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King!Simon had never been very affectionate. He didn't believe in it. There was no point in being frivolous with his love. It was stupid. It was for the weak.

That was until your child was born. She was small, so small it scared him. He was sure she was ill or something was wrong, but here she was dressed in what he considered to be the world’s most needlessly opulent dress for a little baby girl. She babbled happily and smashed her wooden toy horse into the stone floor of your shared chambers.

He huffs, eyes looking over your happy baby. “She looks ridiculous.”

“She looks royal. Like a little princess should,” you retort. You had dressed her in the finest clothes you could find, sent as a gift from your family. It was customary to show wealth and power with lavish clothing for your people. Simon did not feel the same way.

“Your people are strange. I see no need for this drama.” He mutters, sighing. He would never say it out loud, but he found her extravagant clothing to be entirely adorable.

You turn your nose up at him, scooping the little girl into your lap and adjusting her dress so it didn't wrinkle. “It shows she is important, Simon.”

“Important people have many furs or weapons. Things of strength, not… a little gold dress.” He insisted, patting the girls back as she coughs.

You roll your eyes and hand your daughter over to him when she starts to fuss, little hands making a grabbing motion at her father. “Oh hush. She is darling.”

“Mmm. Sweet child." He nods in agreement, poking her cheek with his finger, earning a squeal and laugh from her.

He indulged her at every chance. Toys and dresses filled the chest he had made for her with his own hands. He had even started a second to fit more of her possessions. In her short 8 months she had already accumulated quite a collection.

Simon took her everywhere, even if it wasn’t deemed “appropriate." Your little baby sat in on war meetings, happily chewing on her father’s collar, interrupting the council with happy shrieks or hungry screams. He even took her to the training ground, letting her watch the young soldiers train and practice their swordsmanship.

For Simon, there was no place that she didn’t belong. He has her on his lap while he tears his food apart, relishing in the large plate delivered to him. She also is very enthusiastic, shrieking and trying to take bites from his hands. “No, little one. This is not yours.”

“Bahhh bahh!!” She shrieks in growing frustration, little tiny hands slapping at his chest.

He shakes his head, adjusting her away from the food. “Yelling will not make me give you any. You are spoiled enough."

Your little, furious girl wails, face turning red as she starts to cry, confusion and anger overriding her usually calm demeanor. Her chest heaves as she tries to throw herself backwards in her dramatic display.

"Oh fine, child." Simon huffs and pulls her closer, handing her a piece of cheese that is far too big for someone so small. Her shrieking halts immediately, using her tiny little teeth to bite a chunk off of the wedge. She shakes the cheese up and down in delight, tilting it for you to see as you watch.

"Daddy spoils you again, I see," you joke, smiling at the exchange.

He looks scandalized by the claim, putting a hand to his chest. "What? She is a princess. She must be strong."

"And cheese will make her strong?" Sometimes you swore he said things just to justify gifting her things and spoiling her beyond reason.

He nods with full conviction. "Yes. Besides, she wants it. Best to keep 'er happy."

He lifts the girl so he can look at her chubby little face. He smiles as she takes another bite of her cheese. "She knows good food when she sees it." He plants a kiss on her cheek and adjusts the little bonnet you had put her in. "There we go, princess."

se7entyrell

transatlanticism. chapter six.

(jack abbot x reader)

Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.

warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with grief, difficult births, depression, anxiety, and canon medical gore. it will also eventually contain explicit sexual content. unprotected pinv, really sappy sex

main masterlist // transatlanticism masterlist

You don’t mention the kiss the next day. Or the next. Or for the next three months after. You and Jack return to just co-parents, and continue on like nothing ever happened.

Meanwhile, it feels like Gwen is becoming more and more her own proper human every single day. Now seven months, she's curious about everything. If people are talking, she wants to be in the middle of it. If someone walks out of the room, she cranes her neck to watch where they're going. She grabs at anything she can reach and somehow always manages to find the one thing she isn't supposed to have.

miiroki

𝐄𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐓𝐲𝐩𝐞 ┅ 𝖲𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 ‘𝖦𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍’ 𝖱𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗒 & 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘥, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘩𝘶𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳.

﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚

WARNING: nsfw, explicit scenes

NOTE: I’ve never written anything this filthy help…

The bass from the pub’s speakers was vibrating straight through the soles of your heels, but honestly, after the semester you’d had, it felt like a lifeline. You and your girls were in your final year of university, drowning in dissertations, exams, and the collective dread of the real world.

Tonight’s objective was simple: get dressed to the nines, look entirely unapproachable yet wildly attractive, and see how many free drinks you could leverage out of the local blokes before you completely lost the ability to stand.

You were currently rocking a fit that made you feel unstoppable, but the sheer volume of the Manchester crowd had done its work. Somewhere between the bar and the jukebox, you and your closest mate had been separated from the rest of the pack.

"Right, where did they go?" your friend giggled, swaying slightly as she held her vodka-cranberry aloft like a torch.

"No clue, but if we—"

Oof.

You bounced off a solid wall of absolute muscle. You stumbled back a half-step, your hand instinctively reaching out to steady yourself, landing flat against a very broad, very warm chest clad in a dark jacket.

"Whoops, steady there, lass," a thick Scottish accent chimed in. You looked up to find a pair of bright, mischievous eyes crinkling at the corners, a short mohawk cutting through the dim pub lighting. Next to him stood another handsome man wearing a baseball cap backward, a smooth, easy grin plastered on his face.

It was Johnny "Soap" MacTavish and Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, though to a civilian like you, they were just two incredibly fit, incredibly good looking men who seemed far too fit to be standard Manchester pub-goers.

"Sorry about that," you laughed, smoothing down your outfit. "A bit hazardous out here."

"Oh, it’s no trouble at all," Gaz interjected, leaning against a pillar with a smooth smile. "In fact, I think it’s a stroke of luck. I’m Kyle, this is my pal Johnny. What are two lovely ladies like yourselves doing wandering the wilds on a Friday night?"

Within five minutes, the flirting was in full swing. Johnny was laying it on thick, his Scottish charm working like an absolute charm on your friend. He had her laughing up a storm, her hand already resting against his arm. Gaz turned his attention to you, and bless him, he was incredibly sweet and objectively gorgeous—but he just wasn't your type. You preferred a bit more edge, a bit more mystery.

"We’re actually heading over to the pool tables," Soap announced, flashing a brilliant grin. "We’ve got a table cornered. You two should join us. Teams of two?"

Your friend looked at you with pleading, intoxicated eyes. Looking back, you probably should have said no and gone to find the rest of your uni squad. Instead, you shrugged. "Sure. Lead the way."

By the time you reached the back of the pub, the dynamic had shifted. Another one of your girls had miraculously reappeared from the crowd, and Gaz, picking up on your polite but platonic vibes, seamlessly pivoted his attention to her. They hit it off instantly, leaving Johnny and your friend practically joined at the hip.

There was just one problem.

"Ah, bloody hell," Johnny muttered, counting heads. "We’re short one for proper doubles. Hold on." He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted over the din of the pub. "Oi! L.T.! Get over here!"

From the shadows near the back exit, a figure shifted.

Your breath caught in your throat. Jesus Christ.

He was a giant. A big, hulking mountain of a man clad entirely in dark clothing, a heavy hood pulled up. But the kicker? A black skull-patterned balaclava covered his face from the nose down, leaving only a pair of dark, intense, heavily lashed eyes visible. He looked dangerous, entirely out of place in a crowded pub, and absolutely, unequivocally exactly your type.

He walked over with heavy strides, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. Why was it so hot that he didn't look pleased?

"What, MacTavish?"

The voice made all the inner parts of you quiver. Deep. Gravelly. A low, raspy baritone that vibrated straight down your spine and sent an instant, undeniable jolt of heat straight between your thighs. You actually had to cross your legs slightly, your eyes widening as you stared at him.

