[sunlightandprayers]

sunlight ⋆˙⟡

༊࿐ ͎. ｡˚ ° ⊹ ˚. simon riley apologist. ; 21. ; she/her.

—main blog ˎˊ˗ @slowpuckdrop . // likes & follows .ᐟ

—side blog ˎˊ˗ @sunlightandpines .

—masterlist ˎˊ˗ © all rights reserved .

— 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 ⁀➴ feel free to ask anything, just be respectful, always.

— minors do not interact ( MDNI ) ゛⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ as this blog contains explicit content in both reblogs & posts.

[softaestluv]

Ghost desperately needs to fuck his client. (You)

tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smoking, weed, smut, vaginal fingering, riding, creampie, not edited, brain worm I had

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The first time you ever bought from Ghost you were wearing a skirt way too short to be socially acceptable, stumbling to his beat-up car with a drunk smile plastered on your face. He remembers it all a little too clearly, the way you leaned into the passenger window, smelling like tequila and the minty mouthwash you used to try and cover the smell up.

“Hi.” You giggled.

“Hi.” He responded, raising his eyebrow at you.

“Um, my friends over there,” You pointed to a group of girls across the street, “Dared me to come buy some off you.”

He stared at you without responding, and there was a long pause of silence before your smile dropped into something smaller.

“Wait? Do you not sell?” You covered your mouth, “Oh my gosh that’s so embarrassing, they told me they bought from you before!”

“Relax, bird. I do.”

“Oh! Great, that’s great. Um, how much for an eighth?”

“On the house.” He smirked, digging through the back of his car.

“What?”

“First time buyer, gotta guarantee you like it.”

You caught the bag he tossed you with a shy smile on your face, humming. “Okay, thank you!”

Ghost watched you jog to your friends after that, holding the bag out to them with a proud smirk.

The next time you bought from him, you were all by yourself, jean shorts showing off your pretty legs.

“Hi.”

He chuckled, “You’re back.”

You leaned into the window, low-cut shirt clinging to the swell of your breasts.

“I am.” You smiled, “How much for an eighth this time, for real?’

“Already have some pre-rolls, you can just have ‘em.”

“Huh? No, I didn’t pay you last time!”

“No one ever wants the pre-rolls anyway,” He shrugs, he lies. “They’re cherry flavored.”

That sparks your interest, “Really? I didn’t know they did that.”

You hand him your phone then, “Put your number in, yeah? So, I don’t have to hope to randomly run into you to buy more.”

When he hands the phone back you laugh after reading the contact name, “Ghost? That’s your drug dealer name? Really?”

“Do you want free weed or not?”

You laugh louder this time, “Yes! Yes! I was just teasing. Thank you!”

You text him two weeks later, a stupid meme at that with beady eyes, ‘more, please sir?’

He hates the way it makes the corners of his lips twitch.

He’s mobile that day, and you send him your address with one too many exclamation marks tagged on the end. You run out in leggings and slippers, a giddy smile on your lips.

“Hi.”

He laughs, “Hi, bird.”

“I liked the pre-rolls!” You say excitedly, leaning into the window, “Never had those before.”

“Yeah? What you need today?”

“You have any more?”

He frowns a little, “Get in with me, I’ll roll you some.”

You open his passenger side door too willingly, “Oh good. I don’t know how to roll,” You confess, “My friends usually do it for me.”

His mouth dips into a smirk, “Yeah? ‘Ts not that hard, watch.”

You lean closer, eyes wide like he’s actually teaching you valuable information and not how to roll a joint.

“Gotta make sure to take out all the seeds and stems before you grind it.” You watch him grind it enraptured. “Gotta roll up the tip first, then, wrap the paper tight.”

You nod eagerly.

“Fill it with your flower, roll it upwards with your thumb to make your shape. Then,” He licks across the paper, “Seal it with the glued edge, and twist the tip.”

He holds it out to you, “There you go.”

You take it between your fingers with a soft smile, “Thank you.”

You text him three days later, a picture of a lopsided joint that he definitely didn’t sell you.

‘How’d I do?’

‘Looks like shit.’

‘That’s mean :(‘

‘Come over, let me help.’

‘On my way!’

You show up an hour later, the crooked joint in your hands. You sit on his couch with a frown.

“You know, I didn’t think it came out that bad.”

“Give it here.” He laughs, “You packed it up wayyy too much. Got too much at the end here too, didn’t tap it out.”

Still, he lights it, holding it out for you to smoke. You take it between your fingers, inhaling a small amount before coughing slightly. He smirks at your watery eyes, taking the joint from you to smoke it.

“Sorry,” You say, “I got my lip gloss on it.”

He chuckles, the tip glistening with the gloss, placing it in the corner of his lips, “Doesn’t matter.”

It tastes like your lip gloss. Strawberries and weed.

You take turns smoking it. Simon watches you the whole time, with lidded eyes, focused on the way your pretty lips curl around the joint. The way your chest rises with each inhale, your eyes becoming heavier and heavier, a lazy smile smeared across your lips as you lean closer to him on his old couch.

All he can think about is those lips wrapped around his cock and not the tip of the joint. And he’s definitely rock hard in his sweats, but he doesn’t care if you notice, not when you keep giggling at every bad joke he cracks.

He jerks himself off when you leave, promising you’ll be safe and text him when you get home. He finishes when your message pops at the top of his screen ‘made it safe :)’

He invites you over himself a week later because he’s got random inventory, he ordered them himself, of strawberry wraps and he’s certain you’ll like them.

You do like them. You’re melted into his couch, blinking lazily at him.

“How come you never charge me?” It’s a whisper.

He looks at you, the room dizzy with smoke and your pretty gaze.

“Never make pretty girls pay.”

“Oh?” You sound disappointed, “So, you give it free to other girls?”

He shakes his head, “Just you.”

You squint, “Are you only giving me free weed so you can get a lay?”

He smirks, “Is it working?”

You scoff, smacking him in the shoulder, “Unbelievable.”

He catches your wrist.

“You giving it to my friends for free too?”

“Careful,” He smirks, “You’re starting to sound jealous.”

You roll your eyes, trying to pull away from him. He keeps you close, tugging you into his lap so fast you have no choice but to slip onto his thighs. You don’t look at him, eyes focused to the side.

“Just you.”

You peer down at him then, “Huh?”

His fingers find your cheek, still burning from the embers of the joint, “You’re the only one I don’t charge.”

“Yeah?” You whisper.

“C’mere already.” He murmurs, pulling you down to kiss him.

You make a noise of surprise, like you hadn’t expected your smoke sessions to lead to this, with his cock pressed between your thighs eagerly, grip on your chin and hip to keep you close to him.

You kiss him back earnestly, smaller hands finding his shoulders. He loves it, fuck he loves the way your hands shake against his skin, the vibrations that leave your chest and fill his. He’s been dreaming about this since the moment you walked over in your tiny skirt.

Your bottom lip pops away from his, glistening with his saliva and not the lip gloss you insist on wearing.

“Wanted you to do that for ages.”

He chuckles against your lips, “Yeah?”

Your hips grind against his then, “Only reason my friends made me go was because I wouldn’t shut up about how hot you were.”

He presses his teeth against your neck, fingers making quick work of your belt and pants. “Came over with your ass and tits out, been jerking off to the memory ever since.”

You inhale sharply, “Fuck.”

Your eyes flutter when his fingers find your cunt, squelching with the sound of your arousal. He dips one finger in, drawing a whimper from you, and god you’re so fucking warm. The weeds got you nice and lax, a small grin on your lips as he coaxes you with one thick finger and he's sure he's never wanted to fuck someone more.

Your grin turns into a broken cry when he adds another, lips quivering around the shape of his name. Ghost. Ghost?

His thumbs already on your lips, gaze strong on you, “Simon.”

You nod in quiet understanding, “Simon.”

There’s a sticky strip of arousal that clings to your panties when he slides them off your thighs and it takes everything in him not to bury his face below and smell.

You scramble to his sweats, tugging them down impatiently. He lifts his hips willingly, lets his strained cock smack against his abdomen angrily. You lick your lips when you see it, eyes wide at the sight.

He grips it by the base, thumb coming up to wipe at the precum spilling from the tip.

“Oh my god.” You groan, “Let me ride you, please.”

He slides lower on the couch, tapping your hips casually in agreement like he hadn’t been picturing you on top of him for weeks, “Go on.”

You rise to your knees above him, shaking hand grabbing his cock so lightly it makes his eyes flutter. You glide his tip along your seams until it snags at your entrance, and you make a soft noise when he pops through. You slide down eagerly as much as he holds your hips and grits through his teeth to take it slow.

Your head falls to his shoulder when you sink to the base, his head rolling to the back of the couch because you’re so fucking warm and tight, and the weed definitely isn’t helping because he’s feeling everything ten times worse.

And when you lift your hips, he swears he sees heaven between your thighs when you drop back down and your pussy makes an obscene squelch.

You bury your face in his neck, arms around his shoulders and just fucking go at it. Ass slamming against his so fast the room echoes with each slap. You whine high-pitched with each thrust like you aren’t the one setting the pace, like you aren’t the fucking yourself raw around his cock.

“Jesus, bird, slow down.” He grunts, fingers dimpling your skin.

He says it because your legs are shaking and there’s sweat beading on your chest, whimpers falling from your lips endlessly, but more so because he doesn’t want it to end this soon. When he hasn’t even laid you back properly to fuck you the way he had hoped.

You don’t listen well.

You just keep sloppily fucking yourself onto his cock because you’ve found the sweet spot, the one that has you on the brink of an orgasm.

His lips on your neck do it for you, your toes curling into his shitty ass couch when you break. You soak his balls then, pussy clenching so tight around him he has to bite down on his cheek so he doesn’t bust.

He’s already moving you to your back, finding a home between your thighs when you come back down. You don’t even argue, like the perfect thing you are, folding your own legs to his shoulders, and arching into the couch.

He slides in slow, and your pussy spreads for him so prettily.

“Fuck,” he drawls, “Listen to her, just fuckin dying for me to fuck her.”

You whine loud at that, hips bucking to get him to move. He doesn’t wait a second longer, thrusts so hard into you, you feel it in your toes and your legs straighten out in shock.

He fucks you slow and hard, pace languid from the weed pulsing in his veins. You like it, at least he thinks you do from the way you keep writhing under him, the beginning syllables of his name broken on your lips between every thrust.

When he leans forward, pressing your knees to your shoulders, you gasp in shock from the stretch, but then his tip snags against that spot in your cunt that melts your brain into mush, and your eyes just roll into the back of your head.

He smirks proudly, bullying his length against that spot until you’re pushing at hips, murmuring something along the lines that it’s too much.

He doesn’t stop.

You pulse around him when you cum a second time, sweet voice ripped from your throat, and turned into blinded pleasure when he stamps his thumb against your swollen clit. Your feet tense at his shoulders, fingers tight against the cushions.

He finishes inside of you then, head falling to your shoulder with a deep groan, hips fucking into you with each pump.

“Best free weed ever.”

[ab-grund]

Hii, can you write reader & Simon making out, but they’re rudely interrupted & Simon is just soo saddd

hi lovely! of course, i hope you enjoy! thank you for the request as well, how exciting! 🤍

simon’s heart thuds, heartbeat crisp as his pulse races down the shell of his ear, blood flow running too quickly through his thin veins. its dizzying, mind struggling to keep up, struggling to keep up with the pace you’ve set.

your smooth tongue cascades into his mouth, coaxing his teeth apart until it’s gliding over the wetness hiding behind the pearls. simon breathes heavy, panting into your mouth as the pink muscle of his tongue stretches over yours, curling and circling yours as if on the battlefield.

“eh, not too cocky now…” you trail off, the soft pillows of your lips suddenly closing in on his outstretched tongue. you suck, bobbing your head ever so slightly, letting your own drool run down til it’s pooling in the back of his throat, the crevices of his teeth.

simon’s whimpering, hips thrusting up lazily, subconsciously. you’re hovering right over him, applying no pressure to the rough hardness beneath you. he can feel the underside of his cock dig against his zipper, thickening by the second til the metal begins to hurt, begins to imprint into his sensitive skin.

“god, please, love,” his voice curls around the words, accent thick and heady with the impending desperation that shadows him. his fingers, once settled on your thighs slide to your hips, forcing you down.

the warmth of your sweet cunt on top of him is painful, has his cock kicking up, and he can feel the way it spurts sticky pre. his boxers are surely a mess, glued to his skin with the mess he’s creating of himself. but he can’t help his humps, hips tilting till he finds the right angle, jutting himself against you till youre moaning into his mouth.

