#simon riley x you
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girl-lostconnection · 3 days ago
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Concept of a concept time:
Reader who goes through the whole relationship with Ghoap or the whole 141 believing that they would always come second place, because of course Simon would burn the world down if Soap was taken out of it. Of course, Price would do everything and anything to save Simon. Of course, Simon would turn into monster if it meant keeping his family safe, keeping his TaskForce safe.
Of course, Kyle would go mad with grief if he was to lose Johnny. Of course, Kyle would become a shell of himself if he lost Price.
Of course they would all shatter without each other alive and well. It was obvious. It was a fact.
Reader who sees it and places themselves on the outside of it, because these men were already something before they came along. These men were already tight knit and close to each other.
These men were already family when Reader got dropped into their laps. It’s only natural they don’t really slot fully. There’s just no more space.
Reader who takes every bit and crumb of an affection they are given. Reader who gives away everything. All of them. Every kiss and confession, every hug, every bit of love and care they have. They give it all, because yeah, maybe they will never be a part of these 4. But they can be near and maybe…maybe that’s enough?
Reader, who dies. Not instead of Soap, not instead of anyone. They just don’t come back from the job one day, their foot locker was supposed to be shipped out to the family. But there is no family.
So 141 takes it. Who, if not them, right?
Reader, who dies and haunts the narrative from that point on. Reader who leaves a hole the size of a person and no one can fill it. It’s impossible.
Reader, whose warmth was seeping through them all for so long, the absence of it feels like a whiplash. The absence of it feels in their bones and it’s cold-cold-cold now. Their hearth dies and there is nothing to do about it but keep going.
Soldiers die every day, this one shouldn’t have been special. But they were.
Kyle who takes their personal things before someone else can come and toss them out, sleeping with their T-shirts and hoodies. Part of him dies with Reader. Part of him is getting buried with them. He’s sitting at their funeral until Price leads him away.
Simon who takes their photos and books, hiding them, keeping them safe. He needs to have it, because memory is traitorous and one day he might not be able to put a face to the name and he’s terrified of it to the point of feeling sick.
Soap who takes mementoes — keychains and magnets from all of the deployments, he takes every knick knack they found in the foot locker and Reader’s room, he stores them next to his. There are new keychains on every set of his keys. He’s fumbling with them every time he feels like there’s knot in his throat and he can’t speak.
Price gets the notebooks. Just a few of those were in a footlocker, filled with scribbles and meal plans and random quotes and games Reader played with Kyle during boring briefings. But it feels like them. It smells like them. Reader never wrote a consistent diary, too little time and too much going on, but they notated the places and times and that Soap coughs like a sick Victorian child and that Kyle has the most perfect beauty marks on his thighs and that Price sneezes like dad and that Simon sleeps with lamp on.
It is everything there was of them. Everything there’s left of their love and John isn’t sure he’d be able to part with it. It isn’t fair that it happened like that. It isn’t fair that he feels like destroying his whole office when he reads the “im not sure i fit in. on the bright side I reckon if something was to happen to me, no one would mourn too long. they have each other, I should be happy it is like that. I should be grateful” because it’s not fair-not fair-not fair-not fair.
John doesn’t show these diaries to anyone. John guards them like his most prized possession, reading it over and over because you, silly perfect thing, why haven’t you said anything. Why haven’t they noticed anything.
John doesn’t show it to anyone because he’s not sure if they won’t crumble under the notion. He’s not sure they won’t shatter when the rest find out that Reader died thinking they weren’t part of the family.
John sobs so hard, bile rises to his throat, world swimming in his eyes and it hurts, and he’s so fucking angry and it’s so unfair. Because it’s not true, because of course you were part of them, of course you matter, of course they mourn.
Because you die never finding out how much you were loved. Because there’s nothing he can do.
And it’s not fair.
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sheepispink · 2 days ago
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lt simon riley x hybrid!reader in which you're forced into his life and he cant handle it, ignoring your existence until you talk to inanimate objects to make up for it. angst ofc
sorry if this is lowkey bad, my writing has been flopping rn
edit: i am aware that the oh post had more than a few similarities to the op whose work i credited. I have responded here and made necessary adjustments to this fic. If i hear no response, then it will be left like this and i will do no other changes.
PART TWO
The news of a hybrid being assigned to him was the worst possible, maybe even comparable to the time he had to wear full gear in the middle east. There was just something about it he didnt like, not that he wanted to stereotype their kind but some could be so clingy, so needy and to think he’s have that, following him around? . But what he hates more is the way you’re sitting outside his flat door when he hears the knock, wide eyes trying to entice him to your outstretched hand. Though unfortunately for you, he just closes the door again.
For the first week, you tried over and over again. He didn't seem to want to talk to you at all, let alone acknowledge that you were in his house. The only instructions he ever spoke was to not leave the house nor damage anything inside the house. It wasn't like you’d attempt to test either rules on purpose anyway. Instead, you tried to be useful by cleaning up where you could, even if you couldn't help but get distracted by how fun sliding across the freshly mopped floors were. Plus, blanket forts were so fun to make, what do you mean they made more mess? You switched to cooking soon after, attempting to make him breakfast except every time you tried to wake up early, he was always already gone. So, you wake up extra, extra early, finding out he wakes at five and so you wake up at four the next day. You decide on sizzled meat rashers, a fried egg and a toaster waffle because you don't really understand how the oven works. It’s not your fault his has so many funny buttons.
Unfortunately for you, his hearing is almost as good as yours, or perhaps he just never sleeps properly. That’s why he walked in just when you were nodding off in a bowl of cracked eggs, the time too early for a young one like you, even if you were well into your twenties. He left the house with a slam that day.
After that you stopped trying, noticing it to be clearly obvious that he didn't want anything to do with you in the slightest. He didn't even glance at you, or ask if you wanted to eat anymore. The only reminder that you actually lived here were the remnants of your fur on the fluffy pillow that was your bed, and your name written on your pre-bought meals since he didn't trust you in his kitchen anymore. Questions were left to hang in the air, soft whines echoing around the empty room each night and only the dim TV for company.
Ghost had returned early today, a problem in base had left the place in slight disarray and the task force thought it’d be better if they just packed up for the day, maybe do paperwork at home instead. He clicks open the door, surprised to actually hear noise in the usually silent flat, though he’s already dreading whatever mess you’ve cooked up. As he enters the hallway, the noise becomes clearer, sounding like a voice, your voice, actually. “This is a super secret covert meeting, alright everyone? No one can know!” You squeak, and he’s raising a brow, mind already jumping to conclusions of you being a double agent sent to spy on him. He should’ve known they’d pull a dirty trick like that, especially with how Graves has been acting, there’s bound to be others to follow. But to infiltrate his own home is something that brings him great anger, making him all the more silent when he sneaks around the house, mind running through potential ways he’ll interrogate the information out of you.
