurried footsteps on the creaky, old wooden floor were easily heard, before someone's voice announced, "It’s starting!" followed by complete silence in the hallway once more.

Simon was the one to break the kiss, his gaze momentarily fixed on you before shifting to the door and then back to you like a dazed person. “Sorry.” The single word escaped his lips; you're not sure what he's apologizing for.

As he moved to stand, the bed creaked softly beneath his shifting weight. Your eyes follow his retreating form, lingering on his lips, still flushed and swollen from your kiss.

“Wait,” you breathed, catching his wrist before he could turn away.

Simon’s pale eyebrows knit together in a puzzled look, but he still says nothing. Hesitantly, you reach up to swipe your thumb across his lower lip, gathering the faint sheen of gloss left behind.

You chuckled. “You've got my lipstick on,” you explain, holding up the gloss-stained digit for him to see.

The expression on his face changed from confusion to a gradual realization, and finally, a hint of amusement as he let out his own deep chuckle. Licking his lips slowly, he brought his own thumb to swipe across, searching for more residue.

“Fuckin' thing,” he grunted as if in annoyance, but the crinkle around his eyes told otherwise.

Your lips were pulled into a smile. Reaching out your hands, you asked, “Help me up?”

As he pulled you to your feet, you took a moment to smooth your gown and hair, making sure you didn’t look too disheveled from the kiss. Simon retrieved his mask from his pants pocket, hooking the strap over his ear. Slipping your arm into his once more, you both made your way from the room.

From afar, the strains of romantic music (with better taste) colored the wedding day. The sun radiated warmth, casting soft, golden rays on friends and family who had taken their seats waiting for the ceremony to begin. As you and Simon walked along the fresh, green grass, sentimentality began to burrow into your ribs.

As you walk to your seats, your eyes are glued to the side view of his sharp outline. When the light seeps through his bittersweet chocolate, transforming his iris honey-colored, the throbbing in your chest is renewed. You could blame it on the wedding—on the love and romance that hangs in the air as two people prepare to be unionized in a testimony of many. But, in truth, you know better what this is.

A ballerina twirls atop your heart, pirouetting to its rapid rhythm. The pastor has opened the ceremony with the words of God, yet you are busy with your own unspoken prayers.

Please, make him stay.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION. SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS HERE.

[ltash]

Banter

Lieutenant Ghost done dirty by you..

Warning: Explicit language

In the middle of a bustling training day, Ghost decided to tease you in front of the other soldiers. "What's your bra size, princess? Bet it's not much. You're so small," he chuckled, making sure everyone nearby could hear.

Without missing a beat, you fired back, “Don’t compare my bra size to your dick, sir."

Ghost’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but a flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Sharp tongue, princess. But watch it, I’m still your superior here.”

You smirked, unbothered by his warning. “I bet you're small. Two inches, maybe?”

The nearby soldiers were already stifling their laughs, but Soap couldn't hold back. “Someone’s feeling cheeky today.”

You grinned, not backing down. “Looks like your hulking body didn’t do your dick any justice, LT.”

Ghost’s jaw clenched, irritation bubbling beneath his cool exterior. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

"Sure I do," you taunted, leaning in. "Last night, you left your condom in my room."

The soldiers gasped, eyes wide in disbelief, while Soap nearly doubled over from laughing. Ghost, red-faced, looked around in panic. "Where did you get that?" he growled.

“Oh, don’t worry. I found it along with these.” You pulled out his ragged underwear, waving it for everyone to see. “You still wear this? It's begging to be thrown out, LT!”

The entire group erupted into laughter, Soap wiping tears from his eyes. Ghost snatched the underwear back, stuffing it into his pocket. “That’s enough, princess.”

“Oh no,” you teased, “I’ve got another pair! I’m gonna hang this one on the flagpole.”

Ghost’s eyes widened in horror. “Don’t you dare!” he growled, stepping closer, trying to intimidate you.

You shrugged, totally unfazed. "Imagine your underwear, full of holes, flying proudly for all to see."

Soap, barely containing his glee, grinned. “Honestly, I’d love to see that.”

Ghost was near his breaking point when you pulled out another surprise, Soap’s thong. “Found this in your drawer, Soap. Didn’t know you were into thongs.”

