Alex Riley

+18 officially married to Simon Riley biggest Paramore fan 🇵🇱 HE/HIM

[alexriley2929]

I really really REALLY crave a Simon Riley fic that is inspired by 'the only exception' by Paramore ISTG PLEASE

[kooolgirl]

react so shyly to him

pairing: husband!simon “ghost” riley x shy wife!reader

summary: after introducing the new family member to your husband, you all have bonding time together

part 2!

part 1, concur your timid tendencies

masterlist!

a/n: here’s the long awaited part 2!!! i’m sorry it took me soo long :(( i hope yall enjoy!! requests are open in my ask box :)))

“we got a new family member!”

another beat of silence.

“sweet’eart…”

“si…”

meow…

a small smile crept across your face, your quiet giggles softly following. you had the kitten stretched towards simon in your hold.

he was stationed in the same chair at the dining table, leaning his elbows on his knees now, half-eaten meal forgotten beside him.

the kitty started nibbling on your fingers, soft “no, sweetie,” cooing from you.

your husband watched you pull the feline close to your chest, repositioning her in your hands. her tail curled, satisfied purrs rumbling from her when his sweet wife smooched between her ears.

“a kitten, luv’?” simon questioned, blonde eyelashes blinking, “how—” “it started as exposure therapy!” you quickly interrupted, keeping your attention on your kitty. you couldn’t look your husband in the eyes for this. “i visit the animal shelter while you’re at work because it helps me with my shyness,” you confessed, adding, “it gets me out the house, and i guess animals are just easier to be around. less intimidating.”

you walked back towards simon, taking your seat at the table again. you continued, “been going for a little over a month and this little girl,” you emphasized the title, “took a liking to me.” placing another smooth on the kitten’s head, saying, “she got so attached, she started yowling when i’d leave, si! my poor baby,” your lower lip pouted, bringing the kitty closer to you.

your husband had to admit, the sight in front of him was the most precious thing his eyes ever witnessed— his sweet wife basically holding herself in kitten form, the tiny feline nuzzling into you, returning your affection— it was cuteness overload to the brit.

and he was proud of you. he was happy to learn you’ve been trying to work on your introversion, despite how difficult it can be for you, his brave girl.

“i think she’ll also help with my loneliness, especially on days when you get home later than usual,” your voice brought him from his thoughts, “or your deployments.”

he watched you bite your lip, recognizing your body cue— you were anxious, finally bringing up a topic he knew you’d probably been pondering about for a while. he could usually read your nervousness in your hands too, giving yourself away when you’d thread your fingers through one another.

but, your hands were occupied. and your eyes were still avoiding his.

it sent a shiver down his spine, a minute tear in his heart, witnessing his wife, his whole world, react so shyly to him. he knew it was in your nature, and he also knew it was selfish, but he thought he helped you break down all of those barriers with him. he never wanted you to have to feel that way around him.

he reached a hand to your thigh, his gruff palm swallowing it.

a few seconds passed, your husband making you purr along with your kitty at the feeling of his hand kneading your thigh. “m’ sorry, hon’. ya deserve so much more,” your husband leaned forward, quickly placing a kiss on your forehead. “didn’ know ya were gettin’ so lonely,” he frowned next, “but, m’ happy ya found each otha’.”

he moved his free hand to pet along the kitten’s spine, the man smiling at the feeling. “she ‘s really cute,” he admitted, because how couldn’t he? an airy laugh departing you, “i know,” you replied, baby tone present, “our sweet girl!”

you finally looked at simon, baby voice still activated, “does dada wanna hold our girl?”

he was hesitant at first, but the brute will always choose to please his wife.

he swept the kitty into his grasp, you awwing at the adorable sight in front of you. she was perched inside one of your husband’s palms, his hand large enough to support her. she looked so tiny in his hold, the brit nervous she was too fragile for him to be around.

your beautiful chuckle filled the air, calming simon’s nerves. “you won’t hurt her, si! it’s okay, you don’t have to be so tense,” you grabbed his other hand, guiding him to add more support underneath her, “then just bring her in,” you led her towards his chest.

the sight was so wholesome, you bringing up your phone to snap a picture— this would definitely be a lock screen for you later.

simon started to get more confident, bringing the kitten into a more comfortable position. he started petting the underside of her belly, her purrs louder than anytime you’d pet her, “woah, simon! i’ve never heard her be this loud before.” you could tell your husband was already growing a soft spot for her.

trying your best to milk it, “she seems to really like you, si!” you told him, reaching to pet her too.

“kitty’s not so bad ‘erself.”

taglist: @minjhia @princessjas1-11 @raveninrouge @missj609 @pendeja4miguel @other-fandoms-reblogs @verstxppen

[inkmonster21]

Sweet on You

Simon “Ghost” Riley x BakerReader

Series Masterlist

When Simon hears you crying through a nightmare in the middle of the night, weeks of carefully maintained distance finally collapse.

72. Just Me

The house is dead quiet when it starts.

Not peaceful quiet.

That strange, suspended sort that only exists in the middle of the night, when the pipes have settled and the street outside has finally gone still and every sound feels louder because there are so few of them.

Simon is not asleep.

He has not really been sleeping properly for weeks, not in any way that counts. Drifting, maybe. Eyes shutting for an hour on the couch with one hand too close to the gun on the table and half his body still listening for locks, floorboards, windows, your breathing upstairs.

Tonight is no different.

He is staring at the dark ceiling, one arm thrown over his eyes, when he hears it.

At first he thinks it is the house.

A creak. A shift. Wind worrying at something outside.

Then it comes again.

A sound so small he nearly misses it.

A broken little breath.

His whole body stills.

Then another.

Not the restless turn of someone dreaming lightly. Not the muffled noise of a bad angle under the blankets.

A cry.

Soft. Caught. Wet with something that hits him low and hard before he is even fully upright.

He is off the couch before he knows he moved.

The stairs go under his feet too fast and somehow not fast enough. Every awful possibility his mind has been trying not to imagine for weeks arrives all at once as he reaches the bedroom door.

He pushes it open.

You are tangled in the sheets.

Half on your side, half on your stomach, hair stuck to your cheek, face twisted in a way that makes something savage and helpless rip through him. There are tears on your skin even now. Your hands are knotted in the blanket like you are fighting something he cannot see.

"No," you whisper, voice wrecked and far away. "No, no, please..."

He is at the bed in a second.

"Love."

You do not wake.

Your face pinches harder. Another sound breaks from you, this one thin and raw enough that he has to bite down on the panic trying to climb his throat.

"Hey," he says, firmer now, one hand on your shoulder. "Wake up. Come on. You're alright. Wake up."

You flinch under his hand, still trapped somewhere else.

A tear slips down into your hairline.

He cannot stand it.

His hand slides to your jaw, thumb brushing the wet from your cheek as carefully as if you are made of glass.

"Love, wake up."

Your whole body jolts.

Your eyes open without seeing for one terrible second. Wide. Lost. Somewhere between here and wherever your mind has dragged you. You suck in a breath like you have come up from underwater and then the room finally lands around you in pieces.

The dark.

The bed.

Simon.

You make a sound that nearly undoes him.

He is leaning over you, one knee on the mattress, one hand still cupping your face, the other braced by your shoulder so he does not crowd you too hard.

"You're here," you whisper, and then your voice breaks completely.

His chest caves in around the words.

"Aye," he says, barely getting it out. "I'm here."

Your fingers grab at his shirt before you even seem to realise you are doing it.

"Please."

That one word.

No explanation.

No dignity left in it.

Just need.

He closes his eyes for half a second.

Then he nods.

"Alright," he says softly. "Alright."

He does not think.

If he thinks, the old fear will come back in. The distance. The reasons. The rules he has been using to keep himself outside this room like a man trying to outstare his own heart.

