fic dump.

masterlist & ao3. twenties. mostly on mobile. minors/terf dni. pfp: a. rackham. hdr: m. zichy.

[bisayawa]

can't talk rn, doing hot girl shit (suffering)

━━━━┅

٠ ࣪⭑ jan. twenties. filipino. aroace-spec. any pronouns. english is not my native language.

٠ ࣪⭑ masterlist & ao3.

٠ ࣪⭑ main: @gihigugma-tika

this blog contains sexual content. nsfw posts are not tagged. do not follow if you are under the age of eighteen. empty blog / no age in bio will be blocked.

[uchihafambam]

Visit Original Link

[NSFW! Listen with earphones.]

Kakashi + You/Your OTP   :^) 

Translations are in the “Read More.”

This was borrowed from an an R-18 otome drama cd called “Inma: Volume 3.” I don’t have any links to the cd but I think you might be able to find it via a Google search. In any case, enjoy~

This is a counterpart to the “Sasuke + You = Smex” audio which can be found here. 

Keep reading

[ichigf]

୨୧﹕fem!reader, sub itatchi :o

itachi kneels, because he wants to.

not because you told him to. not because you pushed him down with a hand in his hair. just—quietly, gracefully—he sinks to the floor between your legs like it’s the most natural place for him in the world. his dark lashes lower. his breath slows. his hands fold politely in his lap, though his cock strains painfully against the tight black of his pants, tip already wet through the fabric.

he doesn’t say a word.

not until you touch him.

your fingers brush through the curtain of his hair, and he exhales—soft, relieved, like a held breath let go after hours. then he lifts his eyes to yours, and god, they’re so fucking soft. that endless red glow, usually sharp as bloodied steel, now lowered and bare. he’s giving you everything in that look.

“you don’t have to kneel,” you murmur.

“i want to,” he says quietly. “i always want to, with you.”

your palm ghosts down his cheek. his breath hitches.

and then your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth—and he opens it. immediately. his lips part like a prayer, like he’s been waiting for it, aching for it. his tongue flicks out, tasting your skin, eyes fluttering shut as though the smallest touch from you is enough to unravel him.

“look at you,” you whisper.

he blushes. itachi, blushing—cheeks pink, breath shaky, lashes fluttering as he leans into your touch like he’s starving for it.

“i like when you look at me,” he murmurs, voice breathless. “i—it makes me feel…”

you tilt his chin up. “feel what?”

“safe.”

you stand and let your robe slip from your shoulders. his breath catches at the sight of your bare skin, and he lowers his gaze instinctively, like you’re something holy he isn’t supposed to see. his hands twitch again in his lap.

“may i…?” he asks softly. he doesn’t move without permission.

“touch.”

he raises his hands delicately—like he’s handling silk—and sets them on your hips, just the tips of his fingers at first. his thumbs brush over your skin, reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch. his eyes flicker up to yours again.

“i want to taste you.”

and when you nod, he doesn’t lunge or devour.

he worships.

his mouth is gentle at first, kisses slow and wet and open-mouthed, each one lower than the last, his lips trailing from your belly to your inner thighs. his breath is ragged by the time he reaches your cunt—already dripping for him—and when he finally kisses you there, his groan is filthy.

he licks like it’s sacred.

every flick of his tongue is focused, tender, precise. he doesn’t tease. he doesn't play. he wants you to feel good—needs it. his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, and he drinks from you like he’s grateful just to be allowed.

you moan his name, and he shudders.

“i—” he gasps, pulling back just enough to breathe, chin slick. “please tell me when you're close. i want to hear you say it.”

you do. he nearly whimpers.

and when you cum for him, shaking, your hand tangled in his hair—he keeps going, long after you’ve gone soft, until you’re gasping and tugging him gently away.

his lips are swollen. his eyes are glazed. he’s panting.

you cup his cheek, and he leans into your hand again.

“will you let me fuck you?” you ask.

and his whole body goes still—then he nods, trembling.

“yes,” he breathes. “please.”

and he says your name like it’s the only thing he’ll ever need.

[bisayawa]

grocery runs & taking out the trash

✎___ lin lie × fem!reader

✎___ a/n: domestic fluff, emotional hurt/comfort, not proofread, possible ooc lin because i don't read the comics & i don't play the game. i don't even know if the iron fist is supposed to be outside of k'un-lun. i just think he's hot as fuck in marvel rivals. 1,400~ words. enjoy ♡

"did you really have to drag me all the way out here for some stupid grocery run?"

he's been whining about it all morning, from the apartment to the walk, from the entrance to inside, from aisle one to thirty three. he was like a toddler. he could light up a whole city with all the consistent energy he had for complaining… but you had to give him credit. despite all the eye rolling and huffing, he helped. he'd write down something new into the grocery list if you forgot. he'd remember the brand name and colors as if it were just fresh from his memory. he even remembered the specific aisles an item was in, no matter how niche. with some backtracking, wincing of prices and a bit of fun, this grocery run could be the most successful one yet. this part of the adulting shit might actually be an easy one.

"uuughhh…”

you sigh out as you check the price of a can opener, looking over your shoulder to find lin hunched over the cart. his face looks like it's melting off his head, sad and droopy and with a pout to boot.

"if i didn't know any better," you start, "i'd say you look like you prefer the life-threatening monsters instead of boring old civilian life."

you compare and contrast the prices of two can openers again… hm. one is all metal and lasts longer… but one is partly plastic but very cheap. you look up when you don't hear a reply.

lin is still hunched over, mouthing out your words and miming a flapping effect with his right hand, a caricature of your chastising. you swat him in the arm.

