Anything n Everything

E 25f ope main is hotmessexpress420

[anythingneverythingnstuffs]

Masterlist :D

🔥= spicy

simon x reader requests are CLOSED

neighbor!reader x simon 'ghost' riley

OG , unofficial rewrite

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

🔥simon x reader

🔥established relationship hc

🔥simon 'daddy kink' riley

🔥shower sounds

[dionysiaproductions]

[arabbara]

R.I.P. The 2976 American people that lost their lives on 9/11 and R.I.P. the 48,644 Afghan and 1,690,903 Iraqi and 35000 Pakistani people that paid the ultimate price for a crime they did not commit

[gentlerainmorninghush]

A 10-year update to this post:

R.I.P. to the more than 4,500,000 people of Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, Yemen, and Syria, who have lost their lives as a result of American occupation.

[vrag-veshtica]

keeping the tags well said op

[crazycatsiren]

You know what?

My ancestors would have wanted pasteurization, vaccines, antibiotics, disinfectants, birth control, psychiatric medications, pain management, anesthesia. My ancestors would have wanted to be able to keep their loved ones around longer, and not lose them too early/too soon to childbirths, injuries, bacterial infections, mental illnesses, and diseases that are curable and/or preventable in our modern day life.

Modern medicine saves lives.

[yarrowthewitch]

In fact, we know they did want these things, because they invented them. They gave them to us out of generations of struggling to understand and make use of nature itself. "Ancestral knowledge" includes the unglamorous things like germ theory, the functioning of the immune system, and how to manufacture lifesaving vaccines. It's not just magical or mystical or remote, it's present in our lives at every moment. It's the reward of human connection: the sum total of human discovery and the boundless ingenuity of human invention, surrounding us at all times with absolute miracles made banal by their familiarity.

If we reject modern medicine, then we reject all the labors and trials our ancestors went through for us; we reject our very nature.

Please, for your ancestors' sake: vaccinate your kids, and take your goddamn medicine.

[tenpintsof-sundrop]

I just saw someone say "there is no ethical consumption under capitalism" as an argument for boycotting AO3

Babe AO3 is a nonprofit. They do not exist under the ethics of capitalism. Fanfiction is legal because no money is ever exchanged around it. (All the money given to AO3 is used to maintain their servers and pay their lawyers to help keep fanfiction legal.)

Fanfiction is one of the few things in this world - probably the one singular form of entertainment that does not exist within the confines of capitalism. So by your own logic, even if you hate some of the content on AO3, it's inherently the only ethical thing to consume in the whole world.

[dmitriene]

cw: perhaps ooc simon.

simon ghost riley as your sugar daddy, a considerate man, all luxury things and expensive gifts just to see your pretty lips splitting wide in a giddy, dazing smile, wrapping your arms around his thick, bent neck and peppering his rough, prickly face with delicate kisses and whispers of little giggles that mirror the joy in your sparkling eyes, as blinding as the new jewelry he picked out for you, falling in beady, gleaming drops down your collarbone.

you are his refuge, with how carefree you behave and cling to him, charming and affectionate like a cat, whiny, as well, all for his attention and barest of touch, accompanying him to various meetings, even when simon insists that you will be bored, sit among a bunch of people and listen to incoherent speech, but you settle over at his muscular lap and tuck against his chest, melting in the warmth of the solid body behind you, letting a calloused hand span over the entire breadth of your waist when something pisses him off.

simon cups the back of your head so you'll hide away in his squaring shoulder, when someone peeps out with amused question at who you are, and instead of answering, he twitches with his hand in the air to mimic for the meeting continuation, except, still leaning over to nose sharply in the sensitive nape of your neck, huffing in the light, fresh scent of the perfume he gifted you just couple of days ago, before planting a tentative kiss there, searing in your skin as you shudder and whine, complaining quietly for teasing you.

he gives you plenty of his time when you get back to the sanctuary of your apartment, greedy, tender touches mapping over every dip and plushness of your wriggling, arching body, not walking further than the living room couch, tugging you over his lap yet again, but now, with teeth biting, spit coated kisses and fevered gasps, calloused, broad fingers tugging and clawing up at your shirt, guttural, unrestrained groan spilling from simon's lips, raw and bruised pink, at just a single sight of your stomach, ribs expanding in hitched, strangled gasp.

simon let's you cling to his face, soft hands cupping the sharp edges of his flushed cheekbones, thumbs stroking over the jagged scars that slice a healed pale against his skin, stubble patchy, and you call him a pretty man, moaning as he licks against your slack mouth with white hot need, dizzy at the feeling of your tight, slick cunt spasming around his rutting cock, at how sweet you are, panting and whimpering his name, bouncing up and down through shallow, small rolls of your hips forward, pressing as close as possible.

his sugar baby, indeed, and he'd swallow you whole.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[anythingneverythingnstuffs]

I definitely did not just create a sugar baby profile

purely for fic research purposes

don't look in my search history

[succubusvalentine]

𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐑𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐠𝐚. 𝐂𝐖 : 𝐍𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬, 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬.

𝐌 𝐀 𝐒 𝐓 𝐄 𝐑 𝐋 𝐈 𝐒 𝐓

You didn't expect the strange situation you were in with your boyfriend and his teammates to progress further than it already had. Simon would send videos and images of you during sex to the men he trusted with his life, you got an ego boost from the desperate praise from said men. Everything was good.

And yet, one day when you were on your lunch break, waiting for your name to be called at the cafe, your phone dinged.