"We need a fourth for pool, Simon," Soap said, completely unfazed by the terrifying aura the man was radiating. "Don't be a misery guts. Play a round."

While Soap conversed with the giant—who you now knew was named Simon—your friend leaned into your shoulder, her breath hot and smelling of alcohol as she excitedly whispered in your ear.

"Oh my god, I’m definitely into the Scottish one," she hissed happily, watching Soap laugh. She nudged your ribs with her elbow. "What about you? The quiet one looks like he could snap a man in half."

You swallowed hard, your eyes locked onto the broad expanse of Simon's shoulders under his jacket, watching the way his dark eyes flicked over to you, assessing you from behind his hood.

"Yeah," you whispered back, your voice a little breathier than you intended. "I am definitely into his taller friend."

—

The pool cue felt heavy in your hands, but that was mostly because your brain was short-circuiting. The green felt of the table blurred into the background as Simon stepped up directly behind you.

"You're holding it like a damn club, love," he rumbled. That deep, gravelly voice was right at your ear, his warm breath ghosting over the column of your neck and sending a violent shiver down your spine.

"I'm doing my best," you teased, casting a smoky look over your shoulder. "Maybe I just need a proper teacher."

Simon didn't say a word. He just stepped closer, completely enveloping you in his shadow. He smelled of rain, leather, and a faint undertone of bourbon. Then, his hands covered yours. They were massive, and calloused drowning your smaller hands as he adjusted your grip on the wood. He leaned down, his broad chest pressing flat against your back, aligning his body perfectly with yours to show you the angle of the shot.

The contact was electric. With the pub's bass thumping through the floorboards, you couldn't help yourself. You shifted your weight, deliberately grinding your hips back against him just a fraction of an inch.

Above you, Simon froze. A low, dark grunt vibrated from deep within his chest.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, feeling incredibly cheeky. Maybe it was the four vodka crans sloshing around in your system, or maybe it was just the intoxicating thrill of making a literal mountain of a man react to you. You glanced over at the other side of the table; Soap and your friend were entirely in their own world, trading sloppy kisses and whispering things that had them both giggling. They hadn't noticed a thing.

But Simon had. His grip on your hands tightened just a fraction, a silent command to stay still before he guided your arm forward. Clack. The cue ball struck true, sending the solid seven-ball straight into the corner pocket.

From there, the game was a blur of Simon’s clear pool skills. You contributed absolutely nothing but distraction, but thanks entirely to him, you won.

By the time the final ball dropped, the midnight hour had long passed. The rest of Simon and Johnny’s group was visibly, hilariously wrecked. Gaz was slumped in a booth trying to teach your other friend a tactical military handshake, and their ‘captain’ Price was at the bar aggressively debating football with the bartender. They were all clearly ready to crash hard at an unlucky blokes townhouse. (Simon)

Well, all except for one. Simon stood perfectly upright, he looked sober, his dark eyes tracking the room.

"Right, I’m taking this one home," Soap slurred, his arm slung heavily over your friend’s shoulders as she giggled, both of them already shuffling toward the exit into a waiting taxi. Just like that, your ride and your squad were gone, leaving you standing under the dim pub lights with the giant in the skull mask.

"Looks like it's just you and me, big guy," you murmured, stepping into his space. The alcohol lent you a massive wave of confidence. You reached out, your fingers daringly tracing the edge of his dark hoodie. "Your friends are all sloshed. Who's going to look after you?"

Simon stared down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily. "I don't need looking after, love."

"No?" You tilted your head up, leaning in just enough that he’d have to bend down to hear you over the ringing in your ears. "My flat is only a ten-minute walk from here. It's warm. Quiet. And I have a really, really comfortable bed." You let your eyes drop to his covered lips before looking back up into his intense gaze. "Are you going to let me walk home all by myself in the dark?"

A tense, heavy silence stretched between you. For a second, you thought he was going to refuse, to turn on his heel and drag what was left his drunken mates to wherever.

But then, Simon let out a rough, defeated sigh. He reached up, pulling his hood a little lower, but his large hand settled firmly on the small of your back, the heat of his palm burning through your clothes.

"Lead the way," he growled low in his throat. "Before I change my mind."

—

The ten-minute walk through the crisp night air felt like a blur of friction and heat. Every time your bare shoulder brushed against his heavy jacket, a jolt went straight to your core.

By the time you stumbled onto the porch of your flat, the tension snapped.

You fished blindly in your bag for your keys, your hands shaking slightly from a mix of the cold and pure adrenaline. You felt him step up behind you, blocking out the streetlights, trapping you between his massive frame and the heavy wooden door.

"Need some help with that, love?" he rumbled, his voice dangerously low against your ear.

"I’ve got it," you breathed, finally wrapping your fingers around the key ring. But as you turned around to face him, keys in hand, the look in his dark eyes made you completely forget how to use your hands.

You didn't wait. You reached up, your fingers catching the hem of his black balaclava and pulling it up. Simon didn't stop you. He helped, bunching the fabric up over his nose, exposing a strong, rugged jawline, a dusting of stubble, and full lips that were parted in a sharp intake of breath.

When your lips finally met, it was like an explosion.

It wasn't a gentle kiss, fuck—it was feverish, hungry, and so desperate. Simon let out a low, ragged groan into your mouth, his massive hands coming alive. One of his palms cupped the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling in your hair to angle your head perfectly, while his other hand gripped your hip, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the rigid, hard lines of his body pressing into yours, and a soft whimper escaped your throat.

"Inside," he muttered against your lips, his kiss tracking down to your jawline, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there and making your knees go weak. "Get the bloody door open."

"I'm trying," you gasped, your hands blindly fumbling behind your back. You were pinned against the wood, your hips grinding instinctively against his as his large hand slid down to the back of your thigh, lifting you slightly to bring you even closer.

The metal of the key scraped loudly against the lock, your fingers clumsy as Simon’s mouth returned to yours, devouring you, his tongue sliding past your lips in a deep, possessive stroke. You managed to guide the key into the slot, turning it until you heard the heavy thunk of the deadbolt sliding back.

The hand on your neck migrate towards the handle of the door, twisting it open. Your body, still pressed between the wood and his, hit the door with your back, tumbling inside into the dark warmth of your hallway—and dragging the giant right in after you.

You moan into the kiss, hands roaming desperately over his shoulders, feeling the hard ridges of muscle beneath his shirt as his palms slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. The size difference hits you instantly, his body engulfs yours completely. You arch your back as he presses forward, the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock grinding against your belly through his jeans. It throbs with heat, promising an overwhelming stretch, and you feel your pussy clench in response, wetness already soaking your panties.

Simon doesn't ease up, one massive hand cupping the back of your head while the other roams lower, squeezing your ass to pull you tighter against that rigid length. Your breaths mingle in ragged gasps, the kiss turning sloppy and wet as his teeth nip at your lower lip, sending sparks straight to your core.

He tugs at your clothing, exposing more skin to the cool air, and the heat radiating from him envelops you completely. Simon sets you down just inside the door but keeps you pinned against the wall with his body, his hands already working at the hem of your top. He peels it upward in one smooth motion, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze before tossing the fabric aside, then hooks his fingers into your waistband and drags your skirt and panties down in a single, impatient tug that leaves you naked and trembling against him.

You reach for his shirt in turn, fingers fumbling with the shirt as your hands struggle against the broad expanse of his chest, but the fabric resists your frantic tugs and you end up clutching uselessly at his belt instead.

