Leah✰

21

[crashingcryptid]

Simon with a preme baby. You went into labor three months early, and your baby girl was whisked away into an incubator. Hooked up to machines that made Simon's stomach turn. You were exhausted, hand holding his loosely whenever you were somewhat conscious.

He watches baby girl as the days pass. She's covered in a thin layer of blonde hair, something to "keep her warm," the nurse had said.

"Some babies are born hairy, but it starts to fall out as they get older." She assured as she changed baby girl into a fresh diaper. "She's stable enough for you to reach inside, if you want." Simon was on his feet in seconds.

He washes his hands, puts on hand sanitizer, then washes his hands again. He couldn't live with himself if he got her sick. He places his finger gingerly in the palm of her hand, admiring just how small she was compared to him. She grips his finger in a tight vice grip that surprises him, a coo bursting from her as she holds him.

"You're my daughter, alright... You're fighting so hard, baby girl. Papa's here."

[graywrenhart]

thinking about simon riley getting jealous of the things you put in your mouth...

Simon should really look away. 

But he can’t. Because the way your lips close around that grenade pin, teeth gripping the metal as you jerk your head back and pull it free? Well, it has him thinking dangerous things.

He can’t tear his eyes away from you as you throw it right into the enemy’s pile of ammo and it explodes with a deafening boom. And when you turn to him, framed in fire, a triumphant smile on that pretty mouth? 

He’s done for. 

Back on base, it’s pure coincidence that he walks past the gym and sees you inside, giving the punching bag hell. His boots falter as you whip around, focused and mean, and strike the bag with your glove hard. The impact rattles the chain and stirs hot, wicked embers deep in his gut. 

Suddenly, you turn, eyes snapping to his through the window. But Simon can’t bring himself to move. Slowly, you raise your hand and rip the velcro strap of your glove back with your teeth, pulling it tighter around your wrist.

The tension finally comes to a head late one night at the range. You’re there with your newly issued Glock, putting a few rounds through it before the op the next day when he silently chooses the lane next to yours, despite all the rest being empty. 

You don’t say anything, but your eyes flick to his under his mask as you bring a bullet to your lips. You tuck the blunt end between your canines, cock the chamber back, and then proceed to drop the bullet into the gun.

Simon watches you, his gaze catching on the purse of your lips, your lashes brushing your cheeks as you grab another and place it into the slot with your mouth, the way your tongue darts out to lick your bottom lip to taste the gunpowder—

Suddenly, he’s moving, shoving his way into your lane and plucking the bullet from your lips with two gloved fingers. 

“Want somethin’  in your mouth so bad?” he grunts. “All you have’ta do is ask.”

“God, Ghost,” you groan, hands already fumbling with his belt. “Fucking finally—”

[ceilidho]

a beginner's guide to starting a family

Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby. Or: the fertility clinic au Part 2 masterlist

You walk around town like it’s written on your forehead that you’re about to let some strange man get you pregnant.

It might as well be a scarlet letter pinned to your breast. A sign taped to the back of your shirt. Kick me. I’m letting some guy knock me up. Or better yet, I’m with stupid, with the arrow pointed up at you. 

Obviously that’s not true. You’ve done a good job at keeping this under wraps for the most part, not even your closest friends hearing about the man that propositioned you in the fertility clinic waiting room. You might've had half a mind to call one of them about it on the drive home, but by then you’d already filed it away as future gossip material, imagining bringing it up at drinks to the shock and delight of your friends. 

Then night falls, and you grow weak.

You wake up with post-text message clarity the next morning, but there’s little you can do to backtrack now. You gave the man your name and number. You spoke to him on the phone about it, albeit briefly. Sure you could call John again and tell him that you thought it over a little more and decided against it, but then—

“It’s gonna cost four thousand dollars.”

Your coworker lets out a hissed breath, wincing. “That’s not cheap.”

It’s a pea-soupy summer morning, all hot and humid with the sky tinted a yellowish colour from forest fires up in the country, the hazy light seeping in through the windows in the office kitchen. Not a cloud in sight. You wouldn't call it a particularly pleasant morning, with the weather as overcast as your mood, but it could always be worse.

She’s the first person outside of a few close friends that you’ve told about going to the clinic at all, but she reacts exactly as you thought she would. It’s both affirming and annoying; it’s not so bad hearing from someone else that four thousand dollars is a bit pricey for a single person, but part of you wishes she’d try to convince you to go through with it. You need someone to push you in a direction—in any direction. 

You nod, mouth screwed into a grimace. “And that’s only for a single try. I think she said it would be closer to, like, twelve thousand dollars altogether.” 

“So are you gonna do it? Or are you gonna keep looking around?”

“I have another appointment next week,” you half-answer, getting cagey all of a sudden. 

The truth is, that appointment isn’t the only thing you’ve got on the books. There’s another dot in your calendar for a few days before, one that seems to glow ominously when you stare at the date as it slowly approaches, lumbering forward one ground-shaking step at a time. 

You wonder how long you can go without telling anyone. Theoretically, you could keep up this ruse for the rest of your life, pretend you always went through with the treatment. Lie through your teeth when your friends ask you if you know anything about the donor. No, they didn’t tell me anything, I just picked a profile with a good medical record and family history. 

Don’t think about how you live in the same city. Don’t think about the likelihood of running into him around town with the baby in tow. 

You shake your head. Those are concerns that you can foist off onto a future version of you. All the current you needs to worry about is making this all a reality. 