"hey! ow,"

"we are going to be in here for 3 more hours if you keep doing that, lin."

he huffs in answer, driving the cart forwards in an effort to appease. his eyes lazily glide about the store and its fluorescent lights. he checks the shelves and he remembers that you're already in the boring seasoning aisle.

“we don't even have to replace these yet!!” he hollers.

“yeah!! but you broke the can opener yesterday.” you holler back, gesturing to the rack of kitchen tools near the side.

he gets petulant again, resting his hand on his palm as he prods the cart to follow you. you end up putting the metal can opener in. the package thuds against the metal bars of the cart.

you check the list again on your phone, and everything is struck out. eggs, meat, vegetables, fruit, broth, snacks, chips…

“lin? can you check the list again?” you bring the phone closer, and he leans in. “it's all in the cart… can you think of anything we missed?”

he takes a moment, a long moment, quiet in his stance and blinking at the list. alas, it is fruitless, only confirming that you had everything you needed. you and he push the cart together to the checkout station; and just like last week, you check out the items, he bags them.

it's a soft monotonous hum for a few minutes, the clinical beep of the machine, the sterile music from the ceiling speakers, the harsh bright white of the lights. maybe this is what lin complains about. it's enough to give you hives with too much exposure.

you reach for another item only to remember you've finished scanning them all. you blink a little to get your bearings before taking out your card, swiping it in and paying for everything. turning your head, you'd see lin putting the items in the bags and hauling them into his arms. for once, he's not complaining. maybe he just needs something to do, keep him moving. he, a martial artist. perhaps he just craves activity, movement, get his blood pumping and all that.

you take the receipt, and he puts it in the bag, falling into step with you as you leave the grocery store.

the walk back home is quiet. fridays through sundays are always hectic. what takes you an hour to do ends up taking three or four, and so you had decided to go grocery shopping on a tuesday.

“hey?”

“yeah, lin?”

“did you buy those chocolate eggs i like?”

“yep, i did.”

“and the fancy instant ramen? the imported one?”

“yeah… but only one pack though. the shelf was empty and it was the only one there.”

“... maaa, that's okay. we can share it when we want a late night snack that isn't pizza.”

“will you finally top it with mushrooms, like i said?”

“fuck no.”

you swat him but it's gentler this time. it's a laugh in the form of a strike. he reciprocates in his own way, ruffling your hair until the fringe is undone. you laugh, and he laughs, too.

but even through the laughter, you see a familiar face at the end of the sidewalk, and it's not a happy reunion. the man is gaunt, old, balding and surly with wrinkles striped about his face. he has a coat on with his hands in the pocket. the panic sets in quietly and you cling to lin by the arm, trying not to look too hard at the man. it was probably just a blurry doppelganger, yeah? you don't even have your glasses on.

“hey… you okay?”

“lin, “ you say, already half hoarse from emotion. “hold me closer,” is what comes to mind.

his hand goes around your waist but still, he is unsure, looking to you for confirmation, for clues, for a sign that you're okay.

“please,” you tack on. he isn't holding you close enough.

the man brushes past and it's like a boa constrictor relaxes at your throat. you still cling to lin as he looks over his shoulder, his line of sight following the man before connecting two and two together. he hastens the pace.

"hey, come on, look at me.”

he's sat you down on the sofa. the groceries are on the counter in the kitchen… the world comes into focus, bit by bit.

“there you are. there's my girl.” he's cradling your cheek in his palm, big and calloused and warm to the touch. “come on, tell me what happened. what was that?”

his opposite hand is holding yours, kneading your knuckles softly.

“tell me what's wrong… please?" he pleads. "you were shaking back there.”

“it was the… guy.”

“yeah… i know but… i know there's more to it than that.”

“he uh,“ you pick your head up infinitesimally and lin is staring at you with every shade of brown in his irises. there's a wrinkle above his forehead. the living room feels like it's breathing with him.

“i went out to find a midnight snack last week… at the convenience store.”

“you… by yourself-?! you…” lin is seething out the words but he knows it's not what you need right now. he lets it go.

“he saw me… he wanted my number. he grabbed- ”

lin slams a glowing hand on the coffee table, breaking it in half, and stomps to the front door, and all you can do is pull on his hand as hard as you can. his breathing is heavy. his shoulders are squared. his hands are balled.

the tears start before you can say anything. a deep voice in your heart tells you his anger is your fault.

there's a huff from lin, a beat passes and his relents, going back to the sofa and enveloping you in his arms. his hand cards through knotted hair. he sighs into the crook of your neck.

“he grabbed you…?” it doesn't sound like he wants an answer.

“on the arm… only there. i promise.”

the breath of relief has him feeling dizzy. he squeezes you to him like you're his lifesaver. he peppers kisses into your pulse. when his lips brush over your heartbeat, it reminds him that you're here, alive and well and safe.

“don't ever go to the fucking store in the middle of the night again. you hear me?”

the nod into his shoulder is small, but he accepts it nonetheless.

the groceries are still on the counter ― the tub of ice cream is probably melting. the coffee table is still broken, but the priority is you. it will always be you, and he tells you so, with kisses to your pulse, with words of love into your throat, with gentle sighs into your neck.

when he's sure you're asleep, he kisses your hair and jumps out through the window to start his mission of finding the man that did you wrong.

[bisayawa]

.

[jaesblogstuff]

Not again

That one awful time you got a UTI because you didn’t pee after and it ruined both you and Simon for days...and the future.

Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore.

It’s distant. Slow. Boneless and heavy and floating at the same time—like you’re made of liquid, spilled across the bed, soaking into the mattress where Simon left you.

Everything’s sensitive. Your thighs are trembling. The inside of you feels warm in a way that shouldn’t be possible—so full, so sore, still twitching from the way he held you down and ruined you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. it’s all Simon.