Simon chuckles low in his throat, the sound rich and teasing as his accent curls around the words. “Easy now, love—look at you, all eager. Let me handle it, hm?” He steps back just enough to strip his own shirt over his head, revealing the hard slabs of muscle, scars, and tattoos beneath, then unbuckles his belt and shoves his jeans and boxers down in one fluid movement. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, the substantial length curving upward and already glistening at the tip.

He crowds back against you immediately, the heat of his bare skin searing yours while one large palm cups your breast and the other slides between your thighs to find you slick and ready.

“There now, darling,” he murmurs against your ear, nipping at the lobe as his fingers part your folds and circle your clit with deliberate pressure.

“All wet aren’t we? Just the way I like. Gonna fill you proper soon.” His substantial endowment presses hot and insistent against your stomach again as he lifts you once more, your legs wrapping around him on instinct, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance while his attentive eyes search yours for every flicker of pleasure and surrender.

He carries you deeper into the apartment, his long strides eating up the distance to the bedroom while your legs tighten around his waist.

You’re wondering how he managed to find your bedroom so quick, but your thoughts are completely overtaken by the throbbing of your clit each time he grinds himself forward.

He puts you onto the bed with surprising care despite his size, he’s hovering over you as his lips close around one nipple, sucking hard enough to make your back arch.

He then lowers his head down to your stomach, and then between your legs, his tongue dragging hot and broad over your slick folds, lapping at the mixture of your arousal that leaks from your entrance.

Simons broad shoulders force your legs further apart, his tongue delving deep before circling your clit with relentless strokes that send jolts of pleasure racing through your core. Your hands fist in his short hair as he sucks gently on the swollen bud, one thick finger sliding inside you to curl against that sensitive spot while his free hand pins your hip down.

You arch off the bed, the orgasm building fast and sharp under his attentive mouth, your thighs trembling around his head as he hums in approval, the vibration pushing you over the edge. Your pussy clenches and floods his tongue with fresh wetness, the release easing the lingering ache of desire while he drinks you down greedily, eyes flicking up to watch every shudder that ripples across your.

He doesn't stop there, easing you through the aftershocks with softer licks until your breathing steadies, then rises to kiss you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips as his substantial cock—already hard and red—presses insistently against your belly.

He reckons you're ready now. your slick folds glistening, and your hips canting up in silent plea.

Simon lines up the blunt head of his cock with your cunny, pressing just enough to part your lips before inching inside with agonizing slowness. Inch by thick inch he sinks deeper, the stretch burning sweet and deep as your walls flutter around him, that delicious bulge in your belly rising under your skin with every deliberate push until he's fully seated, heavy balls pressed to your ass.

The sensation nearly undoes him; a low groan rips from his chest, his cock twitching hard inside you as if fighting the urge to flood you right then, but he relents with a shuddering breath, muscles straining as he holds still and lets the edge pass.

Yet the invasion sends you reeling, stars bursting behind your eyes as the pressure overwhelms every nerve, your body arching and clenching as pleasure crashes through you in white-hot waves. He begins to move then, slow and powerful thrusts that make the bulge shift and press outward with each stroke, his hands pinning your wrists to the mattress while he watches every gasp and tremor, savoring how completely you yield to the relentless fullness.

“Shh, just sit back and relax alright, love.” Even his voice was making you reel.

The slow pace is long gone as Simon starts to thrust faster and faster, the thick head of his cock slamming into that spongy spot deep inside, each powerful stroke making your eyes water and your vision blur as pleasure borders on overwhelming.

“S-Simon… s-slow d-”

Your body jolts beneath him, the belly bulge shifting visibly with every drive of his hips, and the wet sounds of your slick pussy gripping him fill the room alongside your broken cries. He watches your face, his balaclava gone and discarded somewhere on the floor, his muscles flexing as he builds the rhythm higher, pushing you toward another shattering peak while his substantial girth stretches you to your limits again and again.

Without warning he pulls out, the sudden emptiness drawing a needy whimper from your throat, then flips you onto your hands and knees with effortless strength. He thrusts back in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one fluid motion that forces another visible bulge to rise in your belly, his left hand clamping onto your waist with a grip sure to leave bruises as he holds you steady. His right hand tangles in your hair, yanking your face upward toward his as he leans over your back, claiming your mouth in a bruising kiss that tasted like sweat and shared hunger, his tongue thrusting in time with the punishing snaps of his hips.

You moan into the kiss, body trembling from the intensity His attentive murmurs vibrate against your lips, praising how well you take him, how perfectly your pussy milks his cock, and the emotional tether of his touch keeps you grounded even as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes through your smaller frame.

Round after round blurs into one another as he claims you again and again, flipping you, lifting you, filling you until cum leaks in thick rivulets down your thighs and the ache in your core becomes a constant throb of bliss.

—

Every muscle in your body was aching in a way that felt both agonizing and utterly spectacular.

You slowly blinked your eyes open, squinting against the aggressive morning light piercing through your blinds. Your head was pounding a steady, rhythmic rhythm, the undeniable receipt of too many vodka-cranberries, and your throat felt like sandpaper. You looked like absolute hell, your hair a chaotic bird's nest and your makeup undoubtedly smeared across your face like a tragic watercolor painting.

But as you shifted (tried) under the duvet, a wicked, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of your lips. Jesus. No one had ever rocked your world like that. Multiple rounds that had left your headboard dented and your sheets tangled around your ankles. The man was built like a tank and moved with too much stamina.

You reached out a hand to the space beside you. The sheets were empty. The fabric was slightly cold to the touch, but not completely, meaning he hadn't been gone long. A sudden, familiar pang of morning-after anxiety flickered in your chest.

Did he slip out? Did a man like that even do morning-afters?

The answer came in the sudden, sharp click of your bathroom door opening.

You sat up, immediately regretting it as the soreness permeated throughout your body.

There he was. In all his absolute glory.

He didn't have a towel around his waist. In fact, he didn't have a single stitch of clothing on. The only towel in sight was the small white one gripped in his hands, which he was currently using to vigorously rub his damp, short blonde hair dry.

Your eyes wide, you drank in the sight of him. In the harsh daylight, he was an absolute masterpiece. His pale skin was a roadmap of stories, jagged silver scars cutting across the thick armor of his chest, heavy tattoos weaving down his massive arms, and powerful thighs that you vividly remembered gripping your waist just hours prior. And his face, completely bare, completely exposed, was ruggedly handsome.

Simon stopped rubbing his hair, dropping the towel around his shoulders. He looked down at you, completely unbothered by his own total nudity, a faint, rare smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he noticed your starstruck expression.

"Morning, love," he rumbled. Without the mask, his deep, gravelly voice sounded softer, intimate, and heavier in the quiet of your bedroom. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

You let out a raspy, sleep-deprived laugh, burying the lower half of your face in your blanket to hide your blush. "I think you legally count as a weapon, Simon. I can barely move."

Simon let out a low chuckle. He walked over to the side of the bed, the sheer size of him casting a shadow over you, and leaned down. He placed one massive, scarred hand on your thighs, stroking them up and down.

"Good," he murmured. "That means I did my job right."

You scoffed and lightly smacked his solid chest, the impact making your hand sting more than it bothered him. "Don't you dare," you groaned, pulling the duvet up to your chin like a shield. "My body literally cannot handle another round. If you touch me, I might dissolve into the mattress."

Simon let out another chuckle, completely unfazed by your swat. He stood up straight, his gaze raking over you with a look of satisfaction.

"What are you going to do now anyway?" you asked, leaning your head back against the pillows. You blinked up at him, your hangover finally catching up to you as a dull throb started behind your eyes. "Are you just going to vanish into thin air, or...?"

"First, I'm going to find where you keep the painkillers, get a glass of water, and make you some breakfast," Simon replied casually, as if standing stark naked in a uni student's bedroom was a completely standard Saturday morning routine. "Then, I suppose I have to go round up my mates."

You raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at your lips despite your headache. "Your mates? Right. The ones with you at the pub.”

Simon walked over to the pile of his discarded clothes on the floor, hooking his foot under his trousers to lift them up. He shook them out and started stepping into them.

"Aye, those idiots," he rumbled, fastening his belt. He looked back at you, a distinctly amused glint in his eyes. "They were meant to crash at my place. But I don’t really fancy spending my first night off in a month playing nursemaid to a bunch of loud, puking bastards."

He grabbed his black t-shirt, pulling it over his head and obscuring those magnificent chest scars from view. When his head popped through the collar, his eyes locked back onto yours.

"And then, suddenly," Simon murmured, his voice dropping into that deep register that made your stomach flip, "a lovely lady asked me to walk her home. So, naturally, I had to take her up on the offer. Far better company."

You couldn't help the massive smile that broke across your face, burying your burning cheeks into the blanket. "Oh, so you're saying I’m lovely?”

"Something like that, love," Simon said, finally pulling his iconic black mask out of his pocket—though he didn't put it on, just tossed it onto the bedside table. He walked toward the bedroom door, pausing at the threshold to look back at you one last time. "Don't move. I'll be back with the pills."

Before his footsteps could even fade down he suddenly reappeared in the doorframe. You blinked, startled by how quickly and silently he’d turned back around.

Without a word, Simon flipped his wrist. A heavy, black, smartphone sailed through the air and landed with a soft thud right on the duvet by your knee.

It was a brand you’ve never seen before. It had lots of bells and whistles on the outside too.

You stared at the phone, then looked up at him, utterly bewildered. "What's this?"

"Password is zero-four-one-zero," Simon rumbled, his eyes locked onto yours, completely deadpan. "Open it and put your number in. Don't give me a fake one, either."

You let out a stunned, breathy laugh, the sudden burst of adrenaline making you forget about your headache for a split second. "Are you ordering me?"

"Just making sure I don't have to hunt you down across Manchester when I want a repeat of last night," he countered smoothly. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Get to it, love."

Before you could even form a comeback, he vanished back into the hallway as he finally made his way toward your kitchen.

You sat there for a second, looking at the black brick of a phone, a massive, giddy smile breaking across your face. Sliding your hands out from under the covers, you picked it up, punched in 0410, and opened the contacts.

You quickly typed in your details, humming happily to yourself as the faint, heavenly scent of sizzling bacon began to waft into your bedroom.

phoebeselwyn

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY // barbarianking!simon, f!reader, kidnapping, noncon, eventually consensual, pregnancy, mention of intimacy, mention of fingering, possessive simon, caring simon, childbirth

part 1

Simon was angry.

Firstly, at the healers. The local midwife was shocked when he broke into her house and pinned her against her wall, scaring the hell out of her children, who immediately grouped together, shaking at thinking what their king might do. The middle-aged woman shook her head, saying that nothing was her fault, that she had determined pregnancy at a time when your small bump was not yet there, and that she could not even imagine that the news would not reach Simon.

Then at himself. Because you did not trust him enough to tell him that you were carrying his child in your womb. And looking at how he treated you, he understood that you simply had no reason to trust him.

The day he saw you mourning your father, who was slain during the battle, he just threw you over his shoulder and moved towards his horse. You were punching his back and crying, so he had to put you in front of him and literally squeeze into your back so that you were trapped between him and the edge of the saddle. You cried the whole first day when his men stopped for the night in the woods, and Simon just covered you both with one big piece of fur, not noticing how you slipped out of his arms and slept on the side, but not next to him.

But you did not shed a tear at your wedding ceremony. You did not even look Simon in the eye when the local spiritual leader tied your palms together with a thin strip of bearskin, and then, after you were both treated to wine, you poured yours right into Simon's mouth when he kissed you.

You were not to share a bed with him, but Simon refused to do anything that would provoke your tears. What was the point of a woman hitting his chest while he fucked her? Instead, his fingers were the first to enter your core, and you frowned through barely suppressed moans when you first reached your peak, pressing into his palm.

He was the one who kidnapped you, took you away from your home, forcibly married you, and now you were pregnant with your unwanted husband's child.

But Simon was still angry. At himself.

His was raised as a brut; the shortage of sentences he spoke and tight muscles of his arms were what he was raised to act like and have, his culture valuing rought instead of gentle. His men did not spare a glance to women they fucked after the victory, whether it was they wife or a wife of their neighbor. Women's tears were not seen, men's were disgusting.

But you... You were the one whom he married, despite his advisors seeing you as a whore, hardly even worth of their king's bed. But Simon's actions were not to be questioned, he made sure of such a reputation when he took the position from his uncle.

At yet, in the face of his wife, pregnant with his babe, Simon clutched his fists on his way back from the midwife's house, swearing to himself to become a better man for you. And for the second heart, already beating inside you.

***

You noticed you were no longer present on the main room of the house, when Simon usually returned from the hunt with his men. The gatherings were held in this big hall, men dragging their prey on the wooden floor, soaking the wood with blood still pouring out of the corpses, laughing and chanting in unison on a language you still were yet no learn. The action always made you nauseous, seeing the blood, the fur being removed from the deer's body, men roaring and biting the raw meat right from the flesh.

Yet when the voices were heard again, Simon did not appear on the doorstep, as he usually did, with the "inviting" gaze of his that forced you to come out, to sit on one of the tables by your husband, to look at all the chaos, the pure madness happing around you.

No.

You could hear his voice, telling the servants to gather the drinks. But he did not "invite" you to the gathering.

The same night, when he slipped under the furs, making the bed creak under his weight, you asked, not looking over you shoulder.

"Why did you not make me come out?"

The silence stretched for too long, making you nervous, almost thinking that he might have just fallen asleep and you were speaking into the air.

But it was his sigh and short, always short answer, that made you put you palm on your belly.

"Not good for you to see the blood."

***

Everything began to change since that night. Since when Simon's eyes, brown and stoic, caught the slight bulge of your stomach. You were on top of him, bouncing on his cock, whining and gripping the headboard of the bed with you fingers, when he outlined the new curve of yours.

Hiding that from him was the only thing you felt you had the right to. After being taken from your home, forced into the marriage, the life around the people unfamiliar to you, the new life that bloomed in your womb was the only thing you thought could belong to you.

But since Simon found out, since the silent conversation of your gazes colliding happened, he changed.

He was still the same giant of a man, almost too small for the bed, speaking of short sentences and giving orders to everyone around. Yet, your new state made him soften the littlest bit.

The knife, placed in front of you, made you raise your gaze up from the embroidery (on which the servants looked down on). The blade was small, yet sharp, and the handle wooden with some shapes carved in. The item appearing so suddenly made you stiffen, but Simon was quick to speak.

"Tradition. Men gives a babe a knife. First weapon."

A weapon for their unborn child.

You raised a knife in your hands, examining the handle. The symbols carved into the wood, yet, made to sense. The tree, as if the one he had slung you over his shoulder near; the flower, similar to ones you had been embroidering; the sun that you cherished to have and always pulling your face towards when walking out of the house for mere seconds.

"Those... Are those for the babe?"

The real question that made Simon clench his fists, but not tearing his eyes away from you. The tradition required a future father to carve in the symbols of his future babe. Yet, those he put on the handle, were not about that particular being.

"You left everything there when I took you. You need to have something yours here."

Something yours.

He said no more, walking out the room, but your heart skipped s beat, taking the said in.

Simon made the knife not for your future child. But for you.

***

The day your belly became too huge for you to sit up came quicker that you had expected.

The servant, the girl, prepared a bath with a hot water for you, and called when everything was ready. Having laid down for a moment to ease the pressure off of your back, you struggled to sit at the bed. Clatching the headboard, you tried to wiggle to the side, to find the balance and reposition newly gained weight.