You don’t know what to wear out to dinner with him. It’s both a date and not, more of a prelude to the later events of the night. Part of you wonders if you should just text him your address and tell him to skip the preamble and come on over. 

The only reason you don’t is because a little voice at the back of your mind insists that you at least do your due diligence and screen him a little more over dinner. You can always back out at the last minute if a few too many red flags pop up. 

(You tell yourself that as if a strange man offering to knock you up within five minutes of meeting weren’t a big enough red flag on its own.)

John meets you at the restaurant looking every bit as handsome as the day you met him, once again nearly taking your breath away. A little more buttoned up this time though, actually quite dashing in a proper dress shirt and suit jacket, even his shoes polished. 

You have a second to think about calling it off. A second to consider turning tail and getting as far away as possible. Maybe, with enough time, you could scrape together the money for IUI. You could wait a year, or take out a loan with your bank, or pray for a decent enough raise to manage it on your own. 

But then, as the time before, he turns his head and locks eyes with you. 

It would probably be a good idea to take a picture of him, maybe even a picture of his ID, and send it over to one or two of your friends, on the off chance that he turns out to be a dangerous man, but you don’t need to be inundated by a barrage of text messages and phone calls from your friends trying to talk you out of it. You’ve made up your mind. 

Walnut and burgundy furnishings decorate the large room, and the amber glow of candlelight and antique wall sconces saturates the restaurant in a dark, sensual bloom. A server guides John and you to a table right in the middle of the room, a better table than you might’ve hoped to get on your own. You eye him sideways when he pulls your chair out for you. 

His demeanour is so relaxed that if you didn’t already know the purpose of this dinner, you could be forgiven for assuming that you were out on a real date. John certainly acts the part. 

“You know, we didn’t have to do this,” you start awkwardly, eyes gliding over the room to look at all the other well-dressed patrons, some presumably out on actual dates. 

“Call me old-fashioned, but I was taught that dinner comes before the rest of the evening.”

“I just mean you didn’t have to. I would’ve been fine just…” getting right down to business, you leave unsaid, hoping that he doesn’t make you spell it out. 

“We’re two civilized adults. I thought we might get to know each other first.”

“Well, what do you want to know about me?”

“This is as much for me as it is for you—don’t you want to know anything about the father of your children?”

You wish he’d keep his voice down. He isn’t wrong though; it would be a good idea for you to take his candidature more seriously, actually ask him questions about himself and his parentage. He already emailed you a recent STI panel and bloodwork results, both done through the fertility clinic back when he was still keen on donating, but it wouldn’t hurt to learn a little more about him.

“Alright. How old are you?”

“Forty-six.”

You nod, pleased with yourself for guessing it right. “What do you do for work?”

“Just some work for the government,” he says, brushing the question off. “What else?”

That piques your interest though. “Oh, come on. What are you, M16 or something?”

“No, nothing like that,” John laughs, genuinely amused enough for you to believe him. 

You roll your eyes when he doesn’t elaborate any further though. “Fine, leave me in the dark. Anything else you want to know about me?”

“Where are you in your cycle?” he asks, blunt as a hammer.

A classic spit take moment. It’s a good thing you haven’t ordered a drink yet. 

“I think it’s, uh…it’s coming soon actually. Um. Next week or so.”

He chews on that for a second, mulling over the timing. “That’s fine. We should still be able to make it work.”

There he goes again, making comments that leave you fish-mouthed and stunned, jaw slack with disbelief. Never able to conjure up a good enough retort. 

When the server comes by to take your drink orders, both of you still deliberating over your food, John orders a beer for himself and a mocktail for you, not even bothering to consult you about it. 

“No alcohol,” he reminds you before you have a chance to ask. 

To be fair, the spicy blackberry-basil concoction that the server comes back with a few minutes later is a refreshing burst of fruit and fresh herbs, but that doesn’t excuse the overstep. You ignore it only because you know there’s no use getting worked up when you’ve already made your mind up. It’s a peccadillo in the grand scheme of things considering what he’s doing for you. 

Conversation flows surprisingly well over dinner, but at the back of your mind, you can’t stop thinking about how at the end of the night, he’s going to take you home and fuck you. It creeps back in whenever you let your guard down for a split second. 

So, do you have any hobbies? (In three hours, this man is going to strip you naked and have sex with you)

Do you have any siblings? Any twins running in the family? (In two hours, this man is going to climb on top of you and fuck you until he puts a baby in you)

It’s a lot to keep in your head at the same time.

“How long have you been thinking about doing this?” John asks apropos of nothing, the earlier thread of your conversation evaporating on the spot.  

“I mean, I’ve wanted to have kids for a long time, but actually planning to have them…maybe a couple months?”

“Why now? Why not wait a little longer? Wait for someone to start a family with?”

You’re not sure why he’d ask you that, why it would matter. It’s none of his business, quite frankly. You almost want to tell him that, let yourself get righteous, get angry, but you find you can’t fully commit to the anger. It wouldn’t change anything. You aren’t being forced to answer him. 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m not much of a family man myself. ‘Least not when I was younger, when it counted. Never had the time nor the inclination. Work took me all over—it just wouldn’t have been fair if I had a wife or kids waiting around for me. But since it didn’t seem like having a family was in the cards for me, I thought it would be a waste of good genetics.”

“Oh.” It’s arrogant, but it’s as good an answer as any. 