So he does not think.

He kicks off his boots, strips his hoodie over his head, and slides into the bed fully clothed otherwise because you are already reaching for him again and he cannot bear another second of the space between you.

The moment he is down, you move toward him like your body has made the decision before your mind catches up.

He catches you.

One arm under your shoulders. One around your waist. Pulling you in until your face is buried against his chest and your leg is half tangled over his and there is no room left for nightmares to fit between you.

You are shaking.

Not violently. Not all over.

Just enough that he can feel the aftershock of it in the small muscles of your back, in the way your breath keeps catching against his shirt.

"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair. "I've got you. You're home. You're in bed. It's me. Just me."

Your hand fists in the fabric over his ribs.

He keeps talking because the silence feels dangerous, because he knows what it is like to wake with your body still halfway trapped in another place.

"You're alright," he says. "No one's here. Door's locked. Riley's downstairs. I'm right here."

Your breathing hitches once, twice, then starts to even out in little broken pieces.

He can feel the damp of your tears through his shirt now. Feel the heat of your cheek against his skin. Feel every place you fit him without effort because this is what your bodies know even when your minds are making a mess of everything else.

You tug him closer somehow.

As if closer is a place and a command both.

He goes.

Of course he goes.

His palm spreads over the back of your head. His mouth brushes your temple once, then your hairline, then the corner of your brow where the tension is only just beginning to unclench.

"You're safe," he whispers.

You make a tiny sound, half sob, half sigh, and press your face harder into him.

He should not be here, some treacherous old part of his mind tries to say.

He crushes that thought flat.

Not tonight.

Not while you are curled around him like this, still crying in the aftermath of something he cannot punch or shoot or reason with.

Your hand slides up from his shirt to his neck, then to his jaw, as if you need to feel the shape of him to believe he is real.

He turns his head enough to kiss your palm.

That is when the tear slips free.

He does not even feel it gathering.

Just suddenly there, warm and humiliating and quiet, sliding down from the corner of his eye into the mess of dark and your hair and the pillow beneath you both.

He keeps his face turned into your temple so you will not see.

Or maybe because if he lifts it, there will be more.

His chest hurts with the force of everything he has been keeping locked down. The distance. The guilt. The weeks of hearing you move around upstairs and not going to you. The sight of you twisted in the sheets and crying in your sleep because no one gets rescued all at once, not really.

He tightens his hold.

Not enough to wake the fear again. Just enough to say stay.

Your breathing slows.

The worst of the shaking eases out of you by degrees until what is left is only the occasional little hitch, the kind that comes after tears when the body is not fully convinced it can rest yet.

He keeps one hand on the back of your head and the other splayed wide over your waist.

Grounding you.

Grounding himself.

After a while, you whisper, barely audible against him, "Don't go."

It is not dramatic.

Not accusing.

Not fully awake, maybe.

That makes it worse.

His throat closes.

"I'm not goin' anywhere," he says.

And for the first time in weeks, he does not mean the street, or the couch, or the room downstairs.

He means this bed.

This moment.

You make a soft little sound of relief and settle deeper into him, finally letting your weight go.

He lies there awake in the dark with you wrapped around him and the last wet track of that tear cooling on his skin, and thinks that there are some kinds of pain no amount of distance was ever going to prevent.

Outside, the house stays still.

Downstairs, Riley shifts once and settles again.

Up here, your breathing evens against his chest until sleep starts to pull at you a second time, gentler now.

Simon does not sleep.

He just holds you tighter and listens, one hand still in your hair, while the shape of his own breaking goes quiet and wet and human in the dark.

💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰

✨ Want to be added to the taglist? ✨

Just drop a “TAG ME” and I’ll make sure you don’t miss a chapter 🖤

[ab-grund]

Hii, can you write reader & Simon making out, but they’re rudely interrupted & Simon is just soo saddd

hi lovely! of course, i hope you enjoy! thank you for the request as well, how exciting! 🤍

simon’s heart thuds, heartbeat crisp as his pulse races down the shell of his ear, blood flow running too quickly through his thin veins. its dizzying, mind struggling to keep up, struggling to keep up with the pace you’ve set.

your smooth tongue cascades into his mouth, coaxing his teeth apart until it’s gliding over the wetness hiding behind the pearls. simon breathes heavy, panting into your mouth as the pink muscle of his tongue stretches over yours, curling and circling yours as if on the battlefield.

“eh, not too cocky now…” you trail off, the soft pillows of your lips suddenly closing in on his outstretched tongue. you suck, bobbing your head ever so slightly, letting your own drool run down til it’s pooling in the back of his throat, the crevices of his teeth.

simon’s whimpering, hips thrusting up lazily, subconsciously. you’re hovering right over him, applying no pressure to the rough hardness beneath you. he can feel the underside of his cock dig against his zipper, thickening by the second til the metal begins to hurt, begins to imprint into his sensitive skin.

“god, please, love,” his voice curls around the words, accent thick and heady with the impending desperation that shadows him. his fingers, once settled on your thighs slide to your hips, forcing you down.

the warmth of your sweet cunt on top of him is painful, has his cock kicking up, and he can feel the way it spurts sticky pre. his boxers are surely a mess, glued to his skin with the mess he’s creating of himself. but he can’t help his humps, hips tilting till he finds the right angle, jutting himself against you till youre moaning into his mouth.

“you’re so desperate, baby, why don’t i-“ and as your fingers fall to his belt, you freeze, both jumping out of your skin when heavy knocks shake the front door. simon’s eyes flash open, staring up at you in a angry mix of desperation and disappointment.

“no, baby, no, i need you. jus- jus’ ignore whoever it is,” he pleads, big brown eyes drowning in something so heavy, so much desperation its sweating from his pores. he holds you tighter, fingertips crushing your hips as you begin to stand.

“can ‘ear ya’ bastard ass ‘n t’ere, open up!” johnnys voice rings out rough, accent cutting through the thick atmosphere, lust oozing off the two of you. you press a quick kiss to simon’s lips before raising and skipping over to the door, johnny was a sweetheart, presence always welcome.

though simon could beg to differ, whimpering out under his breath. he can feel the tears bead along his lower lash line, he’s so worked up. the warmth your body left behind already beginning to fade, and he can’t help but squeeze his cock tight, relishing in what could be around him, on top of him, sliding down onto him.

a tear falls at the same moment his angry tip cries out, he’s sticky in the face and beneath the belt. but as johnny comes stomping inside he wipes his face. his shoulders curl in defeat, lower lip trembling slightly. he’s going to be stuck here, long drawn out hours, with a twitching cock and nothing to do about it.

when the bloke falls beside him, feet already kicked up on the coffee table, is when he turns. johnny looks over simon, eyebrow raised curiously at his curled in personality, not even a glance towards the scottish fella.

“what’s got ya poutin’, big boy?”

[prettybird-ie]

misreading the room — S.R.

you fumble with the length of the cloth, tossing the lose cotton dress over your head. arms popping out the short sleeves as the rest of the night dress drapes down your body.

light violet fabric printed with small flowers was definitely not what simon riley intended to see. he stops, large shoulders slumping as he understands.

no chance he was getting a lay... but may as well give it a shot. fuck it.

"..luv, wots wi' the granny jammies?"

"its called a night gown si'," you step out from the closet. waltzing past him in search of your silk eye mask. "and its obviously for sleeping."

simons frowns, eyes shifting into that large puppy look he insists he doesnt have. alas, you ignore him. puffy slippers gliding over wood whilst you leave your man high and dry. his pants already tight just from anticipation alone, figuring the night was dedicated to mingling bodies and messy hair. expecting ruined sheets and a glowing girl the following morning.

i mean, your night routine makes you glow too. but simons heads were screaming for something, hazing his vision with swimming lust.

hes quickly beside you before youre even able to fix your pillows to your liking. "no. not tonight," youre quicker to shut him down.

