a/n: i have an important exam for my degree tmr oops
plot: vaguely inspired by honeymoon-lana del rey. super short, really bad. includes mention of sex, angsty(??)
from the moment you had felt the first bursting bubble of your shimmering feelings for the ghost, you knew he would've been the end of a life you once knew. but can you ever truly love a ghost? the shell of a man that could once be loved?
but ghost was not just a shell of a man in your eyes and soul and damn who ever believed so. ghost was simon. simon riley. your simon who wasn't even yours and yet made it clear that you belonged to each other without making it clear to another. you were doomed. loving him would never work out, not like it does in the books you read in your leave when you were not fighting along side him in the battlefield.
because simon was simon and you were you.
"say you want me too" he had whispered in between groans as your bodies moved in total harmony. simon knew what he was doing and you were falling for it.
simon had fallen for it long before you had.
"simon this isn't going to work" you once begun in the middle of a conversation about nothing in particular as you had been staring outside your window in manchester, stirring the sugar in your long gone cold coffee "we will only end up hurt"
"i know" he sighs, looking directly at you, his stare intense, as if you had hung the stars in the skies which was weird considering the conversation. if it was any other man, he would've looked at you in shock, disbelief, even bitterness. but simon could never look at you in that way when all he ever wanted was to be smothered by you in all your eternity "but i want you"
"i want you too"
"that's enough for me"
oh and it was enough. because you knew simon would go to earth and beyond for you and your love. simon would kiss the earth you would walk on and he didn't care about the consequences because it had been written in the stars how both of you would be gone from this earth- the questing being who first?
❀ cw/tw: AFAB reader (AFAB anontomy, femme pet names, femme pronouns), consumption as an act of love, simon is a little unhinged but also incredibly soft, domestic bliss without a clear label, mentions of food/eating, soft dom simon, thigh riding, praise, some body worship, fingering and oral (fem receiving), a little bit of dacryphilia because i couldn't resist, blasphemous undertones because of the holy imagery, unprotected sex, creampie
❀ a/n: big big big shoutout to @toshidou for reminding me of the bad bitch that i am and reassuring me that my characterization of simon isn't catastrophic like i thought it was. also for bearing through reading this as i frantically typed away after only 4 1/2 hours of sleep. this one is for u bby, the other half of moist queefers <3
If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Simon “Ghost” Riley during your time together, it’s that he takes his job very seriously. So seriously, in fact, he’s often too tired to do much other than eat the dinner you’ve prepared him, take a shower, and go straight to bed. Despite his demanding and hectic career path, you both find ways to spend time together—him allowing you to sit in his lap as he does paperwork, you sneaking into the shower as he gets ready for the night, him coming home early and helping you with dinner—all small things to piece together a picture of domesticity and love Simon has craved his entire life.
But sometimes, he thinks, things in the bedroom are a little…lacking.
He only has himself to blame, really, considering he chose a job that demands every bit of strength he has. But there are times when he’s looking at you, your body wrapped in one of his t-shirts and your hair thrown up into a messy bun as you’re curled up on the couch reading, and he wonders if being a butcher is really that bad.
It’s no matter, though, because as insane and hectic as his job might be, he knows, deep down, he wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re a breath of fresh air for the man who is constantly drowning in his desire to be useful, a lighthouse for the man who is constantly swimming in his failures, a safe place for him to strip himself of the wet clothing trying to cling on to this body (much like how his stormy thoughts try to cling on to him) and bask in your warmth. He’s enamored by your compassion, utterly and completely in love with your honesty, and bewitched by your loyalty—a soulmate for someone who has only ever known chaos.
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“We should have lemon garlic shrimp tonight,” you suggest to your partner, leaning against his office door frame in hopes maybe he’d look up.
Simon’s eyes don’t even leave his computer as he asks, “What’s the special occasion, love?”
“You’re home in time for dinner for the first time in a month.”
It’s a small stab, he knows it, but it still hurts nonetheless, and you can see him flinch at the blunt edges of your words. He fists clench and unclench, as if debating if he can physically fight off the sense of guilt wrapping around his shoulders, before he saves his report progress and shuts his computer down. His movements are always so methodical, measured, but there’s nothing measured about the way he nearly chokes on his own spit when his eyes land on your outfit. Dressed in nothing but one of his t-shirts, thigh high stockings, and a pair of panties, you look nothing short of absolutely divine, and Simon nearly has to check his pulse to make sure he hasn’t died and gone to heaven.
You gaze at him through your eyelashes, eyelids half-closed in lust and the smallest of smirks on your lips. “S’matter, Si? Cat got your tongue?”
It never fails to astound him how easily you rev him up, how you make him feel like some horny teenager on prom night trying to score with his date–clumsy words spilling from his mouth as he tries his hardest to find the magic words to part your legs, palms sweaty as they try to hold your hand, body vibrating with anticipation to see what your tongue tastes like. He’s so unbelievably attracted to you, it makes his head fuzzy with hormones and irrationality, even after all of this time together.
He’s careful as he walks from his desk to you, strong arms wrapping around your waist and his lips brushing your hair. “Are you my starter?” he asks and pinches your thigh for good measure.
You giggle at the rare show of unabashed flirtation from your normally stoic partner and reply coyly, “I could be your dessert if you behave.” Feeling rather bold, you pull him into the kitchen by his belt, and he has to bite his lip to keep the groan clawing at his mouth at bay. You’re too precious for something as barbaric as fevered kisses and frantic hands eager to rip your clothes off. Valuable crystals deserve only the tenderiest of hands, the most careful of eyes, handled with the utmost precision and patience, and he’s always considered himself a good gemologist.