He waits a beat then lifts an eyebrow when you don’t reciprocate. “So? Why didn’t you wait?”

“I did try, but there wasn’t much out there, and I wanted a baby more than I wanted to be with someone, so…” 

Leave him to fill in the blanks. He met you at the culmination of that longing after all, even changed the course of it, disrupted your plans to place himself at the centre of them.

At the centre for a time, you remind yourself. Not forever. 

After that, he keeps the conversation light, only delving into superficial topics to help pass the time. You excuse yourself after finishing your meal to go to the bathroom, and come back to two coffees laid out on the table with sugar and cream in pretty porcelain cups laid out between them. John must have ordered for you again in your absence. Good thing you like coffee. 

The bill is also there, discretely tucked under John’s napkin, and that makes your stomach flip, realizing that only a coffee now sits between you and the end of this night. 

Then, at a certain point, when all that’s left in your cup is the dregs, sugar spoon bone dry on your plate, John gives you a look from across the table that says it’s time for you both to go. 

Well, here we go, you think a little hysterically as you push back your chair to stand, nearly jumping out of your skin when his hand comes down on your back. 

At your car, you sway back and forth on your heels. “You can, uh…follow behind me, if that works.”

“Why don’t you give me your address and I’ll meet you there?”

You bite your lip, pretending to deliberate, then acquiesce. 

Let him think he’s pulling one on you. You’re bringing him home instead of the other way around because you don’t want to have any memory of a man’s bed when you think about your pregnancy journey. If it’s going to be you alone, then it should be about you alone. Your decision to go out and pick a man to father your baby. 

His participation will be a short blip in your life. A minor footnote. You’ll remember it in bursts throughout the rest of your life: staring at a carton of cream in the dairy aisle of the local grocery store; garden spade buried hilt-deep in a plot of soil, blue bigleaf hydrangea in a pot beside you, sweat dripping down the bow of your lips; your baby’s face, for the rest of your natural life.

In your foyer, his hands glide around your hips, pulling you into his chest, and you realize abruptly that ‘short’ might not have been the most accurate interpretation of what’s about to happen. 

(Honey, you’ve got a storm coming)

“This off first,” John rasps, pulling the bottom of your shirt up and over your head, blinding you for a split second before he yanks it over your arms. 

“Getting right to it, huh?” you joke nervously. 

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, staring down at you assessingly, as if staring into your soul. That cuts the humour from the moment. Vacuums it from the room, leaving behind only the crackling, blistering heat of his gaze and his intentions. 

“Yes,” you whisper. Neither of you mention the tremble in your voice and how unsure you sound. 

It doesn’t stop him from undressing you though. Bra pulled down under your breasts, pushing your tits up into his face like an invitation, one he accepts without question, pulling your nipples into his mouth one by one, hands on your hips to hold you in place when you try to squirm away. Not that it’s bad—it’s amazingly good after all, toe-curlingly good to have a man run his tongue over your areolas and suck each sensitive nipple to a stiff peak, until you’re on the verge of coming—but it’s a lot, a lot that you have to wrap your head around, your bra pinched off shortly after that and underwear next.  

Your touch is hesitant at first, fingers barely gliding down his arms and fisting in the fabric of his shirt to jerk it up, but he makes it easy for you to get lost in it, your nerves fizzling out in the heat and fervor.  

You don’t even notice that John has walked you backwards into the bedroom until he pushes you down onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under you. “One second, love—need to get all of this off myself.”

You watch transfixed as the suit jacket comes off first, shrugged off and discarded. He undoes only a few buttons before wrenching it over his head, eyes on you the whole time, his stare never breaking. Scalding hot. 

That’s how you know that despite all his lofty words, this isn’t some favour he’s doing you. He wants this just as badly—wants it with a vigour that you don’t even know if you’ll be able to handle, aware that you are just flesh and blood. There’s a prickle at the back of your mind, a whisper reminding you that nobody knows that he’s here, that he’s a hot-blooded man about to slake his lust with your body. 

Then he slides the elastic waistband of his boxers down his thighs and your mind goes blank when you see the flushed, heavy shaft droop between his legs. 

The two of you work together to shove a pillow under your hips, John fetching it from the top of the bed and you lifting your hips to give him easier access. You don’t have to ask why. 

Nestled between your thighs, John looks up at you with heavy-lidded eyes and says, “Let’s get you all softened up to start, alright, love?” 

The first touch of his lips to your sex sends a lightning bolt up your spine, and then it’s practically an open mouth kiss. Tongue running up the seam of your lips, pushing into the clenched hole at the centre, the bristles of his beard scraping up the insides of your thighs and the thin skin of your labia. 

It’s good, but it’s taking too long and your heart is a rabbiting mess and you can barely think or see straight, so you tangle your fingers in his hair and try to push his head away. “That’s okay, John, I just wanna—oh fuck, can you please just put it in?”

“No, baby, it’s good if you come first,” he murmurs. “Helps it take.”

That floods your system with a frenetic, crazed exhilaration. Baby fever bubbling and boiling, frothing spilling over the top like a pot left on the stovetop for too long. 

You gasp when he tucks a couple fingers into your hole to stretch you out, a perfunctory, almost clinical motion. Just enough to loosen you up for him, unmindful of the way you squirm and whine, rolling your hips to get him to go faster. He does not. 