A double agent was far too much credit for you though. You were just a silly animal who was sitting on the sofa opposite a tatty teddy bear, a pillow with a messily drawn paper face stuck to it and a t-shirt that you had draped over a pillow, the cartoon cat staring back at you. They have mugs in front of them, albeit not full of anything apart from your own mug of tea. “Just kidding, let’s order then we can start.”
You hum, pretending to take a list from the bear though it’s actually those takeaway menus that come through the letterbox. He watches carefully as you pick up one at random, eyes squinting as you attempt and almost fail to read the text. Facilities never bothered with educating their hybrids, only intent in teaching them the arts of being loyal and desirable so they’d get their pay.
“Men….u? St.. art…eer?” It’s near impossible to understand any of it, and eventually you have to put it down, huffing out a complaint. “Okay fine, i can't read at all.” Frustrated, you pull off the t-shirt, leaving the pillow to fall on the floor. You’ve watched countless videos, only with the help of the voice recognition function on the remote control, and have attempted daily for this whole week. “So what have you guys done this week?”
He notices now that you have the tv displaying an episode from those random TV series, you probably don't even know the name of it. You’re almost attempting to recreate the same scene of the friends sitting around the table, eyes flickering at the TV as you eye how they sit. You mimic a squeaky voice, holding the teddy bear by the scruff as you move its head around. “I went to the park with my handler.”
Somehow your eyes light up despite the fact you had made that up yourself, clapping your hands together. “Wow, I love the park! I wish I could chase the squirrels…” Your expression falters for a second, eyes drooped until you shake your head, moving to puppet the pillow in the middle instead. “I went to the movies with mine, and then we got icecream.”
You smile again, retracting your hand and placing it on your hips. “Damn, icecream too! ..Um.. It doesn’t matter what I did. We should do something together, but it has to be something easy.. and not too fun because if we leave a mess Simon will be mad.” He almost feels bad, but it’s not his fault, you will make a mess, and he’s already tired enough as it is. What he hadn't expected was what you’d say next.
“I don't think we’ll be able to do these meetups anymore guys.” You mumble out, frown growing on your lips as you puppeteer the bear. “What, why?”
“I-i think I’ll be getting kicked out soon. Or maybe I should just run away.. Should I? I mean, it’s not a totally bad idea and Simon won't have to deal with me!”
You stare back at the two fake people in front of you, the silence hanging heavy in the air until you reach forward, plucking the paper smiley face off the pillow and sticking on a sad face instead. “I know, I know— running away is bad and I'll only get hurt. What else then?”
The silence is long again and for once Simon can feel the distraught look on your face as you clench the hem of your loose sweater, nose wrinkled. It’s clear you’re not feeling too good, especially if you’ve resorted to talking to your own stuffed animals about running away to make him happier. It’s a pitiful sight to say the least but he can't blame you either, he’s purposefully ignored every single one of your feeble attempts to talk to him. It’s not like it helps that you’ve been cooped in a house for two weeks straight, not able to talk to anyone else. Now that he’s forced to notice, forced to think about it, it’s clear he’s torturing you, in some sick unintentional way. You’re locked away, a prisoner, a ghost— someone no one even knows exists despite how much you cry and beg for a sound to be made.
The small shuffle of your steps is sad, the way you put everything into position perfectly in case he gets annoyed, not that he’d ever express it anyway– sometimes you wish he just would say something, anything. But he doesn't, and you take the tatty teddy bear, hugging it to your chest. Not even your tail can bring you much warmth, the matted fur rough against your skin as you’ve failed to upkeep it’s maintenance the more miserable you grow.
You wont stay here for long, you’ll be moved elsewhere and grow older, less ‘desirable’ as you lose all your hybrid fluffiness until you’re finally left on the streets, scavenging bins for food like your parents did. A cycle that only repeats for you.
—————-
part 2
other hybrid drabble i did
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leyavo · 3 days ago
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Simon x Cat x Neighbour!reader
Part two > (previous part)
Simon Riley was a lot like his cat, dropping by your flat whenever he wanted. Thanking you for looking after Cat in small little ways.
Bringing you home little trinkets from his work travels. “Got it from some market, can’t tell you where though. Would have to kill ya and I really don’t want that.” Little things that line every inch of your windowsill, crystals he’s found because he knows you like them.
Thankfully it wasn’t a mouse, Simon hunting one down after Cat delivered one to you. And as you watched him pause, head angled to listen for the squeaks or little scurries. You couldn’t help but think he was a cat too. For a big guy, he was light on his feet and everything he did quiet.
“Dinner?” You asked, trying not to look at the mouse dangling between Simon’s finger and thumb by its tail. “Not a huge fan of rodent.”
He invites you into his flat for the first time, promising that it’s rodent free. “Woah your place is real big,” you say, opening your arms in the space as if you expected to touch wall to wall. Simon’s thinking of all the activities he could do with you, but decides dinners a good start.
Dinner turns into grabbing a morning coffee after a run and even going on evening runs, which angers him because before him you never would have done so alone. Sitting on the bench in the park to stretch or take a rest as you sip your water bottle, stickers decorating the outside.
When the pipe under your sink was dripping water for months, he fixed it and you didn’t find out till you went to check if the bucket was full of water again. No, no bucket under the sink. There was a small tool box in its place, stuff you had no idea what to do with.
Cat was drinking from the bucket under the sink, that’s how Simon discovered it. He’s even got a picture of it on his phone as well as a load of pictures you’d sent him with Cat. Sometimes he looks through them in his room back at the base. A few videos of your soft voice calling Cat.
So you sent him a picture of said toolbox and messaged him. “Did the fairies visit me?” He didn’t respond till the next day, “big bloody fairy.” promising to show you what they were for and sending you a video of basic plumbing if you wanted to learn yourself whilst you waited for his return.
Cue Simon teaching you how to fix the plumbing in your flat. The two of you squeezed into the little box of a bathroom as he listened to you explain about the low pressure of the shower and the tap on the sink you wanted to swap with something pretty.
The eroded shower hose snapping and spraying the both of you with water. Simon’s hoody drenched, sticking to every curve and dip of his muscles. Your back leant against the wall as his arm reached above you to turn the water off.
“I really wanna kiss ya,” he said, head inching closer to yours, gaze flitting to your lips. “Kiss me.”
You use his place for sex and make sure Cat is in your flat, “don’t want the kid to see,” is what Simon says.
Whenever Simon sees you’ve run out of anything, he’ll pick it up when he’s doing his weekly food shop. The coffee sachets refilled when you go to the kettle and when you ask, Simon shrugs “the fairies,” he says, sipping his cup of tea with the morning paper.
Even when you are officially dating you were still going between the two flats. Joking that cat had the studio and you could stay with Simon.
