Contrary to popular head canon, I think Simon would have one (1) baby. I think it'd be a girl. At first he'd be worried about her growing up as an only child but then he saw her face of disgust whenever she'd return from spending the weekend with Johnny, his wife, and kids. I think this little girl would be his princess. Nothing tugs at his heartstrings more than when he returns from deployment and his wife and daughter are cuddled, knocked out in bed with matching bonnets, with his side of the bed empty like they were waiting for him.
synopsis: you have a very special request for simon. he thinks you're insane.
wc: 1.3k
cw: afab!reader, choking, grinding, hotdogging, haphazard kink negotiation, thigh riding, playful name-calling, no use of y/n ever.
an: a quick little bite of simon and medic reader for this challenge, which i technically failed cause this is way over 100 words. happy thanksgiving
“What?” He asks, but really, it lacks the traditional inflection of a question. Instead, the single word manages to hold deep exhaustion and a healthy helping of ‘what the fuck is wrong with you’.
Which, rude.
You stomp your foot, the moue of your lips more than a little petulant. “Oh, come on, don’t make it weird. Just...a little. Enough to pass out.” you raise your hand and pinch the air for emphasis.
“What?” Oh! The inflection was back, and he’d shifted weight onto his other foot. His cotton mask allows for you to see the top half of his face today, and you’re grateful, because the furrow in his brow exposes that while he really wants to just up and leave this conversation, he’s far too curious, or maybe perplexed? Disturbed?
“I want you to choke me out, Simon.” You grin, shrugging, “preferably with your cock in me but...” You mutter to yourself, pressing your lips together and widening your eyes in mock innocence when he glares at you in response, obviously hearing you.
“No.” He turns away from you, pushing around the ceramic skull you placed in your office. A paperweight, whose presence had absolutely no hidden, romantic meaning whatsoever, you’d simply seen it in a home goods display off base and snatched it up.
It had been on sale. Or something.
“I’m a doctor.” You tap your name tag insistently, “I know my limits, Si.” Now you’re just trying to rile him up, as if he’d ever lay a hand on you in anger you didn’t expressly beg for. Still, he hates when you shorten his name, used to hate it when you said it at all.
Thankfully, things change.
“Fucking quack.” He mutters and you make a loud, dramatic, wounded noise you’d heard in a K-Drama you had watched once before flipping back to your favourite period drama you’d watched a million times over. You flatten your hand against your chest and rear back, more for your own gratification than to impress your offence upon Simon.
“I’m serious! I’m curious and I know it won’t cause any real, lasting damage.” You approach him from behind, wrapping your arms around his middle. He flinches, not from surprise, you guess, but from sensation, before his body relaxes. You push your face between his shoulder blades, rubbing your nose against his shirt.
“I’ll suck you off after.” You murmur, and the lieutenant snorts derisively.
No dice.
“Then I’ll ask Soap to do it!” You release him, and circle around your desk, feigning a grab towards your cell phone.
He doesn’t rise to the bait initially, turning back to face you and crossing his inked, scarred arms. You ogle them shamelessly, eyes greedily tracing every bit of knicked skin, every prominent, tempting vein. Thing of beauty, his arms were. “Go on, then.” He shrugs and consternation makes you furrow your brow in defeat. Unfortunately, the closer the two of you become, the more bags of candy and suggestive texts and lingering glances you exchange, the easier it is to read the other’s intent, your bluffs.
You pout, and kick at the corner of your own desk, shifting it slightly. “Fine. I wouldn’t ask him.” You tilt your head, pinning him with a needy look you hope is suitably enticing, “I’m asking you cause I trust you, Simon. Please?”
Apparently, bald, earnest honesty is the ticket because your not-boyfriend heaves a sigh and uncrosses his arms, raising one to rub at the back of his neck, the black t-shirt he dons stretched tantalizingly tight over the curve of his muscled bicep.
Oh, this was going to be so good.
“Fine. Just don’t piss yourself.”
“Do people do that?” You wrinkle your nose, and Simon levels you with a look, dark brown eyes broadcasting a stark “Do I fucking look like I’m joking?”