You might’ve fallen asleep. You’re not sure.

Then you hear him shift.

You don’t move.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble into the pillow.

He exhales slowly through his nose, amusement crackling under the surface of his voice.

“It’s been thirty.”

You groan, long and dramatic, and turn your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “You said you’d wait.”

“I did. And I have.” He leans in, mouth brushing behind your ear. “But you’ve got to get up now.”

“No, I don’t,” you mumble, lips barely moving.

“Yes,” he says, not unkindly. “You do.”

“Fuck off.”

“You need to pee.”

You sigh with a full-body shudder. The last thing you want is to move. Your thighs still twitch with every shift, every reminder of how hard he’d been in you—deep and rough and mean, the kind of mean only Simon can be when he knows you like it.

And now?

Now your brain’s caught somewhere between satisfaction and irritability.

You squirm an inch and hiss at the soreness. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I literally can’t feel my legs.”

He hums again. Not arguing. Not pushing. Just present.

And then you snap, just a little. Not angry, just done.

“God, why are you like this?” you bite. “You get off, and suddenly I’m a project.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, with that same frustrating calm “I get off because I wreck you, sweetheart. But I also remember what happens when you don’t move after.”

You're quiet.

“Yeah.”

You groan again. “Don’t bring it up.”

“I am bringing it up.”

He shifts beside you, moving the hair away from your damp cheek.

“You remember what happened last time.”

You do.

Unfortunately.

That time when you’d passed out immediately after sex—sore, blissed out, perfectly used—and slept the whole night through. Didn’t pee. Didn’t think to. And the next morning?

UTI. Full force.

Your insides were on fire. You couldn’t sit down without wincing. Couldn’t even have him look at you, let alone touch you.

You were grumpy. Snappy. Miserable.

He was worse.

Because not only were you suffering, but he couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t fuck you. Could barely cuddle you without getting a sharp “Don’t touch me, Simon.”

He was all but climbing the walls by day two. You'd heard him mutter “This is hell” when you snapped at him for putting the wrong tea in your mug.

And even then, he never said I told you so.

He just brought you cranberry juice and heated pads and ran you a bath and kissed your temple like he didn’t feel half-insane.

Now?

Now he’s not risking it.

“You were a nightmare,” he mutters, rubbing your lower back. “And I didn’t get to fuck you for a week.”

You roll onto your side to glare at him. “It was your fault too.”

“Exactly why I’m carrying you.”

You pout harder. “I’m not talking to you.”

“You’re literally talking to me right now.”

“Simon—”

He sits up and leans over, scooping you effortlessly into his arms. “I'm not doing this again.”

You huff, but you don’t fight. Your limbs flop against his chest like dead weight. You nuzzle into his collarbone, still grumbling.

“You’re annoying.”

“Mm.”

“Bossy.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I still can’t feel my legs.”

He chuckles and carries you across the room, his big palms smoothing over your bare skin as he holds you close.

Once in the bathroom, he sets you on the toilet like something precious.

And instead of stepping back or giving you space, he stays.

Right in front of you.

He’s standing tall, bare chest in your face, warm hands on your shoulders—guiding you gently forward until your cheek rests against his stomach.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter.

“And you’re soft,” he says. “All bark.”

You don’t respond.

Your body’s buzzing. Your thighs are still trembling. But when you finally relax enough to pee—

“Oh—oh my God—”

You jolt.

The pressure. The release.

Your muscles seize instantly, twitching with overstimulated nerves. It’s not just peeing. It’s like a second, slow-burning orgasm. Your body shakes with it, cunt fluttering around nothing, your legs twitching like Simon’s still inside you.

You gasp against him, trembling. It's not even about the release—it’s the aftershocks. The sudden emptiness as your muscles unclench. The way your cunt spasms around nothing as your body reacts to being let go.

Simon holds you tighter.

Your fingers grab fistfuls of his sweatpants.

His hands drop to your back.

“Easy, love. Just let it happen.”

Your knees buckle where they’re spread. You squeeze his sweatpants for balance, forehead still pressed to his stomach as you twitch through it—little pulses, flutters, everything still too much.

Your voice breaks. “Feels like—feels like I’m coming again.”

“I know.”

“Still—God, it’s still in my spine—”

You twitch again. His arms stay firm. He pets down your back, anchoring you, holding you upright as your body finishes unwinding in slow, shaking pulses.

And you do. You feel everything. His hands rubbing your back. The warmth of his chest under your cheek. The way he steadies your thighs when they jerk.

And when it’s over—when your breath evens out, and the spasm finally dies down, you just stay there. Arms weak. Legs numb. Whole body ruined.

Simon strokes your back.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “You did perfect.”

“I’m mad at you,” you mumble, voice muffled in his skin.

“You always say that.”

“You didn’t have to go so hard.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘don’t stop.’”

You groan. “I was lying.”

“You were begging.”

You slap his thigh half-heartedly. “I hate you.” He grins and helps you stand, supporting you like your knees might give out again—which they might, honestly.

You lean on him as he cleans you up, wipes you with practiced tenderness, and carries you back to bed without another word.

Once there, he slides one of his shirts over your head, tucks you under the blanket, and stretches out beside you with one arm around your waist.

Your face is buried in his chest. His heartbeat is slow, steady, solid.

[softaestluv]

Simon Riley is the type of gentleman who opens every door for you. There’s not a single door in your vicinity that you’re touching if he can control it.

The type of gentleman who doesn’t make you pay for a thing. Gas, rent, nails. Why would you have to pay for anything when you’re his?

The type of gentleman who takes items off the top shelf for you. Keeps your favorite snacks up there just so you can come ask him so sweetly if you can borrow his height for a second.

