So glad you're here!! ^_^ I am Cali, a fanfic writer (35, she/her, pansexual) who creates stories in the COD fandom and most of them are full of smut.
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“I shouldn’t like to punish anyone, even if they’d done me wrong.” —George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss (1860)
“A person can’t help their birth.” —William Thackeray, Vanity Fair (1848)
“But to expose the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable.” —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (1813)
“Every Fool can do as they’re bid.” —Jonathan Swift, Polite Conversation (1738)
“So likewise shall my heavenly Father do also unto you, if ye from your hearts forgive not every one his brother their trespasses.” —King James Bible, Matthew 18:35 (transl. 1611)
“God send every one their heart’s desire!” —William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing (~1600)
“Now this king did keepe a great house, that euerie body might come and take their meat freely.” —Sir Philip Sidney, the Arcadia (1580)
“If … a psalme scape any person, or a lesson, or els yt they omyt one verse or twayne…” —William Bonde, The Pylgrimage of Perfection (1526)
“And whoso fyndeth hym out of swich blame, / They wol come up and offre a Goddés name” —Geoffrey Chaucer, The Pardoner’s Tale (~1380)
“þan hastely hiȝed eche wiȝt on hors & on fote, / huntyng wiȝt houndes alle heie wodes, / til þei neyȝþed so neiȝh to nymphe þe soþe [Then hastily hied each person on horse and on foot / hunting with hounds all the high woods / ‘til they came so near, to tell the truth]” —William and the Werwolf (transl. ~1350-1375)
“Bath ware made sun and mon, / Aiþer wit þer ouen light [Both were made sun and moon / Either with their own light]” —Cursor Mundi (~1325)
We’ve been using they/them/their pronouns to indicate a person with unspecified gender for a long ass fucking time. The only reason it’s become a big issue lately is because it can be used as a semi-respectful term for trans and non-binary folks and we can’t have that can we
These fucks are literally trying to change our language to hurt trans/nb folks, and claiming that’s just the way its always been
Simon's fingers are thick enough to make it burn at the stretch.
He rarely uses only one. Just at first, of course. Middle finger testing around before it finds a place to slot in and curl. He waves it inside, dancing back and forth with his wrist but never going in too deep, straying from bruising your cervix—knows it's not there that you like it.
Knows you inside out, actually.
Every bloody time you and Simon have sex, it turns into one hell of an anatomy lesson. The patience of the man is genuinely unmatched—perks of dating a sniper, you think.
No, not there. Bit to the left. Yeah, can you feel that? Should feel a bit rougher.
Slow. Slower. Nah. No. Lost it.
Fast. Oh God—yeah, like that. Touch my clit too, baby. Yeah—yes, oh my G—please, keep—no, no not—oh. Alright. Lost it.
Fucking hell, that man has put his whole blood and sweat into it. Fingers, tongue, cock, toys, hands, fists—nothing.
You're oddly alright with it. Frustrating as it is, of course. You're not immune; it's obvious that you want to come too. Alas, you've made peace with it.
You never had a good orgasm with someone else. Or a bad one either.
Pretty trustworthy of your fingers, or your vibe when it's your hand guiding it, your orgasms are usually mind-blowing when it's you coaxing them out of yourself.
When it comes to someone else, though, it's like your body immediately shuts off and doesn't know how to climb over that edge.
Simon once insisted on watching you get off as he did too (quite the hot experience), using that newly discovered kink to study what you did—but you didn't come, that night, even though you changed absolutely nothing of your usual masturbation routine.
It's a trust thing. An anxiety thing. A stress thing. So many things crammed into one big, cumbersome, unnamed feeling that sits heavy in your guts.
Simon's hurt, even if he doesn't show it. He trusts you wholly, and it took him a long damn time to reach this level of commitment, so why don't you do the same? It's not as simple as that, though—he knows it. However, it’s not easy on either of you.
