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[iamsofabulous]

twenty3. black. loves pink, kdramas, gaming, (fictional) rich men, sewing, reading, fine dining and travel. tech girl by day, multi fandom fangirl by night.

moodboards. ୨୧ requests.

i only create moodboards, little to no writing here. i mainly reblog smut so eighteen plus only.

[epiphanyrogers]

˖ ݁✦. CRY BECAUSE IT'S OVER

⤷ ari levinson x fem!reader

⸝⸝ SUMMARY — ❝ he only texts after midnight. you know it's toxic, and promise yourself this time you'll end it. but somewhere between his baby blues and the sick satisfaction of knowing you're the one he keeps coming back to, you end up crying in his lap. good thing ari thinks you're prettiest when those tears are for him. ❞ ⧽ 7.4k

！ SMUT, p in v, creampie, dacryphilia, light dubcon, dry humping, face squishing, pwp, praise kink, faux sympathy/soft mean!ari, finger sucking, size kink, toxic situationship, pet names (baby, babygirl, crybaby), 18+ MDNI » based on this request » MASTERLIST ⟡˙⋆

You up? | 2:47 AM

The notification lights up your ceiling. You know who it is before you even read the contact name. You tell yourself it’s because no-one else texts at this hour. In reality, the more embarrassing truth is that knowing and hoping have started to feel like the same thing.

You should reply not for you. Let him sit with that rejection the way you've sat with two weeks of silence.

Better yet, you shouldn't reply at all. You should leave him on read, let that little notification sit there unacknowledged while he spirals for once, wondering if you've finally moved on.

Best option - the one that would require something adjacent to self-respect - you should block his number. Should have done it weeks ago, when you'd seen him out with another girl and your friends had spent the entire cab ride home telling you what you already knew. He's never going to commit. He's never going to change. Block his number.

You'd promised you would.

You hadn't, obviously. Instead, you’ve had Ari Levinson saved as “DO NOT ANSWER” for the past four weeks. Like seeing those words flash across your screen would be enough to override six months of muscle memory and bad decisions.

But it hasn’t helped even once. And it doesn’t help now, at 2:47 in the morning, when your phone buzzes again because your hand moves before your brain can interfere.

I know you're awake | 2:49 AM

Arrogant bastard. He doesn't know anything. Except he does, doesn't he? Knows you like he's mapped you from the inside out. Knows the glow of your screen is already bleeding blue light across your rumpled sheets. Knows you're staring at his text with your heart doing that stupid hummingbird thing it does whenever he reminds you that he's out there, somewhere in the city, thinking about you.

yes. | 2:52 AM

Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again. He's typing, deleting, retyping. The hesitation should comfort you - evidence that maybe he's nervous too, that maybe this costs him something. But you know Ari well enough to recognize the tactic. He's drawing it out. Making you wait. Building the tension because he knows exactly what those little dots do to your pulse.

Your heart hammers against your ribs and you hate him for it. Hate that your body is already ahead of you, already warm and restless, muscle memory doing the work your dignity should be doing. But six months of Ari has ruined you for anything or anyone else. 

Ruined you for anything that isn't his big hands on your hips holding you exactly where he wants you, his thick cock filling you up so perfectly your eyes roll back, his voice low in your ear talking you through it until you're shaking. Ari Levinson is a lot of bad things. But between your thighs he is devastatingly, infuriatingly good.

Good | 2:53 AM

Been thinking about you. | 2:53 AM

The ease of it makes you want to scream. Been thinking about you. As if that explains the two weeks of silence. As if that justifies showing up in your notifications like he still has the right.

You should ask where he's been. Who he's been with. If she knows he's texting you at three in the fucking morning.

But your thighs clench anyway, because your body doesn't care about your pride. Your body remembers what been thinking about you means in Ari's vocabulary. Remembers the last time he'd said it, three weeks ago when he'd shown up at your apartment after midnight. You'd barely gotten the door open before his mouth was on yours, walking you backward into your apartment with his hands already sliding under your shirt.

“Been thinking about you all fucking day,” he'd growled against your throat, and you'd melted like you always do, let him peel you out of your clothes and fuck you against the kitchen counter.

You'd had bruises on your hips for a week after. Had pressed your fingers into them whenever you needed to remember that you were real to him, that you weren't just imagining the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

yeah? | 2:55 AM

what about? | 2:55 AM

There's a pause. Longer this time. You can picture him so clearly it hurts. Sprawled in his bed, chest bare, all that dark hair dusting across muscle and tapering down his stomach in a trail your tongue knows by memory. The broad sprawl of his shoulders. The thick arms. The heavy muscle of his thighs. The kind of body that makes you feel small in ways you've stopped pretending you don't love. 

And already half-hard just from the anticipation of watching you slowly give in via text message.

You know what about | 3:00 AM

You do know. God help you, you know exactly what he's thinking about and your body has already started making decisions without consulting you.

that's not an answer | 3:00 AM

ari | 3:00 AM

You add his name in a second text, and you realise you’re already chasing. That’s what he does. He texts you first, casts the line, and then sits back and watches you swim toward him every time. 

I'm thinking about the way your thighs shake when you're trying not to cum before I say you can | 3:01 AM

Heat floods through you, pooling low in your belly and spreading outward until your skin feels too hot. Your free hand slides under your waistband without a second thought, fingers slipping through how wet you are and your hips tilt up into your own touch. But all you can think about is how much better he feels. 

you're an asshole | 3:02 AM

I know | 3:03 AM

Let me come over anyway | 3:03 AM

And there it is. The ask that isn't really an ask because you both know how this ends. The presumption that should offend you but doesn't because he's earned it, hasn't he? Six months of this dance, of you saying no and meaning yes, of drawing boundaries and then opening the door anyway when he shows up with that look in his eyes.

You stare at the message until the words start to blur. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

This is the moment. The fork in the road where you prove to yourself, to your friends, to your therapist, to everyone who's watched you self-destruct over Ari fucking Levinson that you're capable of choosing yourself. That you're more than the girl who waits for 3 AM texts. That you deserve someone who doesn't make you feel like a toy he keeps on the shelf until he wants something warm to sink into.

i'm not the one you should be texting at 3am | 3:05 AM

There. Boundaries. Self-respect. All the things you're supposed to have.

Probably not | 3:06 AM

But you're the one I want | 3:06 AM

Four words and you feel them everywhere. The lie tastes bitter even secondhand, transmitted through pixels and cellular data. The one I want. Not the only one - you're not quite delusional enough to believe that. But the one he wants right now. 

Presumably she's asleep, blissfully unaware that her—what? Boyfriend? Situationship? Whatever Ari is to her—is currently sexting his other whatever-the-fuck-you-are. Maybe she's in the bathroom. Maybe she's asleep next to him and he's doing this anyway, getting off on the proximity of the secret. The thought makes you nauseous and aroused in equal measure.

You should say to fuck off. Should tell him to lose your number, block him for real this time, delete the photos from your phone and burn the clothes he's left in your closet. Should pull your hand out from under your waistband and go to sleep. Should feel literally anything other than the dark, sick satisfaction currently unfurling in your chest at the thought of him choosing your bed over hers. 

fine | 3:09 AM

You send it before you can talk yourself out of it. Then you drop your phone face down on the mattress like you can't stand to look at what you've just done. Three seconds later you pick it back up.

One word. All that internal warfare and it comes down to four letters and no punctuation, casual as anything, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribs. Like your fingers aren’t still moving absently between your thighs because your body made the decision before you even sent that text. 

20 minutes | 3:10 AM

Be ready for me | 3:11 AM

The command in those last four words makes your stomach flip. You drop your phone onto the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, your heart still racing, your body already preparing itself.

Twenty minutes to shower, to shave, to make yourself into the version of yourself that he wants. Twenty minutes to pretend you haven't been wanting this every single night for two weeks. Twenty minutes to become the girl who's winning, even though you both know she's losing.

Your phone buzzes twice more, and you grab it so fast you nearly drop it.

Wear that black set | 3:13 AM

You know the one | 3:13 AM

You do know. Of course you know. The lace set he'd bought you a month ago, presented in expensive tissue paper after he'd cancelled dinner plans for the third time. “Let me make it up to you,” he'd murmured, watching you unwrap it with heat in his eyes. 

You'd worn it for him that same night. Had modelled the set while Ari sat on the edge of your bed watching you with dark eyes and that infuriating half smile, turning you with one finger like you were something he'd commissioned. Had ended up on your back with the lace pushed aside and his mouth on your throat while he fucked you slow enough to make you beg for it.

The sick satisfaction blooms darker, spreading wider through your chest like poison ivy.

── ⟢  ₊ 🌙 ˚・🥀 ⊹ 

The knock comes at exactly 3:32 AM. Three sharp raps, confident and unapologetic. The knock of someone who has never once considered that he might not be welcome.

You've been perched awkwardly on the arm of your couch for the last three minutes, fingers worrying the tie of your robe into knots. The black lace sits against your skin like a reminder of every bad decision that's led to this moment, delicate and expensive and utterly wasted on what's about to happen. The set and the silk robe thrown over it feels like costuming, like you’re playing the part of someone in control.

You're not in control. You haven't been since the first time Ari Levinson looked at you like you were something worth ruining himself for.

Padding over to the door, silk robe whispering against your thighs, you take one steadying breath before you open it. And there he is.

He's devastating. That's the only word for it. Big in a way that makes your apartment feel like a dollhouse. Shoulders broad enough to block out the hallway light, and tall enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. 