The type of gentleman who has a hair tie on his wrist at all times, even some of those bobby pins in his pocket because he knows how frustrated you get when your hair is in the way.

The type of gentleman who doesn’t make you lift a finger if he’s there. Refills your water for you, cooks dinner and knows your favorite meals, tells you just to sit there and be his pretty bird.

The type of gentleman who leaves your favorite movies and shows on, watches them diligently with you even if he doesn’t care about what housewife is who because you like it.

But, Simon Riley is also the type of gentleman who holds your hair into a ponytail as he fucks your mouth slow and deep. Keeping your hair clean from the sticky sopping mess he forms around your chin and lips.

The type of gentleman who holds your hips up with two strong hands when you’re so fucked out your knees slip out from under you. Holds you nice and arched so he can continue to fuck you with determined strokes.

The type of gentleman who stuffs his fingers in your mouth when you’re being too loud. Can’t have anyone else hear you now can we, doll?

The type of gentleman who coos so softly at you when you begin to cry and whine that you can’t take anymore. Kisses your tears away. He knows you can pretty bird, he’s just doing what’s best for you.

[spurbleu]

couldn’t tell you tbh. simon x reader. brat dynamics

it was an innocent prank. that’s all it was supposed to be anyway.

folded over your bed, listening to the familiar sound of fabric and metal clashing in simon’s hasty effort to get his cock free, an idea sprouts before you have time to cut it.

the joke is notched between your teeth, and you hide your smile in the sheets when you feel his hips crowd your ass. try your damndest to take his inches while relaxed, minimizing your flinches when he eventually bottoms out.

then, you croak, “is it in yet?”

a sadistic pause. you feel the air short circuit, frayed ends of electric wires making the hair on your back stand up. immediate regret when you feel a hand grab your jaw, turning your face to look over your shoulder.

his features are calm, but the look in his eyes reveals boiled frustration. your courage drops to your stomach, and runs out straight out your cunt when his nostril notches.

“don’t feel me? let me help you.”

and suddenly you’re on your back, knees by your head. there is no warning, only a cock that digs straight into the gummy walls of your cunt, tip knocking the consciousness from your cervix. lightening shoots up into your throat, forming a plea,

“f-fuck simon- deep.”

he grunts, an annoyed version of a laugh, before continuing to ruin your cunt with the insatiability and aggression of a man challenged.

“feel me now, sweet’eart? or do i need to go deeper?”

you spend the rest of the night as a sore loser, with a sorer cunt.

[maskedbyghost]

simon reciting his vows between your thighs. i had to write this, i'm not sorry guys. i mentioned it briefly here. enjoy! MDNI, SMUT

simon kneels between your thighs, his hands gripping your hips possessively. his eyes glimmer with mischief as he leans in, teasingly brushing his lips against your skin, igniting a fire within you.

“I kneel before you not just as your husband by arrangement, but as a man who can’t help but be mesmerized by everything you are,” he begins, his voice barely a whisper. his warm breath sends shivers racing along your body, heightening your desire as he places soft kisses along your inner thighs.

“I vow to cherish every moment we share, to honor the bond we’ve created, even if it started as part of a mission,” he continues, tracing his tongue over your skin, the sensation making your breath hitch in your throat. he glances up at you, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“I promise to be your shield, love, to guard you against any harm that might come your way, even if that means stepping into the line of fire—figuratively and literally,” he says, interrupting his speech with a teasing lick, his mouth just barely grazing your most sensitive spots.

“and I vow to always listen to your needs,” he adds, his tone playful. “even when you insist you want to sleep in separate rooms.” simon smirks, his lips brushing against your thighs as he leans in closer, teasing you with tantalizing kisses that leave you gasping for more.

“I’ll support your dreams, no matter how wild they may seem,” he murmurs, trailing soft kisses up your inner thigh. “whether it’s cooking that meal you love or taking on the world together, I’ll be right by your side.” his breath is hot against your skin, each word wrapped in a promise.

“and I vow to always make you laugh, to chase away your worries, and to be the man who brings a smile to your face at the end of every day,” he vows, his mouth moving closer, teasing you with his warmth as he licks a slow stripe down your thigh, drawing a soft gasp from your lips.

“and when the night falls, I’ll remind you that you’re not alone,” he whispers, his tongue flicking against your most sensitive spot, the sensation sending shockwaves through you. “I’ll hold you close because that’s where you belong—right here with me.”

his gaze locks onto yours, determination shining through. “you’re not just my wife by necessity; you’re my partner in every sense of the word. I may not have chosen this path willingly at first, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything now.”

with that, he leans in, his mouth capturing your most intimate parts, devouring you completely, his tongue working expertly to drive you wild with pleasure. every lick and kiss sends you spiraling deeper into ecstasy.

you lose yourself in the sensations, every teasing kiss and hungry lick pulling you closer to the edge, and as he continues to worship you, the world around you fades away. all that matters is simon, his devotion to you, and the bliss he brings.