It doesn’t take much effort on his part after that to get you to come, too worked up and wound up, core squeezing his fingers like a vice until he gives your clit a suck and you squeal, oh, too much, breath ripping through your chest.

They’re wet when he pulls them out, and he dries them off by rubbing them on your belly. 

The shadow of his body draws over yours as he climbs on top of you. It’s as physical as it is visual though, John’s hands always on some part of your body, dragging up your legs and over your arms, fingers spreading over your belly before he runs a hand up between your breasts and over your throat, lingering there just long enough to close around your throat and hold for a second, then skating up to cup your jaw. 

And then he’s all big body on top of you, coaxing your legs around his hips, one hand squishing your cheeks when he bends down to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips, the tongue pushing into your mouth musky with the flavour of your cum. You’d protest if you could, but you can’t, his mouth slanted over yours and demanding. 

“C’mere,” he mumbles against your lips when he draws you in for another kiss, sawing his cock up and down between your folds, coating his length with your juices, until it’s there suddenly, breaching you. 

You have to grab him, loop your arms around his shoulders and squeeze to ground yourself. It’s a lot to take in. He’s a lot to take in. 

“I know, love, I know,” John murmurs soothingly. “Deep breaths, okay?”

You listen to him, letting a shaky breath out. It helps you relax. Barely, but enough to ease the strain a bit. 

He nuzzles his nose into your temple, his breath fanning out against your ear. “A little more, love, alright? You gonna be brave for me?”

“Oh—just get on with it,” you gasp when he eases in another inch, and John laughs in your ear. 

It feels genuinely romantic like this. Your arms wrapped around his neck and his hips slowly rocking into you, whispering sweet nothings like, there we go, you’ve got it, that feel good, love? When he fits his hand around the back of your neck and lifts your head up for a kiss, you swear you see stars. 

The kiss is too much. Too intimate. You wish you would’ve set that boundary ahead of time. It feels pointless now, trapped under the heavy weight of his body and impaled on his member, sucked into it, lips slotting and melting over each other, his tongue running over yours. He’s a good kisser at least, practiced from a lifetime of it. No awkward schoolboy tonguing. 

Too good. You wonder distantly how many other women he’s slept with (probably more than you have any business knowing). If he’s ever gotten anyone else pregnant. Your nails dig into his back instinctively at the thought and he gasps a wet and guttural sound, hips bucking harder. 

He gets rough enough to loosen a bolt of fear in your chest. All of a sudden, it becomes bright and clear in your mind. There’s a grunting, sweating man over you, all two hundred plus pounds of him laid out on top of you, with no protection between you. Raw cock plunging into your pussy. You can barely get a full breath in. 

“Fuck, I’m close,” John grunts, and your eyes flick down instinctively, trying to see past the dense mass of hair on his chest towards the length of his cock sliding into you. He’s pressed too close though. When he catches you looking away from him, he clamps his hand around your face again, forcing your gaze back up. “No, none of that. Eyes on me.”

You think you must gasp. Some horrified sound must escape you because you can feel the aftereffect of it, the big hollow where it used to be. 

His other arm wedges under your back to pull you closer to him, thighs spreading to brace his weight against the mattress before driving into you harder, deeper, the big, concentrated energy of him inescapable.

You can sense it the second before he’s about to come, his eyebrows digging in and his jaw going tight, the vein in his forehead prominent. 

“Christ, you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?” he snarls. “All this fucking cum.” 

On the next stroke in, you dig an ankle into the muscle of his ass and squeeze your inner muscles around his length, grinning hazily to yourself when that makes him shout. 

And then, oh, he surges in and you feel it, hear it, sense it all around you, his fingers from the hand wedged under your back digging hard into the side of your breast. Hips forcefully pumping into you and pushing his cum in deep, your own orgasm lost somewhere in there, a small, forgettable part of it all. 

Eventually, he stops moving over you, letting his cock slip out of you on the next stroke out. You hiss when he does, clenching up involuntarily. With nothing plugging it inside though, his cum leaks out, dripping down the crack of your ass and onto the pillow under your hips. 

John’s hot breath fans over your face as he pants, slowly winding down as well, the red flush in his cheeks still stark, though gradually fading. It’s only in the cooldown that you realize how claustrophobic it is being trapped under him, the sheer weight and heat of his body flush with yours becoming more and more uncomfortable, almost unbearably so. 

When he slumps off to one side, you can finally breathe again, the air rushing into your lungs. There’s sweat in your skin and tears in the corners of your eyes, everything tacky and humid, the frantic beat of your heart only beginning to slow down. The stiffness in your shoulders only dawns on you after a few minutes like that, and you push yourself up onto your elbows just to try to work some of it out. 

“No, don’t get up, love. We’re just gonna lie here for a bit,” he instructs, pushing your shoulder back down. “Better chance of my boys getting the job done if we keep it all in you.”

Of course he just wants to make sure that it takes. That way, you don’t have to do this again. “Oh yeah. I, uh, I didn’t think about that.”

He doesn’t just mean lie there, of course, though your body would like nothing more than to sink into the plush embrace of sleep. Instead he means keeping your hips propped up on the pillow now saturated with cum, and curling you into his side, separating your thighs again to palm your cunt, sliding his fingers through the wet. 

It’s a goopy, sticky mess that John plunges his fingers into, pushing it back up inside of you and shushing you when you whimper, a little gaped from his cock but sore to the touch. 

For much longer than you anticipated, he lies there on his side beside you and keeps two fingers pushed up inside you, blocking any cum from leaking out. 