The t-shirt stretched across his chest leaves nothing to the imagination, which is almost funny because your imagination doesn't need the help anymore. You know that body. Know it embarrassingly well. Know exactly how it feels to be underneath it - small, delicate and so deliciously overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Your thighs press together involuntarily at the thought.

His hair is slightly mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look softer than he is. And the beard - god the beard - is fuller than the last time you saw him, framing a mouth that knows exactly how to destroy you.

But it's his eyes that do the real damage. Blue enough to drown in, they rake over you with a possessive appreciation that’s entirely unapologetic. 

“Look at you,” Ari rumbles, voice already rough, deeper than usual. His eyes linger where your robe has fallen open just enough to reveal the black lace underneath, tongue flicking out to brush his bottom lip. “You trying to kill me?”

“You told me to wear it.” You lean against the doorframe, trying for casual, but your pulse is hammering visibly in your throat and you know he can see it.

“I did.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, and the smile that crosses his face is slow and pleased and entirely too satisfied with itself. His eyes sweep over you once again, like he's taking inventory of something that belongs to him. “And you listened, you’re always such a good girl for me.”

His praise unfurls something warm and pathetic in your chest. You hate how much you want to be his good girl, how desperately you crave the affection he'll give you.

The door clicks shut behind him and suddenly your apartment feels too small, the air too thick. He shrugs his jacket off, tosses it somewhere without looking. Underneath, the sleeves of his t-shirt are pushed to his elbows, revealing his thick forearms, corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. And attached to those big hands that know exactly how to take you apart. 

You make yourself look back up at his face. It doesn't help. His eyes are already on you, full of heat and already dark.

“Hi,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant.

“Hi, baby.” His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His palm spans from your chin to your ear, and you feel small in a way that makes your stomach flip. He could break you so easily. In some ways, he already has. “Missed you.”

The words land like a gut punch. “And whose fault is that?”

“I know.” His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. “I'm sorry.”

He's not, though. You both know he's not. Sorry would mean changing, would mean choosing you in daylight instead of just in the dark. But then his hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back further, and his mouth hovers just above yours. Waiting. The bastard is waiting for you to close the distance, chase it, prove how much you want him.

“You're an asshole,” you whisper against his lips.

“You said that already.” His breath mingles with yours. “Say it again. I like when you're mean to me.”

You should. Should call him every name you've been saving up for two weeks. Should ask him where he's been, who he's been with, if she knows he's here. Should demand answers or respect or literally anything other than this.

Instead you kiss him.

His hand tightens in your hair the second your lips touch his, taking over immediately, changing the angle to deepen it on his terms. Your mouth opens instinctively when his tongue presses against your bottom lip, and he licks into you like he owns it. You whimper into it and he swallows the sound whole, pulls back just enough to drag his teeth across your bottom lip before coming back deeper. Tasting you. Taking his time. His other hand grips your jaw, holding you steady, and the message is clear - you're not going anywhere, and you both know it.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he groans, punctuating it with another kiss. “Missed those pretty noises you make for me.”

Pulling back just enough to breathe, eyes dark, he swipes his thumb across your swollen bottom lip, dragging it down. Without thinking, your tongue dips out and chases his thumb. He notices. Of course he notices, the corner of his mouth curving as he steps back and drops onto your couch. One arm stretches along the back it, the other rests on his thigh, and his legs spread wide in an easy sprawl.

“Come here, baby.”

He tilts his head at the space between his knees, one finger curling in a single lazy beckon, and your feet are moving before your brain has any say in the matter.

You stop between his thighs and his hands find your hips immediately. Big, warm, and immediately possessive, settling on your hips with a certainty that makes your breath catch. You make the mistake of looking down at him and catching those deadly blue eyes looking back up at you through thick lashes, and your stomach drops straight through the floor. Standing between his spread thighs you feel it acutely, how much larger he is. How solid. His hands nearly span your entire waist and something about that, about being held so easily, makes heat pool low and insistent.

His fingers find the tie of your robe and toy with it, unhurried, knuckles grazing your stomach through the silk.

“This is pretty,” he murmurs, tugging one end of the belt slowly until the bow dissolves. Your robe falls open and his eyes drop, taking in the full view of black lace underneath. “But I like what's underneath better.”

The silk whispers off your shoulders and pools at your feet, leaving you in nothing but scraps of lace while he remains completely, infuriatingly dressed. And that thought alone - the disparity of it - sends heat rushing straight between your thighs. His eyes devour you slowly, like you're something he's very pleased with himself for having.

The thick bulge straining against his jeans suggests he's more than just pleased.

A sharp inhale escapes you when his hand palms your ass, tugging you closer between his spread thighs until his mouth finds your midriff. Warm lips press against your skin in lazy kisses as your hands slide into his hair. His hands smooth up the backs of your thighs to grip your hips, anchoring you in place, and his mouth moves across your skin slow enough to make you dizzy.

“Do me a favour, babygirl,” he rumbles against you, thumb tracing the lace at your hip, light enough to make you shiver. “Give me a little spin, yeah?” The timbre of his voice has dropped somewhere sinful. “Want to see all of you.”

Your face flushes but you obey, turning in the circle of his thighs while his hand guides you. You feel his gaze like a physical touch, lingering on the curve of your ass where the lace cuts high, on the line of your spine, on the backs of your thighs.

“God, I missed this view,” he groans. “Come back here.”

When you complete the turn, both his hands reach for you, gripping your hips and pulling you forward into his lap in one smooth motion that steals your breath. You end up straddling him, thighs spread wide over his, the rough denim of his jeans against your bare skin. His mouth finds yours immediately, greedier this time, more demanding, tongue sliding against yours while his hands roam. Your waist, your back, your ass, mapping you like he's reminding himself of everything he's been missing.

One hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple through the lace until it peaks, and then he pinches lightly. You gasp into his mouth, hips grinding forward instinctively. 

“That's it,” he breathes. “Fuckin’ love the sounds you make. Love feeling you respond to me.”

His hips roll up slightly and the pressure against your clit makes your head fall back. He takes advantage immediately, mouth moving to your throat, beard scraping sensitive skin as he kisses and bites his way down to your collarbone.

“Ari—” Your hands fist in his hair, needing something to hold onto.

“I've got you baby.” His hands slide to your hips, guiding you into a rhythm, encouraging you to grind against him. “That's my girl, take what you need. Use me.”

So you do. Hips rolling, chasing the friction, grinding down against the thick ridge of him while his mouth stays greedy on your throat. His hands guide you, encourage you, grip harder when you hit the right angle. The lace between your thighs is soaked through, dragging against denim with every roll of your hips.

“Soaking these pretty panties,” he rasps against your collarbone, like he can feel exactly how wet you are through his jeans. “Love having you like this. Love watching you fall apart. All for me.”

The praise washes over you, warm and devastating. He's always been good at this - making you feel seen, special, like you're the only person in the world who matters. It's intoxicating and dangerous and you can feel yourself getting lost in it, in him.

Your hips are moving faster now, chasing more friction, and he matches your rhythm with slow, controlled rolls of his hips that drag against your clit through your panties and make your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part around a needy little sound you have absolutely no control over, hips stuttering forward greedily as your head tips back.

“Fuck, look at you. So beautiful when you're desperate for it.” His hand slides up to cup your face, thumb pressing against your parted lips and tilting your chin back down until you meet his eyes. They're dark, pupils blown wide, and the heat in them makes your breath stutter. “You have any idea what you do to me babygirl? How fucking crazy you make me?”

You want to believe him. Want to believe that this means something, that you're not just convenient and willing at 3 AM. But the wanting is what breaks you. His hips roll up and pleasure spikes through you sharp. You're so turned on it aches, so close to the edge already, and underneath all of it is the creeping, horrible feeling of wanting this to mean what it doesn't mean.

“My girl.” His mouth brushes yours as he says it, barely a kiss. The hand on your cheek slides into your hair as his hips keep moving. You can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this, wants you, and for a moment it's so easy to believe that wanting and choosing are the same thing.

“You'll always be my girl, won't you? You know that.”

The thing is, you do know. That's the problem. You know it in the way his name in your phone makes your stomach drop. In the way you put on the black lace without hesitating. In the way your body has been his since the first time he touched you and has never quite figured out how to belong to itself again. You know it in your bones.

But knowing you're his and knowing he's yours are two very different things. And only one of them is true.

The first tear slips free before you can stop it and you instinctively try to hide your face in his neck. Seeking his warmth, his scent and the solid size of him, because he has ruined you so thoroughly that even now, even like this, he’s what your body reaches for. He’s the reason you’re crying and he’s who you want to cry into and that’s the most pathetic part of it.

But his hand catches your face before you can, palm curving around your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks. Your lips pucker involuntarily into a helpless little pout, fresh tears spilling over his fingers as he forces you to look directly at him. 

“Oh baby,” he coos, soft and devastating and not entirely kind. His hips roll up and you whimper through the pout he’s forcing on your lips, grinding you against his erection in a rhythm that makes your body sing even as your heart splinters “What’s this? What’s going on in that pretty head?”

His thumb swipes at your tears almost lazily, eyes tracking each one with a toxic mix of heat and hunger and satisfaction barely concealed beneath concern. The humiliation and the pleasure coil into something indistinguishable from each other, and the need between your thighs deepens with every tear he collects.

“I cant do this anymore,” you manage, small and pathetic and entirely unconvincing. 