--------------------------------------------

s(creaming)

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving

[maskedbyghost]

arranged marriage with simon. yes i am talking about this again.

simon doesn’t talk much about the marriage at first, but his actions say it all. he insists on carrying your bags, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, and making sure you eat enough during missions. you don't ask him why, but it's clear he's claiming the role of protector, even if this was supposed to be temporary.

he won’t admit it, but simon begins to get used to the little domestic routines. you cooking dinner, him taking care of repairs around the house. it feels too natural, and although he never says anything, he’s already mentally putting the two of you into that “forever” category.

the first time you mention needing space or wanting to stay in a separate room, simon just gives you a look. "what do you mean, separate? we’re married." he’s not joking either. to him, this isn’t a temporary arrangement anymore. if you try to argue, he’ll just pull you close and mutter in your ear, "ring’s on your finger. means you’re mine." and that’s the end of the conversation.

he starts doing small things for you that a husband would—restocking your favorite snacks, making sure your gun is cleaned before missions, and slipping extra blankets on your side of the bed when it’s cold.

after some time, he’s not shy about touching you anymore—brushing a hand against your arm, holding you a little too close when you’re out in public. the more time passes, the more his touches become possessive, like he’s reminding you who you belong to now.

simon is up early, always. you’ll wake up to the smell of coffee, and he’ll have a cup ready for you without asking. if you take your time getting out of bed, he’ll mutter, "c’mon, mrs. riley. don’t make me drag you out." but there’s always a smile on his face.

when you share a bed, simon always pulls you into him at night. no matter how much space you take up at first, by morning, you’re wrapped up in his arms. if you stir in your sleep or seem restless, he’ll murmur, "got you, lovie," without fully waking up, his grip tightening as if to remind you he’s there, keeping you safe.

simon doesn’t open up easily, but after a particularly intense moment, he’ll lean in close, his forehead resting against yours, and he’ll whisper, "don’t care if it was for a mission or not. you’re the only one for me now." it’s not a grand declaration, but the sincerity in his voice makes your heart race.

simon will leave subtle marks of possession on you—his dog tags hanging around your neck, his scent clinging to your clothes, and his bite marks on your skin after an especially heated night. "need everyone to know who you belong to," he’ll growl against your skin, his lips trailing kisses down your neck.

he also has an odd obsession with your wedding ring. he’ll turn it on your finger, kissing it softly whenever you’re close. if you ever take it off for some reason, his brow furrows, and he’ll slip it back on. "keep it on, yeah?" his voice is low, almost pleading. "means something to me."

after a particularly dangerous mission where you were almost hurt, simon corners you in the hallway, eyes filled with emotion. "you’re not leaving me," he growls, pinning you against the wall. "ever. understand?" it’s a statement, a vow, and in that moment, you know you’re his forever, and he’s yours.

when you’re lying in bed together, his arms wrapped around you, simon will sometimes whisper, "mine," into your hair. it’s soft, almost inaudible, but you feel it in your bones. he needs the reminder just as much as you do—that you’re his, and he’s never letting you go.

[maskedbyghost]

i keep thinking about an arranged marriage with simon. maybe it’s for a mission or something that benefits both of you, and neither of you is making a big deal out of it. once you get what you need, you'll get a divorce, no strings attached. but as soon as simon signs those papers, he’s already thinking about baby names, and the house he’ll build for you both to grow old in. and what do you mean, lovie, you want separate rooms? don’t you see the ring on your finger? turn around so he can be a big spoon. a man’s flirting with you? wait in the car, he just needs a quick word with him. don’t worry about his bloodied knuckles once he gets back. of course, it’s all for professional reasons, but he still calls you his wife, missus, even behind closed doors. you made dinner just because you felt like cooking? what a good wife you are. now spread your legs on the table, he’s craving something sweet now, he just wants to thank his wifey properly. and when the mission’s over and you finally get the green light to divorce, you feel a wave of relief when he lights the papers on fire right in front of you. he’s won, but you don’t care anymore, you've never felt this kind of bliss, not until you were with him. you’re back in your shared room, and he’s reciting his vows between your thighs, exactly where he belongs, like a real husband should.

----------------------------------------------------

i want him. that's it.

[maskedbyghost]

you were being a brat, but Simon knew just how to handle you. smut, mdni, +18

You’re sprawled out on your bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at Simon. He stands by the door, arms folded, completely unmoved by your ranting.

You don’t even remember what set you off—something about him ignoring you earlier, or maybe it was the way he refused to admit you were right about something dumb. Either way, you’re heated, and he’s standing there like a statue, letting you run your mouth.

"Are you even listening to me?" you snap, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Simon tilts his head, unimpressed. "Mmhmm."

That pisses you off even more. "You’re such an ass—"

He moves before you can finish, climbing onto the bed like he’s got all the time in the world. His weight sinks into the mattress, and before you can scoot away, his hands are on your thighs, pushing them apart. You stiffen.

"Simon, I’m talking to you."

He doesn’t answer. He just hooks his fingers into your panties, drags them down your legs, and tosses them somewhere behind him. His gloved hands press against your thighs again, keeping them wide open. Then he looks at you—really looks at you—for the first time since you started mouthing off.

"I’m done talking to you," he murmurs, lowering himself between your legs. "Wanna talk to this sweet little cunt instead."

Your brain stutters. "Simon—"

He doesn’t wait for permission; he doesn’t give you the chance to keep arguing. His tongue is on you, slow, licking through your folds like he’s savoring every second. A gasp escapes you before you can bite it back, but that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is when he starts talking.

"Look at you," he mutters against your skin, his voice muffled, lips brushing over your clit. "Acting all tough, mouthing off, but you’re drippin’ for me."

Your face burns. "Shut up—"

"Not talkin’ to you, love." His grip tightens on your thighs as he moves lower, pressing a kiss right against your entrance. "M’ talkin’ to her."

You swear you’ll kill him. If you could think straight, if your legs weren’t shaking already, if he wasn’t so fucking good at this—

"She’s so much sweeter than you," he continues, dragging his tongue up your slit. "Doesn’t fight me like you do. She likes me, don’t you, sweetheart?" Another kiss, another slow, teasing lick that has your toes curling. "Bet she’ll be real good for me, won’t she? So soft, so warm—can tell she likes the attention. Not like you, all mouth and attitude. She’s good for me. She listens."

You make a frustrated noise, but it dissolves into a whimper when he flicks his tongue against your clit again.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought." His breath is hot against you as he presses another kiss to your entrance, hands firm on your thighs to keep you still. "Y’spent all that time complainin’, but she was down here waitin’ for me. She knew better, didn’t she? Bet she’s been achin’ for me this whole time."