But before you knew it, the strong, calloused hands, gripped your shoulders and set you straight, you finally being able to sit. You looked up, and there Simon was, hair slightly sprinkled with fresh snowflakes, as the first snow settled on the village a week ago.

His hands moved, one under your knees, the other on your back, and he carried you, as if weightless, to the other end of the room, where the wooden bath tub stood near the fire.

You found yourself silent, expecting him to follow you into the tub, to perhaps try to initiate intimacy, which you lacked for some time.

The first time you shared a bed, you shed a tear and blood, having lost your virginity. But he was never cruel with you during sex. Persistent, perhaps, sometimes even rough. But he always made you shiver and whine in pleasure, as your hips twitched, catching this sweet release again and again.

The moment your wool dress dropped, and you climbed in the water, you scooted over, making some space for him. But Simon stayed outside. Maintaining some distance, he sat on the fur on the floor, seeing your body being fully covered by the water for a second, as you wetted your hair.

The bathes were what made the pain of your big belly ease. The weight you had gained and will gain, most of which were the babe inside you, made your already small statue clumsy. Simon had noticed you several times placing your hands on the wooden pillars of the house while walking, as if ensuring some safety for a small adventures.

But he saw now how big the babe had gotten.

The curve of your belly, soft yet strong, was undeniable. Poking out of the water for a mere inch, it was a big evidence of all the shared nights of yours. The pregnancy made you stronger. He saw how you started sharpening the knife he had gifted you, cutting apples and helping the servants with cooking. You were refusing to be a burden in a state where your body was making another human being inside.

That made Simon proud. For a woman he had taken away, but not taken the spirit of hers.

The small movement from the inside of your stomach, the glow casket on your skin from the nearest torch, it made Simon stiffen, his hand quickly reaching for the axe on his hip.

But you chuckled, shaking your head.

"No need for that. The babe is simply kicking."

Kicking.

"Kicking you?" His brown arched, the anger and confusion, the strange mix in his eyes.

"It is moving." You clarified, moving your palm, stroking the skin at the exact spot, as if soothing the babe inside you. "It shows the strength."

Strong. His child would be strong.

He let you bath in silence, sitting nearby, looking how you enjoyed the warm water, the comfort. And that night, he feel asleep with his palm on your belly, and you already sleeping face to face with him.

***

You found him hear the open doors, the ground sprinkled with snow, the winter not harsh enough yet to make him cover his bear chest. Yet, you were the one covered in warm clothes.

The wood between his legs looked smooth, the curve not subtle, but the length not long enough to be one of those where people carried water in on their shoulders.

"What are those for?" You stepped closer, palm stroking your belly, the babe being active all morning.

Simon raised his eyes briefly, looking at yours, and then at the movement of your palm. His hands did not stop, still smothering the wood, but his haze lingered on your belly, the reminder of an approaching labour.

"The babe bed."

"The crib?" You asked, dumbfounded.

Just the other day, the woman from the village, a wife of one of the warriors, brought the local version of a crib into your house. Two small wooden pillars firmly embedded on the ground under the floorboards, and a sack of fabric hanging in between. You looked puzzled, eyeing the construction with a curiosity, asking Simon what for did you two need a cheese press when the goats in the village hardly have enough milk to make one.

You were horrified to discover this was how his people made newborns sleep.

"Monk said your people use wood." Simon mumbled, his eyes back on the wood in his hand.

The monk. The kidnapped slim man from the same lands as you, taken and kept as a slave for one of the chiefs of Simon's. He talked to him. About the babe, about you refusing to let the fragile being sleep in something without a steady ground under.

And he made a crib.

It stood near your bed two weeks after. Steady, strong, and full of clean fabric and warm furs.

"Woman said babe needs warmth." Simon said, dropping two more fur pieces in the already full crib.

You nodded, and, walking closed, snuggled closer to his side, desperate for his always hot skin and warmth.

"It will need warmth, coming in the winter."

***

The wind outside made the doors swing from side to side with force. Or was it the hurry with which the servants and the midwife were running in and out, bringing more warm water and fresh linens? You could not tell, too lost in the agony that gripped your body.

"Why she screams?"

"She is having a child, the child needs a way out of her body. It is expected of her to-"

"If you do not do anything I will take my axe and-"

You interrupted the threat, ready to slip out of Simon's mouth and reached for his hand. He gripped your palm in an instance, moving closer, until your foreheads were pressed to one another.

"I need the knife."

"Knife?"

"The knife you- Ugh! The knife you gave me."

The one you never parted ways with, always looking at the pattern, tracing the symbols with you finger pads.

The horror passed into Simon's eyes, and before anyone could notice that, you said.

"The cord. Cut it with the knife."

He did, just several moments later. When you collapsed on your face, babe being pushed out, and servants helped you to lay on your back from the hands and knees you were relying on while the midwife wiped the babe with a fresh fabric. The newborn screamed, finally here, finally breathing the air for the first time.

"What a big boy. A mighty warrior."

A son was placed into your hands, and Simon cut the cord not leaving his eyes off of the child on your chest.

He would do anything for the two of you. He would conquer new villages, fight a thousand battles, build a bigger house, hunt a dozen deers, kill anyone who dares to look wrong at you.

At his family.

well, what do we think?

tags: @prettybpony @devoted-buttons @mvstercvrd @lilpothoscuttings @other-fandoms-reblogs @eastern-side-of-the-heart @drugs-and-daddyissues @itsnayumenko-blog @rios-st4rs @leahsfantasy @1-800-bobcut @cocolocorococo @hikotaru @cherryv0dk4 @damonlore @rottensage @missj609

castielsangelsx

Show Me (Ghost x Reader)

knight!simon riley x princess!reader

description: princesses are meant to be poised, delicate and untouched by things unbecoming. At least, that's what everyone expects of you. hidden away in your room, curiosity gets the better of you - one that takes a dangerous turn when sir simon riley, your father's most loyal knight, catches you in such an intimate moment. he's far too tangled in temptation - when you ask him to teach you, how could he say no...

word count: 4.2k

tags/warnings: 18+, SMUT with no penetration*, lots of touching (female masturbation), implied age gap, power imbalance. MASK STAYS ON.

slater-baby

Simon Riley x Reader | Pure fluff!

I headcanon that Simon—who grew up under irresponsible and intoxicated parents—never got birthday cakes growing up. Like, he’d gone to other people’s birthday parties and saw what they had, but knew he could never expect it for himself because his mom and dad were either too drunk or too careless to ever get him one.

You’ve been dating for a year and his birthday rolls around. When he walks in on you carefully icing a big, beautiful chocolate cake, it’s immediately like someone just poured a bucket of ice water over his head.

“Love, have you seen my—“ he barges into the kitchen looking for his car keys, but freezes in his step when he sees you leaning over the counter, a look of supreme concentration on your face as you pipe a few chocolate roses.

“Hm? What’d you say, babe?” Your delayed reply eventually comes, almost too absorbed in the task to even hear him.

A few beats of silence.

“I asked if you’d seen my car keys. What—what are you doing?” He asks, voice quieting.

You merely scoff, “What do you mean ‘what am I doing?’ I’m making your birthday cake, dummy! What else would I be doing?”

You giggle, as if he were silly for even asking the question in the first place. Meanwhile, Simon’s entire world is shaking on its foundations.

“Oh—chocolate cake is still your favorite, right?” You hurriedly jump back from the cake, “I went to the store and I thought about making confetti cake, but then I remembered how much you liked that lava cake we got at the cafe…and then I saw they had that fancy dark chocolate on sale! Y’know, the one that’s too expensive to justify, and since it’s your birthday, I just knew it would be perfect! But if you want a different flavor then—“

“No, no,” he meekly interrupts your passionate explanation, “It’s perfect, love.”