“you’re so desperate, baby, why don’t i-“ and as your fingers fall to his belt, you freeze, both jumping out of your skin when heavy knocks shake the front door. simon’s eyes flash open, staring up at you in a angry mix of desperation and disappointment.

“no, baby, no, i need you. jus- jus’ ignore whoever it is,” he pleads, big brown eyes drowning in something so heavy, so much desperation its sweating from his pores. he holds you tighter, fingertips crushing your hips as you begin to stand.

“can ‘ear ya’ bastard ass ‘n t’ere, open up!” johnnys voice rings out rough, accent cutting through the thick atmosphere, lust oozing off the two of you. you press a quick kiss to simon’s lips before raising and skipping over to the door, johnny was a sweetheart, presence always welcome.

though simon could beg to differ, whimpering out under his breath. he can feel the tears bead along his lower lash line, he’s so worked up. the warmth your body left behind already beginning to fade, and he can’t help but squeeze his cock tight, relishing in what could be around him, on top of him, sliding down onto him.

a tear falls at the same moment his angry tip cries out, he’s sticky in the face and beneath the belt. but as johnny comes stomping inside he wipes his face. his shoulders curl in defeat, lower lip trembling slightly. he’s going to be stuck here, long drawn out hours, with a twitching cock and nothing to do about it.

when the bloke falls beside him, feet already kicked up on the coffee table, is when he turns. johnny looks over simon, eyebrow raised curiously at his curled in personality, not even a glance towards the scottish fella.

“what’s got ya poutin’, big boy?”

[dirtylittlediary]

bloodstream- frank castle

pairing : frank castle x f!reader

summary :turns out emotional dependency is adorable right up until you haven’t seen your boyfriend in three weeks.

warnings : MDNI, p in v sex, overstimulation, emotional dependency/codependency, separation anxiety, praise kink, size difference, unprotected sex, creampie, emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of phone sex, excessive yearning, frank castle being catastrophically in love, reader and frank using each other as emotional support animals, overstimulation, pathetically needy !frank

word count : 8.7 k

a/n : as usual, nor proofread, based on this rq except i made it smutty angst bc to me seperation with frank = he can't take his hands off of you... ENJOY !

For weeks, you and Frank have been just barely missing each other.

Work trips that take you overseas, Frank going out on missions with Matt, all co-inciding in the same two weeks. Frank comes back after a week of being away, and you leave two hours before he even gets back.

At first, it’s almost funny.

The universe playing some kind of cruel little game with the two of you. You find one of Frank’s shirts abandoned on the bathroom floor and send him a picture with a caption that reads:

evidence of life.

Frank responds three hours later with:

don’t start bein’ cute when i can’t get to you.

You grin at your phone in the middle of a terminal halfway across the world and immediately feel sick afterward. Because that’s the problem.

You miss him in ways that don’t feel normal anymore.

Not dramatic movie-montage missing. Not casual wish you were here missing. It’s physical. Like your body notices before your brain does. You stop sleeping properly first. Then eating right. Then concentrating. You start reaching for your phone every five minutes without realizing it, checking for texts that aren’t there because Frank’s busy and you’re busy and neither of you have enough free time to do more than send exhausted updates at 2 a.m.

alive. u?

yeah.

miss you.

miss you more.

It should help. It doesn’t. If anything, hearing from him just reminds you he’s still not here. And apparently Frank’s handling it about as badly as you are. You figure that out when Micro calls you by accident instead of Frank one night.

“—seriously, man, if you stare at your phone any harder you’re gonna burn a hole through the scre—oh. Shit. Hey.” You blink.

“Micro?” A long pause. Then, somewhere farther away from the phone:

“Castle, dumbass, I called your girl.” Immediate rustling. Then Frank’s voice, rough and sudden:

“Lemme see that.” The line goes muffled before his voice comes back clearer.“…Hey.” Just hearing him makes your chest ache.

“Hey,” you say softly. Frank goes quiet for a second too long.

“You okay?” he asks finally. The question almost makes you laugh because neither of you are okay. That’s become painfully obvious.

“Yeah,” you lie.

“Mhm.” Frank doesn’t sound convinced for even one second. You hear movement in the background. A door shutting. Probably him stepping away somewhere private. Then: “You sleep at all last night?” Your throat tightens immediately. Because that means he didn’t either.

“A little.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’re one to talk.” Frank exhales softly through his nose. You can practically picture him rubbing a hand over his face.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Fair.” Silence settles after that—not awkward. Just tired. Familiar. You miss him so much it feels embarrassing. You curl tighter into the hotel bed, phone pressed harder against your ear.

“When’re you home?” he asks quietly.

“Three days.” Another pause.

“Long fuckin’ time.” The honesty in his voice nearly kills you. You swallow hard and stare at the dark ceiling above you.

“Feels longer for me too.” Frank makes this low sound in his throat—half agreement, half something rougher.

“You know what’s stupid?” he says after a minute.

“What?”

“I keep thinkin’ I hear you.” Your chest physically hurts. Frank laughs once under his breath, humorless. “Swear to God,” he continues quietly. “Keep hearin’ the front door and thinkin’ you’re home.” You close your eyes immediately. Because you’ve been doing the exact same thing. Every elevator ding outside your hotel room. Every footstep in the hallway. Every dark-haired broad-shouldered stranger that almost looks like him for half a second before your brain catches up.

“I hate this,” you whisper before you can stop yourself. Frank goes silent. Then, softer than anything:

“Yeah, baby.” You can hear it in his voice too now—that same exhausted ache stretched tight between you both. Not just missing. Withdrawal. And suddenly the distance between you feels unbearable. Thousands of miles and bad timing and responsibilities neither of you can walk away from. You curl tighter beneath the blankets like it’ll somehow help. Frank stays on the phone with you anyway. Neither of you saying much anymore.

Just breathing.

Like maybe hearing each other exist is enough to survive another few days.

A few days later, you find out your trip got extended. You call Frank absolutely wrecked, a sobbing blubbering mess as you whine and cry into the phone.

“No, no, no—Frank, I can’t do another week,” you choke out, pacing the tiny hotel room barefoot. “I seriously can’t, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.” On the other end of the line, Frank goes dead silent. Not cold. Just… absorbing it. You hear him exhale slowly through his nose, the sound rough like he’s trying to keep himself together for your sake.

“How long?” he asks quietly.

“Five days.” Your voice cracks pathetically. “Five more fucking days.”

“Jesus Christ.” Something clatters in the background like he dropped whatever he was holding. Then more silence. You can picture him perfectly anyway: hand over his mouth, pacing your apartment, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper miserably.

“Hey.” His voice sharpens instantly. “Don’t apologize to me for missin’ me.” That almost makes you cry harder. Because that’s the problem. Frank gets it too much. There’s no healthy amount of distance between the two of you anymore. Somewhere along the line, your lives fused together so thoroughly that separation feels less like missing someone and more like losing a limb. You hear him moving around again. Then the creak of your shared bed. Your chest aches instantly.

“You in bed?” you ask softly.

“Mhm.” Your eyes burn. “Your side’s cold,” he murmurs after a second. You fold in half at the waist like someone physically hit you.

“Frank.”

“I know, baby.” His voice drops lower, gentler. “I know.” You climb into your own hotel bed miserably, clutching the phone to your ear. For a while neither of you says anything. You just breathe together in the dark. Then:

“You wearin’ my shirt?” The question catches you off guard. You glance down automatically at the faded black tee hanging off your shoulder.

“…Yeah.” Frank makes this low sound in his throat. Almost tortured.

“Fuck.” Heat crawls slowly up your neck. “You sleep in it every night?” he asks.

“Mhm.” Another silence. Not awkward. Heavy. Charged. Because suddenly you’re both thinking about the same thing: the absence of touch.

Weeks without his hands on you.

Without his weight beside you in bed.

Without sitting in his lap half-asleep while he watches terrible documentaries and rubs circles into your hip absentmindedly.

You miss him so badly it’s starting to curdle into need. Frank’s breathing changes first. Just slightly.

“Baby,” he says carefully, “tell me somethin’.” Your stomach flips.

“What?”

“You still touch yourself when I’m gone?” The question hits you like a shove to the chest. You squeeze your eyes shut immediately.

“…Frank.”

“What?” His voice is rough now. Tired and wanting. “Need t’know if my girl’s takin’ care of herself.” Your thighs press together automatically. You haven’t, actually. Not really. You tried once and ended up crying halfway through because it just made you miss him worse. Apparently your silence tells him everything.

“Aw, honey,” he murmurs softly, and somehow that’s worse than teasing. “C’mere.” A pathetic laugh escapes you.

“I literally cannot come there.”

“You know what I mean.” And God. You do. You hear the rustle of sheets as Frank shifts onto his back. You can practically see him now: one big forearm thrown over his eyes, phone pressed to his ear, exhausted and touch-starved and aching for you.

“Need you t’help me out a little,” he admits quietly. The honesty in his voice makes your pulse stutter. Because Frank never sounds embarrassed about wanting you. Just sincere. Like needing you is the most natural thing in the world. You swallow hard.

“What do you want?” you whisper. Frank exhales slowly.

“Wanna hear you.” And maybe it’s pathetic. Maybe both of you are a little too attached, a little too desperate after weeks apart. But the distance has hollowed something out inside you both. Phone sex becomes less about getting off and more about pretending, for twenty minutes, that you still belong to each other physically too. Frank talks you through it slowly.

Patiently.

Like he’s trying to hold your body together from several thousand miles away. You curl beneath the blankets, one hand clutching the phone while his low voice pours into your ear like warm whiskey.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs when your breathing starts shaking. “Missed hearin’ those sounds.” And God—you missed this too. Missed him reacting to you. Missed the way his voice roughens when he’s turned on. Missed the tenderness underneath all that gravel and exhaustion. You can hear his restraint slipping little by little the more worked up you get. Hear the quiet curses under his breath. The hitch in his breathing. At one point he laughs softly—wrecked, disbelieving.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Miss you so fuckin’ bad.” The confession punches straight through your ribs. You end up crying afterward anyway. Not hard. Just quiet tears slipping down into the hotel pillow while you come down from it. Because it helped. But not enough. It still isn’t him. Frank hears it immediately.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Baby?”

“I’m okay.”

“No you’re not.” You laugh weakly, wiping at your face.

“No,” you admit. “Probably not.” A long silence. Then Frank says, so quietly it almost breaks you:

“Wish I was there.” You clutch the phone harder.

“Me too.” And neither of you hangs up that night. You both just fall asleep breathing into the same phone like it’s the closest thing you can get to holding each other.

When you finally make it home, it's mid afternoon at least eight days later. And the best part is, Frank doesn't know you're coming home. You manage to get your boss to release you from the trip early, and you're practically vibrating as you step off of the subway and into the crowded new york streets. You know Frank won't be home for a few more hours, and you want it all to be perfect.

A warm dinner when he gets home.

A cold beer.

His favorite late night TV.

The couch all set up to be all comfortable so you can curl into him and just let him hold you against him until you both fall asleep.

By the time you finally unlock the apartment door, your entire body feels electric. You barely get the key out before you’re stepping inside too fast, suitcase bumping awkwardly against your leg as you look around like you expect Frank to materialize immediately. But the apartment’s quiet.

Still.

Empty.

And somehow that almost makes it better. Because this means you get to put pieces of yourself back before he comes home. Your shoes end up abandoned by the couch within seconds. Your suitcase gets kicked halfway down the hall because you genuinely cannot make yourself care right now. The apartment smells faintly like coffee and Frank and gun oil and laundry detergent and home, and your chest hurts so badly you actually have to stop moving for a second.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper to nobody. You missed this place too. Not because of the apartment itself. Because it’s his.

Yours.

The two of you built routines into these walls so deeply that being away from them started feeling like being scraped hollow. You move through the apartment touching things absentmindedly. Straightening a blanket Frank probably didn’t even realize he’d left bunched up on the couch. Picking up one of his shirts from the dining chair and pressing it briefly to your face before folding it properly. By the time the sun starts setting, dinner’s almost done. There’s beer chilling in the fridge. The couch is loaded with blankets and pillows because you already know exactly what’s going to happen once Frank gets home: he’s going to sit down and you’re going to crawl directly into his lap like your body physically cannot resist doing it.

And honestly? At this point it probably can’t. You’re stirring sauce on the stove when you hear it. The front door unlocking. Your entire body freezes. For one horrible second your brain doesn’t process it properly. Then the lock clicks. Heavy boots hit hardwood. And Frank speaks.