More tears follow, hot and wet against your cheeks. Beneath you he's harder than before, thick and obvious through his jeans, his free hand pressing your hips down into a rhythm you're helpless to resist. The friction drags a moan out of you that breaks halfway into a sob, messy and humiliating, and you're still pouty-lipped and crying in his palm. He watches it happen with those dark, greedy eyes before schooling his expression back into something that looks like concern. 

He tilts his head, blue eyes wide and earnest, and you feel insane. Like you've invented the problem out of thin air. “Where’s this coming from?”

The gentleness of his tone is pure performance. Like he has no idea why you'd be falling apart in his lap. Like he isn’t the architect of every wound he’s now pretending to care about. Like your tears aren’t exactly what he came here for.

“You know where.” You try to pull away but his hand tightens on your cheeks, keeping you seated firmly in his lap, keeping the thick ridge of his cock pressed right against your clit through the soaked lace.

“I really don't, baby.” His thumb swipes another tear. “Talk to me.”

But you can't. Can't articulate the war happening inside you. The way your body is screaming yes while your heart is screaming no. Can't explain that you're furious and desperate and so far gone for him that the anger only makes you want him more.

More tears spill over and you watch his pupils dilate, watch his breath catch.

“We're done,” you finally say, the words muffled and graceless against the pout his fingers are still forcing on your lips. “I mean it this time.”

For a second he just stares at you, and then his expression shifts into something that makes your stomach drop. Not surprised - of course not - just entirely indulgent like you're a child throwing a tantrum.

“Aww, baby.” His voice goes soft, syrupy, as though he's talking you down from something small and silly. “Hey, hey. It's okay, good girl. Let it all out.”

“I'm serious—”

“Shh, I know. I know you are.” His thumb traces your bottom lip as his tongue drags slowly across his own. “You're upset. You've got all these big feelings and nowhere to put them, yeah? Go on baby, show me how much you're feeling right now, cry because it’s over.”

The patronizing tone makes you cry harder, as he keeps you pressed against the hard length of him that proves he's not taking any of this seriously. His eyes track each tear with rapt attention, that small smile playing at his mouth. Your face is still caught in his grip, bottom lip still protruding in that humiliating little pout, wobbling with each wet sob

He uses that grip on your face to pull you forward into his mouth before you can reply. The kiss is messy and wet and salty with your tears, his tongue licking into you like he's tasting the evidence of everything you feel for him, everything you just tried to end. You moan into it despite yourself and he swallows that too, hips rolling up beneath you slow and deliberate, keeping the rhythm, reminding your body what it wants even as your heart tries to want something else.

He pulls back only to drag his mouth across your cheek, your jaw, following the wet trails your tears have left behind. His tongue collects them one by one and the groan that rumbles out of him against your skin makes your thighs clench around his.

“So fucking sweet,” he rasps, mouth moving to find more, greedy. “My pretty little crybaby.”

Once satiated with your tears, his hand finally releases your cheeks and you collapse forward immediately, face buried in the crook of his neck where you wanted to be ten minutes ago. Your arms loop weakly around his broad shoulders, breath ragged and wet, nose pressed into his skin. You're still crying - soft, hiccuping sobs you can't quite get a handle on - yet your hips continue to grind desperately against him because your body has clearly given up on listening to your better judgment.

His other hand slides down between your bodies, palm grazing your stomach, the lace at your hip, and then the soaked fabric between your thighs. The first brush of his fingers against the soaked lace makes you moan into his throat before you can stop yourself, hips bucking helplessly into the contact.

“Ari, I said—I ended it—” But your protest is weak and entirely unconvincing because the rest dissolves into a moan that you muffle desperately against his neck.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You're drenched.” 

His fingers trace the wet fabric, and another wet moan escapes you as he presses against your clit.

“See? Your body knows what it wants even if you're confused up here.” His thumb taps gently at your temple, patronising and tender all at once.

Pushing the lace aside, the first stroke of his thick fingers through your wetness makes you moan into his neck. He hums his approval before sinking two fingers into you in one slow stroke, and your whole body shudders.

“Ari, you're not listening,” you manage between ragged breaths, hips grinding down onto his hand despite every word coming out of your mouth. “I ended it. I told you I—” Another moan chokes off the sentence as he curls his fingers deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.

“I am listening, babygirl. I hear you,” he soothes, infuriatingly gentle. “You're very upset. Very hurt. And you're handling it by making a big declaration at four in the morning while you're sitting in my lap in that lace I bought you.” He keeps pumping his fingers into you as he talks, and you can barely focus on the words. “While you're soaking my fingers and grinding on my cock.”

Your protests begin dissolve into something more honest - desperate little whines mewled into his neck because that's the only place you can hide. The tears keep falling even as your hips chase his hand, even as your fingers claw at his shoulders, even as every coherent thought you had about ending this burns away to nothing.

“Please, please, please—”

You’re so close, desperately close, trembling on the edge of it when he pulls his fingers free. The sound you make is pathetic and defeated, and goes wilfully ignored. 

Ari brings those same fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a moan that vibrates through his chest. 

“Fuck, don't know what's sweeter, baby.” His eyes track between his fingers and your wet cheeks, dark and considering. “You or those pretty tears.”

He sucks them clean one more time like he can't help himself, then reaches down.

The zip of his jeans is the loudest sound in the room. He frees himself, and you can’t help the eager noise that escapes you because god, his cock is so pretty. Thick and hard and flushed dark, the swollen head already glistening. The kind of cock that's ruined your standards permanently.

A drop of precum slides down to streak against your inner thigh before his big hands close around your hips. With an ease that always makes you feel like a doll he's positioning, he drags your soaked pussy along the length of him without pushing in. Just sliding you over him, painting himself in your wet heat while the lace stays bunched to the side and you make needy little sounds against his throat.

The fat head of his cock catches your clit and you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Ari,” you whine, a desperate little plea. “Please.”

“Please what, babygirl?” His voice is pure honey, dark and indulgent. “Tell me what you need.”

“Need you to—” Another gasp as he catches your clit again. 

“Use your words, c’mon, know you can do it.” He guides your hips forward again, achingly slow, the thick head of him nudging against your entrance before he pulls you back. Not pushing in, just making sure you know exactly what you're begging for.

“Inside,” you sob against his neck. “Please, I need your cock Ari.”

“Hmm,” he teases, almost thoughtful as he tilts his head. His hands still on your hips, holding you hovering right there, right on the edge of it. “I would, baby. You know I would.” He pauses, and you feel your heart drop into your stomach. His thumb strokes your hip in possessive circles. “But I thought you ended it. Thought you meant it this time.”

Your face snaps up to his, panic and need crashing into each other behind your eyes.

“Ari, please, no—I need you, I need—”

“Aww.” His voice softens, faux-tender, that infuriating little crease appearing between his brows. “Baby, no, I'm just doing what you asked me to do. It’s over, right? We’re done. That's what you said.” He drags you slowly over him again and the head of his cock catches your clit and you sob, fresh tears spilling hot down your cheeks. “Wouldn't want to take advantage.”

“I didn't mean it.” The words tumble out of you in a desperate rush, choked and wet and humiliating. “Ari I didn't mean it, I'm sorry, please, please I'm sorry—” You kiss him before he can answer, messy and needy, lips chasing his, hands fisting in his shirt to keep him close. “Please, I need you, I need it, please don't stop—”

You feel his cock twitch against your folds. Hot and obvious. A pulse of want he can't hide. He hums against your mouth, low and pleased, and you can feel him smiling.

“Shhh,” he breathes against your lips between kisses, voice dropping to something dark and pleased. “Look at you. Crying and begging and apologising. So fucking pretty when you're like this. Gone all dumb for my cock, haven't you?”

He drags you over him again, slow and torturous, the slick head of him catching your clit and making you whine.

“Yes,” The word falls out of you broken and grateful. “Yes, please, Ari—”

“Yeah?” His mouth moves against yours, almost amused. “You want me to take care of you? Even after you tried to end it?” Another devastating drag. “Even after you broke my heart?”

“Please, I'm yours, please—” Your hips are still chasing him, still desperate, every word collapsing into the next.

“Okay, baby. Okay.” His tone is generous now. Magnanimous, like he's bestowing something. “I'll give it to you because that's what I do, isn't it? I take care of my girl.” His hand slides to grip the base of his cock, the other tightening on your hip. “This is why you're mine, crying so pretty for my cock.”

He lines the thick, swollen head of his cock up at your entrance, and guides you down with his hand on your hip. The first inch of him has your eyes rolling back already, stretching you open with that familiar fullness that your body has been craving for two weeks.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, head tipping back briefly. “Tightest little cunt I've ever felt. Made for me, isn't it?”

You try to chase his mouth, desperate to keep kissing him, but your jaw won't cooperate. Instead, it keeps falling slack with every inch you take, lips parting uselessly around the moans pouring out of you. By the time you're fully seated your forehead is resting against his, your mouth hanging open against his lips.

“Dumb already,” he rumbles, watching your face with dark amusement, watching your wet, glassy eyes blink slowly back at him. “What am I going to do with you, baby?” His thumb finds your bottom lip, slipping into your open mouth and pressing down on your tongue. “Suck. Good girl. Keep that mouth occupied.”

You close your lips around his thumb obediently, sucking, eyes fluttering shut around the dual fullness of him in your mouth and inside you. His hips give a small, lazy roll beneath you and you whimper around his fingers.

“Go on, show me how much my little crybaby needed this.”