Soap’s face turned beet red, fumbling for an explanation. “It’s not what you think! I was just..”

Ghost cut him off, exasperated. “Shut it, Soap.”

The soldiers were howling with laughter, and you decided to push further. You pulled out a smutty magazine from Ghost’s stash. “What about these, LT? Jerking off to these, are we?”

The crowd went wild, barely able to contain their amusement. Ghost, flustered and red as a tomato, tried to salvage what little dignity he had left. “You shouldn't have been in my room in the first place!” he stammered.

“Why not? Plenty of interesting things in there. Next time, I’ll find you barging into the women’s showers.”

Soap leaned over, grinning. “This just keeps getting better.”

With a wink, you placed the condom back in Ghost’s hand. “Got this from the pharmacy, LT. Wanna learn how to use it?”

Ghost stared at the condom in disbelief, completely flustered. The soldiers were practically on the floor with laughter, while Soap, barely able to breathe, grinned and said, “Mate, I think she’s got you beat.”

Before Ghost could respond, you leaned in close, whispering, “Wanna play with it? I’ll show you how.”

His eyes widened, but before he could say anything, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there, speechless and humiliated.

The soldiers, still laughing, shook their heads in disbelief. Soap clapped Ghost on the shoulder, grinning. “LT, I think you’ve met your match.”

[serialkilluh1996]

☠︎︎𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐄☠︎︎

Possessive-Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female-Reader

Request (summarized): Possessive!Boyfriend!Ghost

Requested anonymously

Themes: fluff

୨୧ Stay in for the night. Ghost doesn't want you to go out alone. Besides, he'll spoil you rotten anyway. ୨୧

CW: use of '☆☆☆' in place of reader's name, implied age gap (it's up to you how big it is) possessive behavior (obviously),Ghost is a little rough with you, mentions of drugging, Contact me if I need to add more.

Ghost had issues. Mommy issues, daddy issues, anger issues; you name it, he's struggling with it. But, God, did my guy have trust issues. He had a habit of checking both your phones for the time just in case one of your devices were off by a minute or so. He initially couldn't help being this way. He's just so anxious. And it makes him...possessive.

Ghost sits leaned back on the couch, legs spread like warm butter on a pancake, still in uniform as he was too lazy tired to take it off. His hands are clasped together as he stares blankly at the TV, not even fully focused on whatever bullshit 90s romcom rerun was playing. He couldn't think about that right now. Not knowing you were in the other room, doing God knows what.

Simon had a heavy urge to burst in to see what you were doing, wondering if he'd find you sexting some random guy on tumblr (or whatever other social media platforms you had), but he knows even the slight implication that he thinks you're cheating will piss you off, so he stays in place, brown eyes hazed with thought.

His head whips instantly, his mind processing as you walk past him in some skimpy cheetah print (favorite color) dress, some chunky black heels, and your favorite necklace. He gruffs lowly, standing to his feet as you reach for the door.

He grabs your hand, turning you around.

"Where're you goin'?" His voice is low, yet animated, pointing out his frustration at your lack of even acknowledging your own boyfriend's presence. "Out." You answer flatly.

Ooh, he did NOT like your attitude. His grip on your wrist tightens. "Aren't you a smartass? Out where, love?" His tone is more sarcastic. "My friend's house. She's throwing a party." You respind, now frowning at his grasp on you.

Oh. Hell. No.

"Tell her you can't make it." "What?" "Ya heard me, love. Cancel. You're not going." He looks down at you, his towering stature adding a certain predatory feel to his serious gaze. "You can't decide if I go. You're not my dad." You pouted.

His brows loosen at that, eyes widening a bit. "You always do this, Simon. I'm not your little girl, I'm a grown damn woman. You think you can just boss me around cause I'm younger and shorter than you but you cannot keep doing this to me. You keep me locked in this house like a pet. You don't trust me." You snatch your hand away, folding your arms.

"...☆☆☆... baby. I do trust you. You're the only one I trust. It's everyone else I'm worried about. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I let you go out and something bad happens when I can prevent it." He explains, his hands easing into his pockets with guilt. He knows your right. He's always like this. Keeping you on such a tight leash.