“How long do we have to do this for?” you ask, voice all high and tight in your throat. 

John hums, unconcerned. “Ten, fifteen minutes.”

True to his word, he keeps you there for the full fifteen minutes. Only the sound of your breathing fills the room, quiet otherwise aside from the enormously large weight of his presence, too familiar now with the private corners of your world. 

He doesn’t warn you before idly circling your clit with thumb. You jerk, nearly biting through your lip. “John!”

“Relax, honey, I’m just making you come again.”

“I know that, John—ah, ah, ah—”

A leg hooks over yours, his thigh heavy enough to keep you pinned without even much strength behind it. His fingers don’t so much as twitch inside of you, buried to the fattest knuckle while his thumb circles the tight bud of your clit over and over again until you—

You haven’t finished the thought by the time he draws his fingers out, pearlescent strings of cum webbed between them. He hums approvingly when he sees that, pulling your thighs further apart to admire his work. “Gorgeous. That ought to do it for now.”

Your heart skips a beat and you stare up at him, exhausted, the sweat on the back of your neck now cold. 

For now.

[xpyray]

My guy is just a cutie patootie

[rhymewithrachel]

They tried to stop me from drawing ghost knight but they CANT

[lumi-nay]

Part 2 of this post!

Line cook!Simon who's been sweet on you lately, always making sure to get your tables tickets out as fast as possible, and managing to sneak you a snack during your shifts.

He always brushes it off, shrugging about it when you ask, 'was tryin' somethin' new ou', luv, tell me f'its good, yeah?', knowing he would never let you eat anything less than delicious. Regardless, hes always eagerly watching for your approval, wanting to see that stupid smile on your face as you gush about his work.

Waitress!Reader whos saved plenty of money on meals, because even with your employee discount, appetisers and sides cost a fair bit of money when it adds up over the week. Not that it mattered anymore, Simon was always using his cooks discount to get you main meals, 'no' gonna le' 'is luvie, go hungry, will 'e?'

Head chef!Price who cocks a brow every time SImon does it, but never pries. Game is game, after all.

Simon who always makes sure to give you a lift home, even when you finish earlier than him, using his break to do so. He also manages to learn that your crappy studio flat is in the bad part of town...

Line cook!Simon who is quick to suggest you moving in with him. He lives close to your uni, you'd save money on rent, and be able to travel to work together most days.

You're quick to agree, it sounding like a dream to not worry about rent or transport and to live with your friend who's been so sweet to you!

Now he just has to figure out how to ask you out and address your lack of self preservation, because really luv, youd only known him a few months...

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A/n: wait guys I might lowkey be onto something, let me cook up my idea 🫰 ALSO, if there are any specific posts of mine that you want a part 2 for, let me know cause im struggling to decide ("-ࡇ-)

[lumi-nay]

Waitress!reader, who's a new hire, working part time in a restaurant to make just enough money to support yourself through uni.

Youve been having the absolute worst day, from losing the assignment that you were supposed to hand in today and getting reamed out by your professor, to having dropped a tray of waters at the start of your shift, a preemptive sign that the rest of your night would be tough.

You're just trying to make it through your shift, when you get a table of crude, middle aged men, who make you feel anything but pleasant.

You do your best to cater to their needs and try be as polite and neutral as possible, despite wanting to give them to another waiter, but as usual, the restaurant is overwhelmed and understaffed.

Line cook!Simon who's been watching the pretty little new hire get progressively stressed as your shift goes on. His heart aches for you a bit. A pretty little thing, doing her best to make ends meet, whilst dealing with idiot customers.

Simon who feels his jaw tighten whem you come back into the kitchen, teary eyed, explaining to another server how one of the men at your table tried to hit on you and grabbed the back of your thigh.

Simon who tells you to sit in the walk-in for a bit, whilst he goes to deal with your table, he was needing some fresh air anyway.

Simon who soon comes into the walk-in pantry with a little plate of chips and hands it to you with his now-bruised hands. He pats your head softly, before gruffly saying 'take a break, yeah luv? Go' someone on yer tables'

...Line Cook!Simon who refuses to address his soft spot for you, telling the whole kitchen to shut up when teasing him about it. They can see the faint pink on the tips of his ears though.

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Part 2, if youre interested!

A/n: Am I in my consistency era or what 😛

[preworkray]

Hi so started twdg

[utmbug]

stuff

[aziarts]

happier days

[babybunnydoodles]

Ghost and Baby

Inspired by @rawme-price and his recent drabble about the two!

[kaifarikus]

[phoebeselwyn]

dad!SIMON "GHOST" RILEY

part 8

They don't joke about those second babies being different.

You wake up to your lower abdomen aching, and for an hour you push the cramps away. You've been having them for a couple of days now, the baby wasn't due for another two weeks. But the quick run to the bathroom and a gushing liquid hitting water in the toilet makes you re-consider getting back to bed and snuggle with Simon.

He's at his feet as soon as his name leaves your lips in a gentle whisper. His eyes, sleepy, but already alerted, find yours, and you quietly nod.

It's time.

His mum comes without question, bless her heart, and you are on your way to the hospital in an hour.

And another hour later? You're holding your son.

His warm, rosy cheek is pressed onto the bear skin of your chest, and you shake from the happy tears. Simon is a little shocked to your left, eyes wide, looking at the newborn in your arms so puzzled, as if he hadn't seen his boy on the ultrasound pictures he keeps in his nightstand.