“C’mere for a second, love,” he says as you turn your back to get started on dinner. Before you can fully turn towards him, he gently cups your jaw and tilts your face up towards his, lips ghosting each other before he finally slots his against yours. You can feel how eager he is, how much he’s holding himself back so as to not break you, so you wrap your arms around his neck and deepen the kiss that much more. That’s all of the motivation he needs, evidently, and he’s quick to wrap your legs around his waist and place you on top of the kitchen counter. Whatever small grip he had on self-control has snapped—a hungry beast finally let free and allowed to feast however he pleases. He wants to completely devour you and keep you safe in his chest—strong bones to keep filthy, undeserving hands from touching you. One taste of you and he’s already drunk on love and all of its promises of companionship and domesticity.
His hands tangle themselves in your hair, fingers massaging your scalp as his tongue gently prods at your mouth. That’s when you pull away, much to your disappointment, and he groans at the lewd line of spit connecting your lips. Mind hazy with lust, he tries to tilt your face towards his again, anxious to eat until all that’s left is a pile of bones and love, but you gently stop him by pressing your fingers to his mouth.
“Was I too rough, sweetheart?” he asks worriedly. “We can slow down, if you’d like. I just…miss you, is all, and you’re right about this being the first time we’ve had some time together in a month. I know it’s my fault, and I’d like to make it up to you if you’re okay with that.”
And he looks so sincere—eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort, hands resting on your thighs and not daring to move, tongue nervously darting out to lick his lips, chest rising and falling with anticipation—you nearly allow him to devour you right there on the kitchen counter. But you’re determined to have a proper dinner with the man you love more than you could ever hope to comprehend. And what’s a good dinner without a nice show?
Your hands fiddle with the collar of his shirt, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek in hopes it’ll calm the hunger rolling around in your stomach. “You weren’t too rough, honey, I promise.” At that, you can see relief flood his features, and you gently tug on his collar so he brings his forehead down to meet yours. The pure adoration in his eyes nearly makes you choke, and you swallow down the lump of emotion that had begun to form in your throat. Simon has always been a gentle man despite his very impassive shell, never pushing you and always ready to communicate boundaries and comfort, so to see him so unraveled after a month of missing him is bringing out a masochistic side of you you’d never knew was buried underneath all of the domesticity. Still, you want to be able to enjoy him as much as possible before the moon hangs high and exhaustion begins to settle into heavy bones.
Simon mildly pulls your hand away from nervously toying with his shirt and kisses your fingers—an action that causes you to shudder with admiration. “Did I push you too much?”
“No, sweetheart. I just really, really want to have a nice dinner with you.”
Chuckling, he kisses your temple and helps you off of the counter, his hands lingering on your hips a little longer than necessary before swatting at your bottom and allowing you to begin cooking. “Then a nice dinner together we shall have.”
It’s intoxicating how much your thighs rub together as you cook dinner, how they jiggle and ripple, and Simon isn’t sure what he’s more hungry for. Your hips sway to and fo to the music—nothing inherently sexual about the movement, but his heart speeds up nonetheless. His dark eyes drink in every inch of you like a parched man in the desert, lapping up every single drop so much, he fears his stomach may burst. But it’d be worth it. It would be absolutely worth any form of torture to be able to touch you, hold you, hear you laugh, watch your lips form the syllables of his name. His greatest high, his greatest weakness, the person he’d try to find in every life after this one, the song he hums to himself when he thinks no one is around—all wrapped up in the prettiest package he has ever had the privilege of laying his eyes on.
Simon “Ghost” Riley, special forces operator trained to deal with things most people only see portrayed in overly-budgeted action movies, is absolutely hypnotized by how absolutely gorgeous you are.
“Didn’t know I was getting dinner and a show,” he nearly purrs at you as you pour him a glass of bourbon. Kentucky, of course.
“Hmm?” You innocently cock your head. “I’m just making you dinner, silly, a very normal thing.”
“Whatever you say, love.”
Lust and hormones roll off of your body in tidal waves, nearly drowning the man under the chaotic waters, but he wouldn’t mind, not really. He could spend hours, days, weeks floating around in all of your oceans, exploring every part of you until he has a clear map ingrained in his brain. He’s in love with your heart, in lust with your body, and enamored by your mind.
A warmth only alcohol can provide spreads across his body, and Simon Riley, known by even his closest friends as stern and forthright, dares to relax in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him and his eyes half-closed as they watch you sway to the music. At times like this, Simon is reminded of what it’s like to be naïve again, excited, ready to face the world and all of its possibilities. He’s content, basking in the security you provide him with and the knowledge that he has you to call home. He’s safe, and that’s something he’ll never, ever take for granted.
“You look happy,” you giggle, taking note of the pink flush to his face.
He hums, and in the blink of an eye he’s got his arms wrapped around your waist and his chin resting on your head. His lips brush against your hair, fingers fiddling with the t-shirt clinging to your body, and he swears he could stay like this forever if you allowed him to. He thinks this is what paradise must be like—his soulmate wrapped in his arms, the scent of delicious food hanging in the air, music softly playing over the sound of your giggles, his heart let free from its cage and soaring in the air.
“Must be because I am,” he utters into your hair. “I really, really am, sweetheart.”
And though he’s never been one for grandiose displays of affection, he finds himself spinning you around your shared kitchen, strong hands pressed into the small of your back and swaying your bodies to and fro, a makeshift ballroom squished in between the living room and his office.
Your hand fists his shirt, giggles bubbling out of your lips—the most beautiful sound he’ll ever hear. “Simon Riley! What has gotten into you?”
The smile he bears is a gentle one full of love and admiration, and you swear you feel your heart squeeze in your chest. “I’m very lucky to have you. In fact…” And then, his lips are ghosting over yours and his hands are clutching at your hips, desperate to feel you close but scared to admit how much he needs you. “I’d wager I’m the luckiest bastard on this planet.”
“I think you’d lose,” you whisper back, a joyous light dancing in your eyes. “Because I’d wager I’m the luckiest person on this planet to have you.”