Your relationship has faced its share of rough patches throughout all of this, largely due to this impediment of yours. But Simon... well, Simon loves you. He won't give up something so precious because of a few obstacles.
So, no matter how many times you tell him that it's okay if you don't come, he just doesn't let it go. And while you have to admire his stubbornness, it has put even more pressure on you.
Tonight, he's settled between your legs. Got his face in there right as you opened your thighs. You like it when he initiates it, though his expectations of you still tighten your stomach into knots.
It's been fifteen minutes. You’re sure of it, since the clock’s right above the door to your left. You looked at it when he went down, and you’ve been glancing back every five minutes, like usual. Now your eyes find it for the third time, so you can confidently say that Simon's been eating you out for the past fifteen minutes.
Mathematical. Precise.
And you still haven't come. Unsurprisingly.
You're taking too long. He must be getting bored. Once again, vitriolic thoughts rush through your head and make you feel like a dull, frigid monster who can’t even feel good.
Simon seems unbothered by the switch in your eyes, mostly because he’s paying little attention to them.
He sucks on your clit. Leaves kitten licks when he pulls back, unsheathing it with his thumb to have the most sensitive part of it at his mercy. God, it feels weirdly good when he does it—like you've been zapped out of the blue and your toes curl and your fingers fist the sheets.
And he never leaves any part of you empty. He sucks on your clit and fingers your hole. One finger at first, then two. He usually goes in with a third, and whenever you want to explore a bit of pain, he fits in four of them. His fingers are thick enough to make you exclude the possibility of a whole fist—you tried once and never again. It scarred you for life, you think.
He amps it up, usually. Starts soft and slow, and by the time you're precisely twenty minutes in, he's tried it all, and you stop him. Tell him it's enough. That you can't come and it's okay. And then you have sex, and he comes a bit after that. Pent up as he most certainly is, it doesn't take him long to reach his high.
However, it's been eighteen minutes now, and he's still slow and teasing: two fingers and a gentle mouth. He's not being methodical and precise. He's lazy and sloppy, drool trailing down his chin. Slurping noises here and there, your wetness coating his fingers and making his pads all pruny.
And like usual, there's this knot building at the base of your belly. Tightening and churning, melting liquid in pleasure, but still not enough to tip you over.
When the clock signals that it's been twenty minutes, you go for his hand on your thigh—like routine.
"Can't do it, baby," you whisper. Gently, you pat his knuckles like you're consoling him, giving him the reassurance that it's fine and he can stop this and fuck you so he can feel good too.
But instead of pulling back, Simon swats away your hand.
"Like it," he rumbles, mouth to your clit. He sounds... annoyed? Like you're interrupting something.
You cock your head. He's still licking down at you and hasn't even opened his eyes.
"But I can't come," you explain slowly.
His fingers curl upward inside you. Inadvertently, your hips meet his hand, shifting towards it to chase the feeling.
"And?" He asks. "Feels nice anyway don't it?"
You blink.
"I mean, yeah—"
"Then let me."
"But I thought—"
"Stop with tha'," he grumbles.
His eyes open, finally, and land on your face. With a slow lick on your clit that makes you shiver, he unlatches his mouth from your pussy.
"Stop with what?" You ask, feeling slightly lightheaded and breathless. Just because you can't come doesn't mean you can't feel what he does to you.
It's the most frustrating thing about the whole ordeal, honestly: you feel good, so good that you might just have one of those earth-shattering orgasms that change your life. One of those that seize up your legs and trap him between your thighs. One of those that ultimately never co—
"Stop bloody thinkin'," his voice interjects, quite effectively stopping your train of thought. "See it all over yer face. Knock it off."
You scoff. "You can see it?"
"I can, yeah," he drawls. "Now lemme get on with it. I wanna eat you out."
"But I won't come—"
"Said tha' already," he interrupts. Slowly, his eyes return to your cunt, glistening with his spit and your arousal. Simon licks his lips.