You sigh, your gaze flickering between his eyes, seeing the shame. He was like a puppy being scolded for chewing to shoes. "...fine. I'll stay." You give in, walking past him and back up the stairs. He sighs, turning to watch you leave.

You lay in bed, arms folded as Ghost rests his head on your tummy. He looks up at you, pretty brown eyes filled with love as his thumbs caresses your hips. He's finally in something more comfortable, the fabric of his shirt between your thighs feeling oh so warm and cozy.

Neither of you spoke a weird, unsure if you were even able to talk to eachother. You were still a little cranky about his attitude, and he was still trying to suppress the guilt of pressuring you to stay.

"I'll make it up to you, love." "I'm sure you will." You respond flatly. "Don't be so uptight. I'll take you to your favorite restaurant tomorrow and we can get you a new band shirt from Spencer's." He rubs a hand across your stomach. "Bribery doesn't work on me, Simon." You turn away.

"I'll add on a new handbag and a little sweet treat too." He offers in a singsong voice. "Well,...I do want a little sweet treat." You run a hand through his dusty blonde hair. "Good." He squeezes your hips. "I'll buy you anything you want as long as you let me keep you safe." He smirks. You couldn't be mad at him forever. Not when he was so cunning.

୨୧ You can support me by liking, commenting, reblogging, and/or cashapping me @fundsbrownie. Donations are optional, but much appreciated. Have fun! And remember, take care of yourself.

[mcntsee]

The real barbie is Y/n.

Y/n’s a doctor, a cop, a scientist, an agent, vet, hero, villain, astronaut, lawyer, spy, criminal, artist, chef, engineer, psychologist, architect, journalist, firefighter, event planner, mechanic, photographer, musician, actor, interior designer, bartender, fashion designer, barista, florist, forensic scientist, flight attendant, profiler, tour guide, translator, etc.

[manicrouge]

'I'm too old to do anythin' like that now,' Simon says, shaking his head.

'But daddy,' whines the little girl standing in front of him, her small hands tugging at his black t-shirt, 'mummy was telling me all about how you a- and my uncles used to save the world and I wanna learn cause I wanna be just like you!'

He lifts his head, spying you standing in the doorway with a bright grin on your face. 'What you tellin' her that for?'

'Because she wants to know how to beat the boys in the street when they're having water fights,' you say, 'thought your military experience would come in handy.'

'They're always laughin' at me,' she pouts, 'and sayin' I can't fight cause I'm a girl.'

There's a switch that is flipped at her confession and when he looks to her and then raises his head to look at you, you swear you're looking at the Lieutenant instead of your husband.

'Is that so?' he asks, to which your daughter nods her head quickly. He holds his hand out to her and she takes it happily. 'We'll teach them to mess with a Riley, ey sweet pea?'

[deunmiu-dessie]

!reader who decides that they want to try being on top for once and anchors their small hands on ghost's chest, bouncing sloppily on his cock and whimpering at his praise. “that’s it. good girl, just like that.” !reader who pants in small, short puffs, cheeks flushing red and legs cramping. !reader whose movements start to get slower just when they're on the brink of cumming. “ i c-can't, m’tired, si.” bf!simon who rumbles deep in his chest at your whiney complaint, "ah, fuckin' hell." bf!simon who grabs the fat of your hips and fucks up into you, hard and fast, gravelly voice mocking. "look at you, can't even fuckin' ride me properly." bf!simon who simpers at your scrunched up face and bleary eyes, mouth open to let out pitiful sobs. "m' sorry, d-daddy--mmn!" he chuckles softly, "'s alright, pet. " ˙ᵕ˙

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ - 𝒸𝓁𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓂𝑒! ⁽ nsfw ⁾

[yawnderu]

Sex Pollen — Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

girl dinner since my König sex pollen has over 900 notes♡

"That's it, love..." Ghost growls out as he pushes your hips up and down slowly, your warm, wet cunt engulfing his thick dick as his hips thrust up to meet you halfway. Your womb is already full of his cum, yet Ghost is unable to stop, each orgasm seemed to just be making his cock harder and his balls tighter. Being all the way inside you felt too damn good.