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gloomwitchwrites · 1 day ago
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Hope you can do this-
WE TOTALLY NEED t141 with a wife reader doing that one TikTok trend about standing naked in front of them, like they could be watching a rugby game and reader comes into the room with nothing but a towel on, drops the towel, completely flashes them and then leaves 😂
(you can do gender neutral if you don't want to do a female reader 💕)
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HA! OKAY! I know this trend! I've seen videos of it before. Love, love, love this idea, anon. I could have gone real smutty, but I controlled myself (shocking, I know) and only went a bit cheeky (lol) with it. I hope you have a good laugh or smile while reading. Enjoy!!
Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, non-descriptive nudity, suggestive themes, dirty thoughts, shenanigans, swearing, implied sexual content
Word Count: 800
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
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John Price
The documents are sprawled out across the dining room table. John has been pouring over them for hours, considering every bit of information, determining importance.
In his peripheral, you float about, a moving shadow that appears and disappears as you roam the house. John would like to spend time with you, to bask in your presence, but it’s not to be. This is far too important to merely set aside.
For a time, you disappear, then your shadow emerges again. John expects you to continue on, but you linger, and it draws his attention up and away from the documents.
You stand before him in nothing but a fluffy white towel. Your skin, that of what he can see, is slightly wet as if you’ve just emerged from the shower.
“Love?” he prompts.
You don’t speak. You simply drop the towel.
All thoughts of the upcoming mission leave John’s head. In its place is your nakedness and the rushing of blood to his dick as it hardens.
As words form on his tongue, you abruptly turn, giving him a full view of your bare ass.
Fuck it, John thinks as he pushes back his chair.
The mission can fucking wait.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Johnny’s tongue sticks out from between his teeth. It’s just a sliver of pink—a hint of the concentration brewing in his gaze.
“Come on,” he mutters, clicking the buttons on the controller. “Come on.”
He’s off. Away from work. Enjoying the comforts of home.
You appear from the right, directly between the television and the couch. Johnny notices but says nothing. When you don’t move away, he glances over. You’re in nothing but a fluffy, white towel.
“Coming to join me, love?” he asks with a wink.
As a reply, you smirk, and then drop the towel you’re wearing. It pools at your feet.
Johnny’s gaze completely shifts in your direction. He stares…and stares, the video game forgotten. You’re completely naked, looking goddamn delicious. All the blood in his brain promptly rushes to between his legs, building an aching need that grows by the second.
And you’re…walking away? No. You should be sitting in his lap right now. You should be on his dick.
“Oi!” he shouts, standing abruptly, the controller clattering to the floor.
You glance over your shoulder, and Johnny melts under that look. Desire hangs heavy, and Johnny decides right then that the game can wait.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Kyle leans against the kitchen counter, his gaze distant as Price chatters away in his ear. They’ve been on the phone for five minutes—a new record for Price who thinks cellphones are evil incarnate—and the man won’t shut up.
“No,” says Kyle, keeping his tone neutral. “I hear you. It’s a fucking mess that one.”
You appear from around the corner in nothing but a towel. Kyle smirks in your general direction, extending one arm toward you with the intent to draw you close to him. But you do not approach. You remain completely out of reach.
Frowning, Kyle pushes off from the counter. The words begin to form on his lips and then promptly disappear when you abruptly drop the towel.
His mouth hangs open, breath stolen, with gaze fixated on all that nakedness.
Price is still talking—still jabbering.
Kyle hears none of it. Price’s voice becomes a low buzz as all of Kyle’s attention goes from his head to his dick.
“Captain,” he manages to gasp out as you dart away down the hall. “Captain. I have to go.”
Kyle doesn’t wait for Price’s affirmative. He ends the call, legs already moving to follow you.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Simon lifts the hammer, intent on striking the nail to push it further into the wall.
Just as he brings his arm down, a shadow appears in his peripheral. Within him is a tug—an insistent urge to look and seek out the source of the movement.
And Simon does.
Shifting his head just enough for the shadow to become solid, Simon’s gaze falls upon the one person he loves most in this world. It’s only seconds that pass, but his brain registers everything about your figure in an instant. It’s your exposed skin, then the towel wrapped around your body, to you opening it up to reveal the nakedness underneath, only for you to drop the towel where it pools on the floor.
The hammer comes crashing down, but Simon doesn’t notice that the trajectory has shifted. Not until it falls, and misses the nail, coming down on his hand.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he growls, staring down at his now throbbing thumb.
Simon glances up, ready to tell you off, but you’re already walking away, bare ass on full display.
You naught thing. Distracting him on purpose.
Simon sets down the hammer, following, intent on teaching you a lesson.
taglist:
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@fern-reads @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus
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@voids-universe @iloveslasher @talooolaaloolla @sadlonelybagel @haven-1307
@itsberrydreemurstuff @z-wantstowrite @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @blackhawkfanatic
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@keiva1000 @jackrabbitem @arrozyfrijoles23 @lovely-ateez @waves-against-a-cliff
@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @glassgulls @greeniegreengreen
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lay-z · 3 days ago
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cotton candy clouds | 4
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Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.
Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader
Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samojede (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts and personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; slow-burnish; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff/domesticity; humour; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)
☁ ccc; masterlist
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Whenever Simon spares you a glance to remind himself that this new and strange arrangement is real, he finds you staring right back at him somehow.
Always making eye contact; holding his unwavering gaze with a silent expectation that makes his chest feel tight and his brain go numb, grappling for answers. Multiple times he's caught himself biting the tip of his tongue harshly to refrain himself from barking “What?” at you, demanding an answer in exchange for his cluelessness: What do you want from me?
He's building a mountain of expectations in his mind involuntarily while lacking the gear and a strategy in how to climb it properly. It's too high, and he knows he can never reach the top unscathed.
How can he possibly take care of you if he can barely take care of himself outside of what is required of him? He keeps himself fit, alive, able to function, always ready to follow an order and go in for the kill. That’s what he knows, what he’s comfortable with, but this?
Simon doesn't play house, doesn't know how to handle something so... domestic and delicate. He never experienced it growing up, never witnessed normalcy. If he would care about such things now, he’d have a wife or something akin to one, but he doesn’t–never even had a partner before, never bothered to believe himself fit for dating, for letting someone in like this.
Even the soft clothes you're wearing make him recoil; pastel colours having the opposite effect of red to a bull–so odd and out of place to him, and he knows the callouses on his fingers would simply catch on the fabric if he were ever to reach out to you for whatever reason, like a sheep’s fine wool catching on a thorn brush, scratching and tearing.
“What would you like for dinner?”
Simon blinks twice, thrice, before the question comes through his thick skull, vision slowly clearing despite him having stared at you for the past minutes while you were sitting on his couch patiently the whole time, eager as ever now that he willingly took you back to his flat again.
Why did you even sign the handlership without knowing him at all beforehand? Are you really that oblivious? That naïve? Or did the brass coax you into signing it?
“Simon?”
The way you keep saying his name so casually, makes his chest ache, makes him inhale sharply each time. What would he like for dinner? It should be such a simple question, but it seems like a puzzle to him–a thousand pieces, all in the same bloody colour.