He kisses you before he can stop himself, before he can second guess whether or not he’s worthy of your lips, before either of you can begin to decipher what love is and why it heals as much as it hurts. He kisses you and tries his hardest to commit dedication to memory. He kisses you and forgets what the definition of pain is and all he can feel is your fingers carding through his hair. He’s consumed by you—the smell of your shampoo stubbornly clinging to your hair, the feeling of your heart hammering against his, your eyelashes brushing against his cheek, the little squeal you let out when he picks you up, everything, everything everything. All he wants is this moment right here tattooed into his brain, burned into his eyelids so every time he closes his eyes all he can see is bliss and sunlight filtering through.
And though he’s the one with the infamous appetite, he swears he’d crack his ribcage open and allow you to feast as much as you need to. What is love if not all-consuming—cannibalistic desires flooding empty veins until the need to eat is unbearable? Hungry teeth clash against a bare tongue, and he groans loudly into your greedy mouth.
“Simon,” you gasp, “the food—”
“Can wait,” he finishes for you, and you both find yourselves stumbling into a chair. Quickly, he sits down with you on his lap, careful as to not hurt his precious meal. He can feel your cunt throb against his thigh and, god, he needs to eat, eat, eat before he goes completely mad. His thumb draws circles against the growing wet spot on your panties, a groan reverberating in his chest and deep eyes rolling to the back of his head. He sees you’re wearing the pink lacy panties with a white bow that always drive him up the walls of your shared home, and he has to fight the animalistic urge to rip them clean off of your body. No, he won’t be rough no matter how hungry he is. He’s not a beast void of all humanity. He’s simply a man with an empty stomach and the prettiest meal sitting on his lap, and his teeth miss how your skin feels pinched between them.
He easily slides your panties off, an expert in disarming prey, and brings them up to his nose, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Simon,” you moan out at the sight. “Simon, please—”
His hand strikes at your bottom before you can finish your sentence. “Ride my thigh, baby.” And he pockets your panties, promising himself he’ll give them back one day.
His big, calloused hands grip your hips as you drag your pussy across his thick thigh, your juices coating his pants but he doesn’t even care. How can he when you look so precious moaning and pleading on his thigh, shaky fingers grasping at his tie to gain some sense of balance? His brown eyes gaze down at you with a predatory light, his bottom lip pinched between his teeth as your grinding becomes more and more erratic.
His voice is strained when he speaks, husky, a caged animal frustrated at not being able to roam free. “That desperate for me, hm? So impatient…” But he can’t deny the erection swelling in his boxers, nor can he deny how hypnotizing it is watching how your brow furrows in concentration with every swivel of your hips. The squelching sound of your drooling cunt is downright filthy, but it’s so intoxicating to the man who gets drunk off of your submission. Adam’s apple bobbing, he tries his hardest to swallow down all of the primal urges flooding his body, to allow you to continue chasing your high, but he can’t stop himself from planting a kiss on your exposed shoulder, nor can he stop himself from resting his forehead upon that very same shoulder. His arms wrap around your torso, bringing your body closer to his so your chests are flushed together, and he groans when he feels your leg brush against his aching cock.
“Si…,” you gasp.
“Shh, just let me do this, darling,” he whispers, his breath tickling your neck. “I want to be close to you.”
Tears poke at the corner of your eyes and your throat constricts, a small gasp leaving your lips before he kisses them gently. A vulnerable Simon is a rare one, but you’re so parched for the smallest taste of intimacy you’re nearly afraid of draining him completely. Still, you wrap your arms around his neck and quicken your pace—anything to keep him close, to keep his face buried in the crook of your neck and his hands stroking at your spine. Shaky fingers bury themselves in short blond hair, pulling at the strands and his heart strings. Trembling thighs squeeze around his own muscular one, and he feels just how hard your heart is slamming itself against your ribcage. What should’ve been an act of climacteric horniness is truly an act of desperate love, depraved intimacy that has been simmering under the surface—two people trying to find themselves buried in each other’s chests.
“Si…” His name rolls off of your tongue so easily, a sound that floods his veins with a warmth his blood couldn’t possibly supply. “Si, please!” Fingernails dig into his back, and he knows just how dire it is for you to feel all of him, but, fuck, he needs to hear you beg a bit more. He needs to be reminded that yes, he is worthy of love, and yes, even with a heart as scarred as his, he is capable of loving back. He needs his ears to be flooded with the sound of unhinged adoration and unwavering dedication. He needs to run his hands all across your skin until he’s able to commit romance to memory and he can’t bear the thought of touching anything else.
Pulling his head back, his amber eyes search your face, fingers gently tracing your bottom lip, and the sheer intensity of his expression has your movements slowing. You’re surprised to see him hesitant, unsure, because in a world of war and uncertainty, Simon Riley is a man made of osmium. He can’t afford the luxury of insecurity in a market that feeds off of humanity. But here he is, one hand keeping your hips stilled as his other one languidly traces all of the bumps and curves of your body, his brow furrowed in concentration as if afraid of breaking you with the slightest of pressure, his eyes full of worry.
“Si—”
“You know I love you, right?” he uncharacteristically cuts you off, his tone steady despite the tremble in his hand.
You answer without missing a beat. “Of course I do. I love you, too, honey.”
He nods, moreso to himself than you, and finally meets your eyes. You’re surprised to see the fire burning in them, how his soft eyes look nearly deadly as he wraps his arms around your chest and brings your body flush against his once again. “Then we’re going to do this the right way.” And before you can ask what he means by that, he lifts your body up with ease, earning a surprised squeak from you. His lips attach themselves against your shoulder, and you wrap your legs around his waist to allow him to carry you easier. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he confesses softly between kisses. “You keep me grounded, sweetheart. You keep me sane.”
Longing strangles you and you can’t help but shutter at his raw declaration of love. Simon reminding you how much you mean to him isn’t rare in the least bit–he’s rather forthcoming about his feelings after many months of you teaching him how to loosen his tongue–but to hear it said so tenderly, as if your ears are made of paper and he spits razors with every word, is something worth crying over.
And you do.
Glistening crystals poke at the corner of your eyes as he tenderly lays your body on the bed, and it’s at this moment Simon Riley thinks you’re something worth dying over. His fingers swipe at your tears, rough palm resting against your cheek, and you nuzzle your face into the callouses, a soft smile on your lips and galaxies in your eyes. He’s hopelessly, painfully, undeniably in love with you, and he absolutely hates himself for neglecting you so much.