He pumps his fingers unhurriedly, watching enraptured at the flesh stretching around them and the wetness collected on his palm. He goes down, licking it from his own hand.
Jesus fucking Christ help you.
The crooked bridge of his nose nudges your clit, and he nuzzles it. You clench your teeth, eyes rolling back behind closed eyelids. When he returns his focus on you, he's wet from nose to chin; there's a heaviness to his eyes, blown dark and murky with hunger.
"I wanna eat—” and he slaps your clit. You gasp, wide-eyed and choking on a breath. “—this fuckin' pussy." Slap.
He’s crude and abrasive.
"Can I do it, or we on the clock?"
And with a healthy smattering of sarcasm, too.
It's embarrassing beyond belief that he's noticed your gaze flitting to the clock every time. Of course he has, always so attuned with you and with his eyes and ears perked. God forbid he turns off his senses for once.
You feel your cheeks grow hot and your chest bloom with sweat.
His hand unfurls from your thigh and snakes upward, landing flat on the valley of your breasts. Gently, he guides you down, letting your back meet the mattress.
"Lie back, yeah?" He rumbles, sounding suddenly softer. "Kill the lights, eyes shut, an’ quit the bloody thinkin’ for once."
He's got this pull on you that has your hands comply before your mind even registers it. They reach behind, testing blindly on the wall above the headboard—easily, your fingers find the switch, and the room goes dark.
“Stay here, focus,” he whispers against your thigh.
“Hear that?” He stops. Curls his pads inside you. “Fuckin' soaked. Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.”
You exhale shakily. Your eyes struggle to focus in the darkness, and the clock is out of sight. So, you do as he says: you close your eyes.
Simon's breath puffs on your pussy: warmth meeting even hotter skin. His stubble scratches the inside of your thigh. You can feel him shift his head, like he's caressing you with his cheek.
The moment your legs soften up on his shoulders, Simon sighs.
"Atta girl," he murmurs, kissing your clit ever so softly.
You jolt in his hold, and he keeps you still by tightening his hand around your thigh.
The press of his lips turns open. Wetter. Languid and soft, and completely selfish—a meal prepped for a feast. His tongue splits you open, tracing the seam of your pussy only to tip at your clit and draw sloppy circles around it. Then he flattens it, leaves it there as he bobs his head to increase the pressure more evenly. Fingers pumping you full, slow and unsteady—a rhythm that has no rhyme or reason.
A rhythm that, despite it all, you try and tune. Hips meeting his hand, lifting slightly off the bedsheets.
He grunts. Sounds pleased—you wonder what his eyes look like, whether they're trying to find you in the darkness, or if they're already accustomed to it. Whether he's looking at your face, or if he's decided to focus on your taste, on your smell, on your touch.
You screw your eyes shut and try to do the same.
You concentrate on the callouses of his palms brushing your ass and sliding up your knee in a soothing fashion. On the roughness of his tongue dragging against your clit as it swells and throbs for him. On the sting of his stubble, the sound of his breathing.
On the smell of sex, so pungent yet sweet.
With a quiet pop, Simon releases your clit. He's panting, close enough to your pussy for you to feel his lips moving when he speaks. Tickling, almost teasing—a mellow contrast compared to the two fingers pumping inside you, or to the way your hips meet his hand.
"Like this?" He asks softly. He sounds like another man entirely, not at all like the one who almost barked at you previously—frustrated and annoyed at your interruption.
You nod your head blindly. God you wish you could check how long it’s taking you to finish. Wish you could see his face, if he's bored or if he's enjoying it. Maybe meet his eyes—
"Words, pet," he whispers, leaving a fat kiss on your clit. He sucks and you arch into him. Pop. "Can't see ya—pitch black ‘ere."
You feel your throat close in. "Y-yeah, like that," you croak.