“Why? Ya offering to cook for me, lass?” He snorts humourlessly. It's ridiculous. No one cooks for him unless he goes to the mess hall to get some grub.
“Of course, I'd love to!” You answer immediately, flashing a genuine smile. His eyes flicker to your tail when it starts to wag again and he curls his lips under his mask. Isn't he supposed to take care of you? What even is this bloody handlership? His brows draw together quizzically, making that deep crease reappear between them. Perhaps he should’ve read it before putting his signature on the damn paper.
Then he sighs in resignation. “Do whatever you want, just stay out of my room,” he replies and makes a half-hearted gesture towards the kitchen. “Not sure wha’s in the fridge. Been a few days since I went to the store,” he admits begrudgingly, kissing his teeth in annoyance when his stomach grumbles.
“Well then,” you say tentatively, tail stilling on the couch, “–why don't we go shopping for groceries?”
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It’s already late afternoon, when Simon pulls up to the parking lot in front of the local supermarket in town with a truck he borrowed, deciding it’s better for his own nerves to take you somewhere else but the stores they have on base.
He just can’t bring himself to keep you on a leash around his peers, to parade you around wearing a pink collar around your neck with his rank and military ID number stitched into its leather–a ‘gift’ from the bloody gift basket Price had delivered to his flat along with the initial shock of your presence.
And, by god, he wants to drop the leash and run in the other direction as soon as the automatic sliding doors swoosh open and his boots step foot into the store with you in tow–a red shopping basket clutched in his other hand.
What an absurd picture it must be to other shopgoers–a behemoth with a skull mask and cargo pants buying veggies and snacks with a gorgeous hybrid woman on a pink leash and matching collar. Kinky, he muses unintentionally and grits his teeth, cringing at his own stupid thought. It’s then and there Simon decides to murder Price next chance he gets.
“Mummy, look!” A toddler exclaims, pointing at you as he peeks his head into the produce aisle. Simon’s eyebrow raises beneath his mask as the little boy approaches shyly, his wide eyes fixated on you. Civilians, especially kids and women, usually avoid him like the plague whenever he’s out and about in public, looking like, well–himself.
“Hello there,” you coo at the toddler, crouching down to his level while Simon keeps as much distance as the leash allows him to, knowing better than to interfere. “Are you looking for your mama?” You ask attentively, ears twitching as you look past the boy, already searching for his parents.
The boy shakes his head with a big smile, rocking on his feet. “Nu-uh, she’s–”
“Noah!” The frantic voice of a woman calls out. “I told you to stay by–” Her eyes widen, steps faltering briefly as she catches sight of Simon, who has already anticipated the reaction, slumping his shoulders to try and make himself look smaller, less threatening.
“He’s okay,” you chime in swiftly, straightening up to be on eye-level with Noah’s mother. “We were about to help him look for you, madam,” you assure her, and the boy giggles when you ruffle his brown unruly curls briefly. “Isn’t that right, big man?”
The conversation fades into the background just like Simon’s whole presence seemingly does as you go on to hold a friendly and effortless conversation with the mother and her son. Meanwhile, Simon doesn’t quite remember the last time someone approached him so casually and jovially, and he gets lost in his own rotten mind with flashbacks of the past again–seeing the ghosts of Beth and Joseph in these strangers in front of him, and his heart is gripped by icy tendrils of grief and melancholy until your laugh breaks through the vision, pulling him back to reality at once.
“Oh, no worries! I’m sure it is strange to see someone like me in a quaint town like this,” you chuckle softly, giving a small wave with your hand while Simon’s pale lashes flutter as he tries to follow the conversation once more after what he’s missed. He notices how the toddler is giggling, petting and hugging your fluffy tail while you continue talking to his mum like it’s nothing unordinary. “But working for the military has brought me to the strangest places where hybrids are either a common occurrence or completely rare and more like a myth,” you explain patiently.
And the woman smiles coyly, already smitten with your charms. “Well, you certainly are a looker if I dare say so, miss.”
Once Alice, as she'd introduced herself, and Noah go about their own shopping, Simon catches the odd look on your face, something akin to sadness or longing hidden behind your smile, before you rapidly blink it away as a grumpy-looking elderly man approaches you, asking for help as if you'd know your way around while Simon groans internally, already despising all the attention.
You really do turn heads in a rather positive way if you manage to make the most grumpy old geezer smile in a heartbeat.
“You always this chipper?” He gruffs as he watches you add a pound of butter and coffee creamer to the overflowing basket, not that he'd care about that. You've been nothing but mindful of prices and proper nourishment while strolling through the aisles.
“Hm?” Simon snorts, in amusement this time. There's no way you didn't hear him; he saw your plush left ear swivel in his direction. “Ya heard me jus’ fine, lass.” He mutters, grabbing a box of his favourite biscuits as he walks past them and shoving them in between the other goodies, feeling like a child sneaking candy into their parent's shopping cart.
“Oh, yeah,” you chuckle, keeping your eyes trained on the shelves with different brands of toast before grabbing a packaged loaf. “I guess I am.” Then you stop, glancing up at him over your shoulder, and Simon nearly bumps into you. “You don't like people coming up to us to chat?”
Simon's brows furrow. Us? “They wanna talk you, not me. 'm basically–” He shrugs, making a vague gesture at himself as the leash clinks in his hand.
“A Ghost?” You quip, beaming at your little joke while your tail swishes proudly.
“Right,” Simon huffs quietly. “Smooth.”
He's rather thankful for his balaclava as he continues trotting after you through the store, hiding the tiniest crack of a smile underneath the black cloth.
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There’s a match on the telly, an ice cold bottle of his favourite ale on the coffee table on a coaster he didn’t even know he owned, though all Simon can really focus on is this bizarre situation he finds himself watching as you go about doing your own thing in his kitchen.
It’s almost mesmerizing, the way you rummage through the cupboards and drawers, taking out pots and bowls to your liking as if you own the place already, preparing a side salad while the steaks sizzle in the pan–all while you’re wearing that frilly, pale pink apron that you’d fetched from your suitcase earlier, the one that makes Simon wonder if one of your previous handlers is responsible for your peculiar wardrobe, or if pink simply happens to be your favourite colour.
He takes an absentminded sip of his drink when another thought pops into his head: What if you wear all of this hyper-feminine bollocks because people forced you to like it? What if they manipulated you into enjoying stuff to state their own perverted fantasies? Would you rather wear something else?
And Simon imagines it briefly–you wearing something cosy, perhaps one of his hoodies that would most likely swallow you whole. He takes another swing of ale and his nose wrinkles, though it’s not the bitterness making him squinch.
“Dinner is ready in five,” you croon suddenly, popping your head into the living room from the kitchen as the savoury aroma of steak and chips wafts through the flat, engulfing the usually sparse space like a warm, comforting blanket.