You were slightly confused, assuming it was Simon despite that he rarely messages you while he's on base.

But when you opened your phone, it was a group chat.

And not a new one, no. Because as you scrolled up, you saw videos of you that Simon had sent. And some familiar text messages from Simons teammates.

Your phone dinged again and you were at the bottom of the chat once more. Only to see an image of Johnnys hard dick.

"Christ, Soap. Do we all have to see that?" Price messaged.

"Couldn't help myself. Got excited to see that Bonnie lass finally got added after Simons been edging us for months about it" Johnny responded.

"Don't word it like that, Soap." Simon messaged.

The short conversation between the three heavily amused you. Making you giggle under your breath.

Once you returned to your office building with your treat from the cafe, you put the small paper bag on your desk before going to the bathroom.

You scoped out the place, making sure no one else was in there. Before you quickly unbuttoned your blouse and took a photo of the lace bra you had on. Suddenly thankful it was wash day for your favourite comfy bras.

Almost as soon as it was sent, a flood of messages from all four men came through. Clearly all salivating at the image.

That's how it went for a while, too. You'd started sending pictures of your tits, cunt, a few of your hand (or Simons) under your panties.

It definitely inflated your ego. And you now loved getting demands from the men. You should feel disgusted by them, but reading a text from Price saying "show cunt", with the following messages of his men agreeing and begging for it...Yeah you weren't disgusted. It only made you throb.

Your favourite was when they would send voice messages after one of your pretty photos. Grunts and the slick sound of their hand stroking themselves raw.

You've even gotten a video or two from Simon and Price of Kyle and Johnny sat next to each other as they tug each others cocks, staring at the video you'd just sent of you touching yourself.

And at the end of every week, after the last meeting of the day on base, Price would dismiss everyone but his favourite three. Switching the presentation to the more personal one. Where they go through all the images and videos you and Simon had sent during the week. More often than not, cocks in hand as Simon described how you tasted and felt like. How you sounded.

And if the boys had been good that week, they all got a pair of soaked panties to take home.

Adding you to the group chat was definitely the right idea.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

[softaestluv]

something, something about the 141 men all being quite obsessed with you, placing bets who could get you first— everyone thinks it’s Kyle, he’s charming, handsome, who wouldn’t swoon at his feet?

Maybe even Johnny, he’s a bit of a dog, but he has a way with women, by some miracle, and he’s smart, maybe it’s his blue eyes.

No one thought it would be Simon, their lieutenant, of all people, anti-social, rough around every edge. A brute, curt, wears a skull.

Then one day, they get a message in the group chat from Simon, a picture attached. Kyle can’t believe it, Price, the dirty old man, saves it to his phone instantly, Johnny has to do a spit-take because there in the photo is you.

But it’s not just you.

It’s you perched on Simon’s lap.

Naked from the head down, back facing the camera, with your face buried in Simon’s neck. Simon gets a low enough angle, gets a perfect view of your pussy, stretched wide over his fat cock. Puffy and swollen, glistening with your sopping arousal.

With a simple sentence:

‘Look who I found’

[xoxunhinged]

[anythingneverythingnstuffs]

🥵🥵🥵

[gloomwitchwrites]

Simon "missionary sex, because I'm not done arguing" Riley

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

task force with chubby reader who tries on dresses and they’re just being feral losers 😇

Feral Guard Dogs

Pairing: Poly Task Force 141 x Chubby!Reader

Warnings: Flirting, suggestive comments, protective/possessive behavior, these men being absolutely down bad, mild swearing

Author's Note: I’m sorry for pushing out requests/stories out later than normal! I’ve been so sleepy this week I legitimately forget to upload

Summary:A simple shopping trip turns into absolute chaos when your team realizes just how good you look in your new outfits. Now, they’re acting like a pack of guard dogs—territorial, dramatic, and utterly feral.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You were just trying on dresses. That’s it. A simple, innocent outing. You never expected to walk out of the fitting room to find four grown, lethal men acting like absolute idiots over it.

The dress was snug in all the right places, accentuating your curves, and you felt good in it. The color complimented your skin tone, and you had just turned to check yourself out in the mirror when you heard a low whistle.

You turned to see them—Simon, Johnny, John, and Kyle—crowded around the fitting room entrance like a pack of wolves that had just spotted their next meal.

Johnny let out a low whistle, arms crossed over his chest as he grinned. "Well, damn, bonnie. That’s illegal."

Kyle sucked in a breath. "Yeah, you’re never wearing that in public without one of us with you."

Simon—who usually maintained some level of stoicism—stood with his arms crossed, his fingers twitching like he was physically restraining himself from doing something reckless.

John, ever the gentleman, cleared his throat and rubbed a hand over his jaw, but even he wasn’t immune. "That’s dangerous, love."

You raised a brow, fighting back a grin. "Dangerous?"

Johnny gestured wildly. "Aye! You’re lucky we’re the only ones here, or else we’d have a fuckin’ problem on our hands!"

Kyle nodded solemnly. "And I mean real problems. Like ‘burying a body’ problems."

You scoffed, turning back to the mirror with a little twirl. "You guys are ridiculous."

Simon let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "We know."

But none of them looked away.

And when you picked out another dress to try on, they were still waiting right outside the fitting room like a bunch of guard dogs, ready to rip apart anyone who so much as looked at you the wrong way.

Because, let’s be honest—your team of elite, highly trained operatives? They were just a bunch of feral idiots for you.

By the time you finally left the store, bags in hand, the sun had already started to dip toward the horizon.