He hums appreciatively. Noses your clit as his hand follows a new rhythm—the one you set. Not the sloppy, uncoordinated mess from before—Simon instead follows your hips. It's good. Scratches you right, with the softness of his pads alternating with the rougher patches of skin marring his knuckles.
You clutch his forearm, the one wrapped around your thigh, and dig your fingernails in.
Once again, Simon kisses your clit. "Show me," he murmurs.
"Just try—"
A light slap on your thigh. Your legs seize in anticipation.
"Said show me, not tell me," he admonishes. "Go on."
On instinct, you heed him. Your hand slides from his forearm to the top of his hair, clutching short strands in a tight fist. Simon grunts, and it's lost in a chuckle so deep and dark that you feel it vibrate against your pussy, where you guide his mouth.
This time, your hips drive forward to meet his tongue and not his hand, though somehow he doesn't lose that rhythm you showed him before. Not too deep, not too shallow: just there, just past your entrance, on top. A constant and deliberate curl of his fingers, hitting upwards and then retreating—slow, controlled, delicious.
God this feels the closest you’ve ever been to an orgasm. You might even believe it will happen, and if he keeps following that pace, you might just—
Quit the bloody thinkin' for once.
You exhale. Inhale. Deep, feel your chest swell with air.
Stay here, focus.
His palm brushes your leg, his fingers curl inside you. His tongue is perfect, guided by your hand fisting his hair. Slowly he draws deep sighs from your lungs, fills your belly with molten pleasure, liquid lust.
Hear that? Fuckin' soaked.
Squelches echo each time he pushes in. Muted slurps when he sucks on your clit, thick grunts spilling freely from his lips.
Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.
And that tightness that builds around his fingers. The soreness of the muscles in your legs, cramping as your heels dig into his back.
The shortness of breath. The darkness around you—tangible, warm like a hug and yet constricting your throat like a vise. Your mouth opens wide to gulp in air, but all that comes out is a groan that shocks your bones, an orgasm so innerly loud that your ears ring.
You don’t feel your hands, what they clutch or how hard, nor the movement of your limbs. All you know is that you're cumming in Simon's mouth, around his thick fingers. And it's wave, after wave, after wave that crashes at the shore of your neck. Blooms rapidly to your cheeks, steals your breath away.
Simon keeps the rhythm you set, head soft under your hold, allowing you to pull it in or push it away. A puppet to your strings, surrendering entirely to your control.
You breathe, finally. In, out. Tingles run up your arms, tickle the sides of your neck. His tongue softens but keeps lavishing your clit—and the tide retreats, still brushing up your navel every time the tip of his tongue touches where you're now overly sensitive.
It's awfully hot and Simon's a walking furnace, so the feeling is tenfold stronger—and yet it's more of a hug than a restraint.
Gently, you leave the grip on his hair and caress his cheek. Fingers dance to the nape of his neck, and you tug him to you. Upwards he follows, hands landing on either side of your face.
You pull him in, but it's dark, so his mouth initially lands on the corner of yours. Still he kisses you there, and then travels to your lips where his tongue delves in.
You taste yourself. You feel the wetness of his fingers when he comes to cradle your cheek. His smile cracking his face. Simple at first, until you feel his teeth smooth against your skin.
A bit of pride, a ton of thankfulness.
"Oh my God," you breathe, airy giggles riddled with disbelief.
"I know," he whispers fondly. "I know."
You smile too, threading your fingers through his hair, and you kiss him again, and again. Kisses that taste of love and breathy chuckles, of happiness and relief and searing hot lust. Sparse grunts and moans that rumble like a hungry stomach, famished still.
Your limbs shake. They feel gooey, falling off the bone. You wrap them around his waist, feeling the heaviness of his cock pressed between your belly and his—sandwiched hot and wet.
"Fuck me," you breathe.
