primarily a reader-insert writer. 18+ only for my nsfw work, please.
do NOT repost any of my work.
interests are usually between anime and video games - haikyuu, jjk, sk8 the infinity; overwatch, hades, fe3h, most recently rdr2
be nice to each other and support your favorite creators
ficlet/drabble/headcanon requests: OPEN
commissions: CLOSED
my ao3
sample some of my works under the cut:
greatest hits
the rhyme and reason for rhetoric | kuroo tetsurou x reader | 35.6k words | nsfw (hiatus)
由貴 | iwaizumi hajime x reader | 18.7k words | nsfw
paint me up | oikawa tooru x kuroo tetsurou x reader | 5.5k words | nsfw
series
hungry | kuroo tetsurou x reader | 4 works | nsfw
night changes | haikyuu captains x reader | 5 works
pillowtalk | haikyuu captains x reader | 5 works | nsfw
ficlets/headcanons
girl’s night out with mercy and moira | no pairings | 593 words
silly arguments with jesse and gabriel | no pairings | 390 words
a day in the life of florist aone | no pairings | 475 words
Alone Together | Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (NSFW)
word count: 2.5k
tags: Reader-Insert, Established Relationship, Complicated Relationships, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Chubby Reader, Body Image, Porn with Feelings, Body Worship, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wet & Messy, Overstimulation, Pillow Talk, Ambiguous/Open Ending
summary: Simon comes home and you don't know how you feel about that.
Read here or AO3
--
You’ve been used to being alone.
For so long, you’ve relied on yourself to take care of the chores around the house, to work hard enough to pay the bills, to feel less alone when Simon’s off doing god-knows-what somewhere on the other side of the world.
So when you come home from dinner one night to find him dropping his bags by the foot of the stairs, you nearly scream.
And you can’t say anything to him. True to his callsign, it’s as if he has been a ghost for the last year. No letters or phone calls because of the nature of his job, not even a status update from the base in Manchester. He stands there staring at you while you’re frozen at the front door, mask still on like he’s still on the job. You avoid his eyes, hoping he doesn’t notice your fuller appearance and your indifference to his homecoming.
“I’m only here until tomorrow evening,” he says. Because what else could he say to you after being gone for so long again? “We’re replenishing supplies then heading west.”
West could mean anywhere, as you know. Not even a continent from the man. You say nothing, only acknowledging the statement with a nod then walking right past him to the kitchen. A sudden visitor won’t stop you from having your tea before bedtime.
As you prepare the kettle, you hear Simon’s heavy footsteps going up to the master bathroom, followed by the sound of the shower squeaking on. You’re left alone with your thoughts, pulling your favorite (and his favorite) tea from the cabinet. The small sentiment left in you is the only reason why you impulsively grab two mugs instead of one, like an old habit coming out of hibernation.
Until tomorrow, you think to yourself. And you’re certain he won’t be here for most of the day. He may as well have booked a cheap motel room near the base instead of stopping by. If he wanted tea and a hot shower, he could have gotten both somewhere else. Why here? What’s the point?
You snap yourself out of your bitterness when you realize your tea has steeped long enough. He likes his tea stronger so you leave the bag in for as long as it takes for you to plate up a slice of the lemon loaf you bought this morning. Quietly and carefully, you place everything in a tray and go upstairs, barely missing the dirty duffel bags taking up space near the entrance of your home.
In the bedroom, you place the tray on the nightstand by his side. A layer of dust covers the surface; you could have sworn you cleaned it recently. After taking your tea to your side, you make your way to the walk-in closet. There, Simon pulls on a pair of sweatpants you haven’t seen in ages. His mask is finally off, and for the first time in a long time, you scan his body—no new scars from what you can see, thankfully. Face intact. No bruises. Despite knowing he’s (mostly) unscathed, you’re hesitant to change your clothes while he’s in the small space.
He notices with a quick glance at you, and you’re thankful that the food and drink distract him. Turning away, he says, “I could smell the tea from up here. You haven’t lost your touch.”