"So pretty like this, sweet girl... like you were made to take my fuckin' cock all the way inside that tight little cunt." He muttered between clenched teeth, trying his best not to cum inside you yet. For the first time in his life, Ghost was willingly having sex, and oh God, he can't believe he has been missing out on this. His thrusts were slow and deep, making sure to put your pleasure before his, hitting all the right spots with his fat cock.

"Ghost...—" His name being moaned out by you felt like music to his ears, his eyes narrowing slightly as his grip on your hips got tighter, pushing you faster up and down his dick as your tight walls gripped him, a mix of your cream and his cum coating his length, making a ring on the base of it. Though his face was concealed by the balaclava, you can see his expressive eyes focused completely on your face, basking in the pretty faces you make when you're cock-drunk. You already forgot how many orgasms he's pulled out of you, yet it all feels too damn good to ask him to stop, even when your cunt is abused and fucked-out.

"Fuck— angel, let me cum in you." He pleads for your consent, just as he did the last four times he came inside. "Want to fill you up so good, baby, please." Ghost's eyes roll to the back of his head as you give him your approval, groaning and grunting as he begins to thrust harder and deeper into you, his gloved hands pulling your hips all the way down so his cock is completely inside you as his thick, warm cum fills your womb up.

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Ghost: I cut my finger Y/N: I can kiss it so it'll get better Ghost: That works? Y/N: Yeah my mum used to do it when I was little *later* Ghost: I need you to punch me in the mouth Roach: Fucking finally

[skyrigel]

Simon who just can't say no to you.

It has been like this from the moment his eyes met yours, a very terrible Monday morning if he hadn't met you but now that you remembered, it's the most beautiful day of both of your lives.

“Is that seat taken ?” Simon looked up at the small morning roused and still sleep laden voice, you were as knackered as you sounded, probably runnin’ on black coffee and cuppa noodles.

“Yeah.” He wasn't even aware how quickly he said it, “Yes, ofcourse miss.”

He scooted his big thighs together, trying to make as much space as possible for you and as if some divine thought struck him, he looked up — cheeks tinting with red.

“Would ya’ like window ?”

“No, But thankyou for asking.” You answered, sitting next to him and making sure to leave some space because those legs were thick and definitely his big cock needed some room.

Fuck, look away —

“Ghost...” Another man climbed inside bus, his eyes trained on you and your partner who's apparently Ghost ?!?!

“Wot ?” He said roughly, his shoulders pressed against yours

“Nothin’ old man.” The other man smirked and sat next to a Grandma who knitted half a sweater.

“Your friend?” You asked.

“ A little...Simon.” He said, “Simon Riley.”

“Oh.” You smiled, feeling blush creep up your neck and cheeks.“I like Ghost better.” you would've booed if you weren't feeling so tingly and nervy.

“You would like Simon more.”

“I would like that.” You couldn't believe you were flirting on a Monday morning.

One month later

“Ghost...” John horribly snorted, sprawling on couch as Simon paid him no attention.

“Wot ?” He asked, giving you his pinky as you painted the last letter ‘Y’ over hot pink nail polish, completing your H-E-L-L-O K-I-T-T-Y nail art, every letter on each nail.

“Nothin’ old man.” John smirked as you clicked your tongue, beaming up at Simon.

“Done !” You blew air and flashed a grin as Simon brought his hand up to examine your work.

“Done Luvie.” He smiled, bumping your nose with ‘I’ on his nail.

And you also liked Simon better.

Grim Reaper! Simon

Masterlist

[amaranthinespirit]

blue collar or cowboy!simon riley who would fuck you in the bed of his truck

simon was always out working so hard all day, coming home with dirt caked on his clothes. you'd have to scold him when he would track mud through the house—that you had just cleaned from whenever he came in yesterday.

he'd grovel, pressing kisses to the bare skin of your shoulder, the well-worn, holed shirt you stole from him slipping off your frame. muttering promises between each press of his lips further up your neck, along your jaw.

who are you to resist?

and who is he to either?

your pants pooled at your ankles, shirt hiked up your back and drooping off one shoulder. your inner thighs are slick and glistening with arousal and saliva.

a rough hand pushes down on your back, further squishing your chest into the hard metal of his truck bed, another grasping firmly at the fat of your backside where simon's face is lapping at your dripping cunt.

