Cackling.Caracal

Mods for Stardew, sometimes I AO3, I do art. I dunno I’m a cat in my 30s doing my best

[teethdoodlez]

He’s finished! Finally! ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

So sorry to keep you guys waiting I just love the suspense. Made him extra beefy just for you guys! Enjoyyyy!⚞^. .^⚟

[teethdoodlez]

also i do really enjoy everyone’s replies to my art 😁 you guys are feral! I love it though!

[carnally-mauls]

I need to bite those teddies and shake them like a dog.

[ilylovelyz]

simon who fucks his girl toooo good that she ends up biting his hand so nastily and hard that it leaves a deep, bleeding bite mark that he doesnt notice till the morning after

he shrugs it off, a little proud at how strong his lady is. that bite mark that quickly heals, but remains forever scarring his hand. it turns into the only scar he wants to look at. the only scar that makes his chest puff up with confidence when he sees it. a physical reminder of you permanently etched into his skin, that cannot go away even if he prayed it would.

when he's laying in dirt, in some foxhole in the cold and nothing but darkness surrounding him and the twinkling stars above, he'll not be found reading a love letter or gazing at a photograph of you, but instead he will be seen mysteriously concerned with his hand. reminiscing and missing his lovie

[silverlullabies]

Loser!Konig who cums before you even finished taking your pants off. Decided to give him a little taste of your cunt before he deploys off to god knows where, a blessing to him really, virginal man. Sees a sliver of skin, soft thighs underneath lacy panties and feels his balls tighten up. Groans behind his mask as he fills his pants with a sticky flood, cock pulsating behind the confines of a zipper biting into his sensitive flesh.

Your pants hit your ankle and you look up, see the dark bloom at his crotch and smack your teeth. “Seriously?”

What a loser, indeed.

[kooolgirl]

a surge of drunk confidence

pairing: neighbor!simon “ghost” riley x neighbor!reader

summary: you have a sleepover with your neighbor after a drunk night out at the club

part 2!

part 1, had to pretend to be a little interested

part 3, burn from the cursed mixture

part 4, this must be what heaven feels like

masterlist!

a/n: part 2! i hope ya’ll enjoy it!! requests are open in my ask box!!!

riley came running to greet you as soon as he heard the lighter footsteps that differed from his owner’s heavy ones. his tail happily wagging, the great dane rolling onto his back as you scratched across his stomach, “aww, does this feel good, riley?” you cooed, “does it? does it feel good for such a good boy?”

this causes a rushed cough from ghost, your neighbor’s eyes widening under his balaclava, “m’ gonna’ grab ya some water and medicine,” he excuses himself, quickly exiting to his kitchen.

seeing his large frame leave your view, you turn your attention back on riley, resuming your heavenly scratches. “what do you think that was all about, riley?” a drunken giggle.

the brute returns a few seconds later, his dog whining at your loss of touch. “just a second, riley! ghost is trying to help me out,” you sweetly tell the dog, giving his head a final rub.

you take both of the painkillers your neighbor retrieved for you, head lolling back with a gulp of water. “thank you,” you start, taking another big gulp from the glass, “for everything. not just for everything tonight, but for everything you have ever done for me. i really appreciate you ghost. no one’s done a quarter of the things you have.”

the alcohol you consumed caused you to ramble, a surge of drunk confidence leading to a speech of your gratitude towards your neighbor departing from your lips, the drunk confidence also allowing you to stand on your tip toes next, encircling your tiny arms around his neck. you felt his muscular arms respond, wrapping around your torso, standing up to lift you from the ground. you brought your legs around ghost’s toned waist, looking like a koala attached to the man. “you’re always so gentle with me, always calling me such sweet names,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper next to the man’s ear underneath his balaclava.

“i’m so lucky to have met such a good boy like you, ghost,” you finished, beginning to kiss your neighbor’s cheek through the skull designed-fabric.

the large brit was frozen in place, unsure of what to say or do. he had his beautiful neighbor sat securely in his arms, feeling your kisses that made him want to melt. you were even calling him a “good boy”, ghost realizing you must’ve noticed his reaction to hearing you say it earlier, even if it was to his pet.

your neighbor felt his dick hardening at your affection, the pants he was wearing slowly tightening in the crotch area, “don’t be all shy, ghost! i can feel you enjoying it too,” you sexily tell him, beginning to grind your hips in his hold now.

your short dress had ridden up your thick thighs when your neighbor lifted you, giving your clothed pussy better access to his clothed groin, occasional moans leaving you when your clit brushed just right against him.