Simon groans. He slides in seamlessly and fucks you thoroughly, biting your shoulder to stave off his orgasm because—
"Never been this wet—fuckin’ hell, pet—"
Each thrust is punctuated by a heavy grunt. Sometimes it breaks, crackles in your ear like a freshly lit fire. A wheeze, a thick breath drawn in. Fingers grasping greedy handfuls of your ass. Teeth biting your lip, traveling downwards to suck marks on your neck. His voice raucous and scratching your brain—
"Perfect girl. Wish I’d seen ya—maybe 'nother time, yeah?"
A promise with no expiration date. No matter how long it takes—maybe, not surely. No pressure, just your pace.
You don't come. But you feel it all. When he spills inside you and plugs you full, and some of his cum trickles down the curve of your ass. When he whispers sweet nothings in your ear as his chest sticks with sweat, flattened against yours. His heart in a frantic search for your own.
You kill the lights. Close your eyes. Stop thinking—for once.
Choke. Just think about it, seriously. Think about what choking is and imagine speaking while it’s happening. That would fuckin’ hurt, man.
Hiss. Look, it’s just not possible, okay? No matter how “evil” you want your character to seem.
Snarl. Animals snarls. The Beast from Beauty and the Beast snarls. The Hulk snarls. You know who doesn’t snarl? PEOPLE WHEN THEY’RE SPEAKING.
Shriek. Come on, 99% of the time, “shriek” is not the word you want.Let’s face it: if you put an exclamation point at the end of the sentence, your reader gets the picture. Don’t bring to mind banshees and screaming toddlers.
Sneer. I’m not even going to bother explaining this one. “SNEER” ISN’T EVEN A SOUND.
Choked is not meant to be taken literally, an obstruction in the throat. It means they’re having difficultly speaking, they’re forcing the words out with difficulty. Often used when the character is convulsed in tears or laughter.
Hiss is a low, threatening whisper. Raw, guttural, vicious. It is NOT a literal hiss like an animal, it is a tone of voice that serves the same function. Someone will hiss that they’re going to cut your throat- a message from one person to the other.
Snarl is the same kind of thing. Not literal, it’s a tone of voice that serves the same function. It’s raw and gutteral like a hiss, but more savage than vicious. It’s loud, it’s showy, it’s intimidating. It’s very alpha male, big man, look at how fucking dangerous I am. I’ll take ALL of you on. Even if they’re snarling at one person in particular, nobody better back them up or they’re gonna get fucked up too.
Shriek. Come on, seriously? We’ve all heard people shriek either in fear or outrage. High pitched, loud, out of control, feminine. Men can shriek, but it’s funny and emasculating. Think angry italian women throwing pots and pans or ladies on tables who just saw a mouse.
Sneering is contempt whether it’s a facial expression or a tone of voice or both. There are a hundred different ways to sneer with your voice, but it all adds up to the same thing.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!Reader (she/her|boobs'n'vagina) // E 18+ // Anthology
summary:
A masked stranger in a pub has nothing to say to you, wants nothing to do with you - right? - and has no plans in sticking around.
But even the toughest strays like to be inside sometimes.
general tags:
artist!Reader, strangers to friends to lovers, not not a slowburn, fluff, angst, banter, eventual smut, canon adjacant AU, canon typical themes/topics, soft-for-you-Simon
actually hate that the bodys response to anything is nausea. ate too much? nauseous. ate too little? nauseous. an imaginary threat got you scared? be nauseous. on your period? you guessed it. sawed into your hand and need to go to the emergency room? perhaps throwing up into your open wound will be of help
your voice comes out positively horrified as you stare down at your boyfriend.
your six foot four, built like a refrigerator, scares grannies in the street with just his face boyfriend - who is currently sprawled out in your bright pink paddling pool in the garden, wearing a pair of black swim trunks that should, frankly, be illegal considering how little they leave to the imagination.
simon just looks at you over the top of his sunglasses.
"it's hot. i'm stayin' cool. relaxin', even." he shoots back, "or i was until you got back an' started squawkin' at me."
you contemplate throwing the cold glass of water you're holding over him at the squawking comment. don't. but only because you know he'd probably enjoy it considering how bloody hot it is.