He expected for labor to be longer. He was ready to be by your side, giving you water, some snacks, rubbing your lower back and letting you snap at him for being to slow and fast at the same time.

Simon expected it to take time.

But the boy lets out a shriek when placed into his arms, and only then does Simon finally exhale.

"Ya like doin' everythin' yer way, don't ya?" He whispers, looking at the island of hair the same shade as yours on top of the newborn's head. "Aye. And I will love ya no matter what."

tags: @prettybpony @devoted-buttons @mvstercvrd @lilpothoscuttings @other-fandoms-reblogs @eastern-side-of-the-heart @drugs-and-daddyissues @itsnayumeko-blog @rios-st4rs @leahsfantasy @1-800-bobcut @cocolocorococo @hikotaru @cherryv0dk4 @damonlo @rottensage @missj609 @daisyandherlovess @stupidlyawasomegirl @unknowndeepspace @aceitunanostalgica @wintersongstress @starlightduchess @xoxocelestial @paperdkent @littleherelittlethere @luisaxsstuff @imtherain @liminal-chickenskin @yami267

[cruxhing]

The team has been trying to help Simon get better at flirting.

It started off with Johnny noticing how Simon’s gaze often lingered on you, the newest truck loader.

Then he blabbered it off to the entire team. So yeah— Simon may have banged his head against the wall in his quarters and slept that night thinking about choking Johnny.

But here he was, after a long day of being convinced to talk to you.

You had just finished unloading the last truck of the day and what better time to talk to you than now?

“You gotta be confident and bold with your words, L.T.” Kyle’s words.

“No, you have t’ be funny. Make ‘em laugh.” Johnny’s words.

“If all things fail, just ask ‘em for coffee.” John’s words.

Simon took in a deep breath and smiled (the best he could. He doesn’t smile often). You didn’t even catch it either; he was wearing his damn balaclava. “You just started working, yeah?” he asks, stuffing his hands into his vest. Confident, check.

You took off your gloves and patted your sweaty forehead with your arm, “mhm! About two-ish months ago,” you tell the older man, giving him a polite smile.

A quiet hum fell from Simon’s lips as he rocks on his heels a bit, “Once saw y’ trippin’ over a box,” Simon says bluntly. Funny, check.

You stared at him, blinking twice and half expecting him to finish his sentence.

He didn’t.

Instead, the two of you had a staring contest while Simon’s face burned behind the balaclava.

“You can trip on me,” Simon suddenly adds. Funny and bold… check?

Your brows knitted a bit, “what…?” you ask with an awkward laugh.

Fuck.

This wasn’t going how he imagined it to go. He imagined him coolly leaning against a wall or something while complimenting you.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Do you have coffee?” Simon changes the topic, his entire face blowing up with steam.

Off to the side, John stared at his teammate with a heavy sigh and rubbed his temple. “Bloody idiot asked for coffee,” he mumbles.

Kyle shrugs a bit, “T’ be fair, you did say to ask for coffee,” he says, defending his lieutenant.

“Implying to ask for a coffee date,” John replies bluntly. “Fuckin’ disaster of a man.”

[rawme-price]

Thinking about ghost who typically hates Halloween, right?

Shocking, considering the guy wears a Halloween decoration everyday, but he hates all the social interaction. Strangers knocking on his door, begging for sweets. He'd rather decorate for a day or two, enjoy his night alone, and call it a day.

So why is he going all-out to try and attract the most trick-or-treaters this year?

Because you're participating this year. You, the single parent across the street who he maybe-kinda wants to invite on a date but hasn't figured out how yet. Thus...decorating. anything to get a conversation started, right?

"Alright sweetie, go ahead and knock," ghost hears your voice across the door. He's been hovering since he spotted you and your daughter three houses down. Three knocks, and he opens the door–

"Trick or treat!!! Guess what I am!!" Your little one squeals, holding her bucket decorated like an acorn up to him.

"Sweetie, you need to wait for treats first–" you try to tell her, knowing she'll get tok disappointed and forget to get candy if the stranger can't guess.

Ghost takes one look at her and nods "proper weevil, innit. Good costume, kid."

"Yes!!! Yes I'm a weevil! You got it right!!" She yells, hopping in place in pure joy, cheeks no-doubt hurting from the force of her smile. Finally, she looks around at his house, then back up at you "can I go look at the big skeleton?"

"Yes, yes, go ahead." You smile at her, checking that no one's waiting. Thin about having little ones is you always beat the Halloween rush. Then, you smile at ghost "thank you. No one's been able to guess her costume, and she was about ready to quit."

"'S a good costume," ghost nods to himself, "she a fan of bugs?"

"Oh, it's all she talks about!" You laugh, that fond laugh all parents have for their children "she's in love with all things crawly."

"....oi've got beetles, if she wants to see 'em."

Which is how a bowl with a hastily scrawled "take one" is left on the porch, meanwhile your daughter is about ready to explode when ghost lets her hold Betty, his Hercules beetle.

"You wouldn't mind if she comes back, would you?" You whisper, both of you stood back while she stares in awe at his centipede enclosure "you're the first person able to keep up with her bug talk."

Ghost smiles. May not be the dinner date he was expecting, but somehow it's better.