Simon carried most of your bags. Not because you asked him to—no, you barely even got the chance before he snatched them right out of your hands like some kind of possessive caveman.

Johnny, meanwhile, carried the rest, because he made the poor choice of laughing when Simon did it and got voluntold for backup duty.

"This is bullying," he had muttered as he adjusted the bags in his arms.

"This is life," John had replied, sipping his hard-earned coffee.

Now, as the five of you walked through the parking lot, you stretched with a content sigh, feeling satisfied with your purchases. "That was fun."

John snorted, giving you a side-eye. "Glad one of us had fun."

Kyle still looked like he hadn’t fully recovered. "Fun? That was a fucking battlefield in there."

Johnny let out a dramatic groan, shifting the weight of the bags. "Aye. I’ll be havin’ flashbacks for weeks."

Simon, still eerily quiet, walked beside you—stoic as ever. The only sign of his absolute ruin was the way his grip on the bags tightened every single time you adjusted your jacket, or your shirt, or breathed too close to him.

You fought back a grin. "You guys are such babies."

Kyle gestured at the bags. "We just dropped half a paycheck on making sure you dress like a fucking goddess every day. You think we’re just gonna walk away normal after that?"

Johnny nodded aggressively. "Aye, ye ruined us."

John rubbed his temples. "Us? You mean Simon."

You turned to Simon with a teasing smile. "Simon, are you ruined?"

Simon didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at you.

Just kept walking, silent and dangerous.

Which was funny—because you could see the tips of his ears burning red beneath his mask.

Johnny, absolutely thriving on the chaos, grinned. "Aye, he’s ruined, alright. Properly fucked, this one."

Kyle smirked, nudging John. "Think we lost him for good?"

John just shook his head. "Poor bastard never stood a chance."

You hummed, pretending to consider it. "Guess that means I should put on a little fashion show when we get back?"

The reaction was instant.

Johnny nearly dropped the bags. "Oh, fuck no."

Kyle grabbed John’s sleeve like a man on the brink of collapse. "You gotta stop her, Captain. We won’t make it."

John just sighed, looking up at the sky like he was praying for patience. "Love, if you do that, I don’t think Simon is gonna survive the night."

You grinned, turning to the man in question. "What do you think, Simon?"

Simon finally turned his head to you.

Stared for a long, tense moment.

Then, in a voice so low and certain it sent shivers down your spine, he murmured—

"Do it."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Johnny’s eyes bugged out of his skull. "Mate—"

Kyle gasped, clutching his chest. "He’s gone."

John downed the rest of his coffee like it was whiskey. "That’s it. I’m done. I don’t know any of you."

You just laughed, skipping ahead of them toward the car. "Guess you’ll have to wait and see, then!"

Behind you, Kyle groaned into his hands, Johnny whooped, John sighed, and Simon?

Simon just walked faster, catching up to you without hesitation.

Because ruined or not—he was all in.

And that fashion show?

It was going to happen.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[kittygowrite]

Midwest Girl

Warnings: F!reader, hunting mention, (just in case) slight gore/blood description, extreme weather mention, just self indulgent fluff

An: trying my hand at a drabble 😌 (a very long drabble… more like a poorly formatted fic) saw this post by @succubusvalentine and just needed to write Simon with a Midwest girl lol. Lil disclaimer, this is based on my own experience in the Midwest and where I live in it (omg it's huge there's so much variety in the culture)

Word count: almost 800

Simon with a Midwest girl that absolutely fascinates him.

You were always so sweet and polite, a small smile would pull at his lips every time you said “ope.”

If you were surprised, bumping into something, or remembering something, every single one would be accompanied by a little “ope!”

Or when you would walk past him, a little “let me just squeeze right past ya...” he would be fighting off a grin.

The politeness wasn't a personal thing though.

The first time a stranger started talking to him at the grocery store, he thought they were insane. When his sweet girl started chatting with the older lady who had commented on the tomatoes Simon was holding, he thought you had fallen off the deep end as well. But that's just how you were. His sweet thing, sharing your sugar with the neighbors, helping with their gardens, bringing over dinner or other comforts whenever someone fell on hard times.

Your food reminded him of what home ought to feel like, all comforting and warm. Whether it be your mother's “famous” chili, a casserole brought to a potluck to celebrate some small town holiday, or a simple pasty warming his fingers in the heart of winter, Simon could never get enough.

While there were quite a few things he hesitated to eat, shoving a bite into his mouth usually shut him up and had him devouring the rest, despite the odd name or questionable ingredients.

The weather was its own situation.

The tornado sirens are blaring, he's grabbing things to hide in the basement and wait out the weather, following the safe and logical protocol. Searching high and low for his sweet girl, just to find you lounging on the porch, a bottle of Faygo in hand, watching the sky swirl and shift with a content smile. Brushing him off when he frantically tries to usher you inside, nodding to your neighbors who are all doing the same, outside despite the sirens screaming for you to hide inside where it’s safe. (Of course, if it actually got bad, you would go inside, but it would take a while to get to that point.)

The temperature changes were intense, 20’s and freezing his fingers off one day, 60’s and driving with the windows down the next, it was enough to give him whiplash.

Not to mention the god-awful winters. He would think you were insane for wearing just a T-shirt and jeans when it's nearly in the 30s. You would just smile and wave him off, laughing when the usually stoic man would be reduced to grumbles about the cold bite.