For a second, he watches your face curl into a pleased smile, before you grab him by his tattooed wrist and drag him closer to the cake.

“Look—Look, I even found little star sprinkles to go on the edges! They’re super cute, right?”

You blink at him—entirely clueless to the way his heart is currently beating out of his chest, and through the force of the pain in his throat, he manages to speak.

“It’s beautiful. You’ve done a great job,” his voice sounds like a robot, tense and to-the-point. He’s so stuck in his head he literally flinches when you jump excitedly into a hug.

“Gosh, I’m so glad you like it! I was so worried, y’know, cause the frosting melted a little bit, and then the sprinkles left stains on the top, and then—“ like always, you ramble nonsensically, voice muffled from where you squish your face into his t-shirt.

All the while, he simply stares down at the little cake, wobbly and imperfect, struggling to breathe.

“—but it was all worth it in the end,” you breathe a deep sigh of relief, before suddenly snapping out of your reverie, “Oh, what did you want again? Sorry, I was distracted.”

He cluelessly blinks a few times, “Uh—asked for m’car keys.”

“Oh, I think I saw them by the couch. Try there,” you reply, before you step out of his arms and go back to your task, smiling all the while. You pick up the frosting bag once more.

He merely watches on, breathing too loud, something hard and immovable collecting in his chest. When he opens his mouth to speak, his voice is garbled and soft, “I’m—I’m goin’ to the grocery.”

“Sounds good, babe,” you hum, “Oh! Pick up some milk while you’re there, too.”

“Will do.”

With that, he SPEED WALKS out of the kitchen, ducking aimlessly into the bathroom. For a moment, he stands, looking at himself in the mirror. The tightness in his chest chokes him to the point where his breaths come out in small, silent pushes. And when he glances at his face, the tears in his eyes finally spill over.

He cries silently to himself for the first time in years, shaking arms leant up against the bathroom counter while he muffles the sobs into the crook of his elbow. In the background, he can hear the sound of your phone blaring pop music, can hear the noise of your sneakers as you dance to the beat. Somewhere between the overflowing love bursting from his chest, and the sugary sweet air of his now peaceful home, he crumbles.

When he finally manages to pull himself back together, he takes a moment to steel himself in the mirror, unable to contain the smile that tugs at his lips. He looks deranged almost, eyes bright red from crying yet grinning like a maniac. It’s only when he goes to turn the faucet on that he sees it: a little spot of buttercream frosting amidst the blue-black ink of his tattoos.

Slowly, he lifts his wrist to his mouth, feeling the sugar melt on his tongue. If anything, his smile only widens.

When he finally gets into the drivers seat of his car, it’s not the grocery store that he ends up navigating to. Rather, it’s the jewelry store.

You needed milk. But, hell, he’d been meaning to buy an engagement ring soon anyway.

purehypnotic

.˚⋆ find us in a week ⋆.˚

𖥔 din djarin x reader

𖥔 major plot spoilers for the mandalorian and grogu film!!

.𖥔 ݁ ˖✶ jedi! reader, fem!reader mentioned wearing dresses (and +1 bra joke), reader is able to run, no pronouns used for the reader. my goat zeb is in everyone's dms. do i have a part 2?? well, i have concepts of a part 2...

▬▬ι═══════𖥔 ݁ ˖ ᯓ★▬▬ι═══════𖥔 ݁ ˖ ᯓ★▬▬ι═══════𖥔 ݁ ˖ ★

Pulled away for a tedious task, you leave your Mandalorian alone for a week. One. In these seven days, he has managed to anger the Hutts beyond belief and lose your son in the jungles of Nal Hutta. Safe to say you’re pissed.

▬▬ι═══════𖥔 ݁ ˖ ᯓ★▬▬ι═══════𖥔 ݁ ˖ ᯓ★▬▬ι═══════𖥔 ݁ ˖ ★

lovebugism

THAT FUNNY FEELING ─── jack abbot

summary: on your very first day as an attending at the ptmc, you're forced to navigate the chaos of the night shift, a code silver, and the fact that jack abbot would (and did) take a bullet for you. (7k)

characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, samira mohan, john shen, crus henderson, princess de la cruz, michael robinavitch, jack's dead wife also gets a wee mention

contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, heavily inspired by greys anatomy s6ep24, not proofread soz cw for so many medical inaccuracies (like so many), hostage situations, heavy mentions of blood and gore, mentions of trauma and grief

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

It was your first day as an attending, and almost your very last.

Other than your newfound position, there was little else different about this night compared to all the others. The late evening was filled with all the usual chaos that you’ve come to find a strange sort of refuge within. Your first patient of the day was a woman in a pretty sequined dress, who’d sustained a collapsed lung after screaming a little too hard to “Bohemian Rhapsody” during karaoke — something you’d only find while working the night shift.

“First needle aspiration as an attending…” Jack Abbot said with a nod of approval when the procedure was done. “How’s it feel?”

The simple question made you dizzy. It was as much of a reminder of your new ranking as the foil balloons in the break room, bobbing lazily against the ceiling tiles. Or the crooked banner strung above the coffee maker, reading CONGRATS in cheap gold letters. Or the plastic container of store-bought cupcakes someone definitely bought last-minute, with neon-colored frosting smeared slightly on the lid.

But what really sent you reeling, though, was the inadvertent acknowledgment of the simmering tension between you and Jack — which had always been there in some ways, but was much easier to ignore before now.

mirrormauve

faultlines

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)

Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.

cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection

Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body.

silverlullabies

Can’t stop thinking about Trucker!Simon who’s been rolling for four straight days without a real shower, big frame crammed behind the wheel of his rig, the sleeper cab behind him smelling like diesel, old sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and faint grease of last week’s truck stop burgers.

Trucker!Simon who’s got you- the pretty little bird he picked up on the side of the interstate at 2am, thumb stuck out in your pretty little sundress, soft tits spilling heavier over the neckline every time you breathe, panicked, after you’d quietly explained through the open window that someone had ditched you out there, hundreds of miles from home with nothing but your bag and you just needed a ride to the next town, anywhere, please- in his sleeper, curled up on sheets stiff with old sweat and cum, stained more than clean.

Soft thighs pressed together, pretty mouth parted, eyes wide and already glassy in the low light from the dash. He’s too big for the space, has to duck his head, shoulders brushing the sides, and he fills it completely when he crawls in after you.

Shirt half unbuttoned and stuck to his chest with sweat, jeans open and shoved down, freeing that heavy cock that you’ve seen the outline of under his oil stained pants when he’d palm at it, bulging against his thigh when he drove under street lamps to this trucker stop.

It hangs thick and flushed between his thighs now, heavy balls drawn up tight, the skin at the base dark with dried sweat and the pre he’s been leaking into his boxers since he got a whiff of your sweet floral perfume as you climbed into his rig.

Kneels on the mattress, one big hand braced on the low ceiling, the other reaching down to fist his cock slow and lazy, eyes dragging over you, your soft curves, the way your pretty clothes are already rumpled from being in his rig, the little tremble in your thighs that only gets worse when he leans in closer.

Mattress dipping under his weight, until his chest is right in front of your face, heat rolling off him intense. You wrinkle your nose hard, trying to turn your face away, shoulders curling in like you can escape the stench.

He shifts his weight anyway, knees forcing between your thighs, spreading them wider, one nicotine stained hand wrapping around yours, yanking it down to wrap around his cock. It’s hot, heavy, the skin at the base tacky. Your fingers don’t quite meet around it.

You flinch violently, trying to yank your hand back with a soft disgusted sound, but he just wraps his bigger one over yours and makes you stroke him once, twice, slow, firm drags that smear fresh precum down the shaft while your lower lip wobbles and your breath comes in tiny, hiccuping gasps. He groans at the skin of your hand around his cock which is all too used to the feeling of his calloused hands and scratchy sheets and not at all used to soft and warm.