You find your rhythm slowly, hips rolling, chasing the friction, thighs burning with the effort of it. Ari watches you from beneath heavy lids, enjoying every second of making you work for it - not helping, not even a little. Just watching you ride him like you’re entertainment, thumb still pressed to your tongue, free hand coming up to pop the clasp of your bra like he has all the time in the world.

It falls away and his hand cups your breast immediately, squeezing, thumb dragging over your nipple before pinching it sharply. You whimper around his thumb, drool clinging to his knuckle, trailing down your chin in thin little strings.

He pinches harder and you clench around him hard enough to make him hiss, so he does it again just to feel you grip him. You're close. So desperately close you can feel it shimmering just out of reach, coiling tight in your belly with every roll of your hips. Soft whining sounds escape around his thumb with every breath.

“You getting close, baby? Want to cum?”

You nod frantically, eyes wet and pleading, drool slipping down his hand. A thin string of it pulls from your lips as you try to form the word yes.

“Then beg for it,” he purrs, lazy and mean. “You want it so bad? Let's hear it.”

You try. You really try - tongue working uselessly around his thumb, shaping syllables as best you can. What escapes is something that vaguely resembles please, mangled by saliva and his cruel pressure on your tongue, deliberately obstructing the attempt.

His grin is slow and wolfish. “That supposed to be begging?”

A desperate whine vibrates against his thumb. He presses it deeper in response, just to feel you gag, just to watch your lips stretch wider around him, and your eyes well with fresh tears.

“Nah.” His mouth drags to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Not good enough, babygirl. All I hear is spit and nonsense.” His free hand drops between your bodies, fingers brushing your clit - just a mean, fleeting touch - and you sob desperately. “Drooling all over my fingers like a needy little thing. Can't even beg right - guess you don't want it that bad, huh?”

A pathetic cry claws its way out of you, half-strangled by the thumb still in your mouth. You shake your head wildly, eyes glassy and wide. So you try harder. Put everything you have left into it, hips still rolling desperately, thighs shaking.

“P-plea'—Ari—please—wan'—wan'—cum—”

Slurred, barely English, mangled around his thumb. But desperate. Unmistakably desperate.

He groans - deep, hungry and satisfied - hips finally snapping up to meet yours. He drags his thumb from your mouth just long enough to hear the broken sob of relief that breaks loose from your lips before his mouth crashes against yours.

“Good girl,” he breathes against your tongue. “Fucking good girl.”

He fucks up into you hard, one big hand gripping the curve of your ass to slam you down to meet every thrust. The other stays between you to circle you clit with perfect pressure. Every snap of his hips hits you so deep you can feel it in your teeth. The sound of it is filthy, slick and wet and rhythmic, your apartment filled with the obscene slap of skin and your broken, mindless cries.

“Fuckin' look at you,” he growls against your jaw. “That’s my fucking girl, riding my cock so pretty.”

You can't answer. Can barely hold yourself upright. His name is the only word left in your mouth—Ari Ari Ari Ari—a desperate, broken loop as he drives into you.

“That's right.” His thumb works your clit faster, mouth dragging across your jaw. “Say it. Whose are you? Whose pussy is this?”

“Ari—” you moan. “Ari, Ari, Ari—”

“Yeah, that's right. Mine, so let me feel my pussy soak my cock.”

You break apart. Your whole body convulses, walls clamping down around him so hard he hisses, the orgasm tearing through you in wave after wave while his hips never stop, never slow. His name is still falling helplessly out of your mouth in a broken chant as he fucks you through it, hips snapping up into you while you sob and shake and clench around him.

“Fuck—fuck, baby, just like that—strangling my cock.”

His rhythm goes sloppier. Hungrier. His hand leaves your clit and his arm wraps around your waist instead, holding you against him, pinning you in place so he can fuck up into you with everything he has left.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Fill this perfect pussy with my cum.”

You nod helplessly, squeezing around him and he loses it. His hips drive up one last time, burying himself deep, and groans against your skin as he spills inside you. You feel every pulse of it. Every hot, possessive flood while you tremble in his lap, his cock still twitching, his hand still gripping your ass like he can't quite let go.

You come down slowly, in pieces, his arms still locked around you and his cock still buried deep. His mouth moves over your throat, your jaw, your tear-tracked cheeks. Soft, sweet kisses that are a complete contrast to what he just did to you.

“My perfect girl,” he murmurs, voice gentle and warm. “Always so good for me. Always so fucking perfect.”

You can't even respond. Just whimper against his shoulder while his hand strokes up and down your spine, gentling you, his other hand cradling the back of your head. You're floating somewhere between exhaustion and bliss, and he holds you through all of it, patient and warm and impossibly tender. 

Praise pours out of him in a low, constant stream, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself believe in it, just for a minute.

When he finally pulls out you feel his cum start to slip out of you immediately. Hot and slick, sliding down between your thighs onto the wet head of him still pressed against you. He glances down and tuts, both amused and disapproving.

“Mm, look at the mess you're making.” His thumb catches some of it where it's beading on his cock and brings it back up to your bottom lip, smearing it there, watching your face. Your tongue darts out before you've made any conscious decision about it. He hums, deeply pleased. “You made the mess baby, reckon you ought to help clean it up.”

He guides you off his lap slowly, careful with you, until your knees meet the floor between his spread thighs. You look up at him from there - face wet, lips parted, cum running down the insides of your thighs onto your apartment floor - and the look on his face stops your breath in your chest.

That undone, almost tender expression he never wears anywhere but here. Only ever when he thinks you can't tell, when his guard has slipped, when you've fucked him past the point where he can keep the walls up.

It's the drug. It's always been the drug. It's why you didn't block his number when you said you would. Why you opened the door at 3:32 AM. Why you let him talk you out of ending it without ever actually arguing. Why you'll do the same thing the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that. Because no one else has ever looked at you the way Ari Levinson is looking at you right now.

His thumb traces your bottom lip, possessive yet tender. “Open up, babygirl.”

more mads: honestly, i'm not entirely sure that's what the request meant, but i started listening to "don't smile" to get inspo for the fic and my mind immediately went to dacryphilia and that was it really, so um, sorry if this isn't what you meant anon, but i hope you, and anyone else who read this enjoyed anyway!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make my whole day. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 <33

taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @sheriff-bodecker @buckybsdoll @gilwm @venigrantrogers @mrsevans90 @rainyapricotcreatorparty @midnightramyeoncravings @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere

[iamsofabulous]

HPLY FUCKKSKAJABAB

[cntloup]

18+ MDNI fuck off minors!! 📢 horny hour wowie‼️ ghost and price with meek virgin fem reader highly unrealistic you take it up both holes yada yada reader is referred to as small and tiny...

you recoil into yourself shyly, drawing your legs up to your chest to hide your most sensitive parts.

"you scared, dove?" simon smirks, slowly reaching and gently moving his fingertips up and down your calf, not making a move yet.

"not gonna hurt you, pretty girl." john purrs, touching your thighs lightly, looking you over with dark eyes.

you look up at them with big glossy eyes and gulp audibly.

fear. anticipation. all coursing through your veins. you'd dream about them using you for their own pleasure.

from where you're sitting at the edge of the bed, you can see two giant mountains of men towering over you, huge monstrous cocks in their hands, angry red tips ravenously dripping with precum as they eye you like predators.

simon reaches over, placing his hands on your knees, murmuring "it's okay, baby." before slowly parting your legs as if to unravel the captured prey.

the cool air hits your core as he reveals your bare pussy to the two feral men.

you can see the seething fire in their eyes as you hold your legs spread for them.

"look at tha' cap!" simon coos, running a rough finger along your folds, gathering your arousal on his fingertips, so soaked and soft against his skin. you're practically dripping with desire.

"dirty little girl," john smirks, running a thumb over your lips, "wanna be fucked by two giant men so bad, huh?"

"p-please." you beg quietly. the noise is barely there. it's like a kitten's squeak.

"fuckin hell," simon chuckles, licking your juices off his fingers, "sweet fuckin pussy's beggin to be ruined."

"come on, girl. up—" john suddenly pulls you forward and flips you over, earning a startled yelp from you, "there you go."

simon comes up behind you as you're bent over the bed, large hands palming your plump cheeks before parting them to reveal your pretty hole, "fuckin look at tha'!"

he spits a ball of saliva over your puckered hole, rubbing in slow circles before pushing a thick digit inside, testing the waters. you gasp as he rolls it against your walls, groaning at how tight you are, chuckling "how are ya gonna take my cock, girl?" he inserts a second finger, making you squeal in return, the stretch feeling new and foreign.

simon slides his fingers in and out, prepping your tiny hole as you let out breathy moans.

"how ya feelin, doll?" john asks, "think you can take it?"

the men exchange a look, waiting for your answer.

"i- i... yeah," you squeal out, "please, y-yes"

and all of a sudden, you're in simon's burly arms, back against his broad chest with your knees beside your ears as his thick throbbing cock stretches your tight little hole so wide you think you're gonna split in half, "fuckin grippin me so tight, lovie." he hisses into your ear as your mouth falls more agape the deeper he enters.

you watch with wide eyes as john approaches. you think you can't take it. it's impossible. you're gonna break.

simon's muscular arms hold your legs wide open for him, soaked pretty pussy before his lustful eyes.

his drooling tip nudges your clit, teasingly circling it before sliding through your folds. you let out a stuttered little noise as john pushes forward. "shh, pretty girl. you can take it." he shushes you, sliding more and more inside, parting your tight untouched walls as you mewl and writhe between them.

simon holds your legs tightly as john's hands support your weight by holding your ass. they're both buried to the hilt inside your needy holes, stretching you out to your absolute limit. you feel so, so full. it's dizzying.

they give you no time to adjust and with absolutely no mercy, they thrust into you in unison, drilling their huge mean cocks in and out of your tiny holes and utterly ruining you.

in no time, your loud noises fill the room as they ram into you relentlessly, virgin holes filled up to the brim by their fat cocks.