The chill in Manchester was enough for him to be tugging on a winter coat so the colder temperatures were less than comfortable. He would be bundled up in long johns, flannel, a down coat, mittens, and a scarf wrapped over a thick woolly balaclava you had gifted him for the holidays and he would still be shivering like a wet kitten.

It’s hitting the negatives and you’re unbothered.

“It’s not so bad without the wind.” You happily tell him, as if his nose wasn’t numb and his fingers stiff from the glacial weather. He had to buy a proper pair of winter shoes, his assumption that his combat boots would be fine stomping through the snow. After a too-close dance with frostbite, he caved and bought a real pair of snow boots.

The way you interacted with wildlife never failed to amaze him either. Shooing off a raccoon or coyote that was pawing through your trash. Feeding the birds and squirrels, not batting an eye as a deer walks past.

Growing up in Manchester, he had seen his share of wildlife, but it was so different in the States. The deer were bigger, coyotes would bark and scream like banshees in the night, and don't even get him started when he saw a moose for the first time.

But Simon whose girl goes hunting or fishing? He’s whipped.

You’ve got antlers on your walls, maybe a hide or two kicking around. His eyes would nearly pop out of his head when he walked into the garage to be met with the sight of his sweet girl elbow-deep in fish guts, scaling and gutting the fish with practiced efficiency. Blood splattered on your arms and a smudge on your cheek as you smiled at him and handed him a plate of fish to bring inside.

He would laugh at first, the need for a freezer in the garage seemingly useless. But come hunting season, when it was filled with rabbit, venison, and wild turkey, he changed his mind quite quickly.

You had your quirks, but you were his. And he wouldn’t trade his sweet Midwest girl for anything.

An: I had a lot of fun writing this! Like I said, it’s based on my own experience with where I live so I’m sorry if this isn’t how you’ve experienced it! Feedback is always appreciated <3

Taglist: @pythonmoth @hattiefunny @daydreamerwoah @bi-sk8er @sweetheart4you @shinebright2000

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ intoxication, sexual content, daddy kink, caretaking, blurry lines of consent.

You’re painfully unaware, though to you, he’s sure it's bliss. 

In your own little world, you stand at the long wooden table, fingers moving across the trackpad of a laptop, a pair of too big glasses sliding down your nose. The left lens is smudged, the smear only getting worse every time you push them up with the back of your hand. There’s a whirlwind of stuff around you, bowls and bags and measuring cups, cracked egg shells and sprinkles scattered across the wood, multi colored icing separated into different containers, and you're so into your work you don't even realize he's in the doorway. 

He almost feels bad for scaring you when he clears his throat. Almost. 

“Oh my god,” you whirl, hand pressed to your chest, half ready to bolt. “S-sorry, I didn’t- I didn’t know you were there.” 

Is that anyway to say hi to your daddy sweetheart?

“Good morning.” He eyes the twenty four ounce mason jar to your left. It’s one quarter full, coffee and cream swirling to the bottom. Too much caffeine. 

“Good morning, hi.” You smile, sweet and shy but more emboldened. It’s been a few days since he fed you bites of lemon meringue pie, a few days since he went home and stroked his cock to the memory of your mouth parting for him, eyes half lidded looking up through your lashes. 

Since then, you’ve a bit more brave, encouraged by his careful coaxing, text messages at night and throughout the day to check in, visits in the morning as he heads to base. 

He’s leading his little lamb right into her shepherd’s arms. 

“What’re you working on?” 

“Funfetti birthday cake.” You slide your glasses back up your face. They’re a mess and he can’t resist fixing it, pulling them off, wiping the lenses with bottom of his shirt. You freeze. Little deer in his headlights. 

“Didn’t know you wore glasses.” He places them back where they belong, righting them when they slip, and confirming what he already knew. They’re too big. You need new ones. 

“Th-thank you. I do for reading. And… er, screens. Reading on screens, mostly, though I need them for books too so I guess just… reading in general.” He understands the pause now, the moments when you’ve become self conscious, embarrassed, or you’re looking for the words you need, anxiously trying to piece it all together, step into a skin that doesn't quite fit. 

A rhythm the world doesn't understand. Too cruel, impatient, cold, it has no care for fragile things, too easily reflecting a mirror of his former self. 

He files the bit about you needing to wear glasses when you read, another notation in the long list he’s already memorized, organized, and moves onto his next inquiry. “Who’s the birthday cake for?” 

“Mara. It’s her birthday. They’re…” you make a face like you’ve sniffed spoiled milk, “we’re going out to a pub to celebrate.” He stiffens. On one hand, he’s proud of you. On the other, the idea of you in a pub raises the hair on the back of his neck, has him a bit out of his mind. 

He’s not interested in clipping your wings, but going out to a pub with no one to watch over you? Not bloody likely. “Tonight?” 

“Mhm.” You’re rubbing a stick of butter in a round pan. “Funfetti is the classic birthday cake. You know, the vanilla cake with the sprinkles?” He shakes his head. “Oh. Well, um, it is. It's mostly a kid thing now, but I think it's the ultimate birthday cake. Birthdays are supposed to be fun but you know... they kind of suck when you're an adult. Anyway... funfetti is fun so, that's why...” 

“Maybe you can save me a slice. Where are you going?” 

“Save you…" your brows crease as you try to process what he's said. "Doc’s.” You’ve dropped the stick of butter abruptly, greasy fingers gripping the edge of the pan. Doc’s. It’s a younger crowd, a bit posh, but still a bit dark. Has a bit of an edge. 

It’s been a few weeks since he’s gotten a pint with Kyle and Johnny anyway. 