“feels so good, ghost-” your sounds silenced at the feeling of the large man pulling away from you, hands moving to either side of your hips to stop your grinding. “i-is something wrong, sir?” you worriedly ask, a small frown appearing on your face. had your intuition been wrong? were you doing something wrong? was it feeling good for him too? does he even like you? all running through your brain.

“oh sweetheart,” he barely gets out, the breath of air he forgot he was holding in releasing. “ya feel so, so amazin’,” he’s looking into your eyes, brushing hair behind your ear, giant hand swallowing your face, “been cravin’ ya for so long.” he moves to kiss your cheek through his balaclava now, forehead resting on yours afterwards, “but m’ have to stop ya, stop us. yer too drunk to consent right now, luvie’.”

a whine leaves you, your neighbor having to stop your moving hips that started up again, “b-but, sir! please! i know what i want, a-and i know i want you,” you tried pleading, your drunken slur still present in your tone, “i’ve been craving you too, ghost!”

the man pulls you back into his chest, beginning to walk up the stairs towards his bedroom, his large dog hot on his tail, paws tapping against the hardwood floor. he lightly rested a hand on your ass for support, using his other to comfortingly rub soothing circles across your spine, “m’ sweet, fawn,” he coos.

he brought you inside his room, riley running past him, over to his bed in the corner. ghost sat you on the foot of his bed, kissing your forehead before turning away from you.

you sat patiently, eyes curiously scanning your surroundings, taking in your neighbor’s room. his walls were plain, the lack of decoration making the room appear smaller than it was. looking over on his nightstand, smiling at the only picture you’ve seen in the entire house, one of ghost and riley on the beach. your neighbor had his arm around his dog, riley’s large tongue hanging out his mouth. “tha’ was a fun day for both of us,” you heard ghost say, re-entering the room.

“you both look so happy in it,” you smiled at him, seeing the brute holding some articles of clothing in his hands. “m’ got ya some clothes to change into,” he gives them to you, “should feel more comfortable.”

a beat. “do you think you could help me change into them?”

“m’ not so sure tha’s’ a good idea, sweets-” “b-but, ghost!” you interrupt him, “i don’t wanna get stuck in my dress,” you pouted, little arms crossing over your chest. your neighbor was gonna have to do something to straighten you out, your bratty stubbornness fully showing tonight.

after a short staring contest between the two friendly neighbors, the man obliged, helping you stand up. his large fingertips were barely able to grasp the tiny zipper on the back of your dress, sliding it off your body after he unzipped it.

keeping his eye contact on yours, he slid his shirt over your head, the fabric drowning your stature. ghost was so fucking huge, i mean the hem of his shirt reached passed your knees!

you stopped him from sliding a pair of his shorts over your legs, “your shirt is enough! feels like a big night gown,” twirling to show him, more giggling leaving you.

“alrigh’, fawn, need ya to lay down for m’,” he tells you, pleased at your immediate reaction to obey him. he began undressing himself, choosing to wear his balaclava while sleeping. he just wasn’t ready yet.

he pulled you into his arms when he got settled into bed, your head laying against his bare chest, listening to the sounds of his heartbeat. your neighbor reached a hand to the table side lamp, switching it off, leaving you both in complete darkness.

you felt him kiss your forehead again, the alcohol making your eyelids feel heavier and heavier by the second, slowly drifting you off to sleep. “don’ ya worry yer pretty head, fawn. m’ gonna’ be all yers in no time.”

[pussysoupforthesoul-deactivated]

Squidward clocking out of the Krusty Krab and heading to the nearest gay after hours event 

[bpdcassidy-archived-deactivated]

Come on, now, op. We all know squidward doesn’t go to the club.

He’s one of those “I’m not like other gays” gays who goes home to a bottle of wine and his obscure 50s vaudeville records, and then mopes because he can never find a boyfriend.