“Micro, I swear t’God if you ate my leftovers again—” He stops.Silence. Your heart slams so hard it almost hurts. Slowly, you turn around. Frank’s standing just inside the doorway, duffel bag hanging from one hand. He looks exhausted. Bruised.

Unshaven.

Broad shoulders tense beneath a black thermal. And then his eyes land on you. Everything in him goes completely still. The duffel bag slips from his hand and hits the floor with a heavy thud. For a second neither of you moves. Frank just stares. Like his brain genuinely cannot catch up to what he’s seeing. Then:

“…Baby?” The way he says it absolutely wrecks you. You don’t even realize you’ve started crying until Frank crosses the apartment in about three strides flat and grabs you. Hard. One arm wrapping around your waist so tight it almost lifts you off your feet while the other cradles the back of your head. And then he’s everywhere. His face buried against your neck. His hands on your back. His breathing ragged against your skin like he just finished running for miles.

“Oh my God,” he says hoarsely into your shoulder. “Oh my God, you’re home.” You make this humiliating little choking sound and cling to him just as hard. Frank actually shakes a little when he holds you tighter. Like his body’s been bracing for impact for weeks and finally gave out the second he touched you.

“You came home early,” he says, voice rough and disbelieving.

“I wanted to surprise you.” Frank pulls back just enough to look at you. There are dark circles under his eyes. Fresh cuts across his knuckles. And an expression on his face so openly relieved it nearly splits you in half.

"Fuck, you're real." He rasps, shaking his head.

His hands cup your face like he still doesn’t entirely trust the evidence in front of him. Like if he lets go for even a second, you might disappear again. You laugh shakily through the tears still clinging to your lashes.

“Last time I checked.” Frank just stares at you. Not even trying to hide it. His eyes drag slowly over your face, your hair, your clothes—taking inventory like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“You got prettier while I was gone,” he mutters finally. You snort softly.

“That’s biologically impossible.”

“Nah.” His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. “Think starvation made me hallucinate you hotter.”

“Frank.”

“I’m serious.” He leans down like he physically can’t help himself and presses his forehead against yours. “Been losin’ my goddamn mind over you.” Your chest squeezes so hard it almost hurts.

“Dinner’s gonna get cold,” you whisper eventually. Frank’s eyes close briefly like he’s fighting for his life.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Right. Food. Human survival.” Still, he doesn’t let go immediately. You practically have to drag him toward the kitchen by the hand, and even then Frank keeps stopping every few steps just to touch you again. A hand at your waist. Your lower back. Your jaw. Like weeks without contact rewired something primal in him. By the time you finally sit down at the table, Frank’s looking at you like a man who hasn’t eaten in days.

And honestly? Not just metaphorically.

“You made all this?” he asks, staring down at the food.

“Mhm.”

“For me?” You blink.

“…Who else would it be for?” Something in his expression softens so abruptly it almost takes you out at the knees.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs quietly, shaking his head.

“What?”

“Nothin’.” He reaches over and drags your chair closer to his with one hand. “C’mere.” You laugh.

“Frank, I’m literally already sitting here.”

“Not close enough.” The legs of your chair scrape loudly across the floor until your knee knocks against his thigh. Apparently still unacceptable. Frank eats maybe three bites before his hand settles heavily on your leg beneath the table. Warm. Possessive. Absentmindedly rubbing his thumb back and forth over your skin while he looks at you instead of his food.

“You keep starin’ at me like that,” you mumble.

“Can’t help it.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I missed my girl.” The words land directly in the center of your chest. Frank takes another sip of beer, eyes still fixed on you over the rim of the bottle.

“You have any idea how hard it was sleepin’ without you?” You smile softly.

“Probably about as hard as it was for me.”

“Yeah?” His voice drops lower instantly.

“Mhm.” Frank’s hand slides higher along your thigh.

“You sleep with my shirt every night?” You narrow your eyes suspiciously.

“You know I did.”

“Wanted to hear you say it.” Heat crawls up your neck. Frank notices immediately. Of course he does. “Cute,” he murmurs.

“Shut up.”

“Missed this too.” His fingers squeeze your thigh gently. “Missed makin’ you blush.” You try focusing on dinner. It’s difficult when Frank keeps looking at you like you’re something he wants to consume whole. At some point he abandons pretending entirely and just hooks an arm around your waist, dragging your chair flush against his. Then closer. Then somehow you end up half sideways against him while he keeps feeding you bites off his fork between conversations.

Then eventually—

“You know this is insane, right?” you laugh as Frank fully lifts you into his lap mid-sentence.

“Mhm.”

“And deeply codependent.”

“Probably.”

“You should be concerned.” Instead of answering, Frank buries his face against your neck and inhales slowly like he’s been deprived of oxygen.

“Can’t bring myself to care,” he mutters against your skin. Your entire body melts automatically.

God. This. This is what you missed. His chest warm behind you. His huge arms wrapped around your waist. The steady rumble of his voice against your shoulder while his hand strokes lazy circles beneath the hem of your shirt.

“You smell like home,” he says quietly after a while. You turn your head enough to look at him. Frank’s eyes are softer now. Heavy-lidded. Affection practically dripping out of him.

And suddenly he smiles a little. Crooked. Fond.

“Baby,” he says, voice rough with sincerity, “I love you so fuckin’ much.” The words hit you so hard your breath catches. Frank watches your face carefully after he says it, like he always does. Like no matter how many times he tells you, some part of him still waits nervously for your reaction. You touch his jaw gently.

“I love you too.” Something in Frank visibly unravels. He kisses you immediately. Slow at first. Tender. Like he’s trying to relearn your mouth after weeks apart. But it doesn’t stay soft very long. Because Frank’s been starving for you. And apparently kissing you while you’re sitting in his lap is enough to completely destroy whatever self-control he had left. His hands tighten around your waist. His mouth gets deeper, rougher.

Needier.

You gasp softly when he pulls you closer against him, and Frank groans into your mouth like the sound physically hurts him.

“Baby,” he murmurs against your lips, half wrecked already. “Jesus Christ.” You laugh breathlessly.

“What happened to dinner?”

“Fuck dinner.” And before you can even process the sentence properly, Frank reaches out one huge arm and shoves the plates aside. They hit the floor with an explosive crash. You yelp.

“Frank!”

“Don’t care.”

“Those were ceramic!”

“I’ll buy more.” Then he stands up with you still in his arms like you weigh absolutely nothing. The edge of the table bumps against the back of your thighs. And suddenly Frank’s setting you down on top of it instead. Broad hands immediately spreading your knees apart so he can step between them. The look on his face almost knocks the air from your lungs. Completely gone for you.

“Been thinkin’ about this for weeks,” he admits roughly, forehead dropping briefly against yours. “Every damn night.” His hands slide slowly up your thighs. “Missed touchin’ you so bad it made me mean.” Your pulse jumps hard.

“Frank—”

“I know.” He kisses you again, slower this time, almost apologetic despite the hunger in it. “I know, baby.” Another kiss. “Missed my girl.” Another. “Missed havin’ you close.” His hands settle warm on your hips. “Missed this.” You can’t stop staring at his hands. You have to lock your knees around his hips to keep still or you’ll reach out and try to memorize every callus, every tendon. You want to map him, all over again, hands shaking from more than hunger. Frank smells like sweat and sawdust and the outside world, but under that is the skin you missed, the one you’d have eaten raw if he’d let you. He doesn’t speak at first. He just runs his thumb down your jaw, anchoring your wide-eyed and helpless to the table while the rest of his hand cups the back of your neck. Like maybe you’ll bolt otherwise. There’s a tremor in his grip, so barely there you’d miss it if you weren’t searching for every piece of him, every deficit from the last weeks. When he finally kisses you again it’s nothing like gentle. Frank mouths at you like he’s trying to fit your whole heartbeat back in place. Your legs tighten reflexively on his hips and you can feel the desperate rise of his dick, already hard and unyielding through his jeans.

“Frank,” You say, and it comes out dissolving and strange. Like someone wrung your vocal cords through a cheese grater. “I missed you.” You expect him to say it back. He just grunts and presses you harder into his chest, but you can feel it in his body, the way he shakes under your fingers. You’ve never seen him so single-minded - he’s usually so good at taking you apart. But now he wants something else: something to break the weeks of isolation. He bites your lip, hard enough to leave a mark, like a line in the sand. Then he fists both hands in the hem of your shirt and yanks upward fast enough to startle you. Your shirt and the sports bra vanishes over your head in one move, flinging your arms and leaving you cold and unsteady under the kitchen lights.

“Fuck, you can’t be lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters, one hand splaying wide over your bare stomach, “gonna make me fuckin’ lose it.” He runs his palm up so slow it makes you want to cry. Up between your ribs, around each breast, until his thumb catches your already-hot nipple.

“Jesus,” he says, and there’s awe in it, real and rough. She shivers. “Didn’t even get to look at you last time. You just left.” He nips at your jaw while his hands knead, and you can’t seem to breathe fast enough.

“Wasn’t on purpose,” You manage, hands raking into his short hair. He grins, more wolf than man.

“Yeah. But you’re here now.” He slides both hands under your ass and drags you closer to the edge of the table, He pauses then, just long enough to thumb the edge of your shorts to the side and find the wet spot on your underwear, and he laughs, delighted.

“Fuckin’ hell. You’re soaked already.”

“Shut up.” You’re pink all over, but you can’t hide it from him now. Frank leans in, chin against your shoulder, and lets out a pleased little noise.

“So needy for it, princess. Thought about me?” You bite your tongue on a whimper, knowing if you say the truth it’ll undress him further. But he reads you anyway - you see the understanding in the crinkle around his eyes, the fondness, the urgency. He doesn’t bother with your underwear or shorts after that, just yanks both of them to the side and runs two fingers up your slit, slow and shallow, until you’re grinding herself into his hand. He’s making a project of it, rubbing hard circles on your clit, sometimes just lingering there and not giving you what you want, until you’re grabbing at his wrists and begging.

“C’mon, please, Frank, please—” He relents then. Slides two thick fingers inside you with no warning. You shiver so hard her teeth clack. Frank leans in:

“Missed how tight you are for me, baby. God damn.” Pumps his fingers, scissoring you open in a way that half-hurts but you want more, so much more. He watches your face while he does it, fixing on every twitch and gasp.

“Ssh,” he soothes when you start whining again. “I got you.” The timbre of his voice - low, gentle, but so inexorable - reaches some bright and liquid place in you, and you feel your legs start to shake. Your hands scramble for purchase on the table edge or the corded muscle of his arm, anything solid to hold on to. You’re already embarrassingly close and he knows it. He knows every part of you by now, and you hate and love that he can read you like this. He pulls his fingers out at the last second, and you let out a wail of protest. He just tuts at you, eyes gone dark, and shoves his hand into your mouth.

“Suck,” he orders. The heat of his command is deranged. You do. You lick yourself off his hand, hears the way his breath catches, see him swallow. If your mind were anything but goo you’d tease him for it. Instead you’re just watching him, mouth open, eyes wide. He moans, and he shakes his head.

“Shit… You got no fuckin’ idea how many times I blow a load on my fist like some fuckin’ teenage boy these past few weeks.” He grumbles, his voice desperate and needy. You whimper, because you haven’t been able to get yourself off, and you’re already shaking and overstimulated from his. He practically rips open his jeans, shoving them just low enough to free his dick, already leaking at the tip. You both look down at it - him with this sharp, unashamed hunger, you with something more like terror. He’s always thick, but right now it looks brutal. Frank grins, catching your expression, and lines himself up with both hands.

“You think you can take it ?” he hushes, the words scraping along your throat. You nod, and you whine even before he pushes in. He goes slow, like he wants to savor the moment, the stretch. The first few inches burn, and you gasp, clutching his arms.

“Fuck, Frank, it’s - ”

“I know.” He says it like a confession, teeth gritted. “S’tighter than I remember. Let me…” He rocks in, hips pinning you flat to the table. He grabs your waist with one arm and holds you steady, the other wrapped up in your hair, and he keeps his eyes fixed on your face. Like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he looks away. Your legs are shaking, threatening to come from the stretch on it’s own, your entire body shaking with need. Frank groans, his tip lodged tightly between your folds, his entire body shuddering as he holds back a sob of relief. Frank draws in a ragged breath. You watch his jaw flex, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts as he holds himself there, just the head of his cock forcing you open. The sharp ache at your entrance is a brand -stretch and burn and sweet relief - twinned with the frantic, animal greed that’s been gnawing both of you hollow for eight long, godawful weeks. He looks down at the place you’re joined, hand around the base of his cock, holding it in place like if he let go it’d tear something loose. He leans in, voice low and sweetly obscene:

“C’mon, baby. Let me in. Missed you so much.” His left hand wraps your thigh, tilting your hips up; you feel the smooth wood of the table bite into your tailbone, feel yourself throb around the impossible girth of him. You have to clamp your jaw to keep from crying out, because for a second it’s too much, and you feel so full it might split you. But Frank’s shushing you, stroking his thumb over your knee, and there’s so much raw honesty in the sound it feels like a plea.