"didn' even get t'say anythin'."

"it's obvious." you raise a brow at his peeking boner. a thick blush creeps over his neck, eyes crinkling with amuesment. immediately are you swatting away large hands that try to pry at the sleeves of your gown. "simon! quit acting like a teenager,"

"lovie please, jus' ah quickie?" he nearly whines. thick voice tinged at its edges. simon hated quickies. always left him more pent up than if he had nothing at all.

"you know the drill. night gown means no pound town." you dismiss him with another wave. "go jerk off in the shower or something."

"...you gon' stand 'ere wi' me?"

"get blue balls then."

[thelonewolfdreamer]

"Mine to drink"

‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧

Pairings: husband riley × pregnant!reader

Genre /cw: lactation kink, fingering, pregnant reader, hairy pussy, dirty talk, language, smut, 18+, mdni, somnophilia, no plot

summary : seeing your nipples leak, simon could not help himself but drink it in.

wc : 2k

note : its badly written, expect errors and stuff, not proof-read

‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧

Tags : @yournansstuff, @girlvsghost, @coeurbrule

(Feel free to join the taglist for Ghost fics: but also feel free, if you want to be removed, just comment <3)

‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧

so sore....so fucking sore...

that's what you were feeling as you try to shift on the mattress.

and suddenly every part of you starts to ache, your back, your hips, your swollen breasts that felt way too heavy against your ribs.

fuck. even in your sleep, your body insists on reminding you that you're seven months pregnant — like a pop-up you can't dismiss. and it keeps buzzing with the same notification every day; almost there.

like a relentless drumbeat of discomfort, echoing through every dream.

except it wasn't a dream.

wait...

why is it...

no.

why the heck were you wet?

suddenly your lashes flutter open in slow mo.

and you realize your bedroom room is dimly lit, and only moon-light was filtering through thin curtains, making it hard to make out any shapes.

but you feel it again, something warm, around your left nipple and that rhythmic, wet suctioning sound filling the quiet room

and between your thighs?

you were soaked, not soaked, but completely drenched, and your thighs felt so slippery at that moment, shit, you start to feel your core throb with a heat that has nothing to do with the blankets.

"what?" you muttered sleepily, confusion clouding your mind thick as a veil, then finally your gaze drifts downwards.

and you see him.

your husband.

Simon Riley.

the Lieutenant.

the cold-ice man in task - 141.

he was now lying half-propped beside you in the bed, his dark hair mussed from the sleep or what not, and his unmasked face buried against your chest.

and god his mouth was fastened around your nipple, drawing them deeply inside his mouth, while his calloused palm spread possessively across your rounded belly like he’s protecting what’s his.

for a minute:

you just watched him suck your nipples into his mouth, his eyes closed in pleasure as he made sleepy little noises, jesus, you thought -- only simon riley can make something as simple as sucking nipples like this seem attractive, and you felt enchanted by the scene before you, because he looked so perfect like that -- like that was all, he needed to survive and for a second more all you wanted was to watch him drink you in.

but finally, breaking yourself out of the trance, you tried to speak, doing your best not to let a moan slip past your lips. "Nggh--si, fuck." the sound escaped anyway, grimacing at yourself, you swallowed, and gathered what little composure you had left, and tried again.

"Simon?" you try again, and your voice came out rough, and sleep-clogged.

not to mention you'd started sleeping naked months ago when the pregnancy made clothes feel like prisons against your sensitive skin.

and this way, you felt free. unbound. but clearly it's more of an easy access to your needy husband, than its a liberty for you -- not that you hate it.

if anything you love him when he drinks from your body whether its your arousal from your cunt or your milk from your breasts. you loved it all. and if you could you had give him more of yourself.

"O', sweet'art," he murmured, his mouth still full against your breast, the words coming out warm and muffled against your skin. then he opened his eyes and slowly pulled back, letting your nipple slip free with a soft, obscene pop that made you gasp as the cool air suddenly kissed the damp, sensitive flesh where his mouth had been only seconds before.

then he swallowed hard, his throat working, and those brown, starlit eyes drinking you in as he looked up at you through his lashes. "jes's y'a were leakin' so muc' ... when I w'ke up, and I just c'uldn't help myself."

he sounds so guilty, as he said it, and you noticed something else too that, he never pulled his hands back from your stomach, and for a second you wanted to tease him about it, but instead, all you managed was, "It's okay, si." then you tangle your fingers through his tousled hairs, smiling down at him in the half-light. the tenderness in your chest overflowing and dripping down your breast, fuck, you wanted him to suck you again, and suddenly the heat that was pooling lower in your belly seconds ago, starts to build again. "can uh... can you continue? I need—" your voice breaks mid-sentence as a small milk droplet escapes your neglected right nipple, trailing down the curve of your breast.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at you. Look how you need me." he groaned, and the wet heat of his mouth seals back over your left nipple again, sucking you, in deep, rhythmic pulls that send sparks straight to your core, and you moan his name, while he kept making small sleepy little moans, his name slipping past your lips like a dirty little prayer, and suddenly you feel the let-down reflex hit, that sudden warm rush in your belly, and he groans against your flesh as your milk flows freely in his mouth, and with a sly smirk his free hand starts to slide lower -- and -- lower past the curve of your belly, through the thatch of your hairs on your pussy then slowly he slides a little more until his fingers find your slick folds.

fuck you were embarrassingly wet for him, soaked from nothing but his mouth at your breast, "si...", you breathe in anticipation.

"already wet for me, luvie?" he teases, his deep voice vibrating against your breast as he slowly switches sides, shifting up a little to move to other side of your breast, while being careful of your round belly, and finally when he settles himself he latches onto your right nipple with equal enthusiasm.

as soon as his warm tongue wraps around your peak the relief that hits you is immediate, the pressure easing into something cottony soft as he draws it deeply into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing with the effort. "Your body knows what it needs. Knows I'm the one who takes care of you." He grunts against your sensitive bud, then slowly he jerks his fingers in the flesh between your legs, and your hole starts to clench instantly around his thick digits and as soon as his fingers slides inside it, and he starts working you and stretching you open and pushes in and out of you with squelching sounds, the wetness of your arousal spraying against the air, and god, the sensation of it makes you moan loudly, and you instinctively arch into his touch, "oh fuck, si."

"Your milk is sweeter than anything I've tasted," he croons against your skin, the words broken yet almost reverent, as if they were as sacred, as your body to him, then he pulls back again making you groan in frustration and he chuckles softly and shifts back to take the left nipple into his mouth, "You have my baby, my seed," he pauses "and this milk is mine to drink too." he says, and then he finally draws your nipple deeper into the wet heat of his mouth, suctioning it like a vacuum, and you shudder beside him — and as he keeps assaulting your nipples with his mouth all you can manage are broken, primal sounds, desperate and wordless, begging him to continue.

"patience." he says as if he understood what you needed, and he doesn't stop instead he slowly keeps drinking your milk, in slow, deep pulls into his mouth in shuddering waves, that send heat of sparks straight to your core again and again — while his fingers work you with practiced precision.

then he slowly starts to circle your clit with light pressure from his thumb, while adding his middle two fingers inside your hole. he works them deeply, steadily, until your spine arches so hard you think you might break in half. and finally — because knowing your body has become second nature he curls his fingers against that sweet spot that makes your eyes roll back, and your vision goes white at the edges as soon as he touches it "right there, si" you yelp , arching your back again and feel yourself completely at his mercy.

"right here?" he teases, and applies pressure at your sweet spot.