"hear tha', cap?" simon grunts, "not a shy little lamb anymore — moaning like a fuckin whore for us."

simon's massive arms hold you all throughout while his beefy cock fucks into your tight ass, reaching places you didn't know existed and john spreads your tiny cunt open on his meaty cock, fat tip bruising your cervix as he hits that sweet spot deep inside you.

your eyes roll back and your mind goes blank, lost in pure bliss as they brutally abuse your holes.

"look at the pretty little slut," john says, "just a tiny little fucktoy for us."

you're pressed between their giant bodies, their ragged breaths in your ears, drenched in sweat, precum and your juices as they ravage your body like feral animals.

until you're left with their heavy loads pumped deep inside your sloppy abused holes, body shaking violently and brain turned to mush as they tuck your limp body into bed, kissing your forehead and praising you about how such a good little slut you were for them.

[juliennevalery]

Thinking bout Simon's truck being so big he has to lift you up by the waist to get you inside every time. The thing is, you can't even reach the fucking handle, so you don't bother trying to get in anymore after failing miserably a couple of times. His Ford's just impossible to get into gracefully.

So, you simply wait by the door, standing there pretty and patient until he's towering behind you, and you feel the warmth of his tattooed arms effortlessly scooping you up to sit your ass on the seat.

It's actually funny because you're perfectly capable of getting in yourself, but over time you started doing it on purpose. He'd never tell you that, but he knows it too. The way your face lights up every damn time you wait for him gives you away immediately. Still, he'd never dare ruin your little game.

"Si, come pick me up, please?"

You stood in front of the monster he drove until you heard the door to your house click shut and his heavy boots against the driveway.

You didn't even bother to turn around. The low, amused huff that left Simon told you everything you needed to know.

The car unlocked with a click.

"Y'know," he drawled, coming to a stop behind you, "for someone who runs their mouth as much as you do, you're awful helpless, love."

A grin tugged at your lips as you felt his hands settle on your hips, giving them a light squeeze.

"Mhm."

He snorted.

"Such a fuckin' brat."

One second your feet were planted firmly on the ground; the next, they were kicking in the air as he hauled you up against his warm chest. A squeal escaped you before you could stop it.

"Simon!" You grabbed onto his forearms.

"What?" His voice was full of that stupid satisfaction he got whenever he managed to get a reaction out of you. "Thought you wanted me to help." He murmured close to your ear, sending shivers through your body.

You loved how easy he made it look and hated how your stomach flipped every time.

But fuck, what you loved most was being manhandled by him.

By the time he set you down on the passenger seat, your face was all warm.

His hand lingered on your thigh for a second longer before he stepped back.

You narrowed your eyes. Simon looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"Creep."

"Got in the truck, didn't ya?"

You pouted.

"Buckle your seatbelt!" Simon barked out a laugh and shut the door.

"You fuckin' buckle my ass," you huffed under your breath.

The driver's side door opened.

"Did ya say something?"

"Love you, Si!"

[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.’

[rr-after-dark]

andrew cody, even at his most dominant with you, hates hearing you beg. with every past girlfriend he'd loved it. wanted to make them squirm and cry and wait. but as soon as you say "please" for anything, it makes his gut twist around itself like a knife. the idea of his pretty girl being denied anything, ever, makes him fucking sick. he never allows you to doubt if you're going to get what you want, whether it's his cock or something from a high shelf or a new tennis bracelet. he borderline growls when you have to ask one of his brothers for something twice in a row because they didn't hear or ignored you the first time.

[honeyroots]

MDNI. 18+

frank castle is hung. it’s long and thick when it’s soft, but when he’s hard, it’s almost intimidating. there’s a curve in his anatomy, and his veins give the shaft natural ribbing. how is that supposed to fit inside of you? first time he fucks you, he only lets you have the tip, and you’re still whining about how full you feel.

second time he fucks you, he decides he can put half of his cock inside of you, but not before putting his length against your belly and saying, “this is where i’m gon’ be, baby…” getting half of his cock is enough to have you drooling, babbling incoherent nonsense as he thrusts.

it takes multiple sessions before he actually sinks his full length in between your folds and stretches you around his cock. “m’not going to thrust just yet, sweetheart. why don’t you get used to the feeling of me all the way inside?”

he feels you spasm beneath him, eyes clamping shut as your walls tighten around him. you didn’t mean to finish, it’s not like he’s actually pressing his hips against yours to stimulate that special spot. he’s doing absolutely nothing except letting you stretch around him. just the imagery of his leaky tip as deep as he can go inside of you prods an orgasm. “you’re giving me one already? atta girl… made just for me, isn’t that right?”

[pinkandblueblurbs]

i just know rick makes his girl call him sir…. he gives you an order that he knows you wont like and stares you down as you contemplate giving him back talk…. when you finally mutter “okay, rick” he raises a brow

“sorry, what was that? wanna try again?”

n your cheeks burn and you have to bite the inside of your cheek so you dont say smth snippy and instead reply with an obedient “yes, sir”

“attagirl.” he grabs the side of your neck n pulls you in so he can give a quick kiss to the side of your head as a reward for listening so well <3 he knows it can be hard for his brat but all he asks for is some respect!! then he sends you off with a pat to your hip and a “go on, then. you come find me when you’re done.”

[iamsofabulous]

INNNNNITTTTT

[pinkandblueblurbs]

18+ mdni thinking about jack abott and his sweet girl who gets distracted during sex n can have trouble finishing…

he can see when you’re into it— meeting his eye, smiling, responding to his words with sweet whimpers n hushed whispers as he fucks you… but then he can see when your head goes elsewhere. your eyes glaze over a bit and drift to the ceiling, you stop grinding down to meet his thrusts.

His hand comes up to cup your face in an attempt to draw you back, and you turn your face to kiss his palm, but he knows it’s just an absentminded reflex.

“Hey.” Jack urges, voice a low rasp. “Hey, doll. Look at me.” He smiles gently when you finally meet his eye with a small one of your own. “Where’d you go, pretty girl? Gotta stay with me.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, all breathy as Jack’s hips snap forward n his cock kisses your cervix. “Just thinking.”

Jack shakes his head, light and easy and hardly a reprimand. “You’ve got all the time in the world to think, sweetheart. I need you to focus right now, can you do that for me?”

You nod.

“Feel this?” He rolls his hips again, slow and deep. “Feel how full you are?”

You nod again, and this time your brows furrow n your face scrunches in pleasure as you fully find your way back to the present.

“Yeah. Attagirl. Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” You breathe out. You let your back arch, rutting down against Jack to chase that build-up you need. He nods encouragingly.

“There you go. You’re doing such a good job.” Jack’s hand moves low between your bodies. He finds your clit, rolls it between the pads of his index and middle fingers.

He smirks when you moan and tremble. He knows you’re getting there, but also knows that you could just as easily lose it again. So he keeps talking.

“Such a good girl for me. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, then your neck, then he connects his lips to yours and lets his tongue sweep inside, swallowing your next moan. He’s panting softly when he pulls away.

His fingers speed up just a bit when he can tell that you need more. He nods, urging you along when your hands come up to grip his shoulders and you look at him with desperate eyes. He keeps the encouragement flowing freely. “Good girl. Come on, you can do it. I feel you getting close, babydoll. You’re doing so well. I wanna feel you to cum on my cock.”

Your brows knit in concentration and you writhe on the bed, trying to move the right way and find the right angles to finally send yourself over the edge.

When it works you tighten up everywhere— your fingers dig into the freckled flesh of Jack’s shoulders, your body goes rigid, your mouth slackens in a long, airy moan. Jack groans lowly at the feeling of your walls clenching up around him, pulling his cock in deep.

“Goood girl.” Jack grits out. His hips stutter as he diligently fucks you through your orgasm. “You’re so good, honey. Fuck.” His forehead falls against yours, sweaty gray curls pressing against your hairline and lust-blown eyes mere inches from your own. “That never gets fucking old.”

[pinkandblueblurbs]

bro!bf frank LOVES to embarrass u around mr abbot </3 (totally not even related to the tiniest bit of jealousy)

18+ mdni yes!! this isn’t rlly going with the jealousy angle, but… frank is such a dirty freak and sometimes when he teases you and eggs you on enough he can get you to let loose and say some nasty stuff too… which you really need to be careful about, because he always uses it against you :/

like you’re riding jack by the pool and frank comes right up behind you and starts groping your tits. leans down to mouth at your ear and neck while jack groans at the feeling of you bouncing on him. “You tell Mr. Abbot what you said to me last night, pretty girl?”

You whine, immediately knowing what he’s referring to, and turn to hide your face in his neck. “Frank.”

Jack eyes you both with amusement, clearly intrigued. “Uh oh, pumpkin. Were you talkin’ about me?” He smirks when you shrink back even further. His hands find your waist to pull you down flush, halting your movements and drawing you close again.