[readwritealldayallnight]

You don’t even need to threaten him with a bad time, Simon already feels like the scum of the earth the moment he recognizes that your morning sickness turned all day long sickness isn’t going to be a quickly fleeting symptom of your pregnancy

He wants to support you, be there for you, show you that he’s in this with you one hundred percent, but he’s not entirely sure on how to put a smile on the face of the woman he loves when she’s spending more time staring down the loo than she is looking at him these days

He doesn’t think it entirely helped his case when his idea of solidarity upon watching you yack for the twelfth time that day, was to try and make himself throw up alongside you

Certainly didn’t help when he’d joked that your latest pregnancy craving is what got him gagging in the first place, a delectable assortment of pickles dipped in only the finest of apple sauces

He at least knows to bite his tongue and avoid repeating the OBGYN’s recommendations on swapping junk food out for more nutritious alternatives, when hot cheetos seem to be the only thing your stomach will tolerate… up until those are fighting back as well and climbing back up your throat like the rest of the food in the kitchen

“Why is bloody tea the only thing your child is letting me consume?” You grumbled unhappily, still sending him a thankful smile as he swapped your empty cup out for a new steaming one, pressing a soft kiss against your temple in the process. “Bad enough I already feel like I have to pee every two minutes, now I actually do.”

“He knows his mum’s got to stay hydrated. Besides, he’s a proper Brit already, feignin’ for a cuppa like his dad.” Simon replied factually, corner of his mouth twitching at the idea of one day preparing three cups instead of just two.

“First off, she is only half British, thanks.” You corrected playfully, still insisting to him that it might be a girl causing you all these tummy troubles, the gender still being a secret to you both. “And I’m pretty sure we were still in Scotland when we made her, so she shouldn’t be craving something like fish and chips or haggis?”

Which country you were actually in when Simon finally knocked you up was still up for debate; a month long honeymoon exploring his corner of the globe together and going at it like rabbits leaves some room for debate on where you were when it actually happened. Simon thinks it was that time he had you on your back in the bed of the rental truck in Cork, whereas you insist it must’ve been that one hotel balcony in Edinburgh.

Regardless, Simon can already notice the way your breath is catching at your last words.

”Love, are you sure you want to talk about things like haggis when you-”

You’re already sprinting for the bathroom, any remnants of food left in your stomach coming up at the mere mention of more. Simon’s only steps behind you, ready to hold your hair back need be, or to rub a soothing hand along your back. It’s going to be long first trimester, full of dry heaving and puke buckets littered around the flat and the most bizarre food cravings he’s ever heard of and late night runs to the shop for more tea bags… and he can’t help but to love every minute of it with you.

[lovertate]

i'm baaack & i come with the gift of more Switch!Simon "Ghost" Riley.

Switch!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

cw: NSFW! Smut! Switch!Simon, Switch!Reader, edging, orgasm denial, (maybe?) minor objectification, oral (m!recieving), teasing, nsfw photos mentioned, some “chasing”, “fight” for dominance, “cock sleeve”, “good boy” “good girl”, cream pie… unprotected p in v, you get fucked against a wall because simon is too pent up and impatient. barely proofread.

Switch!Simon who’s starting to regret mouthing off to you earlier in the week. You were pestering him about the garage, which was littered with tools, and a half-taken-apart motorcycle he’s been working on repairing for about 4 months. 

You were fed up. He has known this. But he honestly just couldn’t be bothered to pick everything up, since you did both agree the garage was his space for all of his (how you put it) “shit”. 

But a few days ago, when you tripped over a stray wrench while bringing in groceries, you stomped up to him on the couch, yelling: 

“Simon, I swear to god if you don’t pick up your shit in the garage I’ll—“

“You’ll what? Sweetheart, we both know whatever you say won’t be upheld. Tread lightly now.” 

He meant it as a joke. Really. But when you clenched your jaw and scrunched your eyes at him, he almost believed your next words. 

“You won’t come for a week.” 

Almost. He laughed. Loud. Nearly choked on his beer, then rolled his eyes and went back to watching the football match on the TV. 

He hasn’t laughed since. 

Not after you kneeled between his legs, took his dick in your mouth, and gave him the best head he’s probably ever had— all messy, drooly, and sloppy, just how he likes— only to stop and walk away right before he was about to finish. 

He was so gobsmacked that he couldn’t even wrap his hand around his dick to finish it himself. 

He didn’t laugh when you bounced on his dick the next night, whining, and moaning his name so loud he was scared the neighbors might hear (again)— only for you to, once again, get up and off of him after you finished, leaving his dick aching and twitching. 

“Please,” he begged, softly, quietly, embarrassed. 

“Nope,” you hummed. “You know the rules.” 

He bit back a whine as you walked away, towards the bathroom, to take a shower. 

He wouldn’t break so easily, no… he wouldn’t… at least, that's what he told himself.

Until you sent an album's worth of photos to him while he was at work. Some with you in his shirt, kneeled in front of the mirror and lifting the hem of it just enough to expose that you definitely weren’t wearing anything under it. Another completely nude, sat on the floor, with your legs spread open and a smirk on your lips. And a third, with three of your fingers dug deep into your drenched cunt, your thighs shining, and the sheets beneath you darkened with the same sticky mess you created. 

He’s not laughing now, as he races to pick up the garage before you get home from another shopping trip (for which he allowed you to use his card), tossing miscellaneous tools and parts into their rightful spots and out of the walkway. He’s soaked in sweat. The balmy, sweltering heat of the England summer has soaked through to his bones. 