You hate how much it gets to you, how much his words make the heat in your belly coil tighter. But he’s not done.

"Poor thing," he murmurs, his tongue teasing your entrance. "Must be lonely, yeah? Bein’ attached to such a brat? No wonder she’s so needy." His voice is full of mock sympathy, lips brushing against you between every word. "Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. Y’don’t have to be a pain in the ass like she is. You just have to be good for me."

You’re shaking now, fingers twisted in the sheets, your breath uneven as he keeps talking, keeps licking at you like he has all the time in the world.

"Bet you’ll let me do whatever I want to you, won’t you? Unlike her—she’s always runnin’ her mouth, always fightin’ me. But you’re soft, aren’t you? You just wanna be taken care of."

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out his words, but the way he talks, the way he mouths at you between sentences, has your stomach twisting with need. You’re embarrassingly close, your body arching into him despite your frustration.

And then, just as you’re teetering on the edge, just as your body starts to tense, Simon pulls away.

"But bad girls don’t get to cum."

He sits back like he’s got all the time in the world, like he isn’t leaving you a mess between his hands. You can see the smirk in his eyes. Smug bastard.

Oh, fuck that.

You don’t even think—you move. You push him back, grab him by the collar and flip him onto the mattress before he can react. His back hits the bed, and for once, he doesn’t resist. He just watches, chest rising and falling beneath his shirt, as you swing a leg over him and settle right where he belongs.

You grip his wrists, pinning them down, and glare at him through your haze of frustration and arousal. "Finish what you started."

Simon huffs a laugh, his fingers flexing beneath yours. "Bossy little thing."

You grind down against his mouth. "Now."

And for once, Simon doesn’t argue.

But he doesn’t let you have it easy, either.

The second you settle over him, his hands move, big and rough as they grab onto your hips. He drags you forward, forcing you to grind against his mouth, and fuck—

The first swipe of his tongue makes your back arch, makes your hands clench around his wrists as you try to keep some kind of control. But he’s got none of your patience, none of your hesitation—he devours you like he’s been waiting for this, tongue flicking against your clit, sucking, then dragging down to fuck into you.

It’s overwhelming. Too much, too fast, and you try to lift your hips, to slow down, but Simon just growls, tightening his grip, forcing you to take every bit of his attention. He’s relentless, murmuring filth against your skin, still talking to you, but not to you.

"Knew you’d be sweet like this," he mutters, tongue flicking against your clit again, making you jolt. "Just needed to get you to shut up first."

Your nails dig into his wrists, but you’re trembling now, moans spilling out no matter how much you try to bite them back. You feel him smirk beneath you, feel the pleased rumble in his chest when you roll your hips against his mouth.

"That’s it," he praises, voice rough. "Finally got you listenin’. ‘Bout time you learned your place."

You can’t even find it in you to be mad. You’re too close, too wound up from the teasing, from the way he’s got you writhing on his tongue. You try to grind down harder, to get yourself there, but Simon pulls back, just enough to leave you gasping.

"Gonna cum for me, sweetheart?" he murmurs, lips brushing against your thigh. "Y’gonna beg for it?"

You don’t want to. You really don’t. But you need it. "Please," you breathe, barely above a whisper.

Simon hums, pretending to consider, then licks into you again, groaning when your hips jolt. "That’s my girl."

And when he finally lets you have it, when he sucks your clit into his mouth and fucks you with his tongue until you break apart, he doesn’t stop until he’s sure you feel every last second of it.

----------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah

[maskedbyghost]

You always find Simon in the same spot—sitting on his couch with a mug of tea in one hand, the TV on but the volume low, like he’s watching it just for background noise. He barely moves when you come in, just shifts his head a little like he was expecting you, even though you never text to say you're coming.

“And then she rolled her eyes at me,” you say as you drop down next to him, letting out an annoyed sigh. “Like I was the one being unreasonable for asking her to hold the door.”

Simon doesn’t react right away, which isn’t unusual. He lets a second or two pass, like he’s thinking it through, even though he probably made up his mind as soon as he heard your tone. Finally, he hums quietly and says, “She’s not worth your breath,” while reaching over to pat the top of your head in that way he always does.

You don’t even bother hiding how much you like that. You lean into his hand just a little, and for a moment you let the annoyance melt off your face.

It’s always like this between you and Simon. You walk in, already mid-rant about something that annoyed you during training or some dumb argument someone had in the mess, and he just listens. Or, well—he sits there while you go off, mostly quiet, only chiming in with a few words here and there.

But he always makes it clear he’s paying attention. The way his eyes shift to look at you when your voice tightens. The way he’ll hand you a blanket or a snack before you even ask. The way he remembers the tiny details you forget you even told him.

You joke sometimes that you adopted him. That you took in this emotionally unavailable soldier who barely likes people and decided that he’s your best friend now, whether he wanted that or not. He never complains. He never tells you to leave. Even when you steal his cookies or fall asleep on his couch, he just lets you stay.

He’s quiet, sure, but he’s also dependable in a way that makes everything feel easier when you’re around him. You can talk to him for hours and he won’t interrupt, won’t judge, won’t try to fix it unless it’s something he can fix. And when it is, he usually does—without making a big deal out of it.

So when you started seeing that guy from base, Simon didn’t say anything. You thought maybe he just didn’t care, or that he wasn’t the type to get involved in stuff like that. He didn’t ask many questions. Just nodded and said, “He treatin’ you right?” in that low voice of his that didn’t give much away.

You smiled and said yes, because at the time, it felt like the right answer.