Regardless, you clap your hands in celebration, locking the door to your office and sprinting back to stand in front of him, the framed photo of your commanding officer, your mother, and you looking on judgmentally. You try to ignore it but end up putting the photo down on its face, no need for dear mum and your boss to witness your fantasy come to life.
Simon turns you to face away from him, the heat of his hands seeping into your shoulders. He is always so warm. It had been a boon to your freezing feet the few times you’d shared a bed for actual sleeping. (He’d cursed at you for maybe a minute before hiking your legs up to bracket his hips, so you could fall asleep wrapped around him like a koala.)
“Double tap, you understand?” He barks, and you can’t help but shimmy in excitement.
“Yup!”
Simon wraps a burly arm around your neck, not exerting any pressure yet. He hooks his other arm around his wrist so it sits in his elbow, and places that palm on the crown of your head, securing you snugly in a standard choke-hold.
“Good?” He mutters low, his chest blankets your back, and you're enveloped in the clean, sharp scent he usually carries with him.
You laugh, “Yeah-huh-huh-huh.” and you know you sound a little stupid, but you’re getting what you wanted and even without Simon utilizing force, you can feel yourself getting wet, forcing you to rub your thighs together in anticipation.
He begins to constrict your airway and it feels as though your head is ballooning, building up pressure as breathing slowly becomes more and more difficult. Your eyelids flutter closed and your lips part in shock. It doesn’t feel good, necessarily, but it certainly doesn’t feel bad. It’s obvious Simon’s holding back a lot. It probably should hurt but the lack of air makes your mind stutter to a stop, and all you can feel is Simon’s heat along your back and his strength holding you in place and his scent where it’s stalled in your lungs, unable to escape. When he shifts a bit behind you, your eyes pop back open in surprise at what you feel.
“You’re hard!” You wheeze incredulously, using the very last bit of air you had to call him out.
“And you’re a fucking lunatic.” He bites back, jerking his hips forward to rub his clothed erection against the swell of your ass. And he’s been doing that a lot lately, pushing up against your back, grinding along the fat of your thighs. Just last week, he’d spent a whole night hot-dogging (“Dumb fucking name, huh?”) the aching length of his dick between the cheeks of your ass, fucking against your flesh until he spilled hot and thick over your lower back.
You think he may be developing a thing.
He keeps rocking against you, branding his shape into your backside. “God.” He mutters, pulling you up and sliding his knee between your thighs. You can’t speak, what with your brain rapidly losing function, but if you could you’d hiss your assent, maybe scream when the muscles of his thigh nudge against your clit.
Your lungs and cunt burn in unison, and the edges of your vision fade, but you want to keep going, want to come just like this, completely under his control, dry humping his massive thigh, unable to breathe.
Finally, you raise a shaky hand to tap at his forearm, and Simon immediately releases you, letting you stumble forward, off his leg and towards your desk. Your palms make contact with the polished wood and you hunch forward panting loud and hard. The room is fucking spinning, but all you can bring yourself to do is laugh like a fucking maniac.
“You good?” The soldier speaks, the sound of his footsteps just barely piercing through the sound of your rushing blood. Your voice is practically non-existent and you have to clear your throat three times, but when you do eventually croak out a response, your chest heaves with your desperate breaths in between your words.
“Yeah, fuck yes.” Your chest slowly loses that frantic, mounting pressure and when you turn your head to look at Simon over your shoulder, his eyes are unfathomably dark and narrowed, running laps over your legs, thighs and ass.
synopsis: two weeks into your uneasy truce, simon gets introspective.
wc: 811
cw: afab!reader, angst, banter that becomes arguing, hurt and the tiniest bit of comfort, language, trust issues, simon's pov, no gendered language. no use of y/n ever.
author’s note: well, we back at it, the second last installment of this verse. i'll still take requests/thots for it of course, but soon we'll get closure for these two. for now, simon's thoughts on their situation.
new to baby blue? start here.
It’s disarming.
And Simon Riley doesn’t like being disarmed. He doesn’t like being caught off guard, off kilter, unstable.