“Just like that,” he groans, pushing in another inch with the patience of a butcher. “God, you feel so good, baby. So fuckin’ tight for me.” He pulls back out, barely at all, then pushes deeper. You try to catch your breath - fail. Every nerve in your body is screaming. There’s no room for thought, for shame, for anything but the pulse-pulse-pulse of being utterly, perfectly impaled. Your nails dig bruises into his biceps and he grins, teeth bared and predatory. He sets a rhythm, slow enough to savor, each snap of his hips slamming you further onto the table’s edge. The world outside the kitchen shrinks to white static. He fucks you open with steady, greedy strokes, and you can feel yourself fluttering around him, soaking his cock, the wet sounds obscene in the hush.Frank’s hips grind in torturously slow, his cock thick and stretching you so wide the only thing you can do is clutch at his arms and sob with relief. He’s not gentle, not really—he’s never been, not after a dry spell like this. But it’s the kind of rough you want; the kind that fills you up until you’re dizzy and clawing for more. He bows over you, wraps one hand around your throat—just resting, never squeezing—and the other brute-forces your thighs wider. Sweat dampens his hairline, and he grins down at you, all teeth and desperation.

“There you fuckin’ go,” he rasps, half praise and half growl. He slides out a bare inch, then buries himself to the hilt again in one deep, sweet punch. The movement knocks the wind from your lungs and rattles the table beneath you.

“Frank - ” It’s a plea and a curse and a thank you, all in one. Your eyes burn, but you can’t look away from him, the cut of his jaw and the hunger widening those dark eyes. You can smell the sweat, the cold beer on his breath, the sharp ozone stink of need, and it all melts together, makes your bones go loose and stupid. Frank wedges your knees higher, fisting both hands under your thighs so your back bows right off the table. He pins you there, lets you squirm and writhe and try to fuck yourself further on him, and every time you do he just gives a low little laugh and pounds in deeper. The table shrieks on the tile floor, an exclamation punctuating every thrust. You can feel the edge of it digging into your spine, the wood biting hard, but it doesn’t matter - none of that matters, not when Frank’s fucking you like a man half out of his mind.

"Oh fuck-" He rasps, shaking his head, hiking your thigh up higher.

Frank shoves harder, hands anchoring your hips to the slick table. Each push is a demand, a claim, rough-edged but still careful with the parts of you he knows are softest. “Missed you so much,” he’s half-chanting, voice shivery with the hold he tries and fails to keep on himself. The table’s edge gouges your ass, but it sharpens everything: sparks the ache of him hilted inside you into a wildfire need. You clutch the back of his neck, blunt nails digging at the hairline. He seems to melt under each new inch of your skin he can grab for himself.

He hitches your legs up until your calves rest heavy over his shoulders. The stretch makes it even tighter, impossible, and your head tips back, gasping. You spill another noise—something wounded and grateful—into the kitchen air. The windows are open, it’s dusk and the world is violet-blue, and you don’t care if the whole city hears you. Frank leans over you, both hands braced on your thighs, and lowers himself until his sweat-slicked chest drags a line of heat up your sternum. He tastes the salt at your neck, your cheek, your mouth. His tongue is all desperation, all teeth and open need. “Been so fuckin’ empty without you, you got no idea,” he rasps, voice crumbling at the edges. He snaps his hips again, slower now, and each press lands exactly in that deep place that’s been craving him since the second you left.

You can’t keep quiet. You don’t even try. He moans along with you, his sounds ricocheting in your chest until you can’t tell whose heart is beating harder.

“Frank, please—” you whine.

He nods, sweat streaking, and mashes his thumb hard against your clit. You jolt, nearly biting his shoulder, and he laughs like a dying man: desperate, delighted, so wild for you he’s not even trying to be patient with himself anymore. The combination of him inside, the heavy press of his hand, and the filthy sweetness of his voice all mix up until you can’t separate pleasure from pain. You full-body tremble, every part of you buzzing, and you’re babbling now, some litany of I missed you and please and fuck, Frank. It comes out in a rush, right through your teeth, and he soaks it up like a benediction.

“Come for me,” he says, low and pleading. “God, I need it. Let go. Please.”

The words tip you right over. The spiral is short, too sweet, and you come so hard you nearly blackout—muscles clench and the whole world contracts to this hot, white point behind your eyelids. Frank curses, the realest fuck you ever heard, and fucks you through it, hips stuttering while you squeeze at his cock, making it harder for him to hold on. You try to clear your head but nothing in you works except clutching him closer, your legs shaking so hard he has to pin them down. He’s like a man crazed, he can’t stop. You jerk so hard against the table you feel your back scrape open and all you can do is arch up and try to take him deeper into your already dripping and pulsing cunt. Frank’s still pounding, not even pretending to slow down, and every time you gasp or whimper he just grinds deeper.You’re still shivering with aftershocks when he does it again—leans in close and delivers a low, wet, “There you go, baby, give it to me,” and somehow your body obeys, the next orgasm crackling straight through the one before it. Your senses blur. It’s a convulsion, a rolling, brain-melting quake that has you jerking violently in his grip, your own voice echoing bright and raw off the cabinets. You can’t stop. He won’t let you. Frank’s shaking too, but he refuses to finish before you’re wrung out.

“Need to hear you again,” he rasps, pinning you by the hips, sweat mixing with yours. You want to say it’s too much, but all you can manage is a moan trailing off into babble. He slams in again, deeper than before, and something inside you just gives. Another orgasm rips through, blanketing all pain, limbs tremoring and heart blurring the edges of your vision. You can’t think. You just feel: the heat, the stretch, the fingers digging half-moons under your thighs, and the way he won’t stop whispering your name like a prayer he’s trying to relearn. He always did pride himself on stamina, but now it’s deranged, frantic. Weeks without this and now he’s got you, livewire and trembling, and apparently the only thing in his head is making up for lost time. Your brain splits into pieces: pleasure so bright it’s nuclear, followed by a sluggish horror of how ruined you must sound, how unhinged each gasp gets. Frank gives a ragged bark of laughter as you lose control, and presses his mouth to the corner of your jaw.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this.” He pistons in, strikes that softest spot and holds you down when your knees threaten to buckle off the tabletop. “Never let anyone see you like this. Just for me, yeah?” The words are like an order but sound more like a promise, and you nod, crying out as you clamp down hard, electricity rippling up your spine. He moans, head tipping back, his muscles going taut. He’s getting close, you can tell. Your body is spasming so hard you can barely contain yourself, tears flying down your cheeks as you try desperately to get him to slow down, your hands reaching for his hips to halt his movements, even for just a little bit, but Frank just swats your hands away and presses a kiss to your stomach. He barely slows down, not even when your thighs begin to spasm, clenching and trembling uncontrollably. The sensitive places in you are already bright with warning, nerves fizzing raw at every motion, and Frank—god, Frank must feel it, the way your body shudders on each thrust, but he just drives in harder, determined, greedy for every last shock of you.

“I know s’lot but you’re doing so fuckin’ good for me, baby.” The table rocks with it, plates and silverware scattering to the floor, and none of it matters. Only the way Frank holds you steady, sweat dripping from his brow, jaw gone hard and mean with the effort of holding back. He wants you to break again. He needs it.

“Please—” It comes out shredded, hoarse, barely a word at all. Maybe you mean to say stop, or more, or thank you—whatever it is, he eats it straight off your lips, mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so hard it cuts the inside of your cheek. There’s blood on his tongue, copper-bright, it makes you whimper. Frank finally, finally lets go, fucking you open with no care for how desperately you’re shaking, and god, you’re so raw it hurts, every inhale a warble of sensation, every exhale just a long, pulsing moan. He must see it, must feel how you go rigid under him, every muscle snapping taut, because he jerks his head down and grits the words into your neck:

“Attagirl girl. Give it to me. Been waitin’ so long for you, fuck—” You can’t see, can’t think, just the world strobing with the force of it. Your cunt squeezes mercilessly around him, and still he’s pounding, sweat pouring off his forehead, teeth sunk into his bottom lip so hard it’s gone white at the center. He wants to make a meal of your need. He always does. “C’mon, one more,” he says, desperate.

“No-No, Frank i can’t-”

“Yes, you can. C’mon. C’mon.” He fucks you straight through the aftershocks until you’re sobbing, the sounds coming from your chest not even human, just raw plea. Wet already running down your thighs. He barely slows enough to suck bruises into your collarbone, sink his teeth into your thighs, and the animal way he’s rutting, you know he’s close, so close, but still he won’t finish until he can wrench another out of you.

“Oh- Oh god, Frank- Fuck, Frank, I’m gonna-” This time, you break. Not even a scream, just a silent, shuddering clamp of muscle and the sudden white noise of another wave. He drags your hips back, you’re wild, kicking, but he holds you and lets it run you down to dust, and only then does he let himself go. His hands slip under your ass, the last few thrusts a brutal, reckless blur, and then he explodes inside, filling you so hard it leaks out with every pulse. You whine, thighs trembling and clenching, sobs breaking out of you with every pained groan of Frank as eh empties himself into your, your body spent and exhausted and all of the pain and misery you felt these past weeks comes bubbling up.

You feel so stupid.

I mean, Frank Castle has you impaled on his dick, just gave you the best few orgasms of your life- and you're fucking crying.

He stays inside you for a long moment, his weight a crushing, grounding pressure, his forehead pressed to yours as he catches his breath. You can feel his heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic drum that slowly, slowly begins to even out. But yours doesn't. It just keeps racing, a frantic, wild beat in your chest that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with the crushing, miserable weight of your own thoughts. He finally eases out, a slow, careful withdrawal that makes you whimper, and the sound is what breaks the dam. It's not a sob of release or satisfaction. It's a broken, ugly thing, full of all the weeks of silence and distance you tried so hard to ignore. Frank's entire body goes still. He pushes himself up, his arms bracketing your head, and looks down at you, finally realising you're actually crying.

"Hey," he says, his voice rough and confused. "Hey, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?" You just shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as a fresh wave of hot, stupid tears leaks from the corners. You can't look at him. You can't let him see this pathetic, weepy mess you've become. You feel his thumb swipe at your cheek, gently wiping away the moisture.

"Baby, talk to me. You're scarin' me here," he pleads, his voice dropping to that low, concerned rumble that usually makes you feel safe, but now it just makes you feel worse. Because he shouldn't have to be concerned. He should be basking in the afterglow, not dealing with your emotional fallout.

"Sorry," you choke out, the word tasting like ash. "I'm sorry. I don't know why—" Frank’s face changes instantly. Not lust. Not irritation. Pure panic.

“Whoa, hey—” His hands are suddenly everywhere, gentle now, cupping your face, brushing damp hair off your forehead. “No, no, baby, don’t apologize. C’mere.” His voice breaks on the last word, rough with concern. You turn your face away anyway, mortified.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat helplessly. “I just—God, this is so embarrassing.”

“What is?” Frank asks immediately, brows pulling together. “Cryin’?” You let out a miserable laugh.

“You literally just fucked my brains out and now I’m having, like, a psychological episode on the kitchen table.” Something soft flickers across his face then. Not amusement exactly. Recognition.

“Baby,” he says quietly, “you think I ain’t one bad day away from cryin’ in a Home Depot parking lot at all times?” That startles a laugh out of you. Wet and ugly, but real. Frank visibly relaxes the second he hears it.

“There she is,” he murmurs. You scrub angrily at your face.

“I just missed you so much.” The confession comes out tiny. Childish almost. “And then you were gone for so long and everything felt weird and awful and I know it’s unhealthy but it felt like I was missing part of my body all month and—”

“Hey.” Frank presses a kiss right between your eyebrows. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, you do. And he just looks wrecked for you. Completely open. Eyes dark and tired and impossibly soft.

“You know what I did three nights ago?” he asks. You sniff miserably.

“What?”

“Made coffee for two people.” Your face crumples instantly. Frank huffs out a laugh at himself, rubbing one hand down his jaw. “Didn’t even realize ‘til I poured the second cup.”