He smiles, strokes the backs of his knuckles down your cheek, satisfied when you lean in for more, disappointed the few minutes he had to drop in are now over. “I’ve gotta go baby, be good for me.” Your mouth drops open so wide he thinks he might be able to fit his cock in it. 

“Oh, okay. I- I will.” 

What did you forget?

Daddy. I will, daddy.

“That ‘er?” Kyle motions with his beer bottle towards the table where you stand nervously at the edge, floral flecked dress swaying just above your knees. You've looped a white ribbon through your hair, the beacon of a gentle soul that seems to be calling out to every muppet in the building, every wandering eye fueling a fire burning in his blood. 

“Yeah.” His stomach is sour. Even a neat pour of whiskey and pint didn’t settle him. 

You’re trying so hard. Smiling and nodding and listening to everyone, clutching your drink like it’s a lifeline. Mara seems to understand the grace you need, but no one else in the group gets it, and some of them give you weird looks, or worse, look at each other when you’re not paying attention in annoyance. Your only friend at the table catches a few of them and shoots stern glares as she shakes her head, but it doesn’t change much. 

“She looks uncomfortable,” Johnny grunts, his scrupulous eye never missing a thing. Someone asks you a question, and you stumble over your answer, looking away to the wall when a girl to your left blatantly smirks, and then sneers directly in your face. Simon’s blood boils. 

“She’s different from them, it’s hard for her.” It's the easiest way to explain it. You’re one in a million. His one in a million. 

The table laughs at something, and you frantically flick over each person’s face, trying to pick up on a joke you clearly did not understand. Eventually, you just settle for another smile, resigned to watch it all from the outside as conversation flows from person to person, but never towards you. 

Sweet girl. He wants to take you home where you’re safe and happy and carefree, where you can be yourself and not have to worry about trying to keep up or facing everyone’s judgement. Where he can hold your perfect and precious heart in his hand and protect it. Where he can fuck the memory of this night right out of you, bounce you on his cock until the only thing you know how to do is come for him, over and over again. 

He misses the exact moment the cake appears among the stacks of shot glasses. Your anxiety ramps up as everyone starts to eat their slices, shoulders high beneath your ears, fingers knotted together too tight. It’s an eternity before the first person looks at you, mouth half full and thrilled, their enthusiasm alleviating some of the weight that's been sitting on his chest, and yours. Whatever they say seems to lessen the weight because you’re smiling again, excited, and as more people turn your way, the smile turns to a full on beam, your words from the other night echoing in his ears. 

I like feeding people. 

Another hour passes before he decides to call it, the group now spread across the pub, scattered around different tables, at the bar, outside smoking. You’re in a corner with your back to the room talking to Mara, and when he appears in her line of sight, she spots him immediately, grabbing your arm, mouthing something he doesn’t catch. 

You turn- 

And light up like a fucking Christmas tree. 

“Captain Riley!” The alcohol has made you bold, slow synapses firing less rapidly, providing a longer lead time, somewhat preventing you from second guessing or withholding yourself. 

“Hi baby.”

“I’m just gonna…” Mara tries to move away but you reach for her. 

“Happy Birthday Mar. Thanks for inviting,” you hiccup, “me.” She gives you a squeeze. 

“Thanks for coming, and for the cake, it was amazing. Made me feel like I was kid, ya know? When birthdays really mattered.” Sadness flickers in her eyes, and then disappears in a glaze of intoxication. “Anyway, see you Monday?” 

“Yep.” She gives you one more hug before slipping away, and you sigh. 

“She loved her cake.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You’ve got this dreamy look on your face, sleepy and sweet, a little kitten who’s ready to curl up for a nap. 

Cast a line. See if you’re biting. 

“How’re you gettin’ home?” 

“An uber?” You lick your lips. “Or… uh. A Lyft?” You lurch to the side and he darts forward to steady you, movement too fast for you to track, all of it ending up as a surprise, like you weren’t even in your body for a moment. “Th-thanks.” You study his hand, where it sits on your arm. “You know you’re so big?” His lips twitch to the side of his mouth. 

“Yeah sweetheart. I’m big.” You’re still staring at his hand. “D’you need a ride home?” 

“Huh?” He's held this in the back of his mind all night as a possibility, built a tentative plan for this opportunity too golden to pass up. No fucking way are you going home in a rideshare or with anyone else. 

“I’m taking you home.” You shrug at the declaration with little trepidation and take his hand. 

So sweet and full of trust. 

He never specified which home. 

When the gravel of his driveway crunches under the truck’s tires, you don’t stir, and you don’t wake up when he turns it off or opens the passenger side door, your head lolling against your shoulder. 

“Sweetheart,” He keeps his voice low, reaching across your lap to unbuckle your seatbelt, brushing against your breasts, soft exhales puffing little clouds across his skin. “We’re here.” 

“Hmm?” you crack an eye open and then shake your head, “no ‘m sleeping.” Your cheek is warm in his palm, and he kisses it, trying to rouse you, gauge your reaction. Your awareness. Your nose wrinkles. “Stop.” 

“C’mon, you'll be more comfortable inside.” You whimper when he jostles you, pinning a palm to your temple. 

“My head hurts.” Poor baby. 

“I know,” he pulls you up out of the seat and into his chest, carefully supporting your balance. He’s taking liberties now, wrapping an arm around your waist, curling his fingers along the nape of your neck, brushing his lips across your forehead when you whine, high pitched and crackled, broken under the weight of too much alcohol and need for more sleep. “I know baby, Let’s get you into bed.” You lay your cheek on his chest and sigh. 