[calamaricarlo]

I love this website so much

[cinnamonghost]

[07x1x4x1]

Thanks to the heatwave and winning at hydration, I have to pee so many times it's starting to piss me off (heh) 😤

— cw: 18+ mdni; mutual piss kink; cnc; smut; fem!Reader

"Johnny—Johnny! S-stop, I have to—I need to pee, I'm serious!"

"Aye, I know."

He doesn't stop. If anything, his hips snap harder; one hand pressing flat against your lower belly where your bladder is full and aching, and the added pressure makes your eyes roll back and a broken whine tear out of your throat.

"Fuck, I can feel it!"

"Then stop!"

"Nah." He grins against the side of your neck, breathless and wrecked and absolutely feral, his cock driving into you at an angle that hits everything, including the spot that's making the pressure in your abdomen unbearable. "Y'feel too fuckin' good like this, hen. All tight an' squirmy—fuck—ye're squeezin' me so hard."

"Because I have to pee, you absolute—"

"Then pee." He says it like it's simple while his hand presses down a fraction harder on your belly and his mouth finds your ear, hot and panting. "Go on, baby. Piss on me. Let go. 'S just me."

You whimper, eyes squeezing shut. "I can't!"

"Ye can." Another devastating thrust that makes your vision blur and your thighs shake and the pressure crest to a point where you can't tell the difference between needing to come and needing to piss.

"Let go f'me. Wanna feel it. C'mon."

You break.

It happens simultaneously. The climax and your bladder letting go, and the sound that comes out of you isn't human, it's guttural and sobbing and mortified while you're gushing around his cock, hot and messy, soaking into the sheets and his thighs and everything between.

It's squirts up to your bodies while Johnny keeps pounding into you relentlessly.

"Oh fuck! Oh that's—Christ, tha's gorgeous—" Johnny groans like he's been punched square in the solar plexus, hips stuttering, rhythm gone, and he buries himself deep and cums with a shout, his fingers digging bruises into your hips while the light-golden mess pools warm beneath both of you.

He collapses on top, panting, and presses a grinning kiss to your jaw while his hips keep thrusting shallowly.

"See? Told ye it was alright."

"I hate you. You're cleaning up this time!"

Johnny cackles, licks a drop off your chin. "Aye aye. Ye're welcome."

[softaestluv]

And you really thought Simon would be a little mean during sex. He had to be a sadist after everything he’s been through.

So, when he’s between your parted thighs, you’re shocked when he speaks to you so softly. Quietly begging in your ear, cock pressed to the hilt, for you to be good for him.

And everytime you let out a whine, fingers tightening at his shoulders because he’s massive and you feel like you’re splitting in two with every thrust; he shushes you. ‘You can take it. Yes—yes you can.’

And when you clench tighter around him because the cadence of his voice licks warmth in your core, he smiles. ‘There you go, baby. Just like that.’

[howyoulovelikeweaponskill]

Something something for possessive simon…

f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.

You only notice it because your hand slips.

It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.

You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.

All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.

You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.

Blood.

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”

He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.

“What?”

Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”

The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.

Not mine.

They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.

So you just stare at him.

At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.

His gloves, first.

They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.

Your gaze flicks lower.

His shirt, too.

Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.

He cleaned up.

The thought comes through the haze in pieces.

Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.

You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”

Simon watches your mouth form the words.

Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.

His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.

“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”

A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.

You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.

“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”

Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.

His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.

Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.

“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”

Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.

For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.

But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.

“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”

Your nails bite into his shoulder.

“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“

His hips move before you can say anything else.

A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.

“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”

Your stomach twists.

You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.

He pulls out just to thrust in again.

Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.

Simon feels it.

“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”

Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.

There is blood on him.

Someone else’s blood.

Graves’s blood.

The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.

You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.

Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.

Simon watches the realization move across your face.

“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”

Your voice is barely a whisper.

His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”

The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.

You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.

He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.

Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”

For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.

His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.

“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.

Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”

Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.

It doesn’t.

It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.

But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.

It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.

Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.

Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.

Simon feels it. Of course he does.

He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.

Your face burns.

“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.

His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”

The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.

Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”

“There she is.”

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.

Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.

“You liked that.” He croons.

You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.

“N-no.”

His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.

“Liar.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.

And now he has caught you reacting to it.

Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.

Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.

“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.

His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.

“You should be callin’ me reckless.”

Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.

His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.

It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.

“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.

You swallow. “You can’t—”

He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.

Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.

Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.

“I can’t what?” He murmurs.

You try.

You really do.

You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.

“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”

“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”

You can’t.

Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.

Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.

“Too far gone to scold me now?”

You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.

And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.

“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.

“So am I.”

“Simon—”

“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”

Your breath leaves you in a gasp.

He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.

“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”

Your face burns hotter.

You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.

But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.

He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”

“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”

His eyes flash. “There she is.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.

“Try that again.”

You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.

“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”

“Probably.”

“Price is going to—”

“Already did.”

You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”

His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.

“Read me the riot act.”

Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”

“Yes.”

Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”

Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”

God. You think he’s lost his mind.

“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“

He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.

“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”

His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.

“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”

The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”

You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”

“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”

You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.

He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”

You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.

“And if he talks about you like that again?”

You barely manage the whisper. “What?”

Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”

For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.

One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.

“Leave it.”

Your breath trembles. “Why?”

His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”

And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.

Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.

You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.

[141bean]

simon, who found out how easily you fall asleep when hearing his voice whispering.

simon, who secretly takes an hour each day while he is on deployment to record whispering audios for you and sends a new one to you every day.

simon, who knows how anxious you get when you‘re alone and he‘s deployed.

simon, who asks you how your day is going, that he hopes you‘re not missing him too much and who always ends with "i‘ll come back. i love you." even though you never hear it because you fell asleep before the 10 minute mark.

simon, who knows if anything goes wrong, you‘ll find his hidden messages.

simon, who doesn‘t get the appeal of asmr at all.

simon, who as he gets wheeled into the military base’s er can only think about how he wished for you to be here.

simon, who knows how you‘ll react when he gets home with a bandaged arm,

simon, who will never tell you that the bullet barely missed his heart.

simon, who keeps whispering stuff into your ear if you can‘t fall asleep at night.

simon, who buys a better microphone so you can experience his voice with 360° spatial audio.

[yousummonedme]

Just thinking about Simon coming home from deployment

(CW: smuttttt! MDNI)

He’s worn to the bone, and all he needs is you and some deep sleep. He’s covered in dirt and questionable fluids, so he doesn’t even look at you as he goes straight to the bathroom. You understand. He needs to be clean, desperately needs to wash off all traces of the Ghost he’d been and slowly ease into his body again. You knew it would take maybe an hour or so before he was sufficiently himself to be able to meet you. And even then, he’d need more.

The instant he was ready, though, he zoomed in on you like he was possessed. It was like his body was on autopilot, unstoppable in its tracks leading to you. “Love—!” Was the only thing he managed to choke out before his lips and hands were all over you.

His tongue swiped into your mouth; his hands grasped your body nearly close enough to bruise. In his desperation, he’d forgotten everything but trying to convince himself you were still alive, that you were real, that you still loved him and were right there. He planted kisses down your body. He wound up on his knees to kiss your feet. And then, he looked up at you and begged, “Sit on my face, gem.”

Soft, thick thighs wrapped tight around his ears— he pressed them even closer together— and eyes obscured by the full weight of you resting on him, he was finally able to drown out the army. No more loud noises, no more pressure of life or death, no more grime, no more mask. His mind and body were focused only on you, devoted to your satisfaction.

He ate hungrily, savoring the taste of your pussy. You moaned above him. Your fingers dug the headboard till he pried your fingers off and brought them to his hair instead so he could relish the sting of you tugging it in overwhelm of the pleasure he was giving you. He let out a loud groan when you began to grind on him, and he dug his fingers into your ass to encourage you to use him more.

You knew his routine. It took him a while to shed the weight of his job. So you’d definitely be here a while. Then, when you lifted off his face, soaked and trembling, he’d wash you both up. He’d curl up in your arms, face pressed to your bosom. He’d sleep a long, long time. And finally, when he woke up, you’d have all of Simon back.

Loving Simon

Authoress’ note: Hii, y’all! Feel free to drop a comment or DM me with a thought

[fuzzyautumninmetal]

Simon 'Ghost' Riley is a simple, plain man. Meaning he hates spending money on himself unless it's absolutely necessary, this man has thousands in the bank because he just doesn't spend it.

That's why Simon loves high maintenance women, specifically you. He loves that you get your hair done every month, loves that you get your nails done, eyelashes, facials, pedicures. God he absolutely loves providing for his woman.