With a soft groan and a cracking knee, Simon gets up from his seat on the couch. The least he can do is set the table.
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@lucienofthelakes @kakashiislut @jggykhug09090 @edgarapoecolouredglasses @kerst666 @whos-fran @d1zzy-r1v3rs @userinaliel666 @annoyingstrawberryballoon @vmaxis @tessakate @dneicjefx @sushiumex @yourfavreggie @cmbghost @brokexintroverted @mysterygrl555 @bunnybeaches @fmlmf @teapartydreams @nachofriess @slut-lmao @sweetnanah @kodzukenwhore @thefutureastronaut @arael-asuka @oliver-1270
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Y/N: Did it hurt? Simon: Yes Y/N: I was talking about the fall from heaven Simon: It all hurts Simon: My life is constant pain and suffering Y/N: Stop being depressed and flirt back!
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ebodebo · 1 day ago
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meet ugly with simon!
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You’re late.
Like really, really late.
You were supposed to be heading into your lecture right about now, but instead, you're dashing to your car, struggling to balance the heap of items in your arms.
The lady in front of you at the grocery store insisted on having all her items perfectly bagged, and now you're running late.
Go figure.
You hurriedly toss your groceries into the passenger seat, forgetting all about connecting your Bluetooth.
With a swift motion, you buckle your seatbelt and shift into gear, only to roll backward instead of moving forward.
A yelp escapes you as you feel the sharp impact of colliding with a parked truck behind you.
"Shit!" You curse, slamming the gear into park before struggling to open your door, muttering another string of expletives as your seatbelt nearly chokes you.
As you step out, you're met by the sight of a man emerging from the truck you just bumped into.
He stands tall and imposing, a mask covering half his face, making it difficult to gauge his emotions.
His bright blue eyes are striking yet carry an unsettling darkness that raises the hair on the back of your neck.
“Oh my God!” You exclaim in a fluster, rushing to inspect the damage on his car. You run your fingers through your hair anxiously, trying to regain some composure.
“I’m so fucking sorry! I—I was in such a rush,” you blurt out. “The woman at the grocery store took forever; it’s ridiculous! Who needs groceries bagged just right? And my clothes, ugh! I forgot to start the dryer, so they’re still sopping wet! Just my fucking luck!” You throw your hands up in a mix of frustration and false enthusiasm, your words tumbling out in a frenzied stream.
“I’m definitely going to miss my lecture because of this, and my professor is already on my case, so this is just the cherry on fucking top of my terrible day. And—” You suddenly stop, realizing that you’re venting to a stranger whose truck you’ve just hit.
"Sorry," you say quietly. "I'm just having a really shitty day, full of shittiness."
"Shittiness?" He replies, a hint of humor creeping into his raspy English voice, catching you off guard since he had been silent until now.
You glance up at him, your lip twitching slightly.
"Yeah," you respond softly.
He pauses for a moment, taking in your sheepish demeanor.
"You hungry?" He asks, seemingly out of nowhere.
You raise an eyebrow, caught off guard by the question. "Hungry?"
He nods.
"Well—I mean…" you trail off, noting the damage before looking back up at him.
His expression is serious.
He’s serious.
Is he actually asking you out after you just fucked up his car?
"Are you serious?" You ask, hesitation clear in your voice.
"Do I look like the type to joke?" He replies, his tone dry.
A smile breaks across your face.
"No. Not really," you admit, feeling a mix of embarrassment and amusement.
You take a moment to soak him in.
He’s pretty…attractive now that you’re really looking.
Quite built and definitely older than you.
You wonder what he does for a living.
Or if he lives around here.
"Diner's right across the street," he says, nodding toward the quaint little eatery nearby.
It’s clear he’s trying to ease your worries.
You don’t have to get into his car with him; you could just walk over where there are onlookers.
Fuck it.
You’re already late for your lecture.
Might as well make it worthwhile.
"Okay," you say, your enthusiasm a bit more pronounced than you intended.
Your cheeks warm, but he remains silent, though you catch the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.
"Let me grab my wallet," you say, reaching for your door handle, but he gently places a hand on it to stop you.
"Don't need it," he dismisses.
Your lips pucker in confusion. "But, I—"
"Come on," he replies, tilting his head towards the diner.
"Alright..." you say, slowly realizing you don’t even know his name.
"Simon," he provides.
You smile.
"Cute name," you compliment as you turn on your heels to head towards the diner.
Oh, now he's definitely smiling under that mask.
He takes you to the cozy diner and covers the cost of your meal, much to your dismay because, 'I really should be paying; I messed up your car.'
He brushes aside your attempts to pay him back, insisting that you should never front the bill.
"If you ever want to talk about your shitty day, just give me a call. Yeah?" He says, scribbling his number on a napkin from the diner.
"Yeah, I will," you promise as you reach for the napkin.
After your meal, Simon walks you back to your car, even opening the door for you as you part ways with a quiet 'goodbye.'
"See you later, Simon. I’ll text you later!" You exclaim, beaming with excitement. "I’ll send my insurance info tonight," you add.
He simply nods, fully aware he’ll delete that message later because he couldn’t care less about his car.
He’ll pay to fix it, along with your car.
Even if you fight him on it, he'll still do it.
He’s just so thrilled that a pretty girl like you fell into the palm of his hand
What a lucky bastard.
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a/n: bring back meet uglies!
divider by @saradika-graphics
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anghimalaaynasapuso · 19 hours ago
Text
GYM CRUSH SIMON
sfw + nsfw. unsafe sex. womb fucking. no condom.
you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.
you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.
there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.
at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.
midnight schedule it was.
it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.
the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.
and then there was him.
tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.
the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.
(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)
he moved through his workout with terrifying
efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.
you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.
“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.
you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”
“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”
you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”
he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"
“i do not know his entire workout routine.”
your friend raised a brow.
you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”
his brow lifted higher.
“…and arms on thursdays.”
silence.
“right.”
“shut up.”
you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.
the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.
and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.
What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.
so, you stayed quiet..
until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.
in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.
“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”
“i use it,” you protested.
“you walk through it.”
okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.
you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.
you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.
the bar didn’t budge.
you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.
okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—
"y’need a spotter?"
you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.
you swallow. "uh."
his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"
"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."
he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.
your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.
"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.
you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!
he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.
"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"
you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"
"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.
you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."
you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.
he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.
a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.
but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.
"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"
he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."
you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?
he hesitates. "depends."
"on?"
"the day."
you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."
"sure it is."
you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.
it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)
you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.
"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."
and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”
he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”
you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.
"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."
you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.
“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”
“drop it.”
“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”
“drop it.”
some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.
it’s unbearable.
like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”
you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.
you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.
the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."
you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”
he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."
you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”
his eye twitches. “just drink it.”
and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.
one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.
you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.
simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.
"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.
you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”
he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.
"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.
you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—
his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.