“Okay.” 

“Spit.” He holds the cup under your lips and you do as he asks diligently, bubbly white toothpaste getting caught on the corner of your mouth. 

Getting you upstairs and into his room went just as he anticipated. A little anxiety, a little trepidation, all of it gently soothed until you were sitting on his bed and he was taking off your shoes, reassuring you, promising everything was okay and you were right where you belonged. 

“You’re safe with me sweetheart. I’m going to take care of you.” 

Now, you’re perched on the closed toilet lid in his bathroom as he finishes brushing your teeth, sleepy and serene, naked thighs peeking out from beneath the hem of his t-shirt. 

You’re completely unguarded, vulnerable, another layer peeled back, another piece he lays claim to. 

His sweet little fawn. 

He knew all along this was underneath the weight you carried. That when you finally felt safe and cherished and cared for, you’d bloom, be yourself without the pressure of everything else. Deep down, beneath the expectations of how everyone thinks you should talk, or act, or behave, behind all the coping mechanisms you’ve taught yourself, buried under mountains of complexity, is his precious little girl who needs her hand held and her tears wiped. Who’s brilliant and beautiful and different, and has never had the space to just be. 

Now, you'll be able to do just that while he takes care of the rest. He'll decide. You’ll have boundaries. You’ll have rules. You’ll have daddy and he’ll take away the endless pressure that closes in on you from all sides, he'll ensure you get what you need. There will be less worry, less fear and unlimited opportunities to be. 

“My face.” You tilt your chin back with your eyes closed, and he chuckles. 

“What about it?” 

“My,” hiccup, “makeup.” He turns the tap on warm, testing the temp until he’s satisfied, and soaks a washcloth. 

“Keep your eyes closed.” You sit still as he works, dabbing away everything on your eyelids and lashes, wiping underneath to catch anything he missed. “There we go.” You sway in his grip and slur.

“Bed now?” 

“Last thing.” There’s a glass of water and naproxen on the counter, and you swallow them without question. He hides his grimace. That will need to be addressed in the morning. When you try to put the glass back on the counter, he shakes his head. “All of it,” you manage to get the rest of the water down, and he squeezes your hip. “That’s my girl.” 

“You’re warm.” Your arm is slung over his middle, a cold foot tucked between his knees, mouth half open on his pillow. Completely uninhibited, nearly asleep. 

His cock is hard against his stomach beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, aching with a fullness he can’t relieve. He’s been hard since he undressed you, peeled your bra off and held you to his chest as he unhooked it, felt your perfect, pretty breasts and nipples against him as he tugged his shirt over your head. You were bashful, buried your face into his neck with a trembling giggle, but refused to let go, sunk your fingernails into his biceps as your hands shook. His sweet, shy girl. 

He rubs your back, works his fingers in the knots between your shoulders, watching your lashes flutter as you try to fight sleep.  

“Tomorrow…” There’s a last minute flash of uncertainty, and he presses his lips to your forehead. 

“It’s okay, we’ll talk at breakfast sweetheart. It’s time for bed.” Tomorrow. You'll be fighting a battle tomorrow, a hangover, anxiety, an endless spiral of confusion and doubt, but he'll be here to guide you through it. 

The only way out is through. 

It will be a lot easier on both of you if you're able to get some sleep. 

“Yeah, ’s past my bedtime.” You whisper with a hazy, playful smile on the wisp of a giggle. "We should have pancakes for breakfast." Your easy, peaceful state encourages him to go a step further. Cast a line, see if you’re biting. 

"If you close your eyes and go to sleep, Daddy will make you pancakes in the morning." You nod with a yawn, tucking your face between the pillow and his shoulder. 

"Mmkay then. Night." It's not a protest, it's not a flinch, it's not a moment of disgust, and satisfaction roars, rips through him like bullet, this instinct and desire long honed finally settling in the place where it belongs. In you. 

"Goodnight baby." He stares at the ceiling as you disappear into dreams and plans his mission. Plots his checkpoints, sets his objectives. Lead, decide, control. 

Bring you home. Permanently. 

[anythingneverythingnstuffs]

imagine simon 'ghost' riley being really into divorced dad rock

like really into it

ugh just imagine

[clusterbuck]

someone on twitter is trying to claim that use of an em-dash is an indication of AI-generated writing because it’s “relatively rare” for actual humans to use it. skill issue

[exhuastedpigeon]

I can admit this is a little out of hand, but I promise AI didn't write my 150k fic 😂

[fuctacles]

Reblog if you're a human that uses em-dashes

[anythingneverythingnstuffs]

i love a good em-dash

[thephantomsdream]

Soap: What did you do on break, Lt?

Ghost: Rode my bike and slept in an alleyway behind a bar.

Gaz: Checks out... (leaves the room)

Ghost: ...

Ghost: Want to know what I really did?

Soap: (immediately interested)

Soap: Yeah!

Ghost: (pulls out his phone)

Ghost: (shows picture of him having someone cuddled up next to him, both under a blanket, two switches in hand, both on the Stardew Valley logo screen)

Soap: (his smile falls immediately)

Soap: Wh—

Ghost: I played Stardew Valley with the missus.

Soap: The mi—?!

Ghost: Planted crops, went to the mines...