The garage is spick and span, probably the cleanest it’s been since you’ve both moved in, by the time you pull into the driveway. He watches as you swing your legs out of the car. You don’t even spare him a second glance as you pull out 3 large shopping bags, one of which he recognizes is from your favorite lingerie shop. He wipes his hands down his jeans, moving forward to help you. 

“I’ve got it.” There’s no smile on your face, but there’s an undertone of amusement in your voice. 

He’s expecting you to say something else. Tell him good job. Reward him. Let him fill your pussy, your throat— whatever. But you just walk by, hips swaying slightly as you enter the house. 

Simon stands there like an idiot. Staring around the garage like maybe he forgot to put something away. Nothing. He did what you wanted, right? His jaw clenches slightly. 

Switch!Simon who is now fed up with your little attitude. As you walk around the house in those short ass silk shorts he bought you, and a crop top that exposes the underside of your boobs every time you reach up into a kitchen cabinet. 

He sits at the couch, watching as you go through the motions of making dinner. Fists clenching and unclenching, dick already half hard under his jeans. 

Just after you’re finished chopping up the vegetables for dinner, he clears his throat. 

“Yes?” You ask, faux innocence in your tone. 

“You gonna help me with this?” He points to his crotch, leaning back into the couch. 

“Ohhh,” you smirk. “I don’t know. Should I?” 

Simon lets out a harsh sigh. 

“I’ll rephrase,” he pauses. “You’re going to get over here, and suck my cock, like a good girl.” 

You laugh. Actually laugh. 

“Or what?” 

“There’s no ‘or what’. I did what you wanted, now it’s your turn.” 

He sees the smile fall from your face at his low tone. He’s not fucking around with you, and you know it.

“Make me.” 

He’s standing before the words even register in his brain. 

“Five.” 

“Simon. You can’t be serious.”

He takes a step towards the kitchen. “Four.” 

“I’m pretty sure I’m the one in charge.” 

He scoffs out a laugh. “Three.” 

“Simon…”

“Two.”

You’re backing away from the counter now, eyeing him from across the room as his foot comes over the threshold of the kitchen. 

“One.”

You spin around quickly, making a break for the other side of the kitchen to run down the hallway. Simon’s too fast. 

You writhe in his arms as he wraps them around your waist and hoists you into the air. Labored breaths fall from your lips as you try, and fail, to break free. Simon’s dick is fully straining in his jeans. 

“Si,” you pant out as he spins you in his grip so you’re facing him, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist. 

He pushes your back into the wall of the hallway, narrowing his eyes at you as you push against his chest. 

“Give up,” he grunts out, pinning your wrists to the wall as he keeps you in place by pushing his hips into yours. “No point in fightin’ back now.” 

You whine at his grasp, still trying to wiggle free. 

“Okay,” you pant, letting your arms fall limp. “Okay. Okay. You win. Happy?” 

Simon smirks, pushing into you harder, grinding his clothed cock into your pussy. You suck in a sharp breath and your eyebrows pinch together. 

“Not quite.” 

Switch!Simon who fucks you brainless against that same wall. Jeans pushed hastily half-way down his thighs, your silk shorts shoved to the side (no surprise, you’re not wearing anything under them) as he ruts into you at an impressive tempo. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” your swears warble with his thrusts, and your nails are digging so hard into his traps he swears you’ll draw blood. 

“This what you wanted? Hm?” he grunts out, palming at your ass cheeks to keep you in place. “Didn’t want me to clean the—fuck—garage… jus’ needed me to fuck you senseless.” 

You whine and arch your back into him. He’s close. So are you. He can tell by the way you don’t answer his question, and how your eyes screw tightly shut. He slows his hips. 

“Look at me.” 

Your mouth hangs open as you pant and blink at him a few times. 

“You’re not coming,” he states. “You don’t get to.” 

You whine, trying to gyrate your hips against his and his agonizingly slow thrusts. 

“Nuh uh, uh,” he pushes his hips fully against yours, pressing you hard into the wall again. “You want me to fill this cunt?” 

You nod. 

“Words, sweetheart.” 

“Yes, Si… please, please… need your cum…” 

He thrusts slowly again. 

“Then you don’t come, got it?”

You whine again, louder this time. 

“Need you to agree, or else I’ll stop.” 

“Fine! Just please fuck me!” You nearly yell. 

Simon groans and picks up his pace again. He can feel you squeezing around him. God, he’s so fucking close. 

“Such a good little cock sleeve for me, hm? Been using me to get off all week, now it’s my turn.” 

Your hands grip at his hair as he peels you from the wall, bouncing you up and down his cock freely as you babble out incoherently. 

“Such a good boy,” you whine. 

Simon’s face twitches. 

“So, so, good f’me,” you praise. 

His knees start to feel weak as his orgasm approaches faster now. He whines, pressing his face into your chest. 

“Stop it,” he whispers out. There’s no truth in the words. He loves it. Loves being praised. Loves being your good boy. Even when he’s in charge. 

“Use me, Si,” you say breathily. “Need your cum… come in me, please.” 

The band in his lower tummy snaps. His dick twitches inside of you as a sense of euphoria fills his entire body. He thrusts a final time, stilling his hips with his cock fully sheathed inside of you as he pants against your chest. 

Switch!Simon, who, at the end of the day, knows you’ve got him wrapped around your pretty little finger, even when you're a dripping, drooling, brainless mess bouncing on his cock.