It’s been happening more and more often though.
When you and Tommy look at him in perfect unison, he is struck stupid by your eyes, like you copy and pasted them onto your son. His son. His kid. His perfect, funny kid. Unmuddied by everything bad in the world. His life is pancakes and dinosaurs and that horrible fucking tv show that he’s sure rots his little mind. His life is you. Your smiles, your laugh, your cooking, your hugs. Things Simon cheated himself of when he walked out on you, choked with fear and bleeding misery.
Simon is disarmed, totally fucking helpless, a veritable babe in the woods when you let him hold you. When for the first time, in a long ass time, he gets to watch your lids flutter closed and slip into unconsciousness, in that quick, carefree way he’s always envied.
He barely sleeps, even less so lately.
After all, no sleeping meant no nightmares. No cloying, choking smoke-like fears reaching for the frayed edges of his subconscious. No sleeping meant he couldn’t play on your kindness, your goodness, and guilt you into holding him back when he woke up screaming, sweating, no matter how bad he wanted it.
It’s two weeks later. Two weeks after sleeping together but not sleeping together. After breakfast and an uneasy truce. Two weeks after kissing you and touching you and holding you like you both had all the time in the world.
You’re not in a good mood. And he knows that. But he pushes you anyway, pokes and prods you even as you slam through your kitchen, noisily pulling out a pot and a huge bag of pasta shells.
“Let’s talk.” He approaches, arms crossed, full kit traded in for a skull emblazoned cloth mask, jeans and a threadbare black t-shirt, one he’d found in your bedroom days ago, stashed in the back your drawer, crumpled in a wrinkled ball, like you didn’t want to see it, but you didn’t want to trash it either. He’s been doing that lately, staying over for days and rifling through your shit, finding old relics and artifacts from a time neither of you can let go of. An old mask, a hat, t-shirts.
So many goddamn t-shirts.
“Talk?” you snort derisively, filling the pot with water. He watches you test the water with your fingertips and curse under your breath, mumbling something about shit pipes. When the pot is full, you turn to face him, lips curled, sneering. “I wasn’t aware you were capable of that. Thought you just communicated in grunts.”
“You’re funny. That's new.” He jabs, advancing in the conversation much faster than he should have, comforted in familiar territory, finding solace in what used to be commonplace for you, banter, barbs, teasing. The tense set of your shoulders should’ve warned him off it, should’ve told him you’d take it as well as a bullet in the back. But God help him, he’ll take whatever you give.
“Mm.” Your tone is casual but your answering nod is jerky, too fast, “Yeah, I developed a sense of humour when I realized our relationship had been a joke.” You slam the pot onto a burner, giving him your back.
The air is suddenly devoid of mirth, utterly obliterated where it had been floating between you before. Now the living room and kitchen are a smoking crater, an oil rig on fire, a disaster site.
He’s never been more grateful for his son’s propensity to nap like he’s dead.
Neither of you say anything. Simon is waiting for you to say something, to dress him down, but when you lower your head and sigh, heavy and deep with pain and exhaustion he planted within you, Simon withers. He slinks back to the living room and drops himself onto your couch.
You wait, he’s not sure what for. He used to be so good at preempting your actions, your thoughts, your words, now he handles you like you’re a venomous reptile, looking for exposed, vulnerable flesh to strike, to bite.
You set down the glass you’d been drinking from hard. And he’s surprised you didn’t crack it.
“What do you want, Simon?” Question of the goddamn century, it is. And you’ve asked it of him plenty of times. But he never has an answer, can never really deduce just what the fuck he’s doing here, with you. With Tommy. Playing a game? Playing a role? Punishing you? Himself? All of it could be true, but none of it seems right.
“I want to try.”
All he knows is that before this, four years seemed like a short time, nothing really. But now?