Ghost: (swipes through more pictures of them playing)

Soap: (stunned silence)

Ghost: Upgraded the house for the missus, made some town friends... (screenshots of more gameplay)

Soap: Wait—

Ghost: Even fishing. (shows a picture of him catching a legendary fish)

Ghost: The missus doesn't like fishing. (clicks his tongue) Caught them all though. (nods to himself)

Ghost: (smirks) Want to know why I'm telling you this?

Soap: (still stunned, but nods)

Ghost: Because nobody will believe you.

Ghost: (starts deleting all pictures in front of Soap)

Soap: (pained gasp)

Soap: Ye monster.

[sunni-stuff]

You, the butchers daughter, end up stalking your father's new hire.

The first time you see him, he’s hauling a side of beef off the truck like it weighs nothing, muscles taut beneath his apron. His broad shoulders stretch the fabric, veins running thick down his forearms as he grips the meat hook. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing strong arms marred with faded scars—some thin and clean, others jagged, stories you’ll never hear. His hands, wrapped in black gloves, are steady as he works, but you wonder what they’d feel like bare.

Then there’s the mask. Black, snug, covering everything from the bridge of his nose down, leaving only his sharp, calculating eyes visible. Dark and unreadable, they barely glance your way. You’ve tried to catch him slipping, maybe when he wipes sweat from his forehead or adjusts the apron strings that crisscross his powerful back, but he’s careful—never lets you see too much.

The tattoos peek out beneath his sleeves and creep along his collarbones where his shirt dips. Flames coil around his wrists, swallowing skulls with hollow eyes. A soldier, masked like him, grips a rifle among the chaos. A bomb mid-fall, grinning shark teeth, dog tags suspended in ink—each piece a fragment of something unspoken. You’ve glimpsed ink curling over the tendons of his neck, bold lines, and intricate designs that hint at a past you aren’t meant to know. It’s all war, death, and destruction, an unspoken story carved into his flesh. When he moves, the shadows shift over the ink, making it seem alive. You want to ask, to pry, but he’s as unreadable as the art on his skin

He doesn’t talk much, just nods when your father gives orders. The others joke around, laugh, make noise—but he’s silent, methodical, unsettling in the way he moves like he’s done this before. Like butchering meat is nothing new to him.

But what frustrates you the most? He never looks at you for more than a second. Never lingers, never smirks, never acknowledges the way you watch him. As if you’re invisible. And that, more than anything, makes you want to figure him out.

At first, it was just curiosity. No man had ever outright ignored you before—not when you batted your lashes, not when you "accidentally" brushed too close, not when you lingered just a little too long in his space.

But him? He barely acknowledged you. A nod if you were lucky. A grunt if you spoke directly to him. Most of the time, he just kept working, muscles flexing under his apron, strong hands wielding a cleaver with practiced ease.

The others—your father’s old hands, the regulars who came in for their weekly cuts—would’ve tripped over their feet to get your attention. They always had. You were used to the lingering stares, the awkward compliments, the way men fumbled through conversations just to keep you talking. So why didn't he?

It was maddening.

So, you did what any sane young woman would do.

You prodded. You poked. You tested.

You stood too close, pretending to inspect the marbled meat he was slicing, only for him to shift away without a word. You asked him pointless questions, just to hear his voice—low, rough, with an accent you couldn’t quite place—only for him to answer in as few words as possible before returning to work.

It became a game. You knocked things over in his path just to see if he’d catch them (he always did). You “forgot” something near his station just to have a reason to come back. You even tried teasing, playfully calling him mystery man under your breath.

Nothing.

Not a flinch, not a smirk, not even a flicker of amusement.

That should have been the end of it.

But then you started watching. Not just at work—no, you started watching him.

The way he left every night at the same time. The way he took the same route, never straying, never rushing. The way his head tilted slightly whenever he passed certain corners, as if he was listening.

It fascinated you. And when fascination turns to obsession, well…

That’s when you started following him.

You followed him—never too far, never too close—always careful, watching him move through the streets with an air of confidence that seemed to thrive in the quiet of the night. For weeks, this had become a routine, one that started innocently enough. Just a few blocks at first, just enough to ensure that he was who you thought he was. But over time, the habit deepened. Each night, you followed him further, until it became something you couldn’t help but do.

Yet, despite your best efforts, he never made any stops, never took any detours. He just kept walking, heading toward some destination that only he knew. And every time you reached the point where you would turn around, you still didn’t have any answers—no clue what he was up to or where he was going. Just that he moved through the night like someone who belonged there. Unfazed, untouchable.

Then one night, the weather turned.

The rain hit hard, cold droplets splattering against your skin, soaking through your jacket in seconds. You’d stopped for a split second—just long enough to get the damn zipper up, to pull the hood over your head—but in that moment, he'd vanished.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you cursed under your breath, glancing quickly down the wet street, searching for the familiar outline of his tall frame. But there was nothing. No sign of him.

“What the hell?” you muttered to yourself, your voice drowned out by the downpour. You couldn’t let him slip away. Not now, not after all this time.

You started to jog, your boots splashing in the puddles as your eyes darted left and right, scanning the alleyways and storefronts. Your breath came faster as you pushed yourself harder, frustration building. You weren’t going to lose him now.

Then, suddenly, your body was jerked backward, your breath caught in your throat as a strong hand pressed over your mouth. The air around you was thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement and something darker, something more familiar.

Before you could even react, you were shoved hard against the cold brick of an alleyway wall, your back colliding with the rough surface, your head snapping back slightly from the impact. Your pulse spiked in your ears as panic started to claw at your chest, but the firm grip on your mouth held you silent, still.