“Don’t get shy now.” Frank prods. His hand snakes down to play with your clit, eager to get you needy enough to let the words fly freely. “Tell him what you said while my dick was inside you. What’d you have me do?”

Your eyes squeeze shut. You really don’t wanna say, but Jack’s hold is unyielding and you’re desperate to fuck down on him again. Your voice comes out small and unsure, “Said I want your fingers too.”

“Mhmm,” Frank croons. “Why, princess?” You wince.

“To fill me up like Mr. Abbot does.”

“Fuck,” Jack grits out, low and gruff.

“There it is.” Frank grins. “Nothing stretches you out quite like his nice thick cock, huh?” He chuckles when you shake your head then catches Jack’s eye. “Gave her my dick and three fingers and she was still whining for you.”

“Babygirl,” Jack growls. “You like takin’ my big cock in your sweet little pussy? Yeah?” You nod shyly, and he rolls his hips upwards to reward you. “Why don’t you tell me, doll. Just like you told Frank.” You bite your lip. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, sweetie.”

You whimper. “I love taking your big cock, Mr. Abbot. Feels so good.”

“Good girl.” He groans, thrusting up into you hard enough to make you yelp. “You’re so fuckin’ cute when you talk like that.”

[pinkandblueblurbs]

robby in my head is so stoic and strict and just rarely ever folds however.... there's something about reader pouting and calling him daddy in a warbly voice that just folds him like a fucking lawnchair..... obviously in a robby way

a quiet "i'm really sorry daddy, i won't do it again" through pouty lips with teary eyes has him stroking your face and going "alright honey, you're fine, i know you won't" as he starts to ease up on whatever cruel thing he was doing to you. bonus for him making you pout by squeezing your cheeks together when he's feeling mean.

18+ mdni tw: face slapping wait… wait wait wait wait…. this is so good….. i have 2 distinct thoughts:

sweet robby who lessens a punishment when you get genuinely pouty and guilty!! he's not one to totally go back on it the way jack might, but despite what he says he obviously has a huge soft spot for you. when he tells you you're getting 15 and you're crying and apologizing so sweetly by 10 he definitely takes it super easy for the last few hits!! he'll give you a break, massage your stinging ass with his big hand and say "I know, sweetheart. Thank you for apologizing. You're such a good girl. Just gotta finish 'em out, okay?" He nods along condescendingly as you tearfully shake your head. "You'll be alright, you can take it. "

on the flip side... mean!robby when he catches on to you trying to sweet talk him to get off easy... you know sometimes he folds so when you're feeling slick one night you blink up at him with a pout and a whine that's a little too cute and reverent ""M sorry, daddy, I promise I'll be good"

and he spanks your ass again then raises a brow at you. gives you a faux sympathetic pout. “Think that’s gonna work on me, sweetheart?" His other hand grasps your cheeks, squeezes to make your lips jut out further. "This little sad face? Not quite. Here, let daddy help you.”

next thing you know his palm making swift contact with your cheek. Your head jerks to the side, and you whimper softly as your cheek stings and hot tears prick your eyes. "There we go, get those tears going. Maybe that'll work, huh?"

[pinkandblueblurbs]

kinda on the separation anxiety wave- reader being homesick at mr abbots house and they fuck for Robby on FaceTime :,(

18+ mdni hnnggh omg staying at jack’s bc robby and frank are both out of town for a few days at the same time :(( nightmare!! you’re having a blast w mr abbot the first couple days but on day 3 you’re starting to feel all out of sorts….

jack’s fucking you that night, trying his damndest to make you feel better, but your brows are still in a distraught furrow and a sad little pout is on your lips and your heart doesn’t seem in it. “Pumpkin,” jack cups your face, his own expression contorted in sympathy “Do you wanna stop?—“

“No.”

“Okay, alright.” Jack’s thrusts have slowed to a steady, deep, easy rhythm. “Why don’t you rub your clit, babygirl. Make yourself feel good for me.”

You shake your head, and Jack’s brows shoot up, at a loss. “No? Why not— do you want me t-“

“Daddy doesn’t let me unless I ask him.” You whimper. Jack can see the shiny start of tears pooling in your eyes, and he coos.

“Oh, honey.” He pauses for a moment. “Why don’t we ask him then, huh? You wanna talk to your daddy?” you nod furiously, swiping away the tears that threaten to spill past your waterline. “Yeah. Attagirl.”

jack grabs his phone and calls robby

robby picks up on the third ring. he sounds a bit tired when he greets “Hey, brother. Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine— a certain someone’s just missing you.”

“Daddy,” you whine.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Robby keeps his voice low and steady to soothe you. “You behaving yourself?”

“Yes” You murmur. Your hands grapple for the phone and take it from Jack’s hands as Robby’s deep, familiar chuckle sounds over the line.

you whine at the screen that greets you, fingers fumbling to switch to a facetime. Robby’s faint grunt picks up as he deciphers the prompt on his screen before his face finally appears.

“There’s my girl.” Robby smiles, and when you smile back Jack feels a surge of relief. “Look at you— you in bed? Are you—“ he laughs as he processes your subtle rocking movements— “Is Jack fucking you right now?”

Your smile morphs into a bashful grin, your lower lip caught between your teeth. robby groans. “Fuck, sweetheart. You missed me that bad even with Jack’s cock inside you?”

“Yes,” you whimper. Now that he knows, Robby can hear it in your voice clear as day— the breathiness, the little choked gasps as jack buries himself to the hilt.

“She’s been such a brave girl about it, Mike.” Jack murmurs, his hand coming up to grope your tit. Robby curses as he watches. “But I think it finally caught up to her.”

Robby hums. “Well I’m right here, baby. Why don’t you show me that little pussy- let me see how well Jack’s taking care of you.”

[gxtitobxby]

cw: blood duh, violence duh, daddy kink duh not proofread im just brain dumping

you walk into your apartment in your mini skirt and kitten heels already chattering away at frank with a bunch of shopping bags on one hand and an sickeningly sweet iced coffee in the other only to find a man tied to a chair in the middle of your living room. you barely get a second to process the blood splattered on the new persian rug you just last week convinced your boyfriend to let you buy when said boyf slams a hammer on the man's kneecap. your iced coffee hits the ground just as you start screaming.

frank turns at the blood curling scream, but he relaxes when he takes you in. "sweethea—"

the man takes his chance and screams through the blood filling his mouth, "help me," the blood is thick and goopy as it drips down his chin. your tummy turns at the sight and your hands start to shake. "please, you gotta help m—hmph" frank's fist lands against the man's face with a sickening crunch and a tooth comes flying out of his mouth.

"didn't say you could talk to her, did I?"

your squealing goes up a notch and now your hands are over your eyes. frank drops the hammer on the man's toes, startling another pained moan out of him but frank is unmoved. "baby—"

"my rug!" you warble out, still confused on whether any of this is real, peeking from between your fingers.

frank looks down, winces at the red puddle that seems to only get bigger with time. "shit, sorry, ba—"

"and my drink!" you cry, now pointing your shaking finger at the man bleeding out on the chair. "he's bleeding all over the place, wha— I don't—"

frank shushes you before you can talk yourself into a tizzy. "hey, it's alright, hey" he goes to step towards you then reconsiders. he's covered in blood, and he's pretty sure getting it on the coach bag you just got with his credit card might be what tips you over the edge.

"s'alright, sweetheart, don't gotta worry. I'm almost done here, yeah? let me finish up then I'll take you out, ok? dinner? that place on 5th."

you blink at him, then back at the man when he whimpers.

"hey," your eyes fly back to frank, who's chasing your gaze with his hands up in what he hopes is a reassuring way. "you trust me, right? you know I take care you. wouldn't let anything happen to you, would I?"

you shake your head, because of course he wouldn't. he mirrors your head movements, trying not to spook you. "that's right, daddy takes care of you, doesn't he?"

"daddy takes care of me" you nod - and you don't stop nodding, just up and down until he's worried you're gonna make yourself dizzy. the man behind him starts to gurgle and frank sighs, picking the hammer back up.

"right, so you gotta trust me, yeah? turn around and put your hands over your ears, you hear? eyes closed, baby, c'mon let me see it."

only after you do as he says does he swing. you are never getting that blood out of the carpet now, that's for sure.

a/n: really fuck with the idea of frank and a hyperfem ditzy girl. she is a prissy little bunny girl :') heavily inspired by @/glossykissies bunny reader I am so obsessed with everything she writes!!

[kooolgirl]

he would let you start when you were ready

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

summary: fuck the space! you need your husband back

part 2!

part 1, definitely doing more harm to you

masterlist!

a/n: requests are open!! been having bad writer’s block :(((

“soap m’ tellin ya,” simon begins, taking a sip of his beer, “never seen ‘er so upset.”

the british brute decided to call his mate when you kicked him out, asking him to meet at their local bar. “be there soon, ghost.” johnny didn’t miss the troubled tone in his lieutenant’s voice, so he knew something serious was going on.

both of the muscular men were two beers deep, now working on their third— just teetering on the brim of tipsy. it sucked being so big sometimes.