He stayed the same after that. Still your go-to person for venting. Still the only one who ever made you feel like you could talk without holding back.

But every now and then, you noticed something shift. He wouldn’t look at you as much when you brought up your boyfriend. He’d change the subject quicker. And when you said something like, “he forgot our plans again,” Simon would just sigh and hand you tea or cookies or whatever he had nearby, like he didn’t want to say what was really on his mind.

You remember one night clearly, when you showed up outside Simon’s door after a long shift. You were quiet, which was rare, and you didn’t even try to hide the frustration in your eyes.

“He forgot again,” you mumbled, pulling your knees up onto the couch. “Said he’d pick me up, and then just... nothing. Not even a text.”

Simon didn’t say much in response. He just handed you the remote and tapped your shoulder once, like that was his way of saying you deserved better without actually having to say the words out loud.

But the breaking point came later. One night, you showed up to his room without even thinking, your eyes red and puffy, your hands trembling a little as you wiped at your face. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to. He just stepped aside and let you walk in, like he’d been expecting you again, like he knew this was coming.

“He cheated,” you said, and the words felt so bitter and small in your mouth that you almost didn’t believe them yourself.

Simon pulled you into a hug before you could even finish the sentence. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to offer advice or tell you what you should’ve done. He just held you, solid and quiet, with one hand pressed between your shoulder blades and the other smoothing over your hair. You didn’t realize you were crying until your face was already buried in his shirt.

At some point, he moved you to his bed. You weren’t even sure how, but you ended up under his blanket, wrapped in warmth that didn’t come from the sheets, and you felt safer than you had in weeks. His voice was low when he whispered, “Don’t worry about it,” like he was promising to carry the weight of it for you.

You didn’t know it then, but he didn’t sleep that night. He stayed up until you were out cold, then got up quietly, left his room, and came back a few hours later like nothing happened. What you also didn’t know—what he would never admit unless you asked him directly—was that he had counted every single tear that rolled down your face. Every shaky breath, every time your chest stuttered with a sob. He remembered the number. Kept it in his head. Then found your ex and hit him that many times. One punch for every tear you cried.

A few days passed, and word started going around base that your ex hadn’t been seen. Missed duty. No one could get ahold of him. You didn’t ask Simon anything. You just looked at him across the mess hall, saw the way he was nursing a cup of tea with a blank expression and fresh tape wrapped around his hand, and something in your chest clicked into place.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, and he looked back, and that was enough.

Later, after things calmed down, you found yourself back in his room. Same spot on the couch. Same blanket. Same you and Simon. But this time, out of nowhere, he said, “I’m in love with you.”

It wasn’t dramatic or emotional. He said it like it was just a fact—like he was finally telling the truth after hiding it for too long.

You blinked at him, not even sure you heard him right. “What?”

He shrugged a little, like it didn’t matter if you believed him or not. “Figured you should know.”

You didn’t know what to say right then. There was too much in your head. But a few days later, he took you somewhere quiet, away from base, with a folded blanket under his arm and your favorite cookies packed in a tin. He made tea and handed you the mug like he always did, and when you sipped it, it was just the way you liked it—strong, with that little bit of honey he adds even when you don’t ask.

You sat next to him, legs stretched out on the grass, shoulder pressed against his. After a while, you turned to look at him and said, “You’ve been looking at me like that for a long time, haven’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Like what?”

“Like I’m your whole world.”

Simon didn’t answer right away, but the look on his face said more than words ever could. Then he reached over, patted your head like he always did, and said, “Yeah. That’s about right.”

--------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212

[maskedbyghost]

ghost with a reader who’s really anxious/overthinker during sex 😩😩🥺

i got another request asking for a virgin!reader with some nervous energy but a lot of enthusiasm, so i just combined them and made it soft and clingy and a little bit feral. thank you to the anons who sent those, y’all own my brain. cw: smut, anxiety and overthinking, soft dom simon, lots of reassurance and praise, possessive but gentle vibes, aftercare, clinginess, mentions of crying (but like overwhelmed/happy crying).

you’re already hiding your face in your hands when he leans over you again, big and warm and heavy in the way that feels reassuring instead of overwhelming, and even though you’ve already said “wait” a few times and squirmed away more than once, he hasn’t gotten frustrated or pulled back.

he’s just watching you now, calm as ever, mouth pulled into a faint smile like he finds you endearing instead of difficult, and that only makes you feel more self-conscious.

“we can stop,” he says plainly, and somehow it doesn’t sound like he’s disappointed. “we don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. i’d rather you be comfortable than push through something that doesn’t feel right.”

you groan and keep your face covered. “it’s not that,” you mutter. “i do want to. i just… i don’t know what i’m doing. i’m nervous. and overthinking everything. and probably being really weird right now.”

he kisses your wrist, then gently tugs your hands away from your face. “you’re not weird,” he says, looking down at you with the kind of patience that makes your chest ache a little. “you’re nervous. and that’s fine. it doesn’t scare me off, alright?”

you nod, even though your cheeks are burning and your whole body feels tense and unsure.

he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek, then to the corner of your mouth, and then lower, to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—slowly, not rushed, nor pushing for more.

“you don’t need to have it all figured out. you don’t need to impress me,” he says. “just be here. with me.”

he says it so simply, so easily, and you believe him, even if your body still feels stiff and your mind won’t stop racing. you want this, you want him, but the anxiety is crawling all over your skin and your heart’s pounding so loud it’s hard to stay in the moment.

he settles between your legs again, not moving too fast, one of his hands resting over your stomach like he knows you need the weight there, something to ground you and warm to hold you still.