His fingers thread into your hair, digging into the base of your skull, and he forces your face down the trail of coarse hair on his stomach until your pretty mouth is pressed right against the root of his cock.

The smell is strongest here, musky and sharp, the faint bitter trace of old piss where he’s been too lazy to stop properly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try harder to twist away, soft disgusted whimpers catching in your throat, hands pushing weakly at his stomach, nose wrinkling as you gag at the smell of him. He holds you there until your lips brush the tacky skin.

Rocks his hips forward, the fat head of his cock smearing across your soft cheek, leaving a shiny streak. “Open up.”

When your lips part and you take him in, he grunts low, the wet heat of your mouth making his balls draw up tighter. He pushes the taste of road and sweat across your tongue, then deeper.

You choke immediately, a wet, panicked sound bubbling up as your hands fly to his hips, pushing hard. Tears bead in your lashes and spill down your temples, nose wrinkling hard at the stench, but he doesn’t let you pull back. Both big hands sink into your hair, fingers twisting tight at the roots, dragging you down, groaning when he pushes into your throat, feels it convulse around the fat head of his cock.

“Fuck,” he rasps, barely a word, more a punched out sound of satisfaction.

Then he shoves you down the rest of the way, using his grip on your hair to force your pretty mouth lower, inch by inch, until your nose is pressed flush against the sweaty, crusty hair at the base of his cock.

Your throat spasms hard around him, fluttering and squeezing, and he groans again, deeper this time, hips twitching forward. Saliva floods your mouth instantly, thick and messy, spilling out around your stretched lips and dripping down his balls in shiny strings.

He holds you there, nose buried in the damp, crusted pubes that smell like days of sweat and road grime, cock buried to the hilt in your spasming throat.

One thumb slides forward, pressing against the outside of your neck, feeling the obscene bulge of his cock stretching your throat. He rubs it slowly, while your eyes water and more tears track down your face.

Then he starts to rut, grinding his cock deeper into your throat while saliva pours out of you. Every time he pulls back just enough for you to gasp a wet, choked breath, thick strings of spit stretch between your lips and his cock before he shoves you back down again.

Your hands keep pushing at his thighs, manicured nails scraping over sweat slick skin, but he just tightens his grip in your hair and fucks your throat harder, deeper.

The wet, gurgling sounds are obscene in the cramped sleeper. Your mascara is running, pretty face a mess of tears and spit, nose still wrinkled in disgust even as your throat keeps fluttering and milking him. He groans every time you gag, the sound low and satisfied, hips rolling in steady, filthy ruts that smear more of your saliva into his pubes and down his balls until they’re shiny and dripping with it.

He doesn’t let up until your vision starts to blur at the edges and your hands go slack against his thighs. Only then does he pull you off with a wet, obscene pop, cock shiny and flushed dark, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the head. You cough and gasp, chest heaving, tears and saliva dripping from your chin onto the stained sheets while he fists his cock once, twice, smearing the mess you made all over himself.

Then his hands fall to your hips, manhandles you between his highs, one big hand under your soft legs. The sundress gets shoved higher, bunched under your tits, grips your panties and pulls, ripping them off, forcing your legs wide even as your thighs tremble and try to close.

You’re crying harder now, soft hiccuping sobs, hands pushing frantically at his stomach and chest as he lines up, eyes wide and pleading up at him.

“Please- wait” your voice cracks, small and teary, “- condom? Do you have a condom?”

He pauses for half a second, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. Then he answers, low and rough, “Ain’t got one.”

The stretch of his cock is immediate and overwhelming, feels like he’s splitting you in half. Your back arches hard, a broken whimper slipping out as your hands beat harder at his chest, trying to push him off, soft thighs shaking uncontrollably.

He’s too big for the cab and he’s too big for you, hips grinding forward, heavy balls pressing tight against your ass, coarse hair at his base rubbing against your soft skin while fresh tears spill down your temples.

You keep pushing at him, palms flat against his sweaty chest, trying to create space, soft disgusted sounds mixing with the first helpless little moans that start slipping out every time he bottoms out.

The mattress creaks. The sheets stick to your back, stiff and filthy. Every thrust makes the cab rock slightly on its suspension. Sweat rolls off his chest in fat drops, splattering onto your soft belly and the swell of your tits while he fucks you in deep, heavy strokes that grind right up against your cervix. The wet slap of his heavy, pendulous balls is loud in the cramped space, scent getting thicker the harder he works, mixing with the new smell of sex and your own unwanted arousal until the whole sleeper reeks of it.

He breathes heavy, low grunts punched out of him every time your cunt flutters and squeezes around the thick drag of his cock. One hand stays braced on the ceiling, the other gripping the back of your soft thigh hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open while he uses you.

Your hands are still on his chest, pushing weakly, fingers slipping through the thick sweat coating his skin, but the resistance is turning sloppy. Your pretty face is scrunched, eyes going glassy, mouth falling open on broken little moans.

He fucks you through an orgasm like that, grinding rolls that drag the fat head of his cock inside you until your soft body locks up and you sob out a high, whiny sound, cunt pulsing and gushing around him.

He doesn’t stop. Just keeps using you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your collarbone, the wet slap of his balls getting filthier as your slick and his precum mix into a messy froth at the base of his cock.

You’re babbling now, soft and fucked stupid, little “ah- ah- plea- ” sounds that don’t quite form real words. Your thighs are shaking so hard they can’t stay wrapped around him. He catches one and folds it higher, nearly bending you in half on the narrow mattress, and the new angle makes you wail, eyes rolling back as he grinds right up against your cervix with every thrust.

When he gets close he drops forward heavier, chest crushing your soft tits, the full weight of him pinning you down into the stiff sheets.

You panic the second you realize what’s about to happen, hands shoving harder at his sweaty chest, legs kicking weakly, soft sobs turning frantic. “Nono, pull out, I’m not on birth control- please-”

He doesn’t even grunt in response, just wraps his arms around your body, shoves you down on his cock throbing deep inside you, and then he’s cumming thick, hot spurts pumping straight into your womb, flooding your uterus with days’ worth of heavy, pungent load. It’s so much it forces its way out around his cock in messy rivulets, smearing down your ass onto the already ruined mattress.

Empties every last drop deep inside you, flooding you until your lower belly feels warm and full. Only when the last spurt finishes does he pull out, thick strings of cum stretching between his cock and your messy cunt.

Before you can scramble away he grabs tou, big hands flipping your soft, trembling body onto your stomach, then hauling your hips up so your face is shoved down into the filthy mattress. One heavy palm plants between your shoulder blades and stays there, pinning your face into the stiff, sweat-and-cum-stained sheets. Your sundress is rucked up around your waist, soft ass presented, and he’s already lining up again, the fat head of his cock nudging through the mess leaking out of you.

You try to twist, try to push up on your arms, panicked little sounds muffled into the mattress. “Wait- wait, you can’t- ”

He pushes in anyway.

“Haven’ fucked anyone in months,” he mutters, hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt your whole body and your mouth opens on a moan, drool pooling onto the mattress beneath your head. “Balls been so heavy they ache. Ain’t wastin’ it on these fuckin’ sheets again when I got a pretty little hole right here to fill over and over.”

Maybe you should have just walked to the next town.

isabellaboo2025

Covet

Pairing: Din x Reader.

Summary: You and your Mandalorian have an argument and you want to make him jealous.