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

“Yeah.” He gives you a sheepish little shrug. “Sat there starin’ at it for like ten minutes like a fuckin’ idiot.” That ache in your chest twists harder, but softer this time. Less sharp. More survivable.

“I missed you so bad it made me stupid,” he admits quietly. You laugh again through tears.

“I think we might have a codependency problem.”

“Mhm.” Frank nods solemnly. “Sounds fake.”

“Frank.”

“What?” His mouth twitches. “I’m serious. I think the solution is obvious.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Never leavin’ the apartment again.” You snort despite yourself.

“That’s not a solution.”

“Says you.” He leans down, pressing slow kisses to your damp cheeks between sentences. “We got blankets. We got groceries.” Kiss. “Got cable.” Kiss. “Got each other.” Another kiss, softer this time. “Think we can survive.” Your shoulders finally stop shaking a little. Frank notices immediately. He always notices immediately. “There you go,” he murmurs, thumbs stroking under your eyes. “Breathe for me.” You do. And for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t hurt as much. Frank studies your face for another long second before his expression suddenly shifts into something gentler. Fond enough to kill you.

“Y’know,” he says quietly, “kinda nice hearin’ you cry over me after all the times I almost threw my phone through a wall missin’ you.” You stare at him.

“You did not.”

“Baby, I almost fist-fought a microwave.”

“A microwave?”

“It kept beepin’.” He says this like it should explain everything. “You weren’t there. I was already upset.” You dissolve into helpless laughter, shoulders curling inward. Frank grins immediately like that sound alone fixed something vital inside him.

“There she is,” he says again, softer now. Then he gathers you up carefully, strong arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid to leave even an inch of space between your bodies again. He lifts you right off the table without effort, settling you against his chest.

“You know what your problem is?” he asks, carrying you toward the couch.

“What?”

“You need to be held for, like… medically concerning amounts of time.” You hum tiredly, wrapping yourself around him automatically.

“Probably.”

“Mhm.” He drops onto the couch with you still glued to him, immediately dragging a blanket over both your laps. “Good thing I’m an expert.” You end up half sprawled across him exactly like always—your favorite place, his favorite place—your cheek against his chest while his hand rubs lazy circles into your spine. The TV murmurs forgotten in the background. Frank’s hand never stops touching you. Across your spine. Your hip. Your thigh. Like he’s reassuring himself you’re still here every few seconds.

"I missed you." You hum against his skin. Frank goes rigid beneath you, and he sucks in a heavy breath. For a second, you think maybe you said something wrong. Then Frank’s arms tighten around you so suddenly it almost steals your breath. Not painful.

Just desperate.

His face presses into your hair, rough stubble scraping lightly against your temple as he exhales hard through his nose like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“Don’t do that,” he mutters quietly. You blink up at him.

“Do what?”

“Say shit like that all soft.” His voice comes out wrecked around the edges. “Makes me feel insane.” Your chest aches instantly. Frank shifts beneath you until you’re tucked even closer, one broad hand spreading across the back of your ribs while the other cups the back of your neck. He holds you like something fragile now. Like the weeks apart hollowed him out enough that he’s scared you might disappear again if he loosens his grip.

“I missed you too,” he says finally, so low you almost don’t hear it. “Christ, baby.” His thumb strokes slowly under your shirt. “Missed you every second.” You melt further into him automatically, listening to the heavy rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. It’s calmer now than when he first got home, but every so often it still kicks harder when you move against him, like his body’s reacting before his brain can. Frank kisses the top of your head. Then again. And again. Little absentminded kisses, like breathing.

“You eat while you were gone?” he asks suddenly. You smile tiredly.

“Sometimes.”

“Mhm.” He sounds unimpressed. “Sleep?”

“A little.”

“Bullshit.” You laugh quietly into his chest. Frank immediately softens at the sound, his hand sliding up and down your spine in long, grounding strokes. “Couldn’t sleep right either,” he admits after a minute. “Kept wakin’ up thinkin’ you were in the bathroom or somethin’.” His mouth brushes your forehead. “Then I’d reach over and…” He trails off. And even without him finishing the sentence, you know. Empty bed. Cold sheets. Nobody there. Your fingers curl against his chest.

“Frank?”

“Mhm?”

“I think I forgot how to function without you.” That makes him go very still again. Not tense this time. Just emotional enough that you can feel it settle heavy in his chest.

“Oh, honey,” he murmurs softly, almost helplessly. “C’mere.” Like you aren’t already physically fused to him. He shifts you higher anyway until you’re practically folded into his lap completely, your legs tangled with his beneath the blanket while his arms wrap fully around your waist. One huge hand slides into your hair, fingertips scratching gently against your scalp until your eyes flutter half shut.

“There she is,” he whispers when you relax against him. “That’s my girl.” You make this sleepy little hum that nearly kills him on the spot. Because suddenly Frank’s holding your face in both hands, staring at you with this unbearably tender expression like he can’t believe you’re real and here and touching him again.

“You know I love you, right?” he asks quietly. Your heart stumbles.

“Yeah,” you whisper back.

“Nah.” He shakes his head slightly, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “No, I don’t think you get it.” His voice turns rough with sincerity. “I love you so much I spent three weeks walkin’ around this apartment feelin’ like somebody scooped my organs out with a spoon.” You burst out laughing. Frank grins immediately, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m serious.”

“That is the grossest possible way you could’ve phrased that.”

“Didn’t say I was poetic.” He leans down to kiss you again, slow and warm this time. “Just sayin’ I missed my girl.” Your nose nudges against his when he pulls back.

“Your girl?” you mumble.

“Mhm.” His arms tighten instinctively. “Mine.” The possessiveness should probably embarrass you. Instead it makes your whole body unclench for the first time in weeks.

Eventually you murmur,

“I think we broke each other.” Frank snorts.

“Baby, I was broken way before you got here.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.” His voice goes gentler again. “Think maybe you just made it easier.” Your throat tightens instantly. You hide your face back against his chest before he can see it happen, but Frank notices anyway because of course he does. He always does.

“Hey,” he murmurs, amused now. “None of that. No more cryin’ tonight.”

“You’re saying that after literally rearranging my organs on the kitchen table?”

“I said no more cryin’,” he repeats firmly, fighting a grin. You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist immediately, kissing your knuckles before tucking your hand beneath his thermal against the warm skin of his stomach. The contact makes both of you go quiet for a second. Just feeling each other. Breathing each other in. Frank closes his eyes briefly like the sensation alone is enough to exhaust him.

“You know what the worst part was?” he asks eventually.

“What?”

“Bed was too big without you.” His voice drops lower. Rougher. Honest in a way that hurts. “Kept wakin’ up reachin’ for you like an idiot.” Your chest aches again.

“Frank…”

“Mhm?”

“I think if we ever do that again I’ll actually die.” One of his eyebrows lifts.

“Work trip or emotional breakdown sex?”

“Both.”

“That’s fair.” He presses a kiss into your hair. “Good news though.”

“What?”

“You’re not goin’ anywhere for at least twelve hours.” You blink up at him.

“Twelve?”

“Might be undershooting it honestly.” He tightens the blanket around you both like he’s sealing you into place. “Think I need minimum forty-eight business hours of holdin’ my girl before I recover emotionally.” You snort.

“Emotionally?”

“And physically.” He says it shamelessly. “Got attachment issues now.”

“Now?”

“Alright, fair point.” You laugh again, softer this time, and Frank watches you with that same ruined fondness all over his face. Then, quieter: “Missed hearin’ that too.” Your smile falters around the edges.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His hand slides up your back, warm and steady. “Apartment sounded wrong without you in it.”

taglist !

@overdrive1975 , @alialuvsreid, @nanni197, @goawayplease95 , @yesshewrites1 , @carolinaxvz , @sofianotvergara, @bearisbored , @jbrownta , @cafieeee

[sweetsprice]

ghost has always been protective of you, but now that you're carrying his child, it's getting out of control.

the grocery store was too crowded, too loud for ghost's liking, with kids running around unsupervised. simon's jaw tightened as a teenager rushed past you, almost making you lose your balance. his arm shot out instinctively, pulling you flush against his side.

"watch it!" he growled, his voice dangerously low, and the kid scurried off without glancing back.

you sighed, pressing a hand to his chest. "si', i'm fine. they're just kids, you can't get mad at them."

"you're six months pregnant," he said, as a matter of fact. his hand found the small of your back, warm and steady, guiding you down the aisle at an extremely slow pace. "and this place is a madhouse. unbelievable."

you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

"simon." you called him sweetly. "it's tuesday. 10 am. there are four other people in this store."

"too many," he mumbled, leading you toward the fruits section with a hand firm on your lower back. he was scanning aisles, cataloging exits, evaluating threats.

an elderly woman reached for a box of apples near you and simon physically shifted to place himself between her and your belly.

the woman was puzzled.

his eyes softened as they dropped to your stomach.

"you're doing it again," you mumbled, fighting a smile.

"doing what, sweetheart?" he planted a kiss on top of your head.

"being overprotective." you exclaimed, intertwining your fingers with his.

simon grunted, moving you toward the checkout. "that's my job."

at the register, a woman cooed at your bump, reaching out without asking. simon caught her wrist mid-air, his eyes glinting with warning.

"for fuck sake. these people are mad." he cursed at the poor woman.

the woman took a step back, embarrassed, and you shot simon a reassuring look.

outside, he insisted on carrying every single bag, all six of them, plus the heavy watermelon you'd asked him to buy. you attempted to carry the small bag of cupcakes but simon gave you a firm no.

your mouth salivated at the sight of the chocolate flavored cupcake that simon handed to you.

his car was immaculate, not a crumb of cookie on his leather seats, no coffee stains. he'd once made soap walk ten miles for dirtying the passenger seat with orange juice.

but you? oh you could do whatever you pleased.

"unbelievable." he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

you took another bite, moaning dramatically. you closed your eyes, savoring it, completely oblivious to the way simon was watching you.

"you've got..." he gestured vaguely at his own face.

"hm?" you blinked, frosting on your nose and your left cheek.

he simply reached over, his thumb catching the smear on your chin. his eyes darkened, thumb hovering near your lips, then slowly, brought it to his own mouth, tasting the buttercream.

"si," you warned, recognizing that look.

"i'm not doing anything, love" he said, voice dropping low. "just cleaning you up."

little did you know, the ever cold menacing lieutenant simon riley got a boner just by looking at his sweet wife lick some frosting off a cupcake.

[bl00dyodin]

Simon "Ghost" Riley is not the kind of man to get your name tattooed on his skin.

He is the kind of man to get a red line tattooed, though.

"And what's this one?" You point to a circle-shaped serpent eating its own tail. "What does it mean?"

Simon closes his eyes for a moment, relishing on the feeling of having your hands on him. Your fingertips trace the black ink on his bicep, touch soft, touch too soft for him. Too tender. He shivers.

"Ouroboros," he grunts out, voice thick, as though that should clarify everything. The arm he has wrapped around your middle is pushed away as you sit up on the bed and glare down at him. He holds your glare for a moment, not because he’s returning it, but because your eyes are so beautiful and expressive that he bet he could tell what you're feeling just by the looks you give him.

Right now, you’re feeling mildly annoyed; he's confident in that.

His arm snakes around you, lightly pulling you back to lay beside him again, squeezing your waist as an apology. You relent, allowing him to pull you, resting your head just under his chin. "Means cycle," he murmurs against your hair. "Means..." he sighs heavily, not really into this whole pillow talk thing you’re doing, but indulging you still. Anything for you. "Means eternal cycle. Bein' stuck in it. Never breakin' free; eatin' you away."

That's the meaning he'd attributed to it, when he got that tattoo. Corny in hindsight, but true, nonetheless. Accurately reflects his life; born to a druggie father who'd beat him up, and his brother, and his mother. Grew up to be an angry teen and even angrier adult, so full of rage it scared him. Burdened to a shitty life as a butcher, and stubbornly rejecting it and choosing his own destiny by joining the military didn't help much. More suffering there, more violence, more blood. Different, but at its core, the same. Certainly didn’t stop things from crashing down right in front of him; didn’t stop his brother from following his father's footsteps and shooting junk up his veins. Didn’t stop his family from being killed. Over and over and over again; past, present and future, always been like that for him, full of grief and anger and violence, no matter how hard he tried to break free.

Until you. Until he met you.