"mmere", you moan and nod like a greedy whore you are whenever he touches you like this, then you enjoy the dual sensation which was so delicious, like achingly so, his mouth, working your nipples while his fingers, pushing you towards the edge and god for a moment you felt you were in heaven -- not just heaven, it felt like you met all gods of all religions.

suddenly your walls starts to spasm around his digits, clamping down on them as he keeps rubbing your clit with that maddening pressure and curling his fingers against your G-spot, and soon heat starts to builds low in your belly, and you feel yourself at the edge of your orgasm, "that's it," he soothes, each word warm and muffled against your breast, then he sucks you even harder, drawing you deeply, and you feel the pull in your core like a live wire.

then he pulls back just enough to speak. your milk dripping and glistening on his chin, his pupils blown-wide and dark with desire as he gazes at you. "Let go, luvie. I've got you." and his thumb starts to press firm, and relentless, circles on your clit while his two fingers keep stroking that spot inside you.

"Come for me while I drink your milk. fuck, want to feel you fall apart on my hand."

finally obeying him you fall apart beneath him, with a loud moan that tore straight from your lungs, and your orgasm rolls through you in slow maddening waves and your back arches, as you press your breast harder against his mouth, and he groans, the vibration pushing you higher towards your orgasm, and even as if you tremble he keeps sucking from your nipples in rhythmic motion — pull then, swallow, then pull again, and his finger keeps stroking your cunt, through the aftershocks until you're boneless, and drifting on a warm cloud of oxytocin of love and the profound intimacy of being completely undone, and as your pleasure dies down you let out a pure content sigh settling on the bed below from you high.

after your aftershocks settle, he stays there completely still your nipple resting gently in his mouth, while his hand remained still cupped between your thighs, and you feel his own arousal hard and insistent against your thighs yet, you felt too tired to do anything about it — as your breathing slows, and sleep lingers at the edge of your mind you can still feel the occasional flutter of him swallowing your milk, and the lazy way he's lapping on you now, like a cute pup, not drinking with purpose but soothing you, while keeping the connection of your breast and his mouth. and you slowly feel your milk slowed to a trickle, your breasts finally softening, the ache completely gone -- atleast for now.

when you finally felt too sleepy to do anything or to speak, you melt into him, your body heavy with exhaustion. and your eyelids fluttered shut, the world fading into warmth and quiet. and the last thing you felt before sleep dragged you in was his lips curving into a gentle smile against your skin, followed by his soft whisper, "sleep now, beautiful mama, I've got you."

‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧‧˚꒰🍷💋ྀིྀི ꒱༘‧

[amaranthinespirit]

fooling prison guard!simon riley into thinking you're a delicate flower.

with your pretty eyes and soft smile, the way you'd lean close to the metal that kept you from the rest of the world. you were such a risk that they'd keep a personal guard outside your cell, and who happened to be stationed there but simon riley.

he was young into his career, still a bit gullible despite being fresh out of the military. the way he clutched his gun was clumsy, his eyes scanning too slowly to be efficient. you watched him like the anomaly he was, practically drooling at how perfect he'd be to keep you entertained.

simon was solid in the beginning, learning to tune out the yells and shouts from other cells and blocks, and your incessant rambling as you tried to get him to listen.

but unfortunately for him he was susceptible to a pretty face. it wasn't hard to lure him in, it only took you a couple weeks before you had him responding and engaging with you. it wasn't much, a few clipped words here and there, some firm orders, a raised brow for you to continue with whatever you were saying.

most of the time, he'd keep his back to you. he knew if he met those deep eyes of yours, he'd sink right in and be lost forever. but talking with you? different story.

especially when you started asking about him. his family. his job. his childhood. what brought him to the spot right outside your cell.

and he answered every question, enjoying the way you listened without interruption, showered him with all your attention. he lavished every drop up, becoming desperate for it. it was spiraling into something out of his control, and you both knew it.

simon figured, one day, a single look couldn't hurt. he's seen your mughshot plenty of times, what's the difference with your real face?

there was a big difference. with your wide eyes staring up at him, head perched on your arms as you leaned against the metal bars of your cell. lips pulled into a friendly smile. despite the dirt and grime of the prison, you were a dream, and that's how you doomed him.

the shift wasn't immediate, but it was progressing faster than you expected. maybe you smelled the gullibility on him when he first stood outside your cell, but you knew he wasn't like the other guards you had before.

you drank him in like he was a five star meal. how casually he leaned against the brick, thick, muscly arms crossed over his broad chest whenever he talked with you. he was strong and capable, unlike any other guard you've had before.

the two of you inched closer as the days went by, until you were inches away without him pulling away. so close, you could feel his breath ghost over your skin, and the warmth radiating from him. it laid over you like a blanket.

when your lips grazed his, you couldn't help yourself. you didn't care if he recoiled with disgust or fear, or if he would get you sent to isolation. he was within your grasp, and you couldn't muster any more restraint.

to your surprise, his eyes darkened and his throat bobbed. "y'think you should be doin' tha'?" his voice was deeper, raspier, like he was trying his best to hold back.

"I think i don't care about the rules." you batted your lashes. "I won't tell, sir. I'm good at keeping secrets."

"is tha' right?"

"mhmm."

"guess we'll figure out." he whispered, letting you close the distance. his lips were warm, plush, and so careful. you were sure and passionate, dragging him closer by his collared shirt. the metal bars bit into your face, only allowing you to get so close.

simon was dizzy, adrenaline rushing through his body almost unnaturally. this was more heart pumping than any military mission he was ever deployed on. as it went on, he gained more confidence, but you had to separate to breath, or you'd kill the poor man.

"unlock my cell, simon." you purred, running your hand down his chest. his face was flushed red, lips swollen.

he let out a shaky breath. "why would I do tha'?"

"because I want more."

he argued with himself in his head, wondering how far he would allow this to go. how far he could go before he was unable to pull himself back from your claws that sank deep into his brain.

after warring with himself for a mere second, he ordered. "step back, swee'heart."

"yes sir."

"little minx." he grunted, glancing both ways down the hall as the keys jingled in his hands. he memorized the key to your cell, knew it by heart.

the door swung open with a deep creak. now there was nothing separating the two of you from being together. you'd been beside him before, but never without your cuffs. this was different, this was new.

you didn't even leave simon time to think before you pushed him down onto your bed—if you could call it that. it was a thin, grimy mat on a metal bed frame. it creaked loudly, not used to the heavy weight of a man's body.

"jesus—" he choked out, unable to stop your desperate hands pawing at his belt. it had been years—since you were incarcerated—since you'd gotten a good lay. the guards always yelled at you to cut it off when you sank your fingers into your pussy, never allowing you that relief.

you were fast, wasted no time—because someone could notice simon's absence any minute. you didn't have the luxury of exploring each other, mapping out every inch of one's body. so a quick fuck would have to do.

simon was already hard and leaking when you freed his cock, panting at your touch. his hands pawed at your hips desperately, steading your weight as you straddled him. this wouldn't last long, but you didn't care.

you sank down onto his thick cock, prison grade panties pushed to the side as he stretched you wide. simon was too starstruck to protest, overwhelmed by the pleasure and sensations that engulfed him. your soft moans, the slaps of your skin with every bounce or roll of your hips, the dainty hand you wrapped around his neck.

he came with a choked groan, one hand leaving your hip to massage your clit with his thumb. you'd done all the work after all, it was the least he could do to help you orgasm.

simon swore he saw stars with your pussy clenching around him, couldn't help the second orgasm you forced from his body, but as quickly as it came, it went. he all but shoved you to the side, fumbling with his pants and belt while you watched with a satisfied smile. his hair was messy, shirt half unbuttoned, chest gleaming with sweat.

"break me out of here, simon." you whispered from behind him, arms curling around his torso.