“just breathe,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you. we’ll take it slow. nothing has to happen all at once.”

you feel tears sting your eyes, not because anything’s wrong, but because he’s being so good to you. so calm, so kind, and it makes everything a little easier to manage.

when he starts to push in, it’s barely anything, just the tip, and your fingers immediately grip his shoulders and your whole body goes tense, not from pain but from how big it feels and how intense it suddenly is.

he doesn’t move. just kisses your temple and waits, his breathing shaky but controlled.

“you’re alright. you’re doing so well,” he says, brushing your hair back from your face. “just tell me what you need, and i’ll give it to you. we’re not in a rush.”

you nod, and he murmurs, “that’s my girl,” in a way that makes your heart clench and your body relax just a little more.

when you whisper, “okay,” he starts to move again, gently easing in until he’s fully buried inside you, and even though it’s a lot, it doesn’t feel too much—not with the way he’s looking at you, not with the way he’s holding you.

“you feel so good around me,” he says, his voice thick with restraint. “you’re doing so fucking good, sweetheart. i know it’s a lot. you’re taking me so well.”

you let out a whimper, both from the stretch and the weight of it all, and his hands are everywhere—holding your hips, stroking your sides, curling around your thigh like he doesn’t want to let go.

he stays slow, keeps his movements careful, and he doesn’t stop talking, just keeps giving you little things to focus on.

“you’re not too much,” he murmurs when you try to hide your face again. “you’re not doing anything wrong. you don’t need to worry about how you look or sound. i want you just like this.”

you try to believe him. and it gets easier when you stop thinking and just feel—his body against yours, his hands gripping tight, his mouth at your neck, the little praises he keeps whispering in between shaky breaths.

when he reaches between you, his fingers find your clit, and you jerk a little in surprise, but he doesn’t stop—just keeps rubbing you gently, patiently, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters to him.

“there you go,” he says. “that’s it. let me help you.”

and somehow, despite how nervous you were, despite how unsure everything felt just moments ago, you’re already on the edge before you even realize it, gasping into his shoulder as your body starts to tremble.

“you gonna come for me?” he says, and his voice is rough now, but still so sweet. “yeah? let go, baby. i’ve got you. you’re safe.”

and you do—you come with a shudder, gripping him tight, burying your face in his neck as your whole body goes hot and soft and overwhelmed in the best way, and he holds you through it, breathing hard and kissing the side of your head, whispering, “that’s my girl, fuck, that’s it, you did so good.”

he doesn’t last long after that, not with how tightly you’re wrapped around him and how much he’s clearly been holding back, and when he finishes, it’s with a low groan and a few rough thrusts, then stillness as he stays inside you and clutches you like he never wants to let go.

you’re both quiet for a moment, your limbs tangled, your skin flushed, and you’re not thinking anymore—you’re just tired and happy and full and feeling safe in his arms.

he kisses your shoulder and pulls you closer.

“you don’t have to be brave with me,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “you just have to be mine. i’ll take care of the rest.”

he doesn’t pull out right away. he just stays there, breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling against yours like he’s trying to memorize your body's rhythm.

you’re still a little dazed, arms limp around his shoulders, and your thighs are trembling but you don’t want him to move either, not when you feel so full and warm and safe like this, not when he’s still murmuring little things against your neck like, “you did so good,” and “you were made for me.”

and then, eventually, he does move, carefully easing out of you, and he makes this low, strained sound like it physically pains him to separate from you.

“fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, dragging his hand down his face like he’s trying to stay composed, but his brain’s still short-circuited. “you—fuckin’ hell, you just…”

he glances at you, cheeks flushed, eyes dark, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to say something too intense.

“you alright?”

you nod, still catching your breath. “tired. but yeah.”

and then he’s back on you in a second, cupping your face, brushing sweaty hair off your forehead, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw, like he needs to check every part of you to make sure you’re okay.

“good,” he breathes. “that’s good. ‘cause you were perfect. you don’t even know—”

he cuts himself off with a laugh that sounds a little overwhelmed, like he’s trying to play it cool and failing.

“what?” you ask, half asleep and smiling now, because he’s acting like you just knocked him flat.

“you don’t get it,” he says, dragging the sheet over your bodies as he settles beside you, still so close his thigh is hooked over yours. “i’ve been picturing this—wanting this—for so long, and now that i’ve had you, now that i’ve seen how good you look like that…”

he kisses you again, this time slower, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself back down. “you’re in trouble, sweetheart.”

you snort. “me?”

he nods seriously, brushing your lip with his thumb. “yeah. you. ‘cause now i’m not gonna let you go. ever.”

you laugh, but your stomach flips a little, because the way he says it isn’t a joke—he means it.

he means mine in a way that’s not just possessive, but protective, like he’s decided you’re the most important thing in the world and he’s not letting the universe take you from him.

he’s back to touching you again, tracing patterns over your shoulder, your waist, your hip—hands never still, like he can’t help himself.

“you’re sore?” he asks after a few minutes, voice quieter now.

“a little.”

he hums and shifts. “stay here,” he says. “don’t move.”

you close your eyes, already half-asleep, but he’s back fast—warm towel, glass of water, his shirt that he slides over your arms even though it’s way too big on you.

“you didn’t have to do all that,” you mumble, but he just shushes you and kisses your forehead.

“yes i did.”

you end up curled in his chest, limbs tangled, your face tucked into his neck while he rubs your back in lazy circles. he’s not even pretending to sleep—he’s just staring at you with this dumb little proud look like he just won the lottery and doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“you’re mine now,” he says again, softer this time, like a promise more than a claim.

“i always was,” you whisper.

and the way he holds you tighter after that, you feel it in your bones.

----------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs

[bisayawa]

guys please put your age in bio

[bisayawa]

no age / empty blog gets blocked btw !!

[bisayawa]

iron fist brainrot is so scary 😔 wdym im thinking abt him all day