“Sweetheart,” he begins, voice strained with love and weakness. How can he look into your eyes and apologize for being a horrible partner? You—with your patience and kindness and strength and dedication and selflessness—you deserve better, better than being left alone to wonder if he’s safe and alive. Better than brisk pecks to your forehead after a thoughtfully prepared breakfast. Better than rushed showers and swift promises of love before a day of unguaranteed nights. Better than him. Better than anything someone like him could ever hope to offer you.
And of course—because you’re you, you, you—you place a kiss on his palm. It’s an innocent enough gesture. A quick press of your lips to the palm of his hand. It’s something that he normally wouldn’t think twice about, something he would smile about and then kiss your cheek for. Definitely not something worth gasping over. Not something worth losing his breath over. Not something worth the shudder that wracks his body. Not something worth splitting his soul in two over. But, as he hovers over you, he can feel his shell crumbling away until all that’s left is the part of his heart he’s been saving for someone like you. He can’t breathe, can’t think, not when you’re kissing the same hand that has killed, that has failed, that has been scarred and covered in blood. And then you’re kissing the pulse in his wrist and then his forearm and then his bicep and before he can even warn you to save your kisses for the worthy, you’re kissing his shoulder in the same tender manner he was kissing yours moments ago.
He feels your breath dance across his neck and refuses to move until you give him permission.
“Simon,” you whisper, and his ears ring at how much affection you place in the syllables of his name. “I love you more than I could ever hope to fathom. I don’t think you realize how much you keep me sane.”
“Sweet—”
You silence him with a kiss to his neck, humming at the steady beat in his jugular. “You’re my comfort. You’re my safe space to be myself with no worries about what’s going to happen tomorrow because you’re prepared for anything. You allow me to be neurotic and moody and a ball of stress without judging me or trying to baby me. You understand that sometimes I need to be neurotic and moody and a ball of stress. You’re caring and thoughtful and straightforward and I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”
You can’t be real. Even the holiest of heavens couldn’t craft something as angelic as you, and yet here you are, touching your forehead to his and filling his lungs with your stardust, divine hand caressing his cheek, sephric eyes holding so much unfiltered love he can’t stop himself from kissing you. His lips are tender at first, trying their best to memorize immortality and savoring how ethereal you taste, but when you place your hand on his neck, he feels himself giving into his mortal instincts. Using his body weight to his advantage, he lowers you back down to the mattress, never daring to break the kiss. His hands begin to tug at the shirt clinging to your torso, and you’ve never been quicker to dispose of clothes.
“So beautiful,” he mumbles against your lips, hands grazing across your thighs and squeezing them appreciatively. “You’re so beautiful, darling, do you know that?”
A sudden bashfulness warms your body, and you fight the urge to hide behind your hands. “You make me feel it,” you reply shyly and try to pull his face back down to yours, but he stops you by kissing the tips of your fingers. Pouting, you try to grab his face again, but again, he simply catches your hand and kisses your palm, his eyes resting on yours and full of unadulterated dedication. “C’mere, I wanna kiss.”
“You’ll get plenty of those, love, don’t worry.”
Forever and ever, he silently promises himself, I’m going to kiss you forever. And, keeping his promise like the dutiful man he is, he kisses his way up your arm, every touch of his lips measured and careful, until they gently brush against your cheek. You giggle at his breath tickling your neck, and he swears he feels his heart collapse in on itself like some pathetic parody of a supernova. This right here—you stripped down to your underwear and allowing him to love every inch of your supple skin, him stripped down to the bone and being forced to let go of control–is something he used to fantasize about, something he never ever thought himself worthy of, but when you look up at him with your eyes full of trust and dedication, he can’t stop himself from drinking in every second of it. His lips brush against your neck, right above the jugular so he can feel how your heart rate spikes, and then your collarbone, and then his tongue gently swipes across your nipple, earning a soft gasp from you.
“Simon,” you whine, “no teasing, please.”
His fingers brush against your cheek, lips still attached to your breast, while his other hand snakes down to your cunt. “‘m not teasing, darling, I promise. Just want to show every part of you some love.”
He’s an expert at unraveling you, at lightly grazing his fingers just above where you need him most, at dragging his tongue across your peddled nipple, at nipping and sucking at your breasts until you’re bucking against his hand. Even after all of these past weeks of quickies and fevered shower sex, Simon Riley is nothing short of a master at making you moan out his name. His penchant for precision is often deemed a tedious mindset, something to hold him back from admiring the big picture, but it’s a gift from the heavens above when it has you a writhing mess underneath him. Your juices are coating his hand and his ears are full of your vows of love and lust, but it still isn’t enough for him. He needs all of you, all of your tears, all of your gasps and whines, all of your shaking thighs wrapped around him, needs to feel skin brushing skin and the promise of loving and being loved forever.
Your shaking hands bury themselves in his hair, pulling and tugging at the strands and causing him to groan against your skin. “Simon, f-fuck, you’re so good.”
A moan stutters in his chest at the unexpected praise. He needs to feast on everything that is you until he’s full. Without so much as a warning, he kisses your forehead once more before throwing your legs over his shoulders in one swift movement. You open your mouth to protest that he deserves a little love too, but his lips are already attached to your throbbing clit and all you can do is cry out his name. You can feel another groan reverberate in his chest, his hands kneading at your plush thighs and pulling you closer, closer, closer, until his nose is buried in your pubic hair, and he looks nothing short of a man utterly in love with the person beneath him.
“Simon! Oh my fucking god, Simon!”
He slides a finger inside of your fluttering hole, and then another, curling them and scissoring just the way that has your thighs twitching around his head. Brown eyes roll to the back of his head, and he somehow manages to bury his face even further into your pussy. “Like that, baby? You like it just like that?”
“Yes, Simon, yes, please!”