The only problem is that you're not used to spending other people's money. You work, and you work hard for your money.

"Bye Si. I'll see you later," you shouted as you put your shoes on, just about to head out the door.

"Where you going love?"

That made you stop and slowly turn to face Simon. "I've got my nail appointment today." You said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, which it was. You had wrote it on the calendar.

"Hm and who's paying?"

"Um... Me?"

"Guess again," Simon was already in front of you, placing his bank card between your cleavage.

"Simon."

"Don't 'Simon' me," he mumbled as he kissed your forehead. "You know the rules. You look pretty and I pay for it." And you couldn't argue because Simon smacked your arse before pushing you out the door and locking it.

Oh, and don't bother trying to pay. Simon already took your credit card.

[sealouree]

some wips to keep da good vibes going

[cacklingcaracal]

I've been working on this like SUPER DARK Keegan fanfic but I just read the softest fluffiest thing with him in it and now UGH I NEED MORE

[ye5o]

Los hice hace un RATO y no pienso terminarlos pero estan bonicos asi que ya fue.

Did these a while ago and i ain't gonna finish them, they look neat so there you go.

[readwritealldayallnight]

To say that you’re surprised to find out the first time you travel together, that Simon supposedly has a fear of flying you never knew of, would be an understatement

It’s just a quick flight out of London, less than an hour in the air to go spend the long weekend together somewhere different for a change

And yet your mountain of a man hasn’t said a peep since the moment you took your seats, eyes staring straight ahead with his hands gripping the armrests for dear life

You’re just a tad bit bewildered on how a lieutenant in the SAS has been harbouring an aversion to flying without you ever hearing of it

Unbeknownst to you, Simon hasn’t got a single problem with flying, he’s just pissed as all hell that you put your own bag in the overhead storage instead of letting him do it when he offered

[cacklingcaracal]

Hey, little me, we no longer hold to things that hurt us as we hold them because we are afraid of being alone.

We have learned to bite our tongue without making it bleed. Sometimes when we're hurt or angry we still say things that we do not mean.

We are learning to be brave. We are learning when we need to breathe.

No, we are not less volatile. Yes, everything still feels so raw. But we have learned how to stick to our guns without having to shoot. Oh little me, how I cannot wait for you to see. The day we no longer hold the things that hurt us because we are afraid to be alone

[dwidkwite]

smut, afab!reader, cuck!price and cocky!simon.

price could be an asshole sometimes, he knew it. and you knew it too. he always made you cry during arguments, storming out of your shared place by slamming the door and only coming home the next morning with an apology and some flowers.

you always forgave him, much to his surprise.

but today was different, he had been really mean and price knew that he messed up badly this time. he hated how he could be when angry.

"i forgive you" price eyes looked up to you, a hint of hope in it.

"are ya serious ?" he asked with his rough voice, his heart beating a little faster. he released the breath he didn't even realize he was holding when you nodded yes. you opened your mouth, "one condition" you looked at the floor, "I want to spend one night with lieutnant riley." price cringed at the way you said his name, bliking at you with big incredulous eyes.

"she really said tha' ?" price hated simon's smug smirk, the man visibly flattered by his captain's woman's wish. "who am I to disappoint the missus"

price hated even more watching you and simon have sex, even though he insisted on being here.

your body was smashed against the mattress, the bed hitting the wall as the lieutnant's hips roughly pounded into you. you were enjoying it, john knew by the loud moans that were uncontrollably leaving your mouth. he saw how you tried to hide it at first, probably in order to not make your husband insecure ; however as simon fucked you dumb, you became a moaning and drooling mess.

price clenched his jaw as he watched you both make out, he couldn't help but observe intently how simon's angry cock would thrust in and out of your pink pussy, all slick with the previous orgasms you had.

"gonna cum..." you whimpered pathetically as you shut your eyes, your nails piercing the lieutnant's back. a whimper escaped you as you felt simon's hand come rub your clit to help you climax, the delicious feeling making your toes curl.

after you came, price watched you lay on your shared bed, completely cock drunk. he completely ignored the cocky expression simon had on his face.

"next time don't be a dickhead, captain" price mentally cursed as the lieutnant walked out of the room, enjoying the situation too much for his liking.