It’s his form of a compliment. You change into loose shorts and an old t-shirt, shaking off the unusual discomfort before joining him in bed with your tea. He’s already most of the lemon loaf by the time you take your first sip. Typical; you don’t know when’s the last time he’s had some decent food. If he’s had any at all. You don’t remember what you gave him the last time he was home.
The room is too quiet. Your discomfort grows. How can someone be so present but so absent at the same time? How long are you able to keep holding onto him like this, waiting for months and years on end and hoping he’ll come home in one piece? When is it time to move on? Can you move on?
Long fingers suddenly brush your cheeks and you jump, splashing some of your tea on your skin in the process. You barely feel the burn when Simon wipes away the tears you didn’t notice until now. The distance between you two is now negligible. His gaze hasn’t changed much; he could use a good night’s sleep, always. And you’re still able to find that hint of softness behind all the roughness and scars on his face.
“What’s wrong, darling? Miss your boy toy keeping my side of the bed warm?”
You bat his hand away with little energy, sniffling. “I would never.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“Simon.”
He says your name back.
You sigh, wiping away the rest of your tears and taking another sip of your tea. You should know better. You knew what you signed up for when he told you what he does for a living. You knew he’d be gone like this all the time, facing danger at every corner. He’s probably taking a risk simply by spending time with you tonight. You wouldn’t know that for sure; he wouldn’t tell you.
Simon says your name again when you put down your empty cup. “You know I can’t just quit.”
“I never asked you to.”
“But that’s what you’d like, right?”
Something stops you from saying yes. Something stops you from saying no, too. “I’d like to know if you’re coming home alive once in a while.”
“Can’t do that either unless I’m coming back in a body bag.”
“I know.”
He takes your hand and you allow it. You almost hate how your body tingles when he kisses your wrist. “If it makes you feel better, this mission shouldn’t take long.”
You face him again. He’s so close to you; damp hair brushing against your forehead, lips ever-so-slightly parted. Without hesitation, you answer, “It doesn’t.”
Simon also doesn’t hesitate when he kisses you. You can always appreciate his forwardness and the way he sticks to his guns when he wants you. You kiss him back, savoring the faintness of lemon from his lips and tongue. He knows exactly what he’s doing when he lays you down, shifting so you’re right under his massive figure. The two of you don’t stop kissing when his hands wander, tucking them under your top and squeezing your tits until you arch your back and your legs fall open like an invitation.
You have to push him away for you to catch his breath. Simon’s relentless, kissing your neck instead as your nipples harden under his touch. You moan with every touch, every rough lick of your skin.
“I’ve missed you,” he says in your ear. “So goddamn beautiful.”
You relax more with his praise. It gets harder to focus with how he takes your shirt off and directs his kisses lower to your chest, your nipples. In the time you two have been together, your body’s changed on top of your spirit. You wonder if he noticed your wardrobe full of clothes in a bigger size, the way your face looks fuller, that he has more to hold and that he can feel stretch marks around your belly.
Simon stops as if he can read your mind, and kisses your damp cheeks. As much as you like to think you’ve numbed yourself from being with him, you know that’s far from accurate. You gasp as you look up at him.
“Come on now, darling. I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”
You swallow hard. “Sorry. It’s…it’s been a while?”
He growls, and you know damn well that’s not because he’s angry. He kisses you harder and squeezes your waist tighter. Maybe he can read your mind. “I mean everything I say. Did you forget that?”
“Sorry,” you repeat softly.
“Do you want me to stop?”
You shake your head. “Simon, please–”
“Shh.” He plants his lips on your neck, sucking hard enough to make his mark. And another. The sting radiates down your spine and you shiver. “You’re mine. I’ll take all night to help you remember if I have to.”
You can’t change his mind. Simon kisses every inch of you, lowering himself to remove the rest of your clothes and spread your thighs like he’s opening up a present. He licks his lips at the sight of your wet cunt, then dives in without warning.