“Fucking hell, darling, I could stay here forever.” Forever doesn’t seem like a long time as long as you’re by his side…
Simon isn’t sure what he’s more drunk on—the alcohol he indulged in earlier, or the juices dripping from your cunt. He’s intoxicated on submission and domination, lust and love, every saccharine memory with you in the past and every hopeful wish with you in the future, every broken piece of you and every picture he’s painted on your skin. He’s drunk on you. All of your moans and pants and pleas for more, more, more—eat until you’re full, Simon! Completely devour until all that’s left is an illustration of what love is!
He was never an indulgent man until you came into his life and discovered just how large his stomach truly is.
His tongue draws languid circles on your clit as his fingers pump in and out of your cunt, his half-lidded ambers watching the rise and fall of your chest. Once he finds a good rhythm, he brings his free hand up to pinch and roll your nipple between his nimble fingers, and you’re sure this is what heaven must feel like.
Simon Riley is almost certain you’re an angel in disguise, but you’re starting to suspect he’s a god who’s too humble to admit his omnipotence. How else would he know exactly how to curl his fingers just right to get your thighs to shake? How else would he know how much you love when he flattens his tongue and slowly drags it along your clit? How else would he know to kiss your inner thigh as he takes a minute to catch his breath and rest his jaw? He looks up at you with ambers filled to the brim with worship and adoration, but you swear you can see a flicker of greed lingering somewhere in there—obsession disguised as fascination, possession parading as love, anything to keep you by his side.
“Look at you, so wet for me,” he coos up at you, using his fingers to spread your pussy lips and admire the mess between your legs. “Do I make you feel that good, sweetheart? Can’t help but fucking drip for me, hm? So wet for me, baby, so good for me.”
“S-S-Simon!”
“Keep moaning my name, sweetheart,” he groans as he brings his mouth to your cunt again, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the tightness of his pants. “Fuck—scream it, I don’t care. Just wanna keep hearing you.”
“Simon fucking Riley, please, you feel s-so good!”
Taunt skin is pulled across knuckles as you grip the bed sheets underneath you. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull, thighs uncontrollably shaking around his head, chest heaving as if you just ran a marathon, sweat clinging to your skin, cunt throbbing rhythmically along with the pumping of your partner’s fingers, you can feel your orgasm swiftly approaching. Simon must be able to tell also, given the way his licks to your clit are becoming more and more frantic and he’s starting to goad you on.
Desperation is laced with fascination as he begs, “Go on, baby, it’s okay. Cum on my fingers. Cum for me, please, let me make you feel good. I know you can, love. Just cum for me.”
As if under his spell, you feel the control you had been trying to grip on to snap and unadulterated pleasure crash over your body, leaving you heaving and twitching underneath his touch. He easily helps you through your high, gentle as he kisses your thighs and slowly eases his fingers out of your throbbing cunt. Crystals poke at the corner of your eyes, causing them to look like stained glass on a sunny day, and Simon is sure to say his prayers as he kisses them away.
“So, so gorgeous,” he whispers between the brushes of his lips. “So pretty when you’re cumming for me. Fuck, love, you’re so beautiful.”
Relishing the praise he’s pouring on your skin, your shaking fingers begin to unbutton the dress shirt that clings to his chest. He tries to stop your ministrations and tell you that predators typically don’t get help from their prey, but you shush him and tell him that not every prey is helpless just like not every predator is invincible. He watches your hands fumble with bemusement, and after a moment of struggling you decide to flip your bodies over so you’re now straddling him.
He’s surprised to say the least, eyes widening and body struggling to regain control, but after a kiss to his forehead and a nip at his ear, he begins to think that having control isn’t what it’s all cracked up to be. Besides, why would he deny himself the perfect view of your body—of your breasts heaving in front of him, your pulse thumping in the hollow of your throat, of your neck exposed and ready to be bitten? Why would he deny himself of the feast before him, coated in sweat and glowing with love?
“Off,” you mumble against his neck and tug at his pants. “Off, please, Simon, take them off.”
Desperation drips from every syllable that falls from your intoxicating mouth, and he’s quick to dispose of the pants that restrict him. Strong fingers cup your jaw and bring your face in front of his, hungry ambers drinking in the sight of adoration and lust. His lips slot against yours, hands grasping at your hips and dragging your cunt across his hard cock, and he swears this is the sweetest form of torture.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I want you to look at me while you put me inside of you. C’mon, baby, don’t be shy now.”
Your trembling hands find his dick, and you have to stop to admire the masterpiece laying underneath you—a pretty red head beaded with precum, a prominent vein running along the side of his shaft and wrapping until it meets with a tuft of blond pubic hair, stomach muscles contracting with every breath, pink-flushed cheeks on a stern face, a naked chest rising and falling with anticipation. He’s beautiful. He’s everything every artist has tried to capture on blank canvases and fell just short of. He’s ethereally gorgeous but also alarmingly human. He’s an angelic face with blood-stained hands. He’s Simon “Ghost” Riley, and you’ve never been more proud to be able to call him yours.
Bashful eyes meet greedy ones and you’re lowering yourself on his cock before you can begin to ask yourself who’s more vulnerable in this moment—the prey on the pedestal or the predator whose appetite can only be satiated by one person. The swollen tip of his cock rests easily inside of you, and right when you’re about to start rocking your hips, he sits up so your chests are flushed together, much like how you were in the kitchen.
His lips brush against your shoulder, and you’re reminded of how gentle he can be despite the calluses on his palms. “I want you close, baby, please. Need to feel all of you. Every inch, inside and out. Will you let me do that, sweetheart?”
A thick blanket of submission wraps itself around your shoulders, and your head is nodding before you even give it permission to. “Want all of you, Si! Need all of you! Jus’ wan’ you.”
He begins to rock his hip, bones digging into plush flesh, and swears he can see flashes of golden gates with each thrust. “That’s it, baby. Such a good girl—my good girl.”
“S-Simon!”