Warnings: 18+only. Smut 😛

A/N: I teased this as a WIP before and here’s the full version. This is definitely staying as a one-shot and isn’t part of Through The Wall. Enjoy! 🥰

Din Masterlist

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

The argument had started over something stupid. That’s the worst part - you can’t even hold onto the shape of it anymore, only the heat.

softaestluv

Can’t stop thinking about Simon Riley who doesn’t know what the hell to do with himself when you leave for a week for your friends' bachelorette trip.

He’s used to being away from you. It’s his job. So, he tells you not to worry when you kiss him goodbye on your tippy toes, four days is nothing compared to the months he’s been away.

He grossly underestimated how different it’d be when you were the one gone.

The first day he’s fine, does mundane tasks around the house to distract himself. Mows the lawn, fixes that part of the fence you’ve been asking him too for weeks.

The second, he goes to the pub with Johnny, drinks one too many beers to fill a sudden void, and stumbles home to a terribly empty and cold bed.

The third day feels heavy, like there’s a mass weighing on his chest and making it hard to focus on anything other than you. The phone call he makes isn’t any better.

“Miss you.”

He says it first, quiet and uncertain. The giggle that follows makes his heart tighten.

“Miss you too, Si.”

You whisper it, so soft, and so fucking sweet he wonders how he ever left you to begin with. Hearing your voice should settle him, but it only makes his chest heavier. You should be there with him, sat in his lap, and pressing those words into his skin.

Day four he’s staring at pictures of you in his wallet and brushing his thumb over your face like he’s on deployment. Like it’s been months since he’s seen you and not four bloody days.

He doesn’t sleep that night when all he tastes is guilt. When this is how you must feel when he’s gone. A bed too big for one person, one pair of shoes at the door when there should be two, indents in the couch that aren’t filled.

It’s the first time he genuinely considers leaving the SAS.

dreamedaboutitinthedark

Faceless Father

Part Two Summary: As your pregnancy nears the end, you and the Mandalorian come to important realizations about the future of your clan of four.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Pregnant!Reader

Content warnings: accidental pregnancy, gratuitous smut, porn with plot, use of Mando'a (used this website), inaccurate description of the Razor Crest interior (click here to see my made up floor plan), Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, repressed!Din, touch starved!Din, allusions to religious trauma/guilt, intimacy issues, family fluff, pregnant sex, dirty talk, body worship, angst, labor, childbirth

Word count: 12,067

Read on ao3 here | Read Part One Here | dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Author's note: friends, I tried to post this as a long shot like the poll agreed on, but it was too long for Tumblr's formatting :( so here is the second half, and the first half is already posted. I hope you enjoy, and I love you lots !!! <3

dreamedaboutitinthedark

Faceless Father

Part One Summary: After two years of working for the Mandalorian as a babysitter for his foundling, you fall into bed with him. Months later, you fall pregnant with his baby. You still haven't seen his face.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Pregnant!Reader

Content warnings: accidental pregnancy, female masturbation, gratuitous smut, porn with plot, use of Mando'a (used this website), inaccurate description of the Razor Crest interior (click here to see my made up floor plan), Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, repressed!Din, touch starved!Din, allusions to religious trauma/guilt, intimacy issues, family fluff, pregnant sex, dirty talk, body worship, armpit sniffing and one kiss/lick, pregnancy kink, breeding kink, angst

Word count: 10,987

Read on ao3 here | Read Part Two Here | dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Author's note: friends, I tried to post this as a long shot like the poll agreed on, but it was too long for Tumblr's formatting :( so here is the first half, and the second half is already posted. anyways, my knowledge of Star Wars lore/their politics is small, but my love for DILF-y Din Djarin is vast. so if something doesn’t make sense, pls forgive me. I have been working on this fic on and off since January, and it is literally my baby. this idea has vaguely been in my head since summer 2022 when I was listening to "Moon Song" by Phoebe Bridgers on repeat while reading Din Djarin fanfiction. I have seen the movie; this fic was never meant to follow the movie. even I am unsure of the timeline here, but Bo-Katan and what Din learns from her (helmet/creed stuff) is mentioned and kind of a theme here, and he has Grogu, so I guess this is post s3 with no cabin in Nevarro. anyway, I hope you enjoy, and I love you as much as I love DILFs, <3

604to647

True Love Never Has To Hide (Wildest Dreams Finale Part 2)

12.6K / Din Djarin x Princess!Reader

Summary: Din finds you, but is it too late?

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI pls) It’s all good, babes - just fluff after the angst, and a HEA as promised (Emily wouldn't do you dirty like that! 😅). Starts with Din’s POV. Kissing, brief allusions to smut, Mando’a nicknames, and a surprise S1/S2 guest appearance at the end.

A/N: UH sorry about the WC 🫣 and thank you, thank you for coming with me on this journey! I’ve wanted to write this story for so long and am so lucky to have had such kind support, as well as the The Mandalorian and Grogu press tour for inspo (I also can't tell you how thrilled I am that the series can still be read as canon compliant post movie release - yeee)! There is still a smutty little epilogue coming, and a drabble/HC or two, but for now, this is their happy ending. Thank you for holding out – hope you enjoy!

Dividers by @saradika-graphics / Series Masterlist / Title once again by Beyoncé, inspo lyrics at the end

“He’s forgotten me.”

How those words stab at Din’s heart.

mcybank

White Feather Hawk — Jack Abbot (2)

part one ⋆ part twoᵎᵎ ⋆ part three ⋆ part four

pairing — jack abbot x fem!reader

summary — loving jack always had a price. you just assumed you’d seen the worst of it.

warnings — 4.7k words. ex-spouses with a major case of unresolved feelings, toxic relationship dynamics, codependency, unplanned pregnancy, discussion of abortion (it’s both a genuine deliberation but it can be read as reader using it as a weapon in the argument), vague flashbacks to the divorce (not detailed), emotional cruelty from reader, referenced emotionally painful marriage. reader can be read as too mean plz bear with her

author’s note — yayyyyy part two i hope you guys are enjoying it

There was a certain dichotomy you’d realized was present in you when you presented Jack divorce papers eighteen months ago, yet were now incapable of denying his touch. You had been the one to end it. You were also the woman who’d left her door unlocked at two in the morning for months because if you had locked it, it would’ve said you wanted to keep the person on the other side out. Both things lived in you at once and never fought, there was no war in it. You’d divorced him cleanly and you wanted him constantly; the two facts just sat side by side in you like organs, each doing its quiet work, neither aware of the other.

mcybank

White Feather Hawk — Jack Abbot

part oneᵎᵎ ⋆ part two ⋆ part three ⋆ part four

pairing — jack abbot x fem!reader

summary — loving jack always had a price. you just assumed you’d seen the worst of it.

warnings — 7.1k words. MINORS DNI!! explicit sexual content (unprotected piv sex), divorce, ex-spouses with a major case of unresolved feelings, toxic relationship dynamics, codependency, alcohol use, unexpected pregnancy, discussion of abortion and reproductive choice, crying, emotional distress, also the past relationship details are left vague

author’s note — whipped this up bc i could not stop thinking about this plot 😬 yk i love a gooood angst + this one should be multiple parts!!

If you knew your ex-husband was going to be at the bar, you would have gone straight home. The only point of getting drinks after a shift was to stop being a person who’d had that shift—to sit in a sticky booth with people who’d seen the same bad day and let it dissolve into something cheap—and Jack’s presence anywhere had the effect of making you more yourself, not less; a woman performing being completely okay for an audience of one who’d seen you cry over burnt lasagna on your two-year-anniversary and had the terrible indecency to remember it.

But you didn’t know. Dana had said a few of them were going to the bar after the night shift took over, and you’d heard it would only be a few of them and not done the thinking on who’d be working the night shift—you’d assumed him, because he was always there, always fucking there. So you walked in already loosened, your badge clipped to your waistband, and you were three steps into the warm beery dark before you saw the back of his head in the corner booth.

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