"y'know I can't do tha'."

"why not?" you pouted. "you love me, don't you?"

"love's a bit of a strong word."

"is it?" you licked up his neck, enjoying how he tensed under your tongue.

he didn't say anymore, just pushed you away and locked the cell behind him. his mind was reeling with what he just did, what he swore he wouldn't do. he took an oath, and he broke it.

simon didn't even know your crime. it was an unofficial rule not to look up what these people did if you were the one guarding them. it was for peace of mind, but he couldn't help asking a fellow guard later that night.

"wha's the deal with tha' bird in cell 66?"

"didn't ya know?" the other guard furrowed his brow. "gutted people like fish, tha' one. don't look in 'er eyes too long, or you won't be forgettin' them anytime soon."

simon's heart dropped, and static rushed his ears. bile rose in his throat, and he had to hold himself back from puking all over the bricks.

he shrugged, turning away from simon. "she's a charmer, though. best be careful, mate."

"right."

he had made a massive mistake, having convinced himself that you weren't as bad as the others in this place, but it was his own naivety that put him in this situation. he resigned his job as your guard immediately and found new a job at a different prison.

when your new day guard showed up? he ended up dead, and your cell was found empty.

[browneyedgirll]

REASSURANCE - SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY

wife!reader x husband!simon riley

word count: 1, 000

contents: 18+, fluff, small angst

Simon had gotten softer after retiring from active duty, his once toned and muscular body now more doughy and soft. He grew a small gut since he failed to exercise everyday like he once had. He disliked it immensely, sometimes he caught himself staring at it as his fingers pushed into the plush skin. It wasn’t that he had let himself go, he was still strong, strong enough to pick you up and throw you around. He simply just wasn’t accustomed to being soft anywhere. 

One night as you laid in bed the thoughts of his body were beginning to eat at Simon. You laid asleep and still beside him, but still Simon began to wonder how you felt about him. He glanced over at you, taking in your messy hair that hid your eyes, and the small part of your glossy lips that drool was beginning to spill from. Your appearance contrasted harshly from his weathered face covered in a light stubble paired beside his salt and pepper coloured hair.

Carefully Simon ran a hand soothingly up your back before speaking, “ You awake? ”

With a small sleepy hum your eyes fluttered open, your eyes slowly finding his. 

His calloused fingers trailed up and down your bare back slowly working to wake you. 

“ Come here.. ”

Through barely opened eyes you turned over finding Simon on the edge of your king sized bed. Normally he would be pressed against your back holding you close, but now he laid far and distant. Without thinking you made your way over to him finding a comfortable position laying on top of his bulky frame. 

Gently but yet still insistent Simon tugged you closer to his softer frame, leaving your body to press flush against his. One hand crept back under your shirt, pressing down onto your lower back so your hips pushed against his own.

“ I need, ” his voice was rough with something vulnerable, but then he paused. 

For a moment he stayed silent, letting his actions do the speaking as he toyed with the hem of your panties. 

“ Just ignore me.. ”

“ What is it Si? ”

Your eyes found his in the darkness of your room, but still he found no words. 

Simon’s fingers began to toy uncertainly with the waist band of your panties. He couldn’t quite meet your eyes, his gaze focused downwards instead. 

“ What’s wrong Simon? ”

“ Does.. Does my belly bother you? ”

“ What, ” your brow began to furrow before the question even settled. 

“ I’m not as toned as I used to be, we both know that. I just want to know if it bothers you.. ”

Carefully your arms wrapped around Simon, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“ You don’t like your belly baby? ”

“ I just.. I don’t like that I’m not as firm as I used to be. That I’m not as young.. ”

You understood in that moment that Simon was simply just feeling a little insecure is all, your husband needed to be reassured. 

Slowly your head dipped down, placing gentle kisses across his bulky chest. Your lips brushed against his stubble as your kisses climbed up his jaw before finding his lips. Tenderly Simon’s lips found yours in a slow kiss. He could feel as your small hands pressed against his chest, your nails scraping against his soft skin. 

Simon’s hands moved down to your hips pulling you closer as your lips pressed together. Slowly your cores began to grind together only adding to the tension that surrounded you both. 

“ I need you.. ”

“ Yeah love? ”

You only managed a soft whine in response before your hips pressed back against Simon’s. 

One of his large hands slid down between you both, easily he freed himself from his boxers before his hand moved to pull your panties aside. 

Carefully you reached down wrapping your hand around the base of his cock before slowly guiding him inside you. 

Simon’s breath caught in his throat as he watched you take what you wanted. Your body stretched around him, making way for his exceptional girth as he moved slowly. A velvety groan left Simon’s throat at the feeling of your walls fluttering and pulsing around him. His soft stomach pressed against your as he moved inside you, slowly rocking his hips upwards into yours. 

He loved this kind of sex with you. None of it was rushed or inherently forced but instead it was slow and sleepy. You moved with slow passion against one another pressing sloppy kisses to each other's skin. All of it was what Simon needed in the moment, just for the slow sleepy reassurance of his wife being there, wanting him.

Simon’s hips began to rut against yours, his fingers sank into your hips, it was his tell tale sign he was close. You knew Simon though, he would never finish until you had. His hips began to drive deeper into yours, the head of his cock slamming against your cervix. Moans and cries fell freely from your lips filling your bedroom with sounds of pleasure. His cock dragged against your sensitive wall with each push. Each movement was focused entirely on your own pleasure, his own desperate attempt to make you finish before himself. Low groans fell from Simon’s lips as your walls began to pulse around him. He watched from below as your eyes fluttered shut and your mouth fell open in a silent scream. Suddenly he felt your walls tighten before your orgasm crashed over you. Without missing a beat Simon came deep inside you unable to hold back any longer. 

Together you laid in a heap, your skin clammy and your breathing heavy. Your hands soothing stroked Simon’s short hair as his own rubbed your back. Neither one of you made any effort to move from each other, instead you laid together wrapped in each other's arms. You felt your eyelids begin to droop as the minutes passed. Slowly sleep took you both leaving you to curl into each other’s warm embrace.

[sonofamushroom]

Walk him like a dog, sis

Summary: Johnny doesn't belive your boyfriend can be a softie.

Pairing: Ghost x reader.

Warnings/tags: minors DNI, fem!reader, no use of y/n, fluff, cussing, English is not my first language.

A/N: a sweet treat for my babes;) Credits to @dynosdrawing for the amazing Ghost art! This fic was inspired by this video.

A subtle, warm aroma of spices wafted from the kitchen. Simon had been busy in the kitchen for about an hour, and your stomach rumbled impatiently in anticipation of a delicious dinner.

You lay in the dimly lit bedroom on your spacious bed, hanging upside down over the edge. Your arm was already numb from holding the phone above your head for so long, while Johnny's face blurred across the screen.

"...and it's not just the fact that he did that, but the audacity!"

"Bruh, I never liked that guy anyway."

You supported his complaining rant. It seemed you were never running out of things to talk about, but that didn't mean you agreed on everything.

"Yeah, right," Johnny chuckled sarcastically.

"Shove that tone up your ass," you protested. "I swear, Simon may look intimidating, but he's just a big teddybear inside."

FaceTime glitched for a couple of seconds, frozen with Johnny's ugliest indignant expression.

"Yer arse! Bonnie, I'm happy for ye two being in a happy relationship, but just because ye fuck 'm didnae mean I know his personality worse than ye. Our bromance lasts longer than yer dating."

"First of all, ew. Secondly, you need to delete TikTok immediately, because what is even 'bromance'?" You ran a hand through your hair, your locks tangling in the loops of your earrings. You rolled onto your stomach, vision blurring for a second as the blood rushed from your brain.