Watching your breasts bounce as he bucks into you is hypnotizing, and he has to dig his fingers into your thighs to keep himself from bucking into you wildly. No, he refuses to be the beast he keeps buried down. It’s taken years of self-discipline and self-discovery to keep it locked away. He can’t unleash it now during a moment of vulnerability. But there’s something so tantalizing about you, so tempting and delicious that causes his teeth to sharpen and his mouth to flood with drool…
“Roll your hips, darling,” Simon whispers into your neck. “Be my good girl and roll your hips.”
And like the obedient girl you are, you listen, clit brushing against his pelvis and sending delicious waves of pleasure over your body. He thinks he’s dragging you down to hell with him, but you’re certain this is what heaven feels like. The love of your life beneath you, a light blanket of sweat over his body, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tries not to overindulge, his heart slamming against his ribcage in a frenzied attempt to reach you, his hands touching every inch of you they can reach, his lips kissing away the tears that stream down your face… No, this is better than heaven. With his hunger and your curiosity, you’ve both managed to find a place better than the promiseland, better than anything any god or mortal could even begin to hope to comprehend, a place where he’s free to feast on you as much as he wants and you can bury yourself in his ribcage.
Strong fingers slip under your chin and force you to look in a pair of shining ambers, and you swear Simon has never looked more beautiful than in this moment. “Kiss me, sweetheart,” he pleads, his hips stuttering.
Starving lips come crashing together, and it takes every ounce of self-control to not feed until his stomach ruptures.
And the worst part of it all is he knows you would allow him to.
You would absolutely allow him to eat, eat, eat, Simon, sharpen your teeth and bite as hard as you want! You’ll never go hungry as long as you’re with me! Just eat, goddammit, eat, eat, eat! Eat all of me until we aren’t sure where you end and I begin! Eat until I’m swimming in your veins! Just fucking eat!
Simon buries his face into the crook of your neck in hopes that maybe he can get through the night without any bloodshed, struggling to keep himself under control. But you have other plans. Lacing your fingers through his blond hair, you guide his face to one of your breasts in a silent plea for him to suck on it as you ride him. He obeys, of course. How could he not when you look so delicious covered in sweat and bouncing on his cock?
With teeth as sharp as diamonds, he tugs onto your nipple, and you cry out his name until it’s all you can dare to think about. “Fuck, baby,” he swears, one of his hands massaging your other breast, “you’re so beautiful. You know that right, darling? Have I ever told you how beautiful you are as you ride me?”
Your thighs begin to shake, and it’s then you both know you’re at the brink of unadulterated pleasure. Mustering as much strength as you can, you slam your hips down on his in frantic motions, feel the head of his cock prodding at your cervix, and tears poke at the corners of your eyes in anticipation of the feast about to come.
“So close, baby,” your partner moans, “so fucking close. Just a little more, love. Can you do that for me? Can my good girl ride me just a little bit more and make us both cum?”
“Y-Yes! Anything for you, Simon! Jus’ wanna be your good girl…”
Your whines and moans become more and more warbled the closer you get to your orgasm, and Simon is drinking every ounce of your submission. Unable to maintain self-control in the face of greed, sharp teeth pinch your nipple, the swell of your breasts, your shoulder, your neck, your jaw—anywhere he can feed and hear you squeal out in delight, just so long as he eats, eats, eats. Every time enamel pinches plush flesh, he can feel a piece of you slither down his throat and land in his ever-growing stomach—somewhere you’ve learned to consider home. Whispers of praise and love dance across your skin, his hands running up and down your spine as if coaxing you to give him just a little more of yourself, just a bit more so he can sedate the beast and continue to be the practical man you know and love.
“So fucking good for me,” he moans into the crook in your sweaty neck, his cock beginning to throb with the need to release. “That’s my girl, just a little more. I’m so close, love.”
Shaky hands bury themself into thick hair, and you pull until you can hear a hiss leave his lips. “Please, Simon, cum with me, please!”
“My baby wants me to cum with her, hmm?” he teases, albeit weakly. He’s losing control, you both know it. His abs flex with strain, his brow is shining with sweat, and his lips wobble with weakness, and yet he’s fighting to have you cum first just so he can taste how sweet you are on his tongue before he’s no longer human.
“Yes, please! I’m begging you, Simon, cum with me!”
“O-O-Oh, fuck...” Though he’s never been much for blind optimism, a part of him hoped maybe he finally could have control over his desires around you. A foolish thing to think, really, when you call to the beast buried in his ribcage so easily… “I’m gonna cum, darling, cum with me!”
And you do, almost embarrassingly quick. With your arms wrapped around each other, your face buried in his chest and his buried in your hair, your hips clumsily crashing together, you both cum together loudly, lewdly, your names burned into each other’s throats and echoing off of your bedroom walls.
“You did so well for me, baby,” he mumbles against your shoulder, his lips fumbling to kiss everywhere his teeth sunk into. “I love you so much.”
You sigh and lean into his kisses as much as you can, arms still hanging loosely around his neck and your lungs trying to pull in oxygen. “I love you too, sweetheart, so, so much.”
“C’mon, I’ll go prepare a bath for us.” Gently, he untangles your limbs and lifts you in his strong arms. With one last kiss to your forehead, he begins to make his way to the bathroom, you curled up against his chest and listening to how hard his heart is hammering.
And somewhere between the sound of running water and satisfied giggles, Simon swears he hears a growl coming from his chest—low and threatening, a warning he only has so much time before he loses control and he can no longer contain how he feels about you.