For a second, everything went still. The rain beat against your jacket, heavy and relentless, but there was no sound, no movement—just the suffocating pressure of his hand over your mouth and the close proximity of his body.

You felt the heat radiating off him, the sheer strength of his presence as if the space between you was no longer your own. The tension in his arm, holding you against the wall, was undeniable. He was in control.

Your heart raced, but it wasn’t from fear. It was from the frustration, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the urge to finally break the silence between you. You had followed him, hunted him, and now here he was—this close. The tension was suffocating, and you couldn’t decide if you were going to scream or say something sharp.

But before you could gather your thoughts, his voice broke through the storm. Low, smooth, with an edge of something dark. “Thought you’d lost me, didn’t you?” His words came muffled through the mask, but the tone was unmistakable.

He didn’t seem in a rush, like he knew you were trapped in the moment. You didn’t even know how long he’d been standing there, or how he’d managed to close the distance between you so quickly. The rain drummed relentlessly on the alley’s pavement, but his eyes, those sharp, dark eyes, never wavered from you.

“Can’t say I’m impressed by your little game,” he murmured, fingers brushing against your cheek in a movement so deliberate it made your breath catch. “You follow me for weeks, but never thought of what might happen when you get too close.”

“Were you hoping to catch me doing something interesting?" he asked, his breath a warm tickle on your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. There was a calmness in his voice, like he was in complete command, and the way his body molded against yours told you he was used to people being in positions like this.

“I…” You swallowed, struggling to free your voice. “I wanted to see if you’d… notice me.” You hadn’t thought this far ahead. Why had you been following him? What had you hoped to find? You were just a silly girl who wanted the attention of a man who wanted nothing to do with you.

Simon’s laugh was low, almost quiet, but it carried a weight to it that you didn’t expect. It was rich with amusement, deep and rough, and it rumbled against the tension hanging between you both. The sudden sound caught you off guard, your breath catching in your throat as you tried to make sense of it.

For a moment, you were frozen, not sure whether to be annoyed or confused. Had you just made a fool of yourself in front of him? Why was he laughing?

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your nerves, but it didn’t work. His laughter still echoed in your head, and your voice came out shaky. "W-what’s so funny?"

He didn’t immediately answer. Instead, you could feel him shift slightly, his hand easing off your wrist but still close enough to make you aware of the power he held. Simon took a breath, the rain still pouring around you both, but his presence was like a shield, solid and immovable.

"You," he finally said, his voice quieter now, but the amusement was still there, like a shadow in his tone. "You think I didn’t notice you? You’ve been practically waving a flag." His fingers brushed lightly over your wrist, tracing the spot where he’d gripped you, his touch soft now, almost teasing.

"I wasn’t… I wasn’t obvious," you managed to protest, though it came out weaker than you’d like. You could feel your cheeks heating, your frustration mixing with something else you weren’t ready to admit.

"All this time, and you still think I didn’t know?" He shook his head, though you couldn't see his face behind that damn mask. “Sweetheart, you’ve been following me around like a lost puppy, and I was just waiting to see when you'd finally stop pretending.”

For a moment, you stood there, silence pressing in between you both, broken only by the sound of the rain pelting the alley around you. Simon’s words lingered, his laugh still echoing in your mind. You weren’t sure if you were frustrated or flustered or both, but you knew one thing for sure—he had misunderstood what you asked.

Finally, you spoke, your voice clear despite the uncertainty brewing inside you. “That’s not what I meant,” you muttered, taking a step back, shaking your head. You weren’t sure why, but you needed to ask, needed to get to the bottom of it. “Do you have a girlfriend?” you asked bluntly, your eyes never leaving his face.

Simon’s expression didn’t change much, his gaze still sharp but unbothered. “No,” he replied simply.

That answer made something inside you tighten, though you couldn’t quite pinpoint why. But you weren’t done. You shifted your weight, suddenly daring to ask the next question, the one you knew would make him uncomfortable. “Do you find me attractive?”

His eyes flickered for a split second, the usual guarded look breaking, but he nodded, his voice low. “Yes.”

The answer hung in the air like a challenge. Your heart was racing, your mind spinning, trying to connect the dots between what he said and what he did. “So why,” you demanded, “don’t you ever look at me? In the shop, I mean. Why don’t you notice me like the other guys do? They stare, flirt, and… well, pay attention.”

For the first time since you’d started this strange back-and-forth, Simon looked genuinely confused. He stepped back slightly, brows furrowing as he regarded you. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “I do pay attention.”

You blinked, taken aback by his response. “What do you mean?”

Simon’s gaze softened just a fraction as he tilted his head. “During lunch... I cut your deli the way you like it—slices thin enough you can stack ‘em. And when I’m working, I stay in your section. Always have.” He paused, his expression almost apologetic. “Flirting with my boss’s daughter at work isn’t exactly the best move. But…”

You stared at him, your mind trying to make sense of his words.

He stepped closer, his presence filling the space between you both, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “But work’s over now, lass. And here we are.”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, the real meaning of his words sinking in, and suddenly, the whole night felt like it had shifted, like the game you were playing had just changed.

You opened your mouth, about to say something—anything—to break the silence, to clarify what had just happened, but before you could speak, Simon moved with startling speed.

One moment, you were standing there, staring up at him, and the next, he had lifted you effortlessly into his arms. Your breath caught in your throat as his strong hands gripped you, pulling you flush against his chest, his heat seeping into your bones despite the chill of the rain.

“Your house or mine?”