Moaning, you press your thighs around his head. He responds with more vigor, more urgency to shove his tongue inside you. Your fingers or toys don’t compare to the dexterity of his tongue. The man knows exactly how to eat you out, to drink everything out of you, to suck your clit until he rips the loudest moans out of you. You can’t stop squirming when he continues to suck, bringing you to the edge and stopping short of your orgasm. Breaking free from your thighs, he keeps you open and exposed, chuckling.
“You don’t feel so bad now, do you?” he says casually, like the bottom half of his face isn’t glistening from your wetness. Letting go of one of your thighs, he presses two fingers inside of you. Even with one leg free, you can’t get away from how tightly he holds you. “That’s my girl.”
Simon curls his fingers and drops back down to suck your clit. Everything is all too much, and you come on his face. You make even more of a mess with each passing second, splashing onto his face and dripping onto the sheets. You try to turn your body away from the sensation but there’s no way in hell he’ll let you escape. He keeps you planted in bed, unrelenting with his tongue and fingers until you tap out. Then and only then, he releases you.
All your feelings try to come back to you when you catch your breath. Simon gives you space as he pulls his sweatpants off, returning to his home between your legs to stroke his cock over your cunt.
“Seeing you like this…fuck. Almost makes me want to stay.”
There it is. Lust aside, you bring yourself down to touch reality. “Almost?”
He pauses. He knows he’s cornered. He knows whatever he’ll say, you’ll remember when he leaves again. The two of you have reached an impasse; years of being apart, years of doing your best to make it work, years of uncertainty, years of saving the hard conversations for next time. You hate thinking about if there will ever be a next time. Tonight could be the last time you’ll ever be with him. And here he is, almost wanting to stay with you.
Simon comes down close, shifting so that the tip of his cock teases your entrance. You gasp, attempting to focus on what you need to hear from him. Or want to hear from him. You don’t really know.
“Would you kick me out if I said I was afraid?”
Of all the answers you think he’d give, you didn’t expect him to admit fear. You haven’t thought of it much yourself; Simon has seen his fair share of death and destruction, and that’s before he ever enlisted. You can only imagine the horrors he’s seen and done, what he’s been through now that he dons a uniform. That’s all he knows–to come back to something as mundane as drinking tea in bed is a different kind of shock you can’t understand. But you’ll try to.
You shake your head, grabbing him by the cheeks and bringing him down for a kiss. With that positive response, he slowly slips his cock inside you, rubbing your clit as you moan, muffled by his lips. Simon is a lot to take, in more ways than one, and you try to sort your pleasure and your sensibility accordingly.
“You have nothing to fear here,” you whisper as he bottoms out. You whimper when his hand moves away from your clit and he squeezes your tits again. “It’s just me.”
He groans, pulling out slightly and then pushing back in. “It’s just you.”
There are many more things you can say to make him feel better. For now, Simon seems satiated, resorting to leaving marks on the other side of your neck while he fucks you deeply in hard, steady thrusts. Nothing compares to the feeling of him stretching you out, hitting you in all the right spots that leave you boneless and wanting more. You try to wrap your legs around him and moan his name, tugging his hair as an encouragement to give you everything you both need.
As he shifts to rub your clit again, you tighten around him, moaning louder until you tilt your head back, gushing on his cock while he keeps going, going, going until he moans with you, rough grunts mixed with repeated cries of his name. He fills your cunt, pumping himself into you until there’s a wet, sticky mess between your legs. Your thighs tremble when Simon pulls your legs apart, giving you several final farewell thrusts before stilling himself to let you revel in your bliss. You’re full, flushed, exposed completely to him, chest heaving, and lips parted. It’s you.
Simon takes a breath, as well, allowing you to relax as he tucks his arms under your back and rolls you over to his side of the bed. You rest your head on his chest as he softens inside you, uneasy at first but reassured when he keeps his arms tight around you.
“Don’t you dare,” he says firmly. “You’re light as a feather.”