It’s an eternity. Reflected back to him in broken glass, in half full drawers, in his son’s eyes.
baby daddy ghost time skip fluff below the cut, because i think they deserve it. (sfw + gn)
The door swinging open, fast enough to slam against the hallway wall, is your heads up that your boyfriend is home. The sound of his boots being removed is your clue that he's coming into the room. A good sign. "How'd it go?" You call out, maintaining your concentration on sorting out your photos. There's some new ones, you and Simon, side by side, taken to replace the ones you'd torn, or burned. The sounds of him making tea distract you, drawing your eyes to him in your kitchen.
Simon shrugs, and pulls the cotton mask from his face.
"Money I spend on this could put Tommy through uni." He grouses, stretching his arms over his head. The move exposes the smallest slip of his abdomen, a peek at the blond hair of his happy trail. The sight makes you yearn to be sedated.
"Don't worry about Tommy's tuition, he'll survive." You murmur. "Don't have to tell me how it went. Just wanna know if you're good."
"Mm. 'm good. How was yours?" He pulls down the homemade, cracked glaze mug and you have to twist your lips to curb your smile.
Your therapy sessions don't usually overlap, but Dr. Muriadian had a scheduling conflict and then Tommy had a soccer game. Usually, you like to be there for each other, after a session. A hand to hold while the feeling of being held over a trash can and scraped out by a woman with a soft voice and a PhD passes.
"Good." You close your eyes and nod. Then you grimace and amend. "Weird."
Simon nods, turns to rummage through the fridge. You both pretend he's looking for something specific, and not just biding time til you ask him to sit with you.
It doesn't take long. These days, it never does.
"C'mere." You offer, and there's barely a second between Simon being across the room and Simon practically in your lap, crowded into your space, sapping your warmth.
"Proud of you." You mumble, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. They used to tremble, during this time, used to shake with the weight of sharing his thoughts, his nightmares. Now they're far more steady. Solid enough to carry some of the load. Strong enough to rid himself of it when it proves too much to bear.
"Proud of you." He repeats back.
And then you stay there, for a bit. In each other's arms, until Simon yawns against the crook of your neck, and you press at his chest. "Go nap. You got like…forty minutes." Tommy will want the two of you there, cheering, clapping (in Simon's case, intimidating the refs, jeering at the calls).
It's a testament to his tiredness that he obeys quickly, slinking off the couch and into the bedroom. You call after him; "No outside clothes on the bed!"
The creak of the boxspring is his exhausted defiance.
Hello miss kechi may I request toxic but phenomenal dick game from baby daddy ghost 🤰🍆
i hope you literally meant baby daddy, because that’s what i wrote babe 😭 thank you so much for this request (i am SO sorry i made this angsty). i started writing and COULD NOT stop. also, LOVE the style of your blog. i’ll let y’all decide if this is still medic!reader...
toxic ex!ghost x reader
1/?
wc: 1.2k
cw: afab!reader but no gendered terms (i think), light spanking, taunting/teasing, riding, SMUT BABY, but also angst, toxic relationship, booty call culture, reader and ghost have a kid! ghost fucking SUCKS here, seriously he blows. no use of y/n, ever! mdni
“Come on then, you called me. Make the trip worth my while.” There’s an unusual amount of mirth in his tone, and you’d think with the way he’s staring at you that he was sitting on a golden throne encrusted with diamonds and not, y’know, laying on his back, in your bed, while you’re speared open on his erection.
“Take the mask off you fucking dick, I’ve already seen that ugly mug of yours.” You bite, bristling at his attitude.
To his credit, Ghost doesn’t rise to your bait, opting instead to brush the blunt tips of his fingers against your clit, shifting his hips to fuck the last few inches of his dick inside you. The stretch is just a little too good, and of course it was, because God was cruel and unfair and Ghost was unfortunately the best fuck you’d ever had. Which is definitely why it’d been three months since you last fucked anything besides your hand, and your ex was only too happy to provide when you called him for a “we’re not getting back together, I just know you’re off base tonight” booty call.
As always, Ghost underneath you is a feast for the eyes, even with the mask on. He lies supine, both arms behind his head while he lazily raises his hips in an effort to egg you on. You roll your eyes at his nonchalance, crouching with your legs bent so you have better range of motion.