"but it's mine." your voice comes out almost pitiful. "you laughed when i bought it."
"yeah, i did." he agrees with a shrug. "but mission parameters change. now it's… tactical."
you open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off with a smirk. "you look good, by the way love. new bikini? yer tits sit real nice in it."
your jaw snaps shut.
heat rushes to your cheeks in a way that has nothing to do with the sun.
"i'm getting in." you say stubbornly, "move your oversized arse."
he doesn't move a single inch - instead, as you step into the paddling pool he tugs you down, so you land straddling his hips; collapsing onto his broad chest with a soft "ooft."
one of his arms wraps around your waist to hold you there, the other reaches down to scoop cool water from the pool in the palm of his hand and lets it run down your spine. you shiver at the cold initially, goosebumps peppering your skin - but then you relax, sinking against him, eyes fluttering shut as you finally feel somewhere close to cool for the first time in days.
"better?" he murmurs against the side of your head, almost smug.
"fuck off." you grumble back, but you wriggle against him in contentment anyway. simon laughs - that low, rough sound that's so rare it feels like a gift every time you hear it, one hand coming up to rest at the nape of your neck. "'orrible woman." he mutters, but you can hear the smile in his voice, the fondness creeping through despite the insult.
you wriggle against him again - but it's more purposeful this time, more of a deliberate roll of your hips against his as you raise your eyebrows. "horrible? that's what you call the love of your life? the one woman who'll put up with your arse?"
his eyes go wide as you roll your hips, a groan dying in his throat as he feels himself immediately harden in his swim shorts. "love…" he warns quietly, "we're in the fuckin' garden."
you just grin, rolling your hips down against his again so the thin fabric of your new bikini bottoms drags over the line of his cock. "then you should probably keep quiet, shouldn't you baby?" you murmur back.
simon's grip shifts, reaching down to grab your ass and rock you against him like he can't help himself. "'orrible woman." he repeats, but now? it sounds more like he's trying to convince himself.
you lift yourself just enough to reach between you, tugging down the front of his swim trunks so his cock springs free - thick, heavy, already leaking. you push your bikini bottoms to the side, line him up - but not before teasing his swollen head against your clit a few times.
he groans at the sight.
then groans louder when you actually sink down onto him, before he slaps a hand over his own mouth to muffle it, fully aware of the fact the neighbours windows are open.
"christ yer fuckin' tight." he hisses, head tipping back against the inflated edge of the pool, dark eyes fluttering shut beneath his sunglasses. you brace your hands on his chest for purchase, adjusting so you're on the balls of your feet in the pool; then you start riding him. slow at first, gentle rolls of your hips as simon's hands start to wander - squeezing your tits through your bikini top, pinching your nipples until you moan gently. his lips find your jaw, trail up to your ear, "careful, love. neighbours are goin' to 'ear if you keep ridin' me like that."
you don't stop. don't slow down. just clench down around him and ride him harder. the water in the pool laps at your bodies; cool splashes hitting your skin as you chase the pressure coiling through your gut. simon snakes a hand between your bodies, pads of his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, mean little circles there.
"fuck." you gasp, leaning forward, angling yourself so every bounce means he drags over the most sensitive spots inside you.
he hisses through his teeth, pressure building in his own stomach. "fuckin' go on then. make yerself come in this stupid fuckin' little pool you got so het up about." he mutters, before biting down on the curve of your neck - hard.
the pressure builds, peaks, snaps; you come with a cry that you muffle by sinking your teeth into his shoulder. he follows right after, gripping your ass to hold you flush against him as he floods you; hot pulses that contrast with the cool water surrounding you.
for a long moment you both just lie there, breathing heavily, hearts racing against each others.
simon presses a kiss against your temple. "told you it was tactical, love."
cali cat {35/she} @the-californicationist - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