You trust him. A moment of silence passes for you both to relax. You think about what he said, about how he’s afraid. What there is to be afraid of. What he needs to feel less afraid.
Your thoughts are interrupted when his fingers tangle your hair. “Are you thinking about how to help me?”
You turn your head and kiss the scars littered over his chest and collarbone. “Kind of. I’m trying to understand, first.”
“I don’t expect you to understand. It’s more complicated than I let on.”
“Keeping more secrets, then.”
“It’s no secret that I love you.”
You scoff impulsively, but your heart skips a beat. You don’t remember the last time he told you how he felt about you. And when he says it, you’re reminded of why you chose to stay, why you both kept trying to make it work. It’s still working. Imperfect, but working.
Lifting yourself from his chest, you pinch his cheek. “Will you be gone by the time I fall asleep?”
Simon chuckles. It’s a low, threatening sound that warms you up. He warms up, too, judging by the way his cock twitches inside you. It never takes him that long to want to go another round.
He takes your hand and kisses it. “Nobody said anything about falling asleep, darling. Come here.”
You obey, leaning forward to repeat those special three words before kissing him. Nothing has been accomplished between the two of you. You don’t know how you can help, or how he can bring himself to come home more permanently. Neither of you knows how to fix what broke along the way, what you both can do moving forward. It’s all uncertain, all over again.
Grandmas were so right about puzzles and knitting and crocheting and solitaire and reading slow and slippers and baking and watching deer in the backyard send post
10k words of pining, some alcohol, and literature references
Preview:
You stay quiet and listen carefully to Abigail, who’s done so wonderfully over the last few months with learning to read and write. With all of the work equally delegated out to the others on the ranch, she’s been able to take lessons with you during the day. On some days like these, when the weather is crisp and there isn’t a cloud in the sky, the two of you are able to take the reading out to the porch of her home. Beecher’s Hope is bigger than it looks, and you’re grateful to be in the company of kind ranchers.
Speaking of whom, you immediately spot your favorite ranch hand harvesting the carrots from the plot directly in front of the house. Tall, broad shoulders, always wearing a gambler’s hat to hide his chestnut hair and handsome face. You’ve never seen a man who can so attractively pull vegetables from the earth, tapping carrots against his thigh to get the excess soil off and tossing them into a basket. You don’t notice yourself leaning closer towards the scene, chair creaking against the wood as you watch Arthur Morgan himself take his hat off and wipe the sweat from his brow. There’s that hair you want to comb your fingers through. It’s probably so soft, so easy to pull in the right mood.
Abigail says your name with a sharpness in her voice. You jump, turning your attention back to her and fixing your hair and dress like you’ve been caught in a compromising position. “I’m sorry. What’s the word you’re stuck on?”
10k words of pining, some alcohol, and literature references
Preview:
You stay quiet and listen carefully to Abigail, who’s done so wonderfully over the last few months with learning to read and write. With all of the work equally delegated out to the others on the ranch, she’s been able to take lessons with you during the day. On some days like these, when the weather is crisp and there isn’t a cloud in the sky, the two of you are able to take the reading out to the porch of her home. Beecher’s Hope is bigger than it looks, and you’re grateful to be in the company of kind ranchers.
Speaking of whom, you immediately spot your favorite ranch hand harvesting the carrots from the plot directly in front of the house. Tall, broad shoulders, always wearing a gambler’s hat to hide his chestnut hair and handsome face. You’ve never seen a man who can so attractively pull vegetables from the earth, tapping carrots against his thigh to get the excess soil off and tossing them into a basket. You don’t notice yourself leaning closer towards the scene, chair creaking against the wood as you watch Arthur Morgan himself take his hat off and wipe the sweat from his brow. There’s that hair you want to comb your fingers through. It’s probably so soft, so easy to pull in the right mood.
Abigail says your name with a sharpness in her voice. You jump, turning your attention back to her and fixing your hair and dress like you’ve been caught in a compromising position. “I’m sorry. What’s the word you’re stuck on?”