The noise of your cunt welcoming him is embarrassingly audible and the upward thrust of his pelvis into yours drives all the air from your lungs in one calculated move. You let your head hang low, because God forbid he see the dazed, pleasured expression you always get on your face when he bottoms out, you’d never live it down.
Keyed up and wanting, you lean forward, shivering when the slide of his cock inside you reverberates up your spine, lighting up synapses you really, really, wished would just fucking die already.
They don’t of course. Fucking your ex still feels like hooking yourself up to a car battery; so slowly, glacially, you raises your hips incrementally, before sliding back down, letting the very last inch of the man’s dick leave and enter you repeatedly. Ghost groans below you, murmuring platitudes and compliments while he watches you take yourself apart on his cock, piece by trembling piece.
His hands move to your hips to guide you up and down his length, and his palms are heavy and warm, firm and unabating on your skin. The surety of his grip on you makes you forget why fucking him is such a rare occurrence nowadays, why your breakup was so messy and loud and lonely.
The insane fullness of Ghost pulling you down onto his dick again and again, fucking you like a toy, ellicits short-breathed pleas for more. You stomp your pride to death when he thumbs at your clit, sitting untouched, minding its business, at the top of your spread open pussy. It’s almost enough to make you forget the way your thighs are burning.
Almost.
“Okay, okay fuck, no more. Let’s do something else.” You huff, crumbling forward onto his chest, your forehead pressed against his collarbone. “Please.” you add for good measure.
You rise and fall on his chest when he scoffs, flipping the two of you easily. “You used to last a lot longer on top. Having a baby wear you out?”
Anger flares hot and fast in your chest and you nearly shove him off you. Nevermind it was his fucking kid he was taunting you with.
“I should’ve called Soap.”
“He wouldn’t know what to do with you.” He hammers a hard slap against your thigh before he manoeuvres you into a more comfortable position, your legs spread wide, framing either side of his midsection. There’s barely any hang time between the shift in placement and your ex plunging into you in earnest, and for that you’re thankful. Any time with the two of you that isn’t filled with barbs or fucking quickly devolves into regret and bitterness that lingers at the back of your throat like the stench of burning plastic.
Your thighs are soaked in sweat and slick at this point, amplifying the echoing clap of Ghost’s hips repeatedly, brutally meeting yours. He bends down to slot his lips over yours, sliding his tongue into your mouth, coaxing participation out of you until you're giving as good as you get. Ghost is nothing if not consistent, ebbing where you flow until he’s completely blanketed you, just like he used to, pressing so close that there’s no space left between your chests. The way he grinds down into your cunt forces your clit to rub against his pelvis, producing a mind numbing buzz in your abdomen that continues to build as the head of his cock gets reintroduced to your g-spot. Ghost is blissfully quiet when he fucks you this close. Instead of talking down to you, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, trying his level best to mark you the only way he knows how; with stinging pain and suffocating possession. He wants to keep you, to lock you and his son up where no one can get you, where no one can see you, where he can keep you safe.
But you aren’t together and he can’t keep you.
So he settles for this.
Settles for pushing his cock deeper and deeper into you, until you cream sweet and pretty all over his thighs. Settles for wrenching your ridiculous need for control out of your shaking hands. Settles for fucking you like you still call him ‘Simon’. Ghost settles for being the man who you curse at during the day and come for during the night.
And you do come for him, quick and dirty but oh so satisfying, when he tosses your leg over his shoulder. You gasp and writhe underneath his hands, clenching your teeth and holding your breath while you ride out the sensation. It’s the mask, you think. Even after the last few years it still does something for you. It also helps make it feel…less personal. Like you’re back to being two people who fuck when it’s convenient, and not two people with baggage and memories and a whole ass human being between you.
He finishes not long after, rocking against you until he can’t stop the way the soles of his feet tingle and his hips stutter.
Then, it’s just the sound of your jagged inhales and exhales filling the space between you. He’s still so close, eyes shuttered closed while he throbs inside you, his shoulders rising and falling with each laboured breath. You hook your fingers under the hem of his mask and he moves fast, clamping down on your wrist and squeezing until you let go.