soft mewls cry from your lips, hands reaching back to grasp as his head, fingers tangling through the shirt locks of dirty blond. he only grunts in response—sorry, luvie, he's in heaven.

your legs are trembling, knees threatening to buckle under you with three orgasms already coaxed out of you on his tongue alone, milking you of your sweet, slick nectar.

your quiet, strained cries do nothing, but aid the tightness in his dirtied jeans, his cock oozing arousal in his boxers, dampening the fabric beyong his zipper. every involuntary shift of his hips causes more friction and tension with the denim, sending a groan throughout your pussy.

his noises vibrate against your pussy, shocking your overstimulated, and oversensitive, clit. all you can do is cry out as he pushes himself deeper, closer. his tongue is merciless, selfish as he threatens to swallow you whole.

at this point, you're begging for relent, repeated pleas of his name falling from your lips as the familiar heat builds in your tummy, and you writhe under his hands. the cold metal turning warm under you as it digs into your skin.

everything becoming overstimulating as the world begins to spin, jaw going slack, saliva pooling in your mouth as it threatens to spill over your swollen lips.

tears are streaming down your flushed face, your hair is frizzy and eyes are practically rolling to the back of your head as yet another release washes over you, sending a shudder through your body.

simon finally pulls his face away from the heaven between your thighs, not without flattening his tongue over your cunt for a last taste.

the lower half of his face glistening, coated in your juices, he desperately licks his lips to savor it. as he stands up from his position, his hand on your back pushes you back down onto the bed of his truck.

"n't done, luvie, be'a gud girl 'nd stay still," he kneaded the flesh of your backside, groaning at the sight in front of him.

his hands meet your hips, pulling you back on his clothed erection. a small yelped wince escapes your lips at the friction against your sensitive cunt. your frayed nerves against the harsh material that soaks up your arousal and previous releases.

you whine as he rocks his hips slowly, grunting as he watches the material dampen so easily before he pulls away from your hips.

his movements are hasty, not wasting any more time as he barely undoes his belt and zipper, freeing his heavy cock from the constraints of his jeans.

he whines softly at the warmth of your puffy, swollen folds as he rubs his cockhead up and down your pussy before catching your slit.

he groans at the tightness that welcomes him, the slick, clamping, spongy walls that pulse around his dick almost milks him of every last drop of sperm that fills his heavy balls.

your voice is hoarse, almost gone by the time his cokc is sheathed in you, his cockhead brushing your cervix as you feel the precum oozing from his slit. you can feel every prominent vein of his cock against your spongy walls, they're practically ingrained in you, your pussy molded to take his dick.

a creamy, white circle forms at the base of his cock as he forces his entire length inside, his girthy dick stretching your weeping pussy with loud, lewd squelches.

he doesn't give you time—he's selfish tonight, unapologetically so because luvie, he didn't track any dirt through the house! this is him rewarding himself for being so good! you can't discourage that, can you?

it isn't long until your backside is red, his hips pistioning into your sopping cunt, the sight of your slick pussy swallowing his red, angry cock so needily, sucking him in so desperately and clamping around him was addicting, and the feel even more so. his pace isn't nice, it's mean, and relentless, and bruising.

"fuck, lovie, couldn' wait t'hav ya," he whined in your ear, his cock drilling into your tight hole as he nipped at your earlobe. calloused, rough and dirty hands kneading the fat of your ass, a sharp slap to your skin causing it to turn even more flushed and red as he fucked himself stupid.

he was pussy-drunk, drool dripping from his cracked, dry lips onto the expanse of your shoulder. he'd press lewd, wet kisses against your supple skin, adding to the trails of saliva that pooled from his lips.

you'd have bruises the shape of his fingers on your ass for days, maybe even a week after, because of how hard his hands grasp your backside, pulling you back onto his cock as he milks himself dry.

"need t'fill y'r pussy, baby," his voice comes out a low, rough whine, despite the heavy grasp and force he exerts, "fuck, 's all f'me, ain't it?"

he'd always make sure to put dirt on the floors if it meant making it up to you by stuffing his face between your thighs.

or, making sure to kick off his boots outside the door if it meant rewarding himself like this, again, and again, and again.

[ltash]

Him

He is the devil she's been praying for

And

She is the angel he's been looking to hunt.