"I saw him ripping a rib oot of a man's chest and gouging oot his eye with thon very rib!" He spread his arms wide, raising his voice to deliver the simple truth: Simon Riley isn't a bad person, but he's not a softie either.

"No, that's different," you stubbornly denied.

"Yer bum's oot the windae," Soap stated, trying to make his phone stand upright on a flat surface.

Before you could respond, Simon turned down the music in the kitchen, and his footsteps sounded in the hallway. You quickly muted Soap and whispered, "Watch this!"

You managed to put down the phone with the camera pointed at you just as Samon appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a linen towel.

"Dinner 's ready, love, let's go."

You sat up on the bed, a loving smile shining. "Thank you, Si. Oh, I actually need your help first. Can you take my earrings off, please?"

The question didn't faze him in the least, he obediently asked, "Which one?"

"Both."

"Turn your head, my love," Ghost carefully tucked your hair behind your ear, untangling the unruly strands from the shiny rings.

"Be careful, baby," you said, even though he was. "They're expensive."

"I know they are, I bought them."

You giggled, glancing at your phone, "Good boy."

The clasp on the first earring took a little longer because Simon was being so very gentle. If he had a tail, it would have wagged wildly. When both jewelry rested in your palm, your man cupped your face in his warm palms and planted a soft kiss on your lips.

"Thank you," you giggled into the kiss.

"Dinner's gettin cold, don't make me wait," he went back to the kitchen, and you reached out for your phone. Soap sat on the other side of the screen, his expression so thoroughly disgusted that you couldn't even try to hold back your triumphant smile.

You stuck out your tongue, shoved your middle finger into the front camera, and ended the call.

[kooolgirl]

husband simon riley with an obsession with wife readers boobs. not even sexual, he just loves them so much and buries his face between them, kisses them, if he’s not smoking he’s sucking them

obsessed with your husband's obsession

pairing: husband!simon “ghost” riley x wife!reader

summary: your husband’s obsessed with your tits

masterlist!

a/n: such a good request, anon!! had soo much fun writing :)) requests are open in my ask box!!

“c’mere,” your husband motioned his fingers toward you, closing the front door behind him, “need m’ sweet wife.” the brute had a long day at work, desiring nothing more than to come home to you.

he eyed your frame scurrying over to him, "hi husband," melodically chiming in his ears as you threw your arms around his neck, slightly lifting on your toes. "how was work today?" you asked, feeling his biceps encircling your torso. you always loved how your husband completely engulfed you— forever feeling safe in his arms.

he didn't verbally respond at first, the man lowering himself to his wife's height, leaving a trail of kisses. he started on your forehead, stealing a kiss on your cheek, before making his way down to your neck. he found that sweet spot on your collarbone instantly, knowing every pleasure point on your beautiful body. simon knew you like the back of his hand.

you had to bite your lip from making too much noise when he eventually reached your cleavage, littering soft kisses on top. "was a little stressful," he answered between smooches, "started countin' down tha hours 'til m' could see ya again." with that, he brought his hands to either side of your thighs, lifting you into his arms with ease. after years of marriage, it still amazes me how strong he is, you thought, wrapping your legs around his waist. he carried you through your shared home.

you held back a giggle when you felt your husband smother his face between your boobs, scared he was going to run you into something, "si! you can't see anything!" "don' need to, luvie'. 'tis 's tha only view m' need."

each time you lounged with your husband, whether it be on the couch, in your bed, hell— even on the floor, he habitually found a way to have his face in your tits. "yer girls are amazin' pillows," he'd claim, getting comfortable on them when you'd watch a movie together.

this man even had the gull to eat popcorn off them, "apparently amazin' tables too." "alright! you lost privileges for tonight," pushing him away as he frowned, but you secretly loved it. simon just matched your freak.

so when he did it again, this time with potato chips, you didn't protest.

your boobs were even helpful in waining simon from his tobacco use. the brit's been smoking since before he's even known you, so it doesn't really bother you when he lights one. shit, you still have a cigarette or two now, but he's expressed interest in wanting to, at least, slow down on his intake.

"m' pack 's empty, hon'. and we both know m' probably shouldn' buy anotha."

plus, you wanted to help your husband, "you can suck on my boobs, si!" what a great idea! since his lovely wife suggested it, how could m' turn down tha offa'?

using his gruff hands, he clutched your tits, holding one in each. he took his time sucking on them, showing each girl their own affection.

you both knew there was never sexual innuendos behind this, but you couldn't help the way your eyes rolled behind your skull when your nipples reached a certain numbness, the sensations toe-curling. you'd get so sensitive after the five minute mark, "sweet'eart', m' smoke for at least ten," you'd hear simon tease.

you loved how much attention your husband showed your girls. you were obsessed with your husband's obsession.

[nottsnymph]

You stare at your phone. You stare at the picture. Time seems to slip out of rhythm. One second stretches into an eternity, only for the next to crash into it before you've had a chance to breathe. Your pulse pounds against your temples with such force it almost hurts, each heartbeat louder than the last, drowning out every coherent thought.

Your boyfriend. An unfamiliar woman. Together—wrapped in each other.

The photo isn't even about them. They're just blurred figures tucked into the background of a work acquaintance's social media post, easy enough for anyone else to overlook. But your eyes find them instantly and they refuse to look away.

His arm is curled around her waist. His lips are pressed to hers.

Not just a kiss.

Your kiss.

The one that always made your knees weak. The one he'd steal while dinner burned on the stove, while you laughed halfway through a sentence, while he whispered that he'd missed you even though you'd only been apart for a day.

That's how he touches you, how he holds you, kisses you.

Who even is she? What the hell is he doing? How long has this been happening for? Why would he do this to you? He said he loved you, was it a lie?

Your fingers shake so violently you nearly drop your phone. Somehow you manage to zoom in, crop the picture, and send it to him, followed by the text:

Don't make up excuses. It's over. Fuck you.

The moment the messages are delivered, you block him.

You don't want explanations.

You don't want lies.

You don't want to hear whatever pathetic excuse he's already rehearsing.

But truth is you desperately want an explanation, you want there to be one.

Because the alternative is unbearable.

The image of these two together stays stuck in your head making your chest feel ready to split open, your heart hammering against it so violently it seems determined to escape your ribcage altogether, while questions swarm your mind faster than you can catch them.

Was she a coworker? Was she someone he'd met recently? Was she there before you?Was any of it real?

You want to scream until your throat tears itself raw. You want to cry, sob until your lungs feel too heavy for your own body. Instead, you remain frozen, staring at nothing.

Each breath catches halfway into your lungs, coming out weaker than the last. Your stomach twists so violently that acid creeps into the back of your throat, leaving behind a bitter burn that makes you think you might actually be sick.

You need someone to talk to, you need your best friend.

Maybe if you talk about it out loud it'll stop feeling impossible, she'll point out something you've missed, tell you there's another explanation.

Or maybe hearing the words leave your own mouth will make the truth impossible to deny; The man who swore he loved you, who never ended a phone call without saying he missed you—cheated on you.

Your vision blurs behind gathering tears as you fumble through your contacts. Your thumb refuses to stay steady, pressing the screen three times before it finally registers. You barely notice the ringing.

The phone rings several time before she picks up—

"Y/N?" A man's voice. It's deep, undeniably familiar. You haven't heard it in a while and the confusion makes you dizzy.

"You a'right?"

Your breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.

Simon.

No.

No, no, no.

Your eyes widen in horror as you yank the phone away from your ear, staring at the contact like it might somehow rearrange itself.

Simon.

Not your best friend.

Simon.

Your ex of three years.

Three bloody years, and somehow, in the middle of all this, your shaking hands had called him—the man you truly believed you would end up marrying. You called him. As if this situation couldn't get any worse.