‘That answers that.’ You think, and you laugh without humour. You can’t help but want to cover your face, cover your nakedness, now that the deed is done, and as if he senses the shift in you, Ghost stands, barely taking the time to clean himself up before he gets dressed.
By the time you move your arm from over your eyes, he’s at your bedroom door.
Hand on doorknob.
Ready to run.
You sit up and stare at him, reclined on your forearms. You give your assent with a jerky, unstable nod, and just like that, he’s gone.
The nickname is pretty fucking apt.
part 2
series masterlist here
i hope this wan’t too sad for what you had in mind! (if it was please feel free to request again). requests are open, support content creators and city girls, reblog!
i just announced my break like two days ago and now i’m plagued with the thought of a fic with nurse!reader and ghost inspired by something there that wasn’t there before by beauty and the beast… what is this life…
synopsis: you and simon both have the 14th off, and by god you were going to make the most of it. pt. 4/?
wc: 2.3k
cw: afab + fem!reader, fluff, banter, cunnilingus, fingering, teasing, very light breeding kink, femme pet name (princess), no use of y/n ever.
an: the return of medic reader, special thanks to @weebitofaslag who with a single comment reignited my love for their dynamic. babes all my knowledge of the military comes from romance novels, mw2 campaign and my fleeting contact with the canadian armed forces. so like if i get something wrong…don’t tell me. happy valentines day!
pt. 1
pt. 2
pt. 3
"Three." The tense quiet of the bedroom is disrupted by your offer.
Ghost stands in front of you, and despite his crossed arms his posture is deceptively casual.
He scoffs at your pitch. The standoff is common for the two of you. Basically foreplay at this point. Pretending to be irritated and annoyed with each other until you're basically begging to rip each other's clothes off.
"No way." He grunts, but doesn't provide a number of his own.
You can't keep the disbelief out of your tone.
"Less than three, Simon? You're losing your touch!"
That does get a rise out of him and he stops leaning against the bathroom door frame.
"More than three. Anything less than five is a waste of both of our days off. But you knew that, didn't you, princess?"
"I don't know if I have five in me to give, honestly." You choke out, already tugging off the sweater you wore.
"If I'm eating you out, I'm spending the day down there." He huffs.
You're breathless when you finally respond, your cool and collected demeanour crumbling in the wake of his assertion.
"Yeah okay, that's fine, but wanting to fuck me after? I may not even be conscious." When he doesn’t respond, you gasp dramatically, like a soap opera lead discovering a villain’s plot. "Maybe that's what you want! Simon! Who knew you were so depraved?" It’s easy to be silly with him lately, even more so when you’re both free of the oppressive air of the base you’re both stationed at.
"Get on the bed or get out of my house." His shirt’s already off, and it’s oh so hard to stay on the task of mocking him when the cut muscle and little bit of fat on his torso shine under the room’s low light. With the mask still on, and the dark fabric of his pants obscuring his bottom half, he makes quite the sight. The pale, wide expanse of his chest, only broken up by tattoos and healed, pink scars and sandy, blond chest hair makes your mouth water. He steps towards you, hooking the thumb under the mask and pulling it up. It feels as though the cloth is moving in slow motion, your heart beating loud and erratic with anticipation. When he stops so it rests on his nose, you exhale, not quite disappointed, but you sure as hell aren’t relieved.
“Sex in a bed?” You question facetiously, willing your brain to revert back to being a little shit. You know he can’t stand when you're being a brat, it reminds him of just how easily he’d lost control, just how messily he’d fucked you the first time, but around Simon you just can't seem to stop yourself, “You're spoiling me.” You lay back on the bed as ordered, contorting your arms to shimmy out of your bra, then your bottoms, tugging your underwear along with them. Not a thong this time, a fact that seems to disappoint Simon when he notices your regular boyshort panties entangled in your discarded sweatpants.
“Yeah, don't get used to it, I'm just tired of the smell of antiseptic.” He mutters, kicking your discarded clothes off to the side.