“she’s been in ‘tis rut for multiple days. m’ tried and tried to help ‘er out, but nothin’,” simon continues, eyeing his wedding band. he brought his right hand to fidget with the jewelry, “it got so bad tonigh’…”

a pause— silence consuming them, becoming a part of the conversation. simon struggled to resume, still in disbelief himself about what happened just a few hours ago. he took another sip of his beer, maybe more of a long gulp, then, a deep breath, “she started hittin’ m’. thought m’ sweet lass was gonna hurt ‘erself.”

johnny, sharing his lieutenant’s disbelief, couldn’t stop it from showing on his face. the scottish man’s eyes widened and his mouth fell agape, “hit ya? y/n hit ya?” you wouldn’t even hurt a fly, how could you hit your husband?

the man nodded, confirming, “couldn’ believe it either soap, but tha’s not tha point. we both know she didn’t cause any pain.”

finishing the last drops of his beer, simon slammed the empty glass on the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. the thud from the glass caused stares from onlookers nearby, but a scary, threatening glare from the brit made them turn away.

“tha point ‘s that she got so stressed out, it lead to ‘er havin’ a total breakdown. m’ didn’ know how to help ‘er, johnny. m’ sweet wife…” the larger man started to trail off, his rambling quieting.

the scott hated seeing his mate upset, never seeing his lieutenant in such a perturbed state.

johnny let a few seconds pass before trying, “ya gave ‘er what she asked for. tha’s all ya can do, LT,” finishing his beer now, “ya did everythin’ right.”

ring. ring. ring.

simon’s phone started vibrating, the ringtone barely audible over the bustling crowd and music at the bar.

both men glanced down at his phone on the table, your caller id flashing across the screen, “m’ told ‘er to call when she needed m’.”

johnny smiled at his mate, patting his back, “go help yer wife. i’ll cover us.” “thank ya, johnny. for everythin’.”

the military men gave a final head nod to each other, your husband answering your call on his way out, “hello? luvie’?”

simon was frantic, long strides getting him to his truck, “are ya there? m’ comin’ home to ya.” the brit waited for a response, turning his radio all the way down to hear.

he almost missed it, the subtle sounds of your sobs, “can hear ya, hon. shhh, it’s alrigh’. yer husband’s comin’,” he coos, trying to console you.

“s-si!” he heard you hiccup out. “yes, sweet’eart. m’ ‘ere.”

“i’m s-so, so sorry,” more wailing left you, “i can’t believe i hit you, kicked you out— oh my gosh, si, i’m sorry.”

simon imagined what his wife looked like, body curled into itself, hands tugging at your poor hair. he knew you would have the worst headache after all this crying.

“sweetie, it’s alrigh’. know ya been strugglin’ lately. jus’ wanna help ya-” “exactly, simon! all you’ve tried to do is just help me and i keep p-pushing you away! i’ve been a terrible wife to you,” you interrupted him, voice trembling when it raised, “you’re such a caring husband, a-and i treat you like shit.”

“luvie’, please. m’ almost home,” he took a left turn. only two right turns before he makes it to you, “let m’ take care of ya.” you cried out to your husband, “si.”

when he entered the front door, he saw you in the same spot he left you— right in the entrance way, though, you were sitting on the floor now, back against the wall.

he frowned at the revelation, “oh, m’ sweet fawn,” stepping towards you, the familiar creak of the hardwood under his size 13 boot. he scooped you into his strong arms, guiding your legs to wrap around his built torso, something you’ve done hundreds of times before. encircling your arms around his neck, you placed your head onto his chest, “s-simon. i’m sorry.”

you felt him slither his hands along your spine, the deep shhh’s rumbling from his chest encouraging your cries to assuage. “yer husband’s gotcha, sweet’eart. m’ ‘ere.”

he walked you both to your shared bedroom, sitting on the bed with you still in his hold. he let you rest in his arms, still gliding his hands up and down your back. he would let you start when you were ready.

a couple minutes passed, then, “i don’t really know what’s wrong with me.”

you leaned away, hand fiddling with your wedding band, a fidget you and simon apparently shared. your husband’s hands moved to either side of your hips when you leaned back, a soft squeeze and “go on,” encouraging you to proceed.

“i feel so useless, si. i haven’t been able to get out of bed, help around the house— i- i haven’t had the energy to do anything! all my projects are forgotten! my days are wasting away! i’m w-wasting myself away,” you were getting worked up again, your husband frowning when he watched you pull at your strands of hair.

promptly grabbing your hands to stop your actions, he brought you back into his hold. “the world f-feels like it’s eating me, simon. l-like i’m sinking and can’t swim up.”

“luv’, didn’ know ya were feelin’ like tha” he kisses your forehead, “we’re gonna get ya help. m’ promise.”

over the next few days, that’s what your husband did— he spent time researching for a high-rated therapist that would accept your insurance, scrubbing your body clean in your shared showers, cooking you meal after meal, cuddling with you. your husband even drove you to your therapy appointments, “m’ so proud of ya, luvie’,” when you’d return, littering kisses all over your face.

he monitored your medicine, assuring you consumed it at the correct hour every day, picking up your refill prescription when it ran out.

simon vowed to take care of his wife, to honor and sustain you, in sickness and in health, and that he was going to do, no matter what it took.

[gutsby]

X

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Summary: Simon finds your G-spot.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex

Note: I’m on Instagram now (kinda), come say hi :-)

Word count: 2.1k

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.

You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.

By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.

And things had only been official for a week.

You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.

He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.

Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move

Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.

You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.

“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.

You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.

“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.

Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”

He slid deeper for emphasis.

You didn’t.

You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.

“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.

Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.

This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.

Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.

“Better?” The man’s question was simple.

Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.

You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.

Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.

“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”

“I—I know, I just can’t—”

At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.

You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.

“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”

The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.

“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”

“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”

“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”

But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.

Maybe you’d never found that place after all.

This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.

You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.

Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”

“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.

Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.

With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.

You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.

“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”

Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.

It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.

“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.

“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”

Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.

Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.

He still held onto your other hand tight.

Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.

Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:

“Higher.”

“Higher?”

“Um, to the…to the left.”

Simon tilted his hips left.

Yes.

That was just it. So close.

Almost…

Or, maybe…

“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”

Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.

Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”

The grin above you stretched even wider.

“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.

“Right there.” You nodded furiously.

A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.

“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.

“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”

Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.

The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.

Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.

You realized as much when he whispered it to you.

“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”

Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.

“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.

“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”

The ones that you’d been with before.

You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.

Simon was back inside you in a blink.

Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.

He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.

Vindicated.

“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”

You nodded in agreement.

You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.

“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”

When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.

And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.

Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.

“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.

His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.

You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”

“Feel good when I hit it?”

“Fucking perfect, Si.”

You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.

“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”

“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”

“Go on then, love.”

And, shortly, you did.

Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.

Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.

It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”

You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.

He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.

“That’s what I’m here for, lovie.”

[iamsofabulous]

lawwwddddd

[xocoeurenporcelaine]

𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who carries all of the heavy shopping bags when you go to the mall. Buff arms piled high with cloth and paper bags.

𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who follows you into every store without any complaint. 

𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who won’t complain when you take him into the candle store even tho just passing it gave him a small headache.

𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who will smell every candle you brought up to his nose to sniff.

“That doesn’t smell bad.” You said, bringing the large candle back to your nose for another sniff.

Simon’s nose scrunched. He didn’t like it. It was too sweet for his liking. “Bit sweet, innit?”

“It’s mild to me.” You replied as you flipped the candle to look at the fragrance notes. “Maybe you just have a better nose than me.”

“Maybe.”

𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who lingers outside of the changing room, arms crossed as he leans against the cool wall - patiently waiting for you to push the curtain to the side and model the clothing you picked out.

“Does this look good?” you asked, running your hands down your waist.

Simon's eyes examined you from head to toe. “Look lovely, dove.” His tone was almost bored as he replied.

You hummed as you tilted your head side to side. You twisted your body in the mirror, getting every angle to determine whether you liked it. “I don’t know...”

He watched as you twisted and turned. Simon’s mouth turned into a subtle frown. “What do you not like about it?”

“Sits weird here.” You grabbed the extra fabric darting around the armpit.

𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who will grab different sizes of the clothing you're trying on if the one you brought into the room didn't fit right at first. He’d keep grabbing until one was just right for you.

“That fit better?” He asked through the thin curtain.

You pulled the curtain back with a smile beaming on your face. Now modeling the tailored clothing happily. “Yeah!”

𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who sneakily pays for most of the shopping. If you took too long to pay, he’d pay. If you took too long to get the right amount of change, he’d already swipe his card. So fast you didn’t even realize it until you held out your cash or card.

𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who would take you to dinner if you were at the mall past dinner time. Taking you to a nearby fish and chips shop, making sure you got your fill.

𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who, when you’d get home, would bring your legs over his lap and rub your sore feet as you both crashed on the couch. He’d watch some football game as he pressed his thumb into your arch, almost absentmindedly.

a/n: simon is a good boyfriend, can't change my mind (>'-'<)

[kooolgirl]

a chronically tired reader x husband simon riley who’ll do absolutely anything for her??

like rub her feet, help her shower, help her clean her teeth, her hair etc?? <33

it’s not like you were doing it on purpose

pairing: husband!simon "ghost" riley x chronically tired wife!reader

summary: your husband takes good care of you and things around the house

masterlist!

a/n: what a cute request, anon <33 had so much fun writing!!! requests are open!!

your husband was supposed to be returning home sometime soon.

simon was sent on a mission for only two weeks this time, one of the shortest in his career, but it has felt like an eternity for you. your chronic tiredness has not been treating you well these last couple weeks.

it’s not like you were doing it on purpose. a few dishes in the sink turned into piles, garbage started overflowing in the trash bins around your home, some finding refuge on the floor, your dirty laundry basket spilling over with your clothes— all the chores you’ve neglected since your husband’s been gone.

you haven’t been able to get out of bed, and when you did, it was to lay on your couch. no matter how much you slept, it never got better. you could sleep for over twelve hours and still feel drowsy when you woke, like you could use another fourteen hours of sleep.

you couldn’t even muster up the energy to shower most days, nor brush your poor teeth and hair. you were just so tired all the time, your body always feeling sore in random areas.

knowing your husband was returning later, you planned on cleaning up your disgusting mess before he arrived. he’s spent the last two weeks living in tight, dingy bunkers getting shot at, so you wanted him to be greeted with a spotless house.

things didn’t go quite as planned.

your chronic tiredness having other ideas, you fell asleep on the couch before you could start.