You end the call so fast your thumb nearly slips, then fling the phone onto the sofa as if it's burned you.

"Oh my God..."

You drag both hands over your face, pressing your palms against your eyes until stars bloom behind your eyelids.

How could you mess that up?

Of all people...

You'd barely managed to keep yourself from completely falling apart, and now you'd dragged your ex into the middle of it.

Your phone vibrates.

Then again and again.

You don't want to look, because you already know who it is.

What happened?

Are you safe?

Y/N. Answer me.

You squeeze your eyes shut before forcing yourself to unlock the screen.

Everything's fine. Called you by mistake. I'm sorry.

You hit send.

The typing bubble doesn't even have time to disappear before another message arrives.

Don't lie to me. What happened?

Your jaw clenches.

Don't push it, Riley.

The message shifts to Read, it stays on read for several seconds before you allow yourself to let out a slow breath, thinking maybe, finally, he'll leave it alone.

Then your phone starts ringing and Simon's name fills the screen.

You stare at it until it almost stops.

Every sensible part of you tells you not to answer—you haven't spoken since breaking up.

You aren't his problem anymore.

But beneath the hurt, beneath the anger, beneath the humiliation, there's a quieter feeling; familiarity.

The kind that only comes from someone who once knew every version of you. Someone who could tell you were lying before you'd even finished the sentence. Someone who used to be home.

Your thumb moves before your brain catches up.

"What happened?" His voice is low, steady, filled with quiet concern, it feels oddly safe to you.

You never answer his question, drowning in your own feelings and thoughts.

"Someone hurt ya?"

That question alone shatters whatever fragile composure you'd managed to cling to and a soft, broken sob tears itself from your chest before you can swallow it back.

"He—" Your voice cracks so badly the word almost disappears. "He cheated."

You can hear him exhale sharply, "bloody wanker," Simon mutters, venom dripping from every syllable.

Another pause.

Quieter this time.

Almost to himself.

"Knew he couldn't take care of my girl."

The words land before either of you has the chance to catch them.

Your crying dies down, slowly. Not because the hurt has lessened, but because your mind refuses to process what your ears have just heard.

My girl.

After three years. Three years of birthdays spent apart. Three years of pretending the other no longer existed. Three years of carefully avoiding the streets you knew he still frequented, of deleting old photographs only to recover them from the recently deleted folder before finally forcing yourself to erase them for good.

My girl.

Your grip around the phone tightens until your fingers begin to ache, your heartbeat stumbling into an entirely different rhythm than the one grief had forced upon it only moments ago. The pain in your chest is still there, raw and relentless, but now it's tangled with something infinitely more dangerous.

Simon doesn't say anything for a long moment.

You can hear him breathing on the other end of the line, slow and measured, as if he's deliberately forcing himself to stay calm for your sake, while you sit curled against the armrest of your couch with your knees pulled tightly to your chest. The tears you've been trying so desperately to keep under control refuse to listen, sliding quietly down your cheeks one after another until the fabric of your sleeve is damp from repeatedly wiping at them.

"Wanna tell me whot happened?," he says eventually, his voice quieter now, stripped of the anger that had flared only seconds ago.

And so you do. The words come out unevenly at first, interrupted by shaky breaths and the occasional sob that catches painfully in your throat, but once they begin, they refuse to stop. You tell him everything and he doesn't interrupt you once.

Every now and then you hear the faint rustle of fabric, the creak of what sounds like a chair beneath him, but otherwise he lets you empty every ugly, broken thought that's been clawing around inside your chest.

When your voice finally gives out, the silence between you feels different.

Heavier, but not uncomfortable.

"Bastard," he says after a while anger bubbling in his throat. Every cry, every little sob that escapes your lips and echoes through the phone line has him tightening his grip. "You'll get through this." he reassures you a moment later.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"You sound awfully sure."

"'Cause I know ya."

You squeeze your eyes shut.

"You knew me."

"I still do."

The words settle somewhere deep inside you, somewhere you'd spent years convincing yourself no longer existed. You hate how much comfort they bring.

"I keep wondering if I missed something," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "Maybe there were signs. Maybe I wasn't enough. Maybe if I'd..."

"No."

The interruption is immediate.

"But—"

"No."

His tone softens, though it loses none of its certainty.

"If he cheated, that's on him. Not on ya. Nothing gives someone an excuse to betray someone like tha'."

Your throat tightens again.

Because you know he's right, but you don't believe him—you can't.

"I just—" You swallow hard. "I don't understand how someone can tell you they love you and then do something like that."

The line falls quiet again.

When Simon finally speaks, there's something different in his voice—it sounds tired.

"People love what they have until they stop being afraid of losing it."

Your brows knit together.

"Is that what happened with us?" The question slips out before you have a chance to stop it and regrets floods your veins instantly.

The silence that follows is long enough for your heartbeat to become deafening again, for regret to settle like lead in your stomach.

When he finally exhales, it sounds almost like a laugh—the kind people make when smiling would hurt too much.

"No," his answer is firm, certain. As if he has spend enough time thinking about your relationship. "I was just an idiot."

The honesty in his response makes your chest feel heavy with something you can't quite place.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

Your lips part.

"For what?"

"For the way I left."

His voice grows quieter with every word, as though each one costs him something.

"Simon," you exhale, your voice is gentle, apologetic. "It's been three years. You had to make sacrifices for your job."

The softness in your voice, the understanding, it leaves a part of his heart hollowed out and instantly filled with regret for eveything that happened three years ago. "Still, I wanted ya to know."

Your chest aches in a way that's entirely different from before. It's fresh, but also older. The kind of pain you don't notice until someone accidentally presses on the bruise. "It means a lot. Thank you." Your voice nearly breaks and you have to bite down on your lower lip to stifle a sob.

"Thanks for listening, Simon."

"Anytime, luv."

[6eons]

john’s wife wants a pet.

cw: SFW! poly relationship? gn!reader. bi!reader. praise?

john price who is actually so whipped for his wife that she doesn’t need to ask twice for the same thing.

so when she stops by base to drop him off lunch, she’s immediately met with his backside, watching as husband barks orders at his soldiers running drills. she admires the stamina they all have on them, the endurance to push themselves beyond their limits for their captain.

“they listen so well.” she’d comment from beside him, lingering glances as some of them chirped their greetings to the captain’s missus. her eyes were just as unraveling as their lieutenant’s, so it was hard for her to miss the way some of them shrank when they were in her presence.

she would make it a point to come by once a week, for a lunch drop off. sometimes, she’d bring in a pan of banana bread or corn bread muffins — still steaming hot from the oven, for the 141 crew. “for my baby’s babies.” she’d say. leave it to a beautiful woman frolicking onto base (pastries on-hand) with the prettiest sundress to have a group of stone cold killers blushing.