The chow hall was alive with the quiet chatter of soldiers, yet none of it reached your ears. It was just background noise, irrelevant, unimportant, because the only thing that existed was

Him.

Across the room, Ghost’s gaze held you captive, fierce, and unyielding. His eyes, dark with an intensity that stole your breath, traced the curve of your neck, the slope of your bare shoulders. You felt his gaze before you even saw him, its weight tangible, as though it could press you down, make you fold in on yourself. The marks he’d left on your skin, small tokens of his hunger, glistened in the dim light, remnants of a night that still tingled in your veins.

A shiver raced down your spine, but you couldn’t look away. His stare was suffocating and intoxicating all at once, like a flame that both scorched and seduced. Even clothed in something as simple as casual wear, stripped of the armour that usually encased him, Ghost emanated a raw masculine energy that wrapped itself around you, holding you in place.

He was a storm, and you were caught in the eye, drawn into the depths of his unspoken desire. Every breath, every heartbeat felt like it belonged to him.

Around you, the others carried on, laughing, talking, and unaware of the heat simmering between you and Ghost. The distance between you was nothing, just space that he could close in an instant if he wanted to. And the way he was looking at you, with that dark, possessive hunger in his eyes, made it clear he wanted to.

It was more than desire. It was a pull, something primal that went deeper than lust. His eyes spoke of a hunger that had nothing to do with your body alone, it was the kind of hunger that could consume you, devour you whole. You could feel it pulling at you, tugging at some buried part of yourself that craved his darkness.

And the more you fought it, the more you resisted the magnetic force that drew you to him, the stronger it became. It lured you closer, whispering in your mind to surrender, to step willingly into the flames. He was danger incarnate, each rough edge of him sharp enough to cut, and yet you wanted to feel the sting of those blades, to press yourself against the jagged edges of his being.

His demons danced just behind his eyes, shadows flickering beneath the surface of his calm facade. And you? You were entranced by them, drawn to the chaos that lingered inside him. He was a man who had seen the edge of hell and come back scarred but stronger. That darkness in him, it lured you in as much as it warned you to stay away.

But you couldn’t heed the warning. The more you tried to suppress the yearning, the more it consumed you. It was as if his gaze reached out and touched you, fingers ghosting over your skin, igniting a fire that spread through your veins. You could almost feel his hands on you, even though he hadn’t moved. The weight of him pressed against your chest, his stare making your body respond in ways you hadn’t thought possible.

It was dangerous, this attraction, this pull between you. It whispered of things that could break you, ruin you, tear you apart from the inside out. You knew Ghost wasn’t a man who could be loved softly. He would be a brutal, raw, relentless, an unforgiving force that would shatter you if you let him.

And yet, despite the warning bells ringing in your mind, your body wanted more. It wanted to be consumed by him, to step willingly into the chaos that swirled around him. There was no logic to it, no reasoning that could pull you back from the edge. Only instinct, pure and primal, urged you forward towards him, towards the fire that you knew would burn you alive.

Ghost was more than a man. He was a storm, a force of nature, and you were ready to surrender to let yourself be swept up in his darkness, even if it meant being destroyed in the process.

[forsworned]

Thinking about Simon having a tattoo on his left lower hip when you two start drunkenly making out on your bunk. He's lifting his shirt above his head and you're shimmying out of your skirt. You're happily getting on your knees to unbuckle his jeans, sliding off his briefs as well.

The green little ink catches your eye and you pause for a moment to inspect it. "Is that a tattoo?"

He's leaning back on his elbows, dark brown eyes fixating on your sexy topless figure. "What of it?"

You scoff. "Four-leafed clover, eh?"

"Yeah," He takes a swig of the water bottle that sits on your nightstand. "'means you're lucky to even get this far."

You scoff again as he chuckles, but it's cut off by the pleasuring feeling of your tongue swiping across the inked skin. He shudders as you swirls over it, sucking his hip bone, and his fingers thread though your hair.

But you pull away too quick for his liking. "Lil minx." He mutters as he watches you get up from the ground.

You giggle at his flushed cheeks, but it ends with you squealing as he pulls you on top of him, giving your ass a little squeeze. "You won't get away with teasin' me like tha'"