You went quiet for a while in his arms, a frown on your face, looking pensive. Simon takes it all in while he can; he takes in the weight of your body against his, the smell of your hair, of your skin, of sex. The feeling of your body rising and falling with your breathing against his ribs, of your warmth, of the little hairs on your forearm that stand up as he traces an aimless finger there. Then you shoot up again, disrupting his quiet relaxation once more.

"Well," you start, turning away from him and rummaging inside one of the drawers on the bedside table. He feels your absence like he’s got a collapsed lung and someone has ripped away the oxygen mask from his face. "You're just perpetuating it, then. With that tattoo."

Simon lifts a skeptical brow. "Meanin'?"

"Meaning," you triumphantly hold up for him a red sharpie, "you're doing it wrong. If you want to break free, you gotta kill the snake."

He watches, immobile, as you uncap the pen and draw a single, thick line across the serpent's neck, like you’re effectively cutting its head off. The red ink contrasts nicely with the black, almost making it look real. Final.

"There," you smile amusedly, though behind your eyes Simon can see the seriousness there. The sternness of you, like you have his shoulders pinned with an iron grip, nails digging into his skin so he can’t tear himself away, an angry frown on your face, teeth bared. Like you’re shaking him, shaking the suffering off him, shaking all of the blood off, the death, the rage, the sadness and the violence. Forcefully cleansing him of the guilt that sticks to his skin like tar. "You've been freed."

Simple as that. Like he has no choice but to accept it. Accept your kindness, your understanding, your mercy. Let it make him into a better man; into a better person. Let you help him to forgive himself.

He'd spent almost a week bent awkwardly over the shower so the water wouldn't wash away your red line.

"If you don't got this exact shade of red ink," Simon had warned the tattoo artist, a scrawny bloke shaking from head to toe, "I'm –" gonna make you do it with your own blood, is what Simon was about to say, but stopped himself before the words had built up. Cutting the snake's head off, or whatever. "I'm leavin'."

[gutsby]

The Big Ones Hurt

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Summary: Simon overhears you say his dick is small.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Consensual freeuse. Traffic light safe word system. Your boyfriend fucks you rough (but lovingly) while you’re on the phone.

Word count: 3.1k

You were being a good friend.

It really was as simple as that—a woman you’d known for over a decade now was going through the worst breakup of her life, and she needed your support. You’d offered that support without hesitation, thinking nothing of the fact that you were in the healthiest of relationships yourself. You sure as hell never would’ve imagined a conversation like that could lead to this.

“His dick was huge, too,” your friend groaned across the line. You heard a shuffling of pillows and a soft thump, and you pictured her punting one off the bed.

You were lying on your stomach in your own bed several hundred miles away, holding your phone to your ear and trying to bite back a slow-growing grin.

“Couldn’t have been that big,” you hummed.

Again, your best friend groaned as if she were in pain.

“No, I’m telling you, the guy was fucking massive, hon. Just hung like a…a goddamn horse. I’m gonna be sick.”

“You can find another monster cock someday.”

“I don’t want to, though! It was so good.”

“You know, a big dick isn’t everything.”

Now you were trailing a finger over the embroidered edge of a pillowcase, trying your hardest not to think of the man who’d just slipped out of your sheets thirty minutes prior. Right before your friend had called with her devastating news, before you had been obliged to join the I-Hate-All-Men tirade of the century, you’d been getting put through the mattress by your boyfriend—a man who didn’t lie, or cheat on you, or steal, or shatter your heart into a million pieces.

A man whose dick was considerably bigger than most.

Simon was probably already three beers deep with his buddies at the pub down the road, the same lopsided, happy-go-lucky smile on his face he always wore when you and him had just had a quickie before he left home

Suddenly, the tail-end of a sentence snapped you out of your reverie, your friend’s tone loud and a little shrill:

“—easy for you to say!”

You blinked. “Easy f—wait, what?”

“Simon Riley. Love of your life.” You could imagine the woman snapping fingers in front of your face if she had been with you then, as if to say, Ring a bell? “Don’t even try to act like he isn’t a crazy good lay. And huge.”

Your cheeks heated at the accusation. Hell, you’d probably mentioned to friends in passing that your boyfriend was an altogether generous lover, a caring man in every respect, along with a couple other vague intimations about his prowess that would leave a whole lot more to the imagination than not, but this? You hadn’t even touched on anything about his size.

Normally, you wouldn’t engage in that kind of talk—at least not to that level of detail, revealing intimate facts.

But your best friend was hurting, and it seemed like she needed something to feel better in the moment.

So, shortly, it slipped out before you could think better:

“Simon’s not even big.”

Your mouth clamped shut as soon as you said it.

Liar, every fiber of your being hissed at once.

(Shut the fuck up, I’m helping a friend out)

“No way. You’re full of shit,” she giggled.

(Well, yes)

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

You swallowed hard. Already hating yourself as the silence across the line stretched on and you knew your friend expected you to elaborate, and then you did.

“Honestly, it’s pretty, um…small. And—And that’s OK! Like, nobody’s perfect. The sex with him is still so great, and if anything, it’s nice not having such a big dick to worry about, y’know? So don’t feel like dating a smaller guy is so bad. You can still have amazing sex.”

You tried to end it on a positive note—the message you meant to get across, which was that the girl could be happy with a guy of any size and she didn’t need to stay hung up on her stupid ex—but it fell flat, even to your own ears. Clearly, you’d dropped a bombshell.

“But he is just…such a big dude. You’d think—”

“No, I know, Simon’s tall,” you interrupted hastily. Wincing. “But like I was saying, you can still do a lot with an average-sized dick. Or—Or even a tiny one.”

“It’s tiny?!”

Fucking shit.

“No, no, no, not tiny! I mean, not that…tiny. He’s fine.”

Your pulse was pounding so loud in your ears you could hardly hear yourself think. Or breathe. Or lie. Or try to piece together the most incoherent string of words that came out a little something like, ‘Seriously, uh…Simon’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever dated, and um…dick size doesn’t even really matter. The big ones hurt. I mean, the guy’s not huge, but not tiny, and—’

“Well shit, lovie, how fuckin’ little are we talkin’ here?”

At the rumble of a voice by your other, phone-free ear, you nearly jumped and catapulted your device across the room. You would’ve yelped, too, had it not been for a big, broad palm clamping over your mouth. As a familiar weight and breadth and scent settled over your being—a body coming to lay on top of you from behind—your friend continued to chatter on the line, clueless.

“OK, OK, I get it. Love a guy of any size. And Simon’s not perfect—even though that fucker’s about as delectable as you can get in every other way…”

While the woman’s voice faded off into a far-distant hum rattling off Simon’s best qualities and lamenting the odds she’d ever find a man quite so wonderful, you were confronted with several of these same features at once: his wide, muscular chest blanketing the back of you entirely; his stubble tickling the cusp of your cheek as he leaned in close; his strength pinning you to the bed and only loosening the grip around your mouth a little; and of course, there was that voice again, lower—

“Too bad about my microdick, huh?” Simon chuckled.

“—and I bet he knows how to use it!” your friend went on, not hearing a word of what was going on with you.

“Hey, uh—hey, I’ve gotta go. I think I—” you started.

As soon as you did, though, you felt the pressure on your spine soar to new heights. You let out a low whine.

Simon was crushing you now.

Your friend cut in, “Yeah? You OK?”

Before you could attempt a reply, the hand that had once been covering your lips lowered to just underneath your chin; Simon squeezed your throat.

Playfully, he made clear by nipping at your earlobe.

“No need to stop on my account,” he murmured.

So, rushed and more than a little flustered now, you made up some excuse on the phone about mistakenly hearing the doorbell, and you let your friend forge on. You dropped the phone onto the bed by your pillow.

Then you turned your head, the rest of your body immobilized by the heft of your boyfriend’s weight on your back, and you finally, finally got to meet his gaze.

Behind you, Simon was smirking.

His whole demeanor betrayed amusement.

It wasn’t every day the man got to hear his dick was the size of something much smaller than it actually was, you reckoned. Still, he deserved an explanation.

“S-Si…” You tried to grit out a whisper, deflated by his weight and forced to hide your words from your friend.

Never mind the fact that your boyfriend looked, smelled, and felt just as irresistible as he had when he left home less than an hour ago. A simple, all-black ensemble fit him like a second skin and accentuated every mouthwatering ridge of his body, most visible to you in the glimpse of his bicep you caught under your chin. He was warm. Solid. Drenched in that dizzyingly potent sandalwood aftershave that you liked so much.

You’d never tapped the ‘mute’ on your phone so fast.

“Shit, Si, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean— I only said it— she’s going through a breakup right now, and I just t—”

Simon hit ‘unmute,’ followed by ‘speakerphone.’

He leaned back.

“…but what reeeally fucked me up was how he acted after. Like, couldn’t even look me in the eye, the dick…”

Your friend prattled on—back to sinking neck-deep in a story of how shitty the dating scene was and how she should’ve given up ages ago—while you flitted your gaze to your phone. You stared in awe, wondering why the fuck Simon had decided to tap those buttons in a moment like this, and questions started to bubble up.

At the same time, you heard the clink of a belt buckle.

Simon knelt behind you. He straddled your ass, and when you tried to sit up, he pressed a palm to the center of your back. He moved about it all swiftly.

Finally, the quietest, quickest hiss, ‘Si, what the fu—’

“Spit.”

That part, he said too loud. But the man didn’t seem to care much at all as he reached with his other hand and stuck his upturned palm under your face, waiting for it.

“What did you say?” your friend cut in presently.

Your face stung with embarrassment—at just the prospect of being found out by someone who had no concept of what was going on—that you forced it out:

“N-Nothing. Keep going.”

You spit in Simon’s hand like he’d told you.

Your phone couldn’t have been resting more than two or three inches from your face on the bed, and the space in general was small. There wasn’t a lot to be done by way of masking your activity, other than to simply hang up the fucking phone, but it didn’t sound like discretion and decorum and being considerate were at the top of Simon’s list of priorities right now.

Still, you felt a press of his lips against the back of your neck before he mumbled, “Remember our safewords?”

You did.

‘Yellow’ to slow down, ‘red’ to stop.

It wasn’t often you had to use the words with Simon, but from time to time, in particularly heated and impassioned moments, you appreciated the safety net.

And freeuse was something relatively new to you both—just accepting him in and letting him have his way with you at random points during your day, casually.

It didn’t make it any less tricky, or jarring, when the man next pushed inside you, bottoming out in one go.

Your sleep shorts tugged to the side, lying facedown underneath this massive, hulking man, you had only to grit your teeth and feel yourself stretched to full capacity with the shove of Simon’s bare cock in you.

“Oh, fuck,” you let out, hoarse.

“No, right? It was so gross, honestly.”

Amidst the airing of your friend’s mile-long list of grievances against her ex, your boyfriend settled his full, thick, demonstrably larger than average dick in your body until it felt like he was scraping your lungs.

You clawed the sheets and squirmed under him.

“That feel tiny to you, sweetheart?” Simon’s mouth was right next to your ear now, whispering filth while your walls stretched and squeezed to accommodate him. Warmth leaked out from where you connected.

You shook your head weakly, barely able to breathe.

It somehow made it even wilder and more maddening to have your senses deprived—Simon behind you, restricting your movements, with you obliged not to make a sound at the pleasure he was inflicting on you.

Your hips pinned to those pretty, floral-patterned sheets and your pussy made to gape in a perfectly wide ‘o’ around Simon’s whole cock, you felt helpless.

Stretched.

Protected, still.

Simon hadn’t even withdrawn to get a full stroke in, and he was already caressing your cheek with the backs of his knuckles, giving you more time to adjust to him. His tip kissed your cervix, and a heat sank in.

“Sweet dove’s still sore from earlier, yeah?” he murmured. “Didn’t think I gave her that much…”

But he did, of course.

“—couldn’t even make me cum—” your friend went on

Simon always gave you enough.

Just as your walls preemptively clenched around that slick, hard length and the man started to stir, rolling his hips against your ass in the shallowest of movements, your lips parted on a half-moan. Your chest constricted

“—it must be so much better with Simon, isn’t it?”

Suddenly, your boyfriend took a fistful of your hair.

In a murmur again, close to your ear:

“Go on, then. Don’t be impolite.”

“S-So, so good,” you rushed out. Those thrusts finally picked up, and Simon fucked you quietly into the bed. You sucked in another strangled breath, and trying your hardest not to moan, “He’s fucking…incredible.”

“I bet,” your friend laughed.

More shit-talking of men ensued.

Simon returned to his original, dominant position blanketing your body completely with his own, forearms planted on either side of your head on the bed and your phone resting inches away from you both. His cock pounded a furious pace inside you, precum and spit and your shared fluids easing the repeated slide. You gripped the sheets tighter, and Simon did the same with his ironclad hold in your hair.