“sweet’eart?” simon calls out, removing his size 13 boots as he closed the front door to your shared home.

the beefy brit shrugged off his jacket, a groan leaving him as his sore muscles ached. hanging the jacket in its designated spot on the coat rack, “m’ home!” he called again, voice louder.

he heard no response back, thinking to himself, wonda where she ‘s?

rounding the corner, he saw the overfilled trash bin first, using his hand to compress the garbage. “hon’?,” your husband tries again, tying the bag off.

he placed the trash bag beside the front door, turning on his heel to search for you. he can take out the trash later, he needed to find his wife now.

passing the kitchen, the brute’s eyes landed on the sink— plates, cups, silverware, skillets, spatulas— any dish you would find inside kitchen cabinets sat cluttered underneath the faucet.

continuing to the living room, he spotted you laid across the couch. the slow rise and fall of your chest made your husband’s eyes soften, content with how your were looking so peaceful.

he quickly moved to throw a blanket over your goosebump covered skin, saddened at how his precious wife fell asleep before she could even cover herself. how long had you been cold for?

placing a kiss on your forehead after, the man got to work, wanting to help relieve some of the stress on your shoulders.

your husband knows you’ve been struggling with your chronic tiredness for a few months, and with him being absent these last two weeks, he could only imagine what it’s been like here for you. he wanted to assist in anyway he could.

simon walked to your shared bedroom, having a feeling he probably needed to start a load of laundry. his instincts being correct— he carried the laundry basket into the laundry room, throwing your clothes into the washing machine.

the brute started the dishes in his succeeding actions, placing all the dirty cups, plates, bowls, and silverware inside the dishwasher. he started the cycle, a beep being heard from the machine.

the man had to hand wash the cooking utensils— because they didn’t fit it was better for them to be cleaned like that anyways— all the skillets, pots, pans, and spatulas put into their respective areas after he hand dried them.

then he went around the house, collecting all the trash he could. empty soda cans and half filled water bottles sporadically sat on counters and tables, crumpled papers (your husband assumed was from your journaling), junk food wrappers, all shoved into the trash bag, simon tying it off after he made sure the house was spotless.

he grabbed the first trash bag from beside the front door and proceeded to carry both bags outside to the wheeled bin. trash comes tomorrow. m’ should go ‘head and roll it to tha edge, he thought, using his gruff hands to pull the bin down the driveway.

when he returned back inside, he placed new trash bags into the trash bins around the house and washed his hands.

buzz the washing machine signaled the first load was done, your husband walking over to transfer your wet clothes into the dryer. simon went ahead and put a second load of your clothes into the washing machine too, seeing your basket was still full. you probably had one load left after this.

tha house ‘s clean for ‘er now. hope she likes it, your husband rubbed a hand across his face, eyes fixating on your sleeping form.

simon lifted your legs, plopping himself onto the couch, resting them above his meaty thighs. he started lightly rubbing your feet— a slow and sensual massage for his sweet fawn.

he missed you so fucking much while he was away, his mind only consumed with getting back home to you the last fourteen days.

he softly dug his thumbs into the soles of your feet, small shhh’s cooing out of him at your silent quivering.

the man couldn’t help himself, bringing your feet towards his mouth, littering soft kisses across your toes. this awoken you, the pleasure lulling you from your slumber, “hi, sweet’eart,” you heard your husband’s deep voice, “m’ back,” accent thick. you felt him place another kiss, this time on the dorsum of your foot, “m’ missed ya so,” one more kiss, “so much, hon.”

“si?” you groggily question, fingertips rubbing your eyes. “m’ ‘ere, baby,” you heard him respond, now recognizing he was also caressing your feet.

“oh my gosh— si!” you hastily jumped off the couch, stumbling a little to catch your balance, “y-you’re not supposed t-to be here yet,” stumbling a little over your words.

you watched your husband stand from the couch, a small grunt escaping him, “yer not happy to see m’?” he holds his arms out, waiting for you to hug him.

your eyes widened at his assumption, “no! i am happy to see you,” swiftly moving into his hold, “i missed you so much too, simon.” the familiar feeling of the beefy brit’s biceps wrapping tightly around you provided some comfort, but you couldn’t stop the sudden water works.

simon pulled away from you, raising his hand to lift under your chin, forcing eye contact. he frowned at the sight of his sweet wife, big tears rolling down her blushed cheeks, hints of purple under her enchanting eyes— the brute just wanted to help you. “wha’s wrong, hon?”

a sob left you, your husband using his other hand to rub circles on your back. “i-i needed to clean the house before y-you got here,” you cried out, “i wanted to get ready too, b-but of course i fucking fell asleep.”

simon pulled you back into a hug, knowing you probably needed comfort and for him to just listen to you. “i’m sorry, simon. i wanted everything to be nice f-for you when you got back home,” he listened to you hiccup out.

he slid his massive hands up and down your spine, eventually choosing to reach behind your thighs, lifting you. muscle memory responded, your arms encircling his neck, your legs tightening around his waist— your husband’s koala bear.

“haven’t been keeping up with myself o-or chores since you left,” you told him, simon walking you both up the stairs to your bedroom. he kissed your cheek, a hand moving under your ass for better support, “it’s alrigh’. yer okay.”

“i-i feel so pathetic, simon,” you whimpered, your husband walking past your bed, to your bathroom, “i’m just tired.” he placed you on top of the bathroom sink, kissing your forehead while you released him.

“m’ sweet wife,” he kissed your lips, “yer so fuckin’ perfect, y/n.” he kissed you again, tasting salt from the tears on your face. “handled everythin’ for ya, sweet’eart. did tha dishes, laundry, took out tha trash. know yer tired,” he kneeds your thigh, his hand swallowing it, “jus’ let m’ take care of it, hon.” a beat. “let m’ take care of ya.”

this only upset you more, wailing, “you’ve been away on a mission, simon! living in small, grimy bunkers. i k-know you’re tired! you’re getting s-shot at and escaping d-death—” your hand covered your mouth, simon bringing his to remove it. “don’ mean nothin’,” he kisses your knuckles now, “will always take care of ya and suppor’ ya. wanna be there for ya.”

you looked into your husband’s eyes, heart melting at his sweet words, “ya just gotta let m’, y/n.”

a few seconds passed, the sensation of your husband’s hands on your thighs making you relax more. i really did miss simon.

nodding your head, “yes, si,” sniffling your nose.

your husband smiled, kissing your lips, satisfied with your answer. “good girl.”

he turned away from you, the sound of water pattering filling the air, “gonna take one togetha,” he motioned to the shower.

simon undressed himself first, shifting to you to help remove your clothes. “thank you,” you told him, kissing his shoulder before he grabbed you off the counter.

he held the curtain open, grabbing your hand to help you step in, following after you, “‘s tha water too hot, fawn?” “no, si.”

your husband took time to scrub your body, gently massaging the tight knots he found across your back, stealing a few kisses along your shoulders. when he began washing himself, you crossed your arms over your chest, “seriously?” he laughed, handing you the washcloth so you could return the favor. you had to use your elbows on some of simon’s knots, your fingers being too small for them. of course your husband got huge knots, everything about simon was big!

he began washing your hair next, lathering the strawberry scented shampoo through your locks of hair threaded between his scarred digits. “lean yer head back, luvie’,” he directed, using the shower head to rinse your hair. “needa do yer conditiona’ now,” he repeated his actions, the conditioner frothing. “feels so good, si,” you hummed, lightly rocking on your heels.

you shampooed and conditioned your husband’s hair when he finished yours, the large man having to slightly lean down for you to reach— he loves accommodating himself to your height. you snuck kisses along his jaw and neck, down his sculpted chest and abs, eliciting a hushed groan from him. “love ya so much,” he smooched your head.

you both got dressed in your matching pjs, simon choosing them for you two, “wan’ to match with m’ sweet wife.” “great idea, simon!” you happily clapped, smiling up at him.

he brought you back to bathroom when you were clothed, squeezing some toothpaste over your toothbrush, “open for m’.”

you obeyed, the brute beginning to brush your teeth. he made sure to reach every side, the man using his thumb to pull your mouth apart wider, “stick yer tongue out.” following his command, ahhhh fled from your throat as he brushed the pink muscle, “atta’ girl.”

simon dried your hair for you, even detangling the strands, “sorry, luvie’,” when you’d slightly wince. “it’s alright, si!”

“light yer candle for us, yeah?” your husband asked, walking out your bedroom. continuing down the stairs, he shouted, “needa finish tha last load of laundry!” “i will, si!” you called back.

now, you were laying in your bed with your husband, entangled in one another’s arms, legs sprawled over his. some tv show you and simon started before he left played on the screen, laughs occasionally leaving both of you.

your chronic tiredness made some activities difficult for you to deal with alone, but having an amazing, nurturing, and loving husband by your side, made it much more manageable.