You snort derisively, spreading your legs so he can lay between them, allowing for him to brush the petal soft skin of his lips against your hip, your thigh, just above your knee. “Ladies and gentlemen, the last true romantic.” You mumble, patting the top of his head, lamenting your inability to card your fingers through his fine blonde hair.
Your entire body jolts when his tongue comes in contact with your clit, a full body shiver alerting Ghost to just how badly you'd needed this. He hasn't shaved and his stubble scrapes the soft skin of your inner thighs, forcing a jolt up your spine, shuddering breaths escaping your lungs as his mouth gets better acquainted with the lips of your cunt.
He drags his tongue over you in your entirety, taking special interest in the skin just below your entrance, he stays there, skimming, sucking, licking, until you're worried he'll manage to give you a hickey there, on your fucking taint. He has you dripping with his spit and your own slick, and the sound when he returns to your clit is obscene. He brings both hands up towards your abdomen, but neither continues the course to where you want them, on top of your chest, plucking at your nipples, or even around your throat, obstructing your airway. Instead, Simon's left hand pushes down on your abdomen, and his right gently shifts the hood of your clit up so he can abuse it better.
All the soldiers in all the world and you had to hook up with the one who eats pussy like that?
"Fuck." You wince, and you twitch away from him as best you can, which only makes him suck harder, like he’s giving you ‘two for flinching’. You groan loud and unashamed, assured by the privacy afforded by not fucking on base for once. Your toes curl and relax over and over, the periodic tremble of your hips against his mouth has him holding you down as best he can, determined to pull more sounds from your wide open mouth. Your whole body tenses and you let out a litany of curses only disrupted by stutters of his name, all while you clench around nothing. He’s mumbling into you as you come, but whatever he’s saying ultimately doesn’t fucking matter when the vibrations of his voice make you want to cry or scream or kick Simon in his stupid masked face.
There's barely any hangtime between your orgasm shuttering through you and Simon circling his arms around your thighs before he tongue fucks you mercilessly, letting the tip of the muscle broach your entrance while he drags the edge of his teeth over the still buzzing flesh of your labia. He hooks his arms around your thighs and pulls you onto his face, until you get with the program and begin rolling your hips, pressing your clit against the bridge and tip of his nose, allowing his tongue to push deeper within you.
Your body is already dripping its satisfaction all over his chin, and this time with breath barely in your lungs it takes longer for him to get you into a place of desperation again. But by God, does Simon Riley get you there. This time he takes a break from the constant contact between your cunt and his tongue to slip one of his thumbs into your entrance, fucking you with slow and deliberate strokes, like a promise of what he’ll do to you later when he finally fucks you. Long, greedy swipes of his tongue jar your brain like a hit to the head. You try to struggle away, levering up with your arms before he tugs you down again like a fucking ragdoll, like you trying not to lose your fucking mind is a slight inconvenience to him. He lays wet, panting, open mouth kisses over the pulsing heat of your cunt, and when you you raise your head to - fuck you don’t know - curse his entire bloodline, you can see he’s helplessly grinding his hips into the mattress, seeking some sort of friction while he tongues at your folds, while you soak him to the knuckle. It’s hot, hotter than it has any right to be and you flop back down, turning your head into his pillow to muffle your moans. Old habits and all that. Unfortunately, the pillow is steeped in Simon’s scent, and your eyelids drift closed when you inhale deeply. Your breath stalls and you ride out yet another climax on his tongue, this time very grateful for the way he fingers you through it, even if his thumb isn’t nearly big enough. The bed beneath you bears the brunt of your orgasm this time, damp sheets attesting to your fervent enjoyment.
“What a mess you’ve made.” He speaks, once you stop huffing, voice disturbingly even, like he didn’t just factory reset your body. Which is…incredibly irritating.
“You know technically as a doctor I outrank you.” You snip, nose in the air.
“So?” He lifts his head, but his eyes are still locked between your legs, not quite able to decide if he wants to move from where he is so clearly comfortable.