Then his cock slid in higher, a little to the left, and the tip of him hit that special, tender, mind-numbing spot.

You felt the grin against the side of your face before you heard him chuckle, quiet as anything but elated.

Simon was the only guy who’d hit your G-spot before.

He hit it again. And again. And again, shaking the whole bed frame with the force of his thrusts. He kissed your neck and let your head loll back on him. While your friend chattered on, he did what he did best

“That’s a good girl,” he praised. “Gonna come f’me?”

You nodded, head bobbing against his softly.

If there were any moment for retribution, now would be it. If Simon were even the slightest bit the spiteful, insecure type, he probably would’ve taken the opportunity to make you beg for him—tell him how huge his cock was and how lucky you were to get it; how terrible it was to lie about a thing like size. It was.

But Simon didn’t, opting instead to give you pleasure. And he got plenty from you, too, you could tell by the breaths that were growing more and more ragged against your neck and the frantic stutter of his hips.

He was so big it was as if you could feel him in your throat. With every thrust that pushed you closer and closer to the edge, and with every twitch of every inch stuffed inside you, you feared you might not be able to conceal the sounds from your friend for much longer.

Your jaw unhinged on another wide-open, noiseless moan that probably made it look like you were in pain, and at the same time, your friend carried on over the phone, laughing about this loser’s goofy fucking face.

“Yellow?” Simon panted into your ear.

In other words, did you want him to slow down?

You shook your head no. Let him pelt your insides with the force of those hard, merciless thrusts and carve a path clean through your body in a way that only he ever could. He molded you to him perfectly. Tenderly.

Crescents digging into your scalp from how tightly he held you to him, you felt Simon twitch and keep beating your G-spot while you writhed under him, “You wanted a big dick, yeah? Don’t run from it now.”

It was in those words—paired with the obvious stretch and the depths your boyfriend was able to reach with his cock, how lovingly he fucked you while controlling your pleasure—that you broke. You couldn’t hold it in.

At the last possible second, Simon offered you his free hand to cover your mouth, knowing how loud you were liable to get, and you let out a muffled shriek into his palm. You grit your teeth and whimpered and kind of despised how high-pitched and needy you sounded, but you knew Simon loved it, almost as much as he adored the slippery wet noises your body and his made when he was emptying the contents of his balls into your cunt and fucking you senseless through all of it.

You finished as close as you were when you’d started, Simon’s chest glued onto your back. You both were breathing heavily, senses reeling from your highs. Simon’s cum stayed plugged in you with his thick cock holding it there, and the heat burrowed to your core.

You blinked, and you smiled contentedly at the warmth

Simon planted kisses wherever he could find bare skin for them to go, along your jaw and on your cheek and over your ear, like he always did after you two had sex.

“Wasn’t too far, was it?” he whispered. “Know I’m—”

“—big,” you giggled, barely louder than a breath after his hand had slid from your lips and cupped your face.

Then you went on, as the haze in your mind was starting to clear the slightest bit, and you remembered why you were here in the first place, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about your size, Si. I’m—”

“—going to bed!” your friend announced suddenly.

Your attention and Simon’s snapped back to the phone

With all that had been going on over the last couple minutes, you’d almost forgotten the woman was still on the line at all. She’d been talking before that, right?

“I— OK. Yeah, no, that’s fine,” you said, stupidly. Then, regaining a bit more of your composure, “I’m so sorry about everything that’s been going on with…him. You deserve so much better, and you will find better, OK?”

That sounded coherent enough.

You would call again tomorrow. Really listen and be there to offer more helpful advice than you’d done tonight—this was more about letting her vent, anyway.

So, reaching for the phone and expecting to hear your best friend chirp a quick, simple good-bye at any second, you lifted your hips back against Simon. You angled his still-hard dick inside you and pushed him deeper through the sticky warm mess he’d just coated your walls with, and you bit back a smile when he grunted. You met his eyes over your shoulder, and you felt his grip on your chin flex. His gaze sharpened.

But, before he could smirk and murmur in your ear something like, ‘Round three can be arranged if you really want it,’ your friend cut in again over the line.

Her voice rang louder, and a little lighter, too, this time.

“Goooooodniiiiiiiiiight, hon, I love you so, so much!”

“I love you, too. Night!” you answered reflexively.

Then, your friend added, as swift as anything:

“And goodnight to you, too, Simon! Glad to hear that microdick’s being put to good use, happy for you two!”

Before you could say a word, she laughed and hung up.

[x-strwbrry]

⋆⋅ ˚✧ can’t promise quiet ˚✧ ⋆⋅

simon ‘ghost’ riley x female reader, 18+, smut, morning sex

Before the rest of the world wakes up, you find yourself tangled in black linen with your soft, possessive Simon Riley by your side. Some mornings, breakfast in bed is the only acceptable option.

You wake to the scent of coffee and the weight of an arm draped across your waist. The light filtering through the blinds is soft, grey; the predawn stillness of a London morning. The bed is a cocoon of black linen and warm skin, the city outside a distant hum. You lie perfectly still, letting the pieces of last night slot into place.

Simon's room. His bed. His arm.

You shift, and the hard length of his cock presses against your hip. He is still asleep, his breathing a deep, rhythmic rumble in his chest. You feel the slow, steady thump of his heart against your shoulder blades. Just a peaceful moment in a violent world.

You turn to face him. The sharp, angular planes of his face are softened in sleep, his lips slightly parted.

His mask is discarded on the floor, leaving his scarred skin exposed.

Sheets pool low around his hips, revealing the intricate tapestry of ink across his arm and chest — his personal canvas of memory and pain.

Your gaze drifts lower, to where the linen tents. A slow, molten heat unfurls in your gut.

You edge closer, and his arm tightens around you by instinct. You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart, then another to his collarbone. He stirs with a low grunt, his eyes fluttering open — dark, hazy with sleep, then focusing entirely on you. A lazy smile curves his lips.

"Mornin', my love" he rasps, his voice thick and rough.

"Morning," you whisper, hand tracing a line on his arm. "Sleep well?"

"Better now." His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you against him.

"Johnny's making coffee," you whisper against his skin, fingers trailing down his navel and slipping under the sheet. "But I'd rather have breakfast in bed."

His grip tightens. "Is that so?" His voice is a low, gravelly vibration against your chest. "What did you have in mind, sweetheart?"

You don't answer with words. You reach under the sheet, fingers wrapping around the heavy heat of him. He hisses a sharp breath through his teeth, hips jerking into your touch. You stroke him slowly, feeling him thicken in your palm.

"I want to ride you," you whisper, leaning in close. "Slow and quiet."

"Slow?" He nips at your lip, his hand cupping your hip, fingers digging in possessively. "Can't promise quiet, love. Not when you feel like this."

He rolls you over with fluid strength. You straddle his hips, knees sinking into the mattress. The sheet falls away, leaving you bare to the cool morning light. His body sprawls beneath you, powerful and ready.

You rise up and guide him to your entrance. Hot, blunt heat against slick skin draws a sharp moan from you both. You sink down, taking him inch by excruciating inch until you sit flush against his lap.

Simon groans, hands gripping your waist like a lifeline. His head falls back, jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck standing out in sharp relief.

You begin to move; a slow, sinuous roll of your hips. Hands braced on his chest, you feel the firm muscle and the soft, solid power of him beneath your palms. Your hair falls forward, shutting out the world. You lean down, taking his mouth in a deep, languid kiss. A share of breath and taste.

The pace gathers heat. The bed creaks softly, a steady cadence beneath the sound of your mingled breathing.

"You're so beautiful, Si," you whisper against his lips.

He opens his eyes, raw and hungry. "Look who's talking," he growls, one hand moving up to cradle your face, thumb stroking your cheek. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Riding me like this... Christ."

A whimper escapes you as the pleasure coils tight. You sit tall, changing the angle, and he hits deep enough to make sparks dance behind your eyes.

“Ohhh fuck, Si…”

"Shhh," he hushes, his grip on your hips guiding you, setting a pace that makes you see stars. "Gotta be quiet, doll. Johnny's right outside."

The threat of being heard sharpens every sensation. You bite your lip to muffle the moans tearing at your throat. Simon’s hand rests at your neck—a grounding, possessive weight. His hips drive upward to meet every downstroke, each movement devastatingly precise.

"I love you," you whisper.

His response is a choked groan. He pulls you tight against his chest, crushing you to him. "I love you," he breathes, his voice breaking. "My girl. My whole world."

The orgasm hits like a rolling wave, crashing over you from the inside out. You clamp down around him, a silent scream locked in your throat as shockwaves ripple through your body. He holds you through the tremor, whispering low praises until the shaking stops.

Before you can cool, he rolls you over, pinning you beneath him without ever slipping out. He braces himself on his forearms, caging you in, his iron composure completely shattered.

"Where...?" he pants against your skin.

"Inside," you whisper, fingers laced in his hair. "Always inside."

With a few hard, erratic thrusts, he follows you over the edge. The thick pulse of him fills you, a primal groan muffled against your shoulder. His body shudders against yours, then settles, heavy and warm.

You lie together as your heartbeats slow to a shared measure. Outside, the soft sounds of the kitchen continue, distant and irrelevant.

You kiss his temple. You feel his lips curve against your skin.

"I think I smell coffee," you murmur.

"Let it get cold," he rumbles, locking his arms around you. "I'm not done with you."

[lumi-nay]

Part 2 of this post!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------------------------------------------------

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

[lumi-nay]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------------------------------------------------

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

[deansbeer]

﹙ ¹⁸⁺ ﹚ ₊ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ❜୧ A QUICKIE WITH YOUR HUSBAND SIMON.

you're sorting through what feels like the millionth tiny sock when simon comes up behind you, large hands settling on your hips. "kids are occupied," he murmurs against your neck, and you can hear the suggestion in his voice.

"si, i have to get this done," you protest weakly, but you're already leaning back into him. wash day waits for no one with three kids, and you're drowning in tiny clothes. "and they won't stay distracted for long."

"exactly why we should be quick about it." his hands slide around to your stomach, pulling you flush against him. you can feel he's already hard, and your resolve wavers. "been thinking about you all morning, luv. watching you bend over sortin’ laundry..."

"you're terrible," you breathe, but you're already turning in his arms. seven years of marriage and three kids later, and he still looks at you like he wants to devour you. "we have maybe ten minutes before someone needs something."

"can work with that." he's already lifting you onto the washing machine, hands pushing up his sweatshirt that you wore around the house. "fuck, no panties? you trying t’kill me?"

"it's wash day, baby," you remind him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "everything's in the dirty hamper." but your explanation dissolves into a moan as his fingers find you already wet.

"fuckin' convenient," he growls, working you open with practiced efficiency. there's no time for slow and sweet; not with three kids in the house. "always ready for me, aren't you, swee'eart?"

you bite your lip to keep quiet as he replaces his fingers with his cock, pushing in with one smooth thrust. "simon," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. "fuck—w-we have to be quiet."

"then you'd better keep that pretty mouth o’yours shut," he says, setting a punishing pace immediately. the washing machine rocks with the force of it, and you have to brace yourself against the wall. "can't have the little ones hearing what daddy does to mummy."

the filthy words in his rough accent make you clench around him. he notices, of course he does, and smirks against your neck. "like that, do you? knowing i'm fuckin’ you while our babies play down the hall?"

before you can respond, there's a loud bang on the door. "mommy! mommy, open!" your five-year-old's voice cuts through your haze of pleasure. "need you!"

simon doesn't stop, if anything going harder. "mummy's busy, swee'eart," he calls out, voice impressively steady for someone currently railing you against major appliances. "go play with yer sister."

"but mommy!" another bang. "daisy took my doll!"

you try to answer but simon chooses that moment to hit that perfect spongy spot inside you, and all that comes out is a strangled sound. he covers your mouth with his hand, eyes dark with amusement and lust.

"mummy's folding clothes," he lies smoothly. "she'll be out in a minute, go tell daisy t'share."

"don't want to!" your daughter whines, and you can hear her stomping her little feet. "want mommy now!"

"ella." simon's voice drops into what you call his lieutenant voice — gentle but brooking no argument. "go play. we'll be out soon."

there's a moment of silence, then you hear her stomp away muttering about simon being unfair. the second she's gone, simon removes his hand from your mouth.

"such a good girl," he praises, but you're not sure if he means you or ella. "keeping quiet while i fuck you senseless. though i bet y’wanted to scream, didn't you?"