"fix that grip, sweetheart."
you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.
"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."
your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.
his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."
you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.
you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.
and then— "good girl."
barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.
your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.
you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.
and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.
"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."
simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"
your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."
his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"
"yes."
he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."
you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.
"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."
your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.
"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."
low, warm, approving—
"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."
simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.
"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”
“please.”
the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.
simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.
his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.
his hips roll up.
you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.
he does it again.
your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.
"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."
his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.
his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.
you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.
"fuck-"
he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.
"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."
your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.
"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"
you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.
his patience snaps.
one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.
simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.
he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.
the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.
simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”
he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—
he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.
"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"
"yes- yes, please-"
"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."
he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.
the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.
"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"
you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.
his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.
“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”
your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.
simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”
you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”
he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.
your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.
his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”
then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.
you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.
simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”
he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.
his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”
you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.
his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.
“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”
he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.
then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.
his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”
the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.
simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.
he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—
he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.
"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."
your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"
"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"
you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"
"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."
you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."
he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."
then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.
you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.
"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"
you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.
"s’not fair," you mumble.
"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.
"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."
you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.
"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"
you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.
when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.
then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—
you take him.
the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.
"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."
you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.
breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"
"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."
but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."
his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."
"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"
he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."
then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.
"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.
simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."
the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.
"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"
he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.
it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.
but you’re already gone.
your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.
"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"
you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.
he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.
"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."
"s-simon-"
"what, love? too far gone already?"
his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.
you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"
"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."
he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.
"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.
"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."
he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.
"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"
"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.
"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."
then he fucks you properly.
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simonz-angel · 1 day ago
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sittin’ up on simon’s face and smothering him 👅👅👅
tears crest the corners of his eyes, throat gasping in a shuddering breath against you. n simon’s reeling, away and latching onto you in a mess of ecstasy. his cocky demeanor melts down his face in hot, salty tears, nose pulling into a soft scrunch as he tries his absolute best to keep up.
your hips roll, moaning and giggling when his nose nudges at your clit. your fingers curl into his hair, sliding through the short blonde before you grip tight and ground your hips down onto his open mouth. and he lets you, lets you use him as you please, his only defiance being the garbled whines.
“not so mouthy are ya’ now, huh, baby?” you smile down at him, pushing his head further into the feathery pillow supporting him, your sweet pussy fuckin smothering him.
n his big eyes glisten up at you, nails cutting into the plush of your thick thighs. he can’t tell if he’s in heaven with your warm, soft thighs wrapped tight round his head, with the way you shove your pussy onto his mouth. or hell with the way black pricks at the corners of his eyes.
his fingers tap, digging into the meat at the side of your thigh, whining. your hips slip upwards slightly when his back arches, when he writhes against the bed, desperate to get your attention to his leaking cock that lays pretty against his stomach.
“so damn needy,” you roll your eyes, pressing your hand into his forehead to get his head at just the right angle. “always thinkin’ with your fuckin cock.”
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beloveds-embrace · 2 days ago
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(dukedom au, but you are gone for a week cue four men yearning)
The estate feels terribly empty without you.
At first, John tells himself it is only because the house is large and his duties are many. It is a fine excuse- an easy one. He can pretend, for a little while, that his mood is not soured by the absence of your voice at breakfast, by the fact that your perfume no longer lingers in the halls, by the cold, empty side of the bed where you normally sleep.
A week. A mere week, and yet John feels as though you have been gone an eternity.
The others are no better.
Johnny, usually so full of mirth, lingers in the kitchen longer than necessary, creating dish after dish that no one eats. He sets out a plate for you at every meal, stares at it as if willing you to appear. Sometimes, in a fit of frustration, he abandons the dining table entirely and takes his meals in the kitchen, where the staff quietly shuffle around him, their own hearts aching for the absence of their beloved duchess.
Kyle keeps himself busy, burying himself in the estate’s affairs. He goes over reports he has already read twice over, polishes the silverware himself when he thinks no one is looking. John finds him in your sitting room one evening, carefully dusting the spines of your books, though that is hardly his duty.
And Simon, ever so composed, ever so unreadable, is perhaps the worst of them all. He disappears for hours at a time, taking long, aimless rides through the countryside, returning only when the moon has risen high in the sky. He never says where he goes, and no one dares ask, but John knows it is longing that chases him from the estate. When he is not riding, he is haunting your parlor, sitting in your chair by the fire, fingers tracing over the embroidery of the cushion you had so painstakingly stitched by hand.
John had thought himself a patient man. He had been patient when you were wed, when you were shy and uncertain in his home. He had been patient when you discovered his lovers, when you had laughed instead of recoiled, when you had slowly, slowly, let yourself be drawn into their warmth.
But this- this absence of you-
John is not patient now.
He receives your letters, of course. Short, sweet things, penned in your careful hand. You speak of your relative’s health, of the weather, of how you miss the estate and the men who reside in it. You ask if Simon is eating properly, if Kyle is getting enough sleep, if Johnny is not overworking himself. And John- you ask of him too.
I dream of you, my love. I think of you often. Of all of you. Do you think of me?
John exhales, rubbing a hand over his beard as he stares at the parchment. He is sitting at his desk, the candlelight flickering, casting long shadows over the room.
Do you even need to ask?
He folds the letter carefully, setting it atop the others in his drawer. The mere thought of you dreaming of him makes his body ache in ways he cannot put to words, even as he pens a reply for you. He does not mention how empty and lifeless the the estate is without you- you must be worried already by your relative’s health and tired still from the long journey. He can’t put more on your plate.
Though, he hates how the days pass slowly.
By nightfall, John sits alone in the drawing room, a fire crackling low in the hearth, but the seat beside him is empty. Your embroidery frame remains untouched. He glances at it, at the last piece you had been working on- a delicate bloom of violets, only half-finished- and finds himself running a finger over the fine thread.
“Ridiculous.” He mutters under his breath. And yet, he does not move from his place, staring into the fire as if waiting for the sound of your footsteps.
In the kitchen, Johnny kneads dough with more force than necessary, his arms sore from the effort. He does not complain, but his movements are sharp, restless.
Johnny knew he would miss you. He had expected it, had braced for it when he kissed your cheek in parting and told you to travel safely. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things.
The kitchen is too still. He finds himself setting out two teacups in the morning instead of one, expecting to hear your soft voice asking what was for breakfast. He catches himself reaching for the honey you like, only to stop halfway and set it back down with a sigh.
He spends more time than usual baking, filling the kitchen with scents of warm bread, sweet pastries, things you love. The staff enjoy it, of course, but they aren’t you. They don’t smile at him with that particular look in their eyes, don’t sneak tastes of jam off the spoon when they think he isn’t looking.
On the fourth evening without you, Johnny sits at the long dining table, his hands folded in front of him as he stared at the empty chair where you usually sat.