And, for the first time since he discovered that wretched beast, he thinks he might be okay with that.
tw: hanahaki disease, coughing up flowers, blood, (multiple fandom/characters)
the flowers have a nice lavender tint to them. that is if you are lucky enough to cough up some clean ones since, usually, their beautiful color is darkened by the dark red of the blood that comes with it.
it must be sincerely poetic to find beauty through misery.
you don't need a diagnosis for that, it's something you discover on your own, there's no desire to share your pain with the world. it's too humiliating, right? for others to know and hell, even for yourself to come to terms with.
and at the first petal it hits. they don't love me. why don't they love me? why is my love not enough for them? what do they have that i don't?
why?
why?
why?
why?
the lavender of the petals is so beautiful when you can really see it. it's almost as beautiful as they are, even if they hurt your lungs with every breath and every cough. your insides are being torn up and yet
and yet.
but you can't cough up pretty lavender daffodils and your love can't really harm your lungs in this reality
you can only feel it when they tell you they don't love you back.
nanami is a passionate lover. he doesn't care about one night stands or fwb situations. he will only fuck you if he's in love with you and you better believe he does it well. his thrusts are deep and hard and he's pretty vocal; he grunts and lets you know how good you're making him feel, all while whispering sweet nothings into your ear. it drives him i n s a n e when he feels your nails scratching down his back and your legs pulling his hips closer to yours. he's all about intimacy.
"fuck, you feel so good" he whispered as he delivered another deep thrust, making you whine and tighten around his hard cock "you like this?" thrust "so good for me" thrust "only for me"
gojo satoru
satoru hits so deep and hard, you are certain he is using his infinite domain on you. he grabs, bites, slaps and teases the fuck out of you but when he gets serious, it makes you feel like a chosen one for being able to receive what this man gives you. gojo will literally drive you insane. he'll look deep into your eyes as his hips snap against yours so harshly it makes you see stars and tells you his loves you as his hand presses down you stomach to feel the bulge his cock makes and it makes you cum so hard when you see him fall apart just for you.
"do you feel that?" he asks taking your much smaller hand and pressing it down your stomach and you nod, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the pressure heightens your pleasure to the maximum "you were made for me and i was just made for you"
higuruma hiromi
he's never felt the way he does when he's inside of you ever before. you are the love of his life, his heaven and fuck is he good at showing his love for you. he will fuck you against any surface of his penthouse. whether itd be the kitchen, his office or the pool table, he doesn't care the least, you're too insatiable to not be taken right then and there. secretely dreams about impregrating you. he doesn't have anything he feels proud for in his life but the moment his seed shoots deep inside your cervix, it just feels like a jigsaw falling into place
"gonna cum so deep inside of you, you want that too?" hiromi grunted, shooting down his whiskey as he fucked you hard on the pool table "gonna make you my wife, you're gonna look so pretty with your belly full of me"
toji fushiguro
his big hand fits so perfectly around your titties. he loves playing with them as he fucks you into oblivion. can manhandle you so easy, he can just throw you around and treat you so good. one moment you're bouncing on his cock and the other he's just harshly pounding you from behind and spreading your asscheeks open as his thumb plays with your asshole. a rough man for sure.
toji was moving in an inhumane speed, moving in and out of you so fast and it just felt so good, too good and you're sure you're about to pass out from the overstimulation "you're trying to run away from it but here you are still clenching around me, sweetheart" slap "be a good girl and take this cock like the whore you are"
Tik Tok, let’s keep the sad Danny edits for after Abu Dhabi. Right now, I need replays of yesterday’a overtakes and the cocky finger gun to some sexy music
Do McLaren think that just maybe Danny wouldn’t be dead fucking last in this GP if they idk, maybe have him a new fucking engine??? 😃
Yes Daniel has been struggling but this is actually painful…why are ppl not genuinely looking into why one McLaren seems drivable but the other is literally an orange fucking henry hoover. And don’t feed me that bullshit that Daniel is washed bc I’m not in a good mood and I’m fully willing to verbally slaughter anyone who says that shit-
has a different playlist for each mood, even if most have the same songs over and over again, he'll listen to the one assigned to his current feelings. bites to tease you. his hands get shaky when he's nervous. cuteness aggression towards you. knows your order for every restaurant/cafe by heart. places his head on your shoulder from the back when you want to show him something on your phone. probably really likes sweet and salty combos and loves to try more snacks like that (i just KNOW he'd love feta with honey and sesame seeds, fellow greeks you know what i mean), hums in his sleep when he changes side. doesn't hesitate to tell anyone off for you sake. all bark full bite.
do u ship fischl and hu tao ........................................
nope, when it was time to decide for my username i didn't know what to put so i decided to mix the names of two genshin characters i love. it has nothing to do with shipping
summary: tsukishima worries about your future together
warnings: tsukishima and the reader are third years, angst, fluff, heavily inspired by horimiya, swearing, kind of crack? tsuki is baby
a/n: my latest fics have been getting a lot of feedback lately, thank you everyone for your kind words, hope you enjoy this one as well <3 wrote this while listening to be my angel by mazzy star
"just be my angel if you love me, be my angel in the night"
when you met tsukishima kei in your first year in karasuno high, you would've never expected the outcome of that fateful meeting. you had both been a classmate of his and a manager in his volleyball club so crossing paths was bound to be. soon after your first encounter, you fell in love with each other. a small crush that soon blossomed into a wonderful two year relationship.
and two years later, as your salty boyfriend sat across from you in a study date he failed to realize that for the past 30 minutes he hadn't read a single sentence in his textbook and, instead he had been spacing out and staring out the window. he had never thought about what it would've been like being apart from you, there had had never been an actual reason to think so after all. yet a comment by his older brother felt like a slap throwing him back to real life.
"you both are third years now! do you think you'll be together after graduation"
will we be together after graduation? will they want to be with me still? what is going to happen after graduation?
it had been bothering him for a while actually. of course he could've talked to you and the pair of you would communicate your way out of it. however it scared him to think about confronting you about it because what would happen if you still didn't want to be with him after graduation? would you be over right then and there?
he snapped out of his thoughts the moment you settled over his lap and squished his cheeks together, a habit you picked up during your time together whenever you noticed him spacing out. he always acted annoyed but truth is, he loved it. he loved everything about you.
"what's gotten you staring at your neighbors' fence like that? do you not like their new one?" you joked, moving your head to playfully bite at his neck as he kissed your forehead. you expected him to act like he was disgusted and pinch your leg or something but you were surprised when all he did was pull you closer and hug you tighter against his chest "baby whats wrong?"