"simon, fuck, please," you gasp, feeling your orgasm building embarrassingly fast. the combination of his cock and the thrill of almost getting caught has you on edge. "i'm gonna-"

"i know, luv. she's fuckin’ squeezin’ me." his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles. "c'mon then. cum all over my cock before another one starts bangin’ on the door."

as if on cue, you hear your two-year-old calling from somewhere in the house. "mama?"

"bloody hell," simon curses, speeding up. "better hurry up, mrs. riley."

the use of your married name plus the perfect pressure on your clit sends you over. you bite his shoulder to muffle your cry as you cum all over his cock, whole body shaking with the force of it. he follows right after, groaning low in your ear as he fills you.

"mama!" your toddler's voice is getting closer.

"shit," simon pants, pulling out and quickly fixing his clothes. he helps you down, steadying you when your legs wobble. "y’good?"

"just peachy," you breathe, smoothing down his sweatshirt. you can feel his cum starting to leak and clench your thighs together.

"though i'm going to need to shower before i finish this laundry."

[amaranthinespirit]

unknowingly stalking stalker!simon riley

it was risky, you knew, but something about him just enthralled you. sitting at the other end of the bar on a saturday night, you spotted a big brute of a man dwarfing a glass of amber liquid. with a mask pulled up onto his crooked nose, it exposed the scarred skin of his chin and jaw, and chapped, rough lips. something about the way his dark eyes scanned the room made your thighs quiver and your belly ache.

simon didn't look your way to know your eyes were on him, burning into the skin of his lower face and thick neck that bobbed with every sip of alcohol. you were a curious little bunny that couldn't help but be captivated by his wolfish appearance, and it was going to get you bitten.

you were sad when the man didn't look your way. he appeared alone and refused to pay mind to anyone except the bartender. you wondered how long he'd linger as the bar started emptying old customers and flooding with new ones. the population never staggered, and in fact, only increased with happy hour. how long was the man going to sit in that very seat?

it was hard for him not to look your way, the knowledge that your attention kept returning to him gnawing at his brain until he couldn't help a glance when he was sure your gaze was fixed elsewhere. god, you were so pretty and completely oblivious to the fact he'd been shadowing you for months, but he'd caught your attention now. how long was it going to take for you to bite?

you weren't sure how much time had passed, but the man downed his drink, left a large bill on the bar, got up and left without a word. this was your charge. mirroring his actions with your own, smaller bill, you left with a fleeting glance to the patrons around you. you didn't dare risk losing sight of your newfound interest, but he wasn't hard to lose.

simon heard you stumble out the door behind him. you were clumsy, didn't bother hiding the loud clacks of your heels against the pavement, but he didn't give away that he knew. he played along, had to make sure his prey felt in control when in reality, he was the one twisting you like the puppet you were. he tugged on his helmet, flung a leg over his sports bike and turned it on. the question was, did he want to lose you, or give you what you wanted?

seeing him wrap his thick thighs around the gas tank only caused the throb in your pussy to intensify, his sharp, dark eyes that lured you in hidden behind the visor. you went to your own car, turning it on in time just as he pulled out of the parking lot. naturally, you followed, keeping what you thought was a non suspicious amount of distance between him and you.

but simon noticed. he had a keen eye when it came to you, and he laughed underneath his helmet that his little rabbit was the one chasing him, not the other way around. regardless, he led you through winding streets and back roads until he can to a stop in front of an isolated cabin. if his bunny had any brain, you'd have realized he led you to the middle of nowhere.

but when you were tunnel visioned on the object of your desire, you lost sight of everything else. you wanted him, or at least to watch him to see what he got up to. an interesting looking man had to have a life that reflected that, right? you parked your car just down the street when you noticed he took a turn into a driveway far between others.

he swiftly turned off the bike, leaving his helmet on for protection—thats what he told himself, but little old you couldn't harm him if you tried. you were a little bunny compared to him. he hid around the side of his house, near one of the big windows that would tempt you to look inside. he was grateful he had remote control lights.

you crept with what felt like light feet, noticing the lights had been switched on. now where was he? you snuck up to that same window he knew you would peer into, standing on your tiptoes and hands curling around the windowsill for one peek.

but a scream fell silent on your lips when a hand tugged your waist into a hard, warm chest with another on your mouth. heavy breaths moved against your back with a shocking hardness pressed to your ass.

"caught ya, bunny."

[unadulteratedvoidtragedy]

Ghost accidentally becoming your boyfriend

It happened only one time and now here you are. Having gotten tired of your sweet, yet very nosy and persistent neighbor that kept trying to pair you up with one of her sons, trying to stage "accidental" meetings and always inviting you for dinner, one day you just had enough. So when she stops you again outside, gushing about her lawyer son and how cute the two of you would look together, you politely tell her you have a boyfriend. At first she doesn't believe it and asks to see a picture of him so you pull out the photo you secretly took of a slightly drunk Ghost, head slumped over your shoulder and his mask halfway off.

The picture has the desired effect, the image of that behemoth of a man whose biceps don't even fit into frame and mean look on his face are enough to make anyone back off. The problem is that news travel fast in small towns and now somehow everybody and their mother knows about your military boyfriend and can't wait to see him around.

Because fate has a twisted kind of humour, your lieutenant ends up temporarily living in your home after his apartment gets flooded. You only made the offer because he saved your ass during the last mission, not expecting him to actually accept it. And it's just your luck that the same neighbor happens to see him was spying through the blinds and decides to say hello and how good is to finally meet him.

It's just your luck that Ghost's taciturn demeanour cuts the conversation short, but the look he gives you is not encouraging. You try explaining the situation to him, apologizing every three seconds until he finally stops you and tells you that he's willing to pretend to be your boyfriend until his apartment gets fixed. You're so happy and thankful that don't even notice when he steps out on the balcony to make a call and break the lease for his old apartment, already planning to move the rest of his meager possessions here.

Ghost that gets very comfortable into his role as your fake boyfriend and maybe leans a bit too much into it under the pretense of "having to sell the picture". Suddenly he calls you "luvie", getting a special kind of satisfaction from seeing your embarassed expression when he does it that around other people. He pulls you into his lap while on a picnic, a hand on the small of your back when walking down the stree, even stealing a kiss or two after asking for permission of course.

You're not safe even inside your own home, finding Ghost only in a pair of boxers with a beer in his hand while watching a game on TV. The little patting motion he does on the spot next to him having your body moving on its own. It's him getting out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around him, watching that one drop of water falling down his neck, over his Adam's apple and then down his chest. He watches you back with a smirk curling on his lips. He sits too close behind you while looking for something in the upper cupboard, his body pressing flatly against yours, staying there for a moment too long to be accidental. It's only when the contact is over that you finally remember how to breath properly.

Ghost that enjoys teasing you so much, had his eyes on you for a while now and couldn't believe his luck when the opportunity to insert himself into your life came from you. He wonders just how much he can get away with and how much longer will it be until you'll let him be your boyfriend for real.

[unadulteratedvoidtragedy]

Simon Riley is very much like a stray dog

cw: yandere Ghost towards the end

The first time you meet him after moving in the apartment next to him he barely acknowledges your existence, only stopping for a moment, looking you up and down and then moving on, apparently having decided that you weren't a threat.

Bringing him a tray of homemade muffins has him looking at you suspiciously and only after sniffing them does he finally eat one. The only thanks you get is a half-pleasant sounding grunt between mouthfulls of muffins, he even picks up the crumbs.

After that you bring him cookies and a caraf of lemonade because last time he was almost choking with how fast he inhaled the food. It happens the same with the cookies, shoving handfulls of them into his mouth and then washing it down with lemonade, downing the entire thing in a few gulps.

Maybe it's your soft side acting up, but you get it into your head that poor Simon must be starving so you decide to keep feeding him. You learned his name after the fourth time bringing him food and sometimes when you're cooking something and hear his door open, you just pop your head out in the hallway and call him to taste test.

The first few times he entered your apartment he was a little apprehensive, refusing to sit down and keeping an eye on the door. Now he comes and goes during all the hours of the day, murmuring about having smelt something good. Sitting on your couch with a plate on his lap and eating contentedly while watching one of your favourite shows, staying longer and closer to you with each visit.

It's unfortunate that you left on vacation a day before he returned from a long deployment. Imagine your surprise when you come back late at night, exhausted after the long flight and plop onto your bed without turning on the lights. It's only after your eyes get used to the dark that you finally notice a dark shape at the end of the bed, his face obstructed, but the hunger in his eyes unmistakeable.

It's your fault really. Don't you know not to feed strays? They always come back for more.

[strawberrym00nx]

⋆⛥ᢉ𐭩જ⁀➴ ♡ (SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x LOVERGIRL!READER)

tears threaten to spill from his eyes, and if he were a different, softer person, they would fall.

he's reading her diary because she left it open on her bed, and he was looking for a reason to dump her. he was ready to see all hate she feels toward him. all ways he hurts her. all the ways he's wrong and unlovable. and he was going to throw it in her face, and see the inevitable fate of this relationship happen right before his eyes.

but he's seeing something much more confusing. diary entry after diary entry about how much she loves him. how his blues mix so well with her reds. how she hungers for his soul and dreams of their wedding day. how she has no end of love to give him and just wants to put flowers in his hair and soothe his scarred mind.

with his fist tightened around the book, he storms into the bathroom and shoves open the shower curtain, making her squeak and blush. 'hey!'' she whines, grabbing it to cover herself as if he's never seen her naked before, her eyes narrowing at him.

his eyes are dark and hollow and messy with emotion all at once. she's looking at him and the book in his hand. 'that's private, Simon Riley,' she warns, heart thumping against her ribs. 'it's not -

he's grabbing her face and kissing her, stepping into the shower fully clothed after placing the book on the sink. 'you love me so much,' he husks, holding her face in his palms, body towering over her, yet she doesn't feel scared; she feels happy.

'm'naked,' she pouts, voice soft as her heart. 'shower naked feels different than sex naked.' she's peeking up at him. 'but yes. i do love you very much.'

he's smiling, gloved thumbs brushing over her cheeks, his heart full of something she's made him come to know as familiar - love.

[howyoulovelikeweaponskill]

Something something for possessive simon…

f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.

You only notice it because your hand slips.

It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.

You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.

All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.

You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.

Blood.

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”

He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.

“What?”

Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”

The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.

Not mine.

They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.

So you just stare at him.

At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.

His gloves, first.

They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.

Your gaze flicks lower.

His shirt, too.

Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.

He cleaned up.

The thought comes through the haze in pieces.

Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.

You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”

Simon watches your mouth form the words.

Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.

His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.

“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”

A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.

You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.

“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”

Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.

His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.

Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.

“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”

Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.

For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.

But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.

“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”

Your nails bite into his shoulder.

“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“

His hips move before you can say anything else.

A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.

“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”

Your stomach twists.

You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.

He pulls out just to thrust in again.

Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.

Simon feels it.

“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”

Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.

There is blood on him.

Someone else’s blood.

Graves’s blood.

The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.

You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.

Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.

Simon watches the realization move across your face.

“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”

Your voice is barely a whisper.

His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”

The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.

You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.

He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.

Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”

For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.

His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.

“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.

Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”

Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.

It doesn’t.

It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.

But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.

It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.

Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.

Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.

Simon feels it. Of course he does.

He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.

Your face burns.

“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.

His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”

The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.

Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”

“There she is.”

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.

Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.

“You liked that.” He croons.

You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.

“N-no.”

His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.

“Liar.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.

And now he has caught you reacting to it.

Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.

Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.

“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.

His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.

“You should be callin’ me reckless.”

Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.

His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.

It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.

“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.

You swallow. “You can’t—”

He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.

Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.

Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.

“I can’t what?” He murmurs.

You try.

You really do.

You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.

“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”

“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”

You can’t.

Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.

Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.

“Too far gone to scold me now?”

You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.

And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.

“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.

“So am I.”

“Simon—”

“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”

Your breath leaves you in a gasp.

He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.

“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”

Your face burns hotter.

You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.

But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.

He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”

“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”

His eyes flash. “There she is.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.

“Try that again.”

You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.

“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”

“Probably.”

“Price is going to—”

“Already did.”

You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”

His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.

“Read me the riot act.”

Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”

“Yes.”

Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”

Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”

God. You think he’s lost his mind.

“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“

He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.

“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”

His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.

“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”

The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”

You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”

“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”

You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.

He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”

You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.

“And if he talks about you like that again?”

You barely manage the whisper. “What?”

Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”

For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.

One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.

“Leave it.”

Your breath trembles. “Why?”

His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”

And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.

Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.

You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.

[lululandd]