“I should’ve gone with her.” He mutters, drumming his fingers against the polished wood.
“You wouldn’t have been allowed,” Kyle replies, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “She wouldn’t let you drop everything just to follow her like a lost pup.”
Johnny huffs, but he doesn’t argue.
Kyle, ever dutiful, remains composed, but there is an air of unease about him. The routine of the estate is well-kept, yet something is missing. Someone is missing. He finds himself checking the front gates more often than usual, as if expecting your carriage to appear earlier than usual.
Kyle keeps himself busy. He always did, and this week is no exception. The house still needs running, duties still need tending. But even as he works, he feels the weight of your absence like a missing piece of a puzzle.
He notices it in the small things. The way the household staff move, more subdued, missing the warmth you carried into every room. The way the evening routine feels… off. You had a habit of lingering in the hallways after supper, speaking softly with the maids, the footmen, offering a kind word or a knowing glance when someone needed it.
Without you, the house feels colder.
Kyle does not sigh or linger by windows, does not wallow the way Johnny or John do. But on the fifth day, when he enters the library to set fresh candles, he pauses by your reading chair. One of your books lays open, a silk ribbon marking your place. He reaches for it, smoothing a hand over the page before exhaling slowly and setting it back down.
That night, he locked the doors a little later than usual, waiting- just a little longer- for the sound of your return.
Simon, meanwhile, says nothing. He does not pine aloud, nor does he linger like the others. And yet, there is no denying that your absence gnawed at him.
He had been the last to fall for you, the last to let you into his heart. He thought himself made of colder things, of old scars and solitude, yet you had settled into his life as if you had always belonged.
And now, you were gone.
Simon finds himself drawn to your rooms, not stepping inside, but lingering just outside the threshold. He will not enter without you there. But he stands in the hallway sometimes, late at night when even the candles had burned low, and simply… listens.
There is no sound beyond the distant hoot of an owl. No soft breathing, no rustle of your gown as you move through the rooms.
He closes his eyes.
“Come home soon, Duchess.” He murmurs, voice lost to the empty halls.
The estate is not whole without you.
By the seventh day, they are restless.
John stands at the front of the house, hands clasped behind his back as he stares down the road. Johnny hovers in the entrance hall, pacing. Kyle has ensured everything is perfectly arranged for your return. Simon has taken to standing in the courtyard, watching the horizon.
And then- at last- the distant rumble of carriage wheels.
They do not rush, do not appear desperate, but the moment your carriage comes into view, relief ripples through them.
The door opens. You step out, your gaze sweeping over them- soft, surprised at the intensity of their presence. And then you smile, and it is as if the week of longing melts away in an instant.
John steps forward first, taking your gloved hand and kissing it, but his grip lingers. Johnny barely restrains himself from pulling you into an embrace. Kyle exhales, tension easing from his shoulders. Simon says nothing, but the way he looks at you speaks volumes.
“You’re home, Duchess.” John murmurs.
Your smile widens. “I am.”
And at last, the house is warm again.
Dukedom au masterlist
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eddiesghxst · 3 days ago
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18+ — MINORS DNI
idk something abt ghost, knowing how massive of a tank he is, refusing each and every one of your advances. you’re tiny! and ghost is big (in more ways than one). could lift you with his pinky finger— there’s no way his gigantic self is gonna fit anywhere in your body— “i’ll break you”— which was undeniably hot when he said it and sent your head spinning, but god you’re nothing if not persistent. a down right brat if ghost is being honest. but you don’t back down from a challenge and he can give you a star for that.
you have no clue what you’ve gotten yourself into— ghost can see it on your face when you tug his pants down. he’s got a tree swinging between his legs for fucks sake.
and usually this is when women shake their head and decide they’d like to still have the ability to walk, but you’re climbing over him with a type of determination ghost has only ever seen out on the field.
it takes a while— because ghost kept having to tell you to slow down, take your time— but eventually you get him in, and he’s not expecting you to get it all in, so imagine his shock when you keep wriggling your cunt down his cock.
he groans, heavy and low, can’t take his eyes off how nicely you split open on him. and when you get all the way down, ghost finally looks up at you and jesus christ— he can practically see your brain melting out of your ears. but god, he can’t stop now, no. he pulls you close and flips you over, gruff voice coming out low and annoyed as he slowly rolls his hips into you, a pitiful moan slipping from your lips as he grits out— “you never listen.“
you make a confused noise around a whiney moan and ghost huffs because— jesus christ you seriously never listen.
he leans in close, one hand fisted tight in your hair as the other grips your sheets and he presses into you deep, grunting when he feels your warm cunt fluttering around him.
“told you i’d fuckin’ break you.”
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the-palelady · 2 days ago
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shy ghost got me giggling and twirling my fucking hair
because this big oaf would do everything to try and avoid you on base. the man would willingly be late to a meeting. hell, he won't even show up to the meeting as long as it means not locking eyes with you. those pretty orbs that have him on his knees quicker than any bullet he's ever taken.
the second your laughter hits his ears when he's entering the canteen he's already half way back the way he came.
he just can't handle it.
your laughter that's incredibly contagious. the smile that you always wear somehow even when you're in pain.
those fucking eyes that have his toes curling in his boots, knuckles clenched so hard he swears he's torn through the fabric of his gloves and broken the skin of his palms underneath.
and when you do finally catch him in the halls of the base, his shoulders tense (because he swears he saw you walking the other direction), you can't get even a peep out of him. in your mind you think it's his reputation; big, scary lieutenant that always has the new recruits rethinking the career path they've chosen.
but in reality ghost is fighting his inner demons. they're going toe to toe in a gun fight and he's the bloke that brought a damn knife.
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lxvvie · 7 hours ago
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I just know ghost snores loud as a motherfucker after he puts reader through the mattress and he knocks out right after 💀💀💀 he’s taking pussy whipped LITERAL
Ghost’s big behemoth ass snores in general but at least the bastard’s alive lmao
Goes double after he throws it down and Little Lieutenant Riley gives you that work. Not only is he snoring his ass off but you’re the little spoon.
Motherfucker.
The consequences of having good cunt, sweetheart. ❤️
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starryylies · 3 days ago
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Simon's reaction his s/o saying "waiting for it still marriage" but turns out she just wasn't ready to show her body ( tho she likes it but yk second thought about it) , but still wants to get fuk by him
Hii thank you for this ask!!
This ask hit close to home. I feel the same way honestly 😭😭
I’m so sorry on how late the response is. I hope you enjoy though!
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You’d told simon pretty early on in the relationship that you wanted to wait until marriage.
Simon was perfectly fine with that because that indirectly meant you saw him getting married to you.
It was a Saturday afternoon and you thought Simon had gone to pick up some groceries while you were laying on your shared bed, on a call with your friend
You were expressing how you feel like a liar since you’re basically hiding the truth on as to why you don’t want to have sex with simon.