“i want one of your sergeants.” has him choking on his spit, a red-tinged blush spreading across his face like wildfire. he’s not sure what he expects to hear, maybe for her to favor his pretty boy gaz or stocky boy soap — nothing prepares him for when she utters your name.

nervous, jumpy thing that was transferred from another unit; you might have shared the same rank as some of them and worked hard for your place, but you were still their ‘rookie’. she pointed out how you’d have this glint in your eye when you’d show off to the missus, yearning and craving for the praise that would follow from your captain. god, did she love seeing your face brighten up when she’d pat your sweaty head, telling you what good of a job you did.

want was such a vague word, especially when mrs. price was seemingly playing with her food in front of him. and it wasn’t long before john shared the same affections as his wife; he was the husband that didn’t originally want the cat, but grew more and more attached to taking care of it. you.

she calls you bunny when you’re not around. asking price how her bunny’s doing. after some time, the ‘her’ seemed to drop off and john started calling you bunny to her as well.

on heli rides home, he’d welcome you to lean on his shoulder for naps, mumbling something about, “the missus will ‘ave my head if m’not takin care of her pet.” while running his fingers through your hair, practically purring as the deep rumble of his voice coaxed you into a slumber. — soap would make comments about how he never receives that sort of treatment and gaz would kick his boot for him to shut up.

members outside of the 141 either hated you or wanted to be you. you weren’t even from here, yet you’d taken a spot in the prestigious taskforce, a spot that some thought had belonged to them. sometimes rumors would make their way back to you. most times it was easy for you to ignore but on days you couldn’t, you found yourself in price’s office. his hand would cup your cheek, wiping a stray tear that had fallen and he’d hug you so tight, reminding you that you worked your ass off to get here and that if you had any doubts in his decision to recruit you into the 141, you were more than welcome to file a formal complaint.

mrs. price had brought in iced lemon cake. she remembered it was your favorite, only she’d brought in an extra loaf, just for you — maybe price wasn’t allowed to play favorites, but she could — while ghost, soap, and gaz were still on their way to price’s office from the mess hall, she shoved a fork into your hand, beckoning for you to take a bite. she threaded her fingers through your hair as you ate, noticing how her eyes twinkle with adoration. you couldn’t help but preen into her touch and she coo’d at how adorable you were.

a small bit of icing was left at the corner of your lip and she took it upon herself to lean down to lick it off your face. the feeling has the air in your lungs hitch and you freeze, eyes wide as you stare at your captain who’s unfazed and watching with darkened eyes.

“mmm, i reckon maybe the icing’s much too sweet? what do you think honey? come, have a taste.” mrs. price hums at her husband as she smacks her lips. and john doesn’t waste any time making his way towards his wife, who’s just put her lips and tongue on you. there’s even a lipgloss stain where her lips met your skin! what was going on?

john cups the side of your neck, reeling you for a kiss. mrs. price lets out of a hum of delight as her fingers cup the other side of your neck, her fingertips only reaching john’s with her full set of acrylics; her thumb brushes across your jaw as if she’s petting you. you can smell his body wash and her floral perfume invading your senses. john’s tongue push past the barrier of your lips and into your mouth and you can feel mrs. price wipe away the drool (and lipgloss stain) that spill from the side of your mouth. the groan that leaves your captain’s chest has you whimpering and mrs. price purses her lips tuts, almost in a humiliating way.

when john pulls away, you lean forward, chasing his mouth but mrs. price’s thumb drags across your swollen lips to stop you.

“yeah, too sweet lovie.”

and you don’t know if they’re talking about the lemon loaf anymore.

[diisenchanted]

getting your nails done and asking your nail tech to put an 's' on your ring fingers, and a tiny skull design on your thumbs. you just miss simon so much when he's on deployment, and this is your way of keeping him close to you. and it's especially worth it when simon comes home early and you make quick work of dropping to your knees in front of him and tugging his cargos down. his breath catches when he finally notices your nails, his eyes zeroed into where your fingers are wrapped around his throbbing cock. "fuckin' hell," he groans, his hips jolting. the 's' on your nail stares back at him, it's him on your nail like a brand, and it looks so pretty sliding against his cock. simon lasts 4 strokes before his balls draw up and thick ropes of cum shoot out of his cock, down your fingers, and over your manicured nails. another brand <3 simon's cum over his initial <3 🥰

[twolegsandbleeds]

masterlist in chronological order - indented drabbles are non-plot related and inserted where they fit in the timeline.

ghost!reader: concept here

ghost!reader is a night time pervert here

simon realises there's something wrong here

simon gets a glimpse here

simon does some (metaphorical) digging here

ghost!reader shows themselves (again) here

what do you miss? here

the rib here

[twolegsandbleeds]

[ghost!reader masterlist]

life with simon settles into a rhythm without either of you discussing it. just two people - okay, one man and one ghost - cohabiting in a way that feels almost alarmingly natural.

until he brings a dog home.

some rescue he saw at the shelter - a big, sad looking thing that spends the first two weeks of his life in the house hiding under the bed whilst simon tries to tempt him out with chicken and you stare warily.

but slowly, the dog - riley - settles in too.

The Incident happens on a morning like any other. the two of you sat at the kitchen table, back door open to let the breeze in, a mug of coffee each - although yours remains untouched, like usual - and riley exploring the garden.

you're flicking through the local paper that gets pushed through his letterbox each week, he's absentmindedly checking his emails on his phone - until he feels riley's nose against his knee, and something land on his foot.

he looks down to see riley's brown eyes and a human rib bone next to his socked foot.

he picks it up between to fingers, holds it out between you. "what the fuck?"

you glance up from your paper, "oh. that's probably mine." you reply absentmindedly, attention immediately dropping back to the article you're reading. "did you know they're having a jumble sale at the church on saturday? you should go."

simon pinches the bridge of his nose. "sweetheart, i don't give a fuck about the jumble sale. i give a fuck about the fact the dog's just dropped your fuckin' rib on my foot."

you look up at him over your paper again, eyebrows furrowed. "well it's not like i'm using it, is it?"

simon blinks. slowly. because no - you're not using it. but that isn't exactly what he meant.

"dove," he tries again, rephrasing. "why are your bones in my garden and not in you know, a cemetery or some shite?"

you frown again. "our garden." you correct with a pout, before you carefully fold up the paper, place it between you on the dining table and reach for the rib in his hand, holding it up to the light like you're inspecting it. "mm, definitely mine. too big to be the cat's."

he groans. "you tellin' me i've got a dead cat in my garden as well, sweetheart?" he reaches out, pokes the end of your nose with his finger. "yer avoidin' the question. why th' fuck are you in our garden?"

a pointed emphasis on the our, like he's learned his lesson.

your lips press into a flat line.

and for the first time since the two of you started cohabitatating willingly you choose to vanish from sight, rib bone clattering to the table as you disappear from existence.

simon stares at the place you once were, feels the cold patch he used to be so familiar with pass through him and leave the kitchen, the door slamming ominously behind you like you're also closing the door on this conversation entirely.

simon glances at the rib, then at riley. "well that seems like a touchy subject." he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face, fingers catching against stubble.

riley just whines in response.

[num-1-yearner]

having to share a bed with Simon Riley who you've known forever and you sorta have a crush on him and you kinda hope there'll be a bit of a chill or something else out of those cheesy romance books.

and when bed time rolls around, you get into the bed and under the covers and instead of laying next to you, Simon curls up at the foot of the bed like a dog. he bends his large body into a shape that can't be comfortable and shouldn't be possible. his chin rests on one of your knees, deep brown eyes focused on the door.

just as you're beginning to doze off, you can hear and feel him do a big sad dog sigh and you fall asleep with a small smile on your face.

[caoimhewritesfics]

When you were pregnant, Simon was so worried she would be huge like he was. He lived in terror that the birth would be horrendous for you. He felt so guilty, blaming himself for a scenario that he made up. The thought of doing anything to hurt you was torture for him.

But, when she came out, she was tiny. Little fingers and just over 5lbs. Simon had never held something so little. He could hardly even believe it when he took her into his arms for the first time. This tiny little thing was his and yours. Perfect and ridiculously miniature.

Her little fingers wrapped around his thumb as she makes little frustrated sounds. “Don’t think she’s a big fan o’ me, Lovie.” It comes out as a joke, but for him, it’s a half truth. One of his biggest fears coming out, trying its hardest to damper his mood.

“She’s just hungry, Si. She likes you plenty. She’s only about an hour old.” You smile tiredly as you look at your large husband cradling your impossibly tiny little girl.

Your daughter pulls his thumb forward, trying to nurse on him. “Ah wrong one, darling. You’ll need mummy for that.” He laughs. You swear if you didn’t know any better, you would think he was crying.