“So…” you mock him, squeezing your thighs around his neck, until his stare is redirected to your face. “you should be fucking nice to me, asshole.” He digs his thumbs into the back of your knees, until you release him. Slowly, he drags himself up, over your body until he can lay on his back next to you.
“You know, I really should have finished inside you that first time. Knocked you up and had you taken off base.” And wouldn’t that have been a fun conversation for you to have with your CO. ‘I’m so sorry ma’am, he wears a mask and has big hands and knows my kinks. I had no choice, ma’am.’
“Stop talking or I’m gonna sit on your dick.” You whisper, shutting your eyes against the harsh beam of the light overhead. Your heart rate is finally starting to settle, and you’re grateful for the moment of reprieve, the few moments he gives for you to stitch your mind back together, to regain purposeful use of the human language.
Shoulder to shoulder in his bed, and no longer occupied with singing Simon’s praises, your mind begins to harmlessly wander, unhelpfully cataloguing that you aren’t even halfway through what he’s planned for you. You also start to filter through your responsibilities due in the coming days. It’s automatic at this point, a system you developed during school, when papers and projects and your social life all constantly contradicted each other. You’d come, at the hands of yourself or someone else, and your orgasm cleared brain began building a calendar. Nothing today, of course, you’d cleared your schedule and no one had questioned why. Most people wouldn’t question anyone taking off Valentines.
The “holiday” never really stuck out to you in the past, for one reason or another. Work, med school, family stuff, hell sometimes you just didn’t fucking feel like it. But this year, today, you can’t help yourself.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Simon.” You puff, keeping your eyes trained on the ceiling, letting your brain make patterns out of the popcorn ceiling.
“Ah,” he vocalizes, voice gruff. “Right.” he shifts in his bed, and you figure you’ve got about 30 seconds before he gives you the dusty combat boot. Your face burns with embarrassment, why the fuck did you say that? When did he ever give you even the slightest inclination he gave a shit about some overblown, capitalistic, aggrandized-
“Here.” A bag of jellybeans is unceremoniously plopped onto your bare chest, right between your tits.
“Where were you hiding these?” You gawp, struggling to string together a sentence as you examine the bag of colourful candies. It has a bow on it. You finger the pre-tied ribbon, stuck on with an adhesive pad.
“Under the bed.” He grunts, rubbing at his eyes and the bridge of his nose, like he’s fending off a headache, but you think he may just be embarrassed, if the pink tips of his ears are anything to go by.
“This is sweet.” You choke out, and you have to sink your teeth into your already swollen lower lip to stop from giggling hysterically. “Thank you, Simon.”
“Mng.” He makes the noise in his throat, forgoing the English language for the easy comfort of grunts, watching you tear the bag open and chew on a handful of the brightly coloured beans. All at once, like some kind of animal. The flavours don’t quite go together, strawberry and buttered popcorn and root beer. Others you can’t even begin to pin down. But you're too frazzled to eat them how you usually would, your favourites first, then making combinations with whatever’s left, guided by the suggestions on the back of the bag. And ultimately, it’s not altogether too unpleasant. It works, in a fucked up, saccharine sweet kind of way. Kind of like you and-
“Alright, put it away.” He rasps, turning over to cover you with his weight once more, sliding down to get started on orgasm three.
He plucks the bag out of your hands and drops it on the nightstand near you, devoid of any knick knacks or photographs, just a beat up 70s style alarm clock that acts as a pedestal for your candy.
“My beans!” You shout, trying in vain to secure the confection for further enjoyment. You give up your fruitless endeavour when Simon sinks his teeth into the flesh of your breast on his way back down to your pussy.
“I didn’t get you anything.” You moan, pressing the cool palms of your hands to your overheated face, soothing the mix of embarrassment and giddiness stirring in your mind.
“I’ll live.” He grouses, bending your knees, holding your thighs up and together with both palms at the back of your knees. You can’t see his face. Have never seen the whole thing, but you’d bet all the jellybeans in the fucking world, that Simon Riley’s cheeks are pink.
the beans were soap’s idea for sure. poor guy’s definitely heard them fucking more than once. support city girls, reblog what u like. happy valentines.