Simon being the sneaky fuck he is decided to evesdrop because he was suddenly nervous as to why you don’t want to do it with him if marriage is not the reason.
He started overthinking, feeling as if he isn’t attractive enough for you to actually have sex with him.
But his train of thought was halted when you told your friend that it’s because you don’t know if he will react pleasantly to the way your body looks and also because he’d be the first person to see it.
Simon was dumbfounded, like he genuinely didn’t understand where the fuck you’d even get the idea that he won’t like your stunning and perfect body, He knows it’s stunning and perfect because he’s staring at it almost all the time
but the first person to see it thing really inflated his ego.
Simon wants to burst in your room and confront you but he stops himself to hear what you have to say next
You tell your friend you’re scared he might find your body disgusting and unattractive.
And that’s when simon decides he’s heard enough and decides to barge into your room.
“Hey si, what’re you doing home so quick, did you get the groceries?” You’re startled by his sudden appearance and start worrying if he heard your conversation
“I never went”
“ were you evesdropping on me?” You ask hurriedly
“Yes” he says with a blank face.
You really don’t know how to reply to that but applaud his honesty from inside
“Love, I needa speak to you”
“I don’t get where you’ve gotten this idea from but ya really need to get rid of it” he says curtly
“You don’t think I’ve tried?” You groan out
“Well not hard enough.”
“Simon!”
“Okay sorry, but trust me luv. I’ll be the lucky bastard who’d get to see you and trust me there’s no way in hell I’d ever think of it as any less than the best”
“But si, it’s not like the girls on insta and TikTok”
“I don’t have social media”
“Fine then it’s not like the girls in porn”
“Even you know I don’t watch porn, find it fucking terrible and hilarious. Don’t know how ya wank to it honestly.”
You’re left speechless.
Simon seems to catch onto that and then continues to say,
“And love trust me, we don’t have to do it if you’re not ready yet. Whenever and wherever you are, I’m ready too” he gives you a soft pat on your head, tracing his fingers down to your cheek and giving it a soft pinch.
“So wherever?” You joke, giving him a toothy and mischievous smirk.
“In the fuckin’ backseat if ya want to baby” he laughs out, his deep chuckle reverberating in your spine.
“I love you si, thank you for not being an ass about this”
you give him a soft kiss which takes further by making it more intense, his mouth gobbling yours and sounds of soft moans in between flooding the room.
Oh and your friend on the call is stuck hearing all that as well :)
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girl-lostconnection · 1 day ago
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Simon hides fruits in his pockets because he knows fruitbat!reader can smell them
Simon: Having fun?
Y/N, sniffing like a bloodhound: Gimme my mango. I know that's for me. You don't like mangos
Simon: Maybe I changed my mind?
Y/N: You always bring me a mango don't fucking lie to me
Also the guys seeing reader grouched over a trashcan as they tear into the juiciest mango known to man. The juice is dripping down their chin. Their arms. Everything's so uncomfortably sticky. They wipe their hands on Soap's shirt when he's not looking
After they're done they're breathing heavily because they inhaled that mango so quickly they didn't breathe at all for like 2 minutes
You are so fucking funny, anon. Yeah, that definitely happened.
They devoured the mango so fast the sugar crashed into their system made them see pearly gates for a moment there
Also I’m a firm believer that Soap is the only person they can sneak on, because Simon is like the Eye of Sauron — sees everything and hears everything, Kyle can also fly so he just perches up above and it’s not worth the trouble chasing him when there’s easier target.
I think Reader wiped their sticky little hands on Price exactly once. Because Price is not the man to do this to so he spent like half an hour licking their hands clean while maintaining very intense eye contact. Reader never wiped their hands on him again.
Price still stares them down every time they are finished with eating, because the man is a freak. He’s WAITING for a chance to let this side of himself out.
The literal embodiment of “healthy dose of PROLONGED EYE CONTACT” read in Bo Burnham’s voice
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cheeseatlantic · 3 days ago
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gulp. 1000 likes. do we do more btuchrr simon fawking riley :3
i want his meat (double meaning)
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THE BUTCHER’S WIFE
!butchersimon x fem reader
Simon Riley’s butcher shop is a staple in town. Small, cozy, always smelling like freshly cut meats and slow-cooked broth. Everyone knows him, trusts him—the man behind the counter with rough, skilled hands and sharp eyes that miss nothing. He’s quiet, polite in his own gruff way, but he doesn’t waste words on unnecessary chatter.
Yet, despite the intimidating build and the sharp cleaver always within reach, every local knows one thing—Simon Riley is a devoted family man.
The proof? The way he locks up early to make it home for dinner. The way he handpicks the best cuts of meat to bring home to you—his wife, the love of his life, the one woman who has him utterly tamed in ways no one would believe if they hadn’t seen it with their own eyes.
Your home is just a little outside of town, nestled in the countryside, where the air is fresh and the kitchen always smells like something rich and hearty. Two little ones keep you busy—your children, his pride and joy. They’ve got his stubbornness, your wit, and an endless supply of energy.
But tonight? Tonight is different. The kids are asleep, the house is quiet, and Simon’s just gotten home—his broad frame filling the doorway as he steps inside, carrying a small paper-wrapped bundle.
“Brought you somethin’, love.” His voice is deep, warm, edged with something unreadable as he places the package on the counter. You unwrap it, revealing the finest cut of steak, perfectly marbled—something expensive, something he wouldn’t just sell to anyone.
You raise an eyebrow. “Special occasion?”
Simon hums, stepping behind you, hands settling low on your waist as he presses against your back. He smells like cedarwood, steel, and the faintest hint of smoked meat.
“Felt like treatin’ my girl,” he murmurs, lips grazing your neck.
Heat prickles down your spine.
Because that’s the thing about Simon—he’s soft for you, gentle with the kids, but when the night stretches long and the world outside fades away, he is anything but tame.
“Mm. So you’re buttering me up first?” you tease, arching into him.
His chuckle is low, dark. “That depends. Is it working?”
You don’t answer, just tilt your head to give him better access as his hands start to wander, rough palms pressing over the curve of your hips, gripping, claiming.
“You worked hard today,” you murmur, a slow smirk tugging at your lips.
Simon hums against your skin. “Oh, I did. Choppin’ all that meat, swinging that cleaver all day.” His voice drops, thick and heavy. “Reckon I still got some energy left, though.”
Your breath catches.
The thing is—Simon may have left behind the battlefield, but he never lost that raw, dangerous edge. It lingers in the way he handles a knife, the way he moves, the way he takes. And right now, it’s flashing in his gaze, hunger written in every line of his body as his hands tighten around you.
“You’re insatiable,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-breathless.
Simon grins, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Only for you, love.”
And as he lifts you onto the counter, pushing between your thighs with the ease of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, dinner is long forgotten.
(But don’t worry—he’ll still cook that steak later. After all, his girl needs to eat.)
slurping up that sausage like its my last meal ty
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