"nothing's wrong idiot" he whispered tilting his head to rest at the curve where your neck meets your shoulder
"then why are you clinging on me like a koala, hm? not saying that i mind but you need to talk to me kei, i'm here for you" and he knew it. he knew that you loved him just as much as he loved you, which made it harder for him because even if you loved him now, would you grow apart after high school?
"will you still be here after we graduate?"
"in miyagi? yes babe I'll be attending college in sendai city, i thought we talked about this before, didn't we?"
"no idiot i know i mean-" pause "here"
"oh" he wasnt really sure if he liked your reaction. maybe he should've been more prepared before asking you because his nerves had been eating him alive, waiting for you to answer and god were you taking your sweet time"i guess it's time right?"
if he thought he was about to have a heart attack earlier, he definitely would now.
"time for what baby?"
"please make it quick kei"
"what the hell are you talking about"
"huh?" and it was then that he pushed his head off your shoulder to look at you, both of you staring at each other in confusion "oh you're not going to break up with me? ive thought about this a lot and i figured you wouldn't want to be with me after we graduate so i guessed you would just break up with me now"
he looked at you as if you just hit his mother's head with a cast iron pan.
"STOP STARING AT ME LIKE THAT IT SCARES ME"
what you didn't expect next was for him to burst out laughing. and now it was your turn to look at him like he hit your mother's head with a cast iron pan.
"you idiot" he exclaimed in between laughter "i thought you wanted to break up with me"
"be fucking for real"
"im serious"
"kei why would i not wanna be with you? i love you"
"i don't know, i thought that maybe you'd want to do other stuff after high school that wouldn't include me- well us. akiteru asked me if we'd still be together after graduation and i didn't know what to say, it kind of took me out" he said,now fully serious "but i dont care about graduating or anything i-i dont want to be apart from you you know? your stupid ass has grown on me"
"yeah i would hope so after two years" you deadpanned "you should've talked to me about it, i-i was thinking the same thing, guess we both worried over nothing, huh?" and with that you laid your haid on his shoulder once again, tracing shapes on his chest with your fingers of the hand that wasnt latched in his sweatshirt.
a/n: your honor i love him. also i wrote this on a whim while listening to body paint by arctic monkeys
proofread?did i proofread this??idk :D
"and if you're thinking of me, then i'm probably thinking of you"
tsukishima wakes up super early to have enough time to be a hater
he really doesn't, he probably sleeps super late, spending the time on his phone and wakes up moderately early, like 10-11 AM
doesn't want akiteru to find out about him being in a relationship, he'll probably annoy him the fuck out and make him uncomfortable
so you don't really hang out at his house and the one time akiteru saw the pair of you walking down the street, he jumped in to ask you if you were his s/o and you kinda lagged out, not really knowing what to answer since you knew kei didn't want him to know for the time being but also feeling guilty for lying
kei saved it though
lmao no he didn't, akiteru was sure that you were his partner after that encounter
you, kei and tadashi are such a power trio,its kinda like those shonen trios (nobara/megumi/yuuji, aki/power/denji)
ukai teases you a lot as his assistant and eventually takeda sensei starts doing so too in his own ways
but whenever hinata or kageyama do so, tsuki goes well, tsuki mode
tanaka and nishinoya probs ogle after you but when guys from other teams do so they protect you out of respect for you and their teammate's honor
tsukishima often sends you songs that remind him of you, he never outright tells you so but you figure it out after the first few times he sends them to you.
looks over at you after scoring a point or doing a great block to see your reaction, his chest swells with pride
dumbass (affectionate)
tries to annoy you a lot but you know it's out of love
you're kind of like the default settings for him. sad? go to y/n. happy? y/n. wants to go out? y/n. is hungry? y/n might be hungry too so he's gonna pick up something extra for you too.
would die if he made you feel uncomfortable, like you don't understand how sick with himself he would feel if he ever made you feel like that.
super proud of you when you say something he would to the team. everyone's like "YOU CORRUPTED THEM >:(" and he's in the back smiling smugly and patting your head.
cuddly when sleepy. my brother in christ will on god lay on top of you, literally almost crush u, push his face in your neck and whine but as soon as you coo at him and say something along the lines of "aw is my baby sleepy?" he'll DENY e v e r y t h i n g. he's worse than youtubers getting caught red handed committing a crime. like tf you mean, there's literally evidence📸
he thinks about you so much throughout the day, you're his safe space <//3
he is kind of insecure though. when he notices other teams approaching you, it's then that others' comments about him begin to soak in.
of course he wouldnt admit it but you can see it in the way his face falls
tell him you love him and wont leave him 🔪
sometimes cries about this at night
he knows other people could be more open about their feelings to you and you deserved to be told how perfect you are as much possible
but he tries so much :(
he never saw it as "just a relationship" what you have is one of the few things he actually takes seriously
i fucking love the "tsukishima makes you a playlist" scenarios but they remind me of that one guy who made a playlist of every song I'd reccomend to him and still left me lmao
tsukishima who will never let you feel lonely as long as you're with him
you had been sitting in class with your head in your hands as kei approached your desk. he doesn't need to ask to understand that you have been possibly having a bad day so he just sits in his seat in front of you and pokes you to get your attention.
"you know, i fucking hate when people make plans in front of you without being included" and you did, because it felt so fucking lonely having your friends do that again and again right in your face "like just tell me you don't want me there"
but kei isn't a man of sweet talk so he can't exactly comfort you. However he instead takes initiative to make you feel better.
"man i really want some strawberry shortcake" he mumbles as you rise your head taking a look at him "we're going to that new pastry cafè after school"
"oh who are you going with tsuki?" and it kinda stings to talk because, maybe he'd want to hang out with you. maybe you wouldn't feel lonely then.
"me and you, i'm going with you, idiot"
then and there he knows how much it actually means to you, the moment your eyes cloud with tears and you wear the brightest smile he's ever seen.
it's his own personal mission to never make you feel unwanted ever again.
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