I need to live with a group of friends who pass me around like a joint. One of them getting home from a frustrating day and grabbing me by my hair, forcing me to the ground and facefucking me, only for someone else to come in right after and slam my cum stained face to the ground to stretch out my asshole with their cock instead. Movie nights where I'm riding one while another slaps and spits on my face while they jerk off onto my tits. Being slapped and groped and fucked whenever they want because I'm nothing more than an object to them <3
In a job so violent, it feels wrong to talk about his child. No one is in the mood to hear about a baby boy with pudgy little legs who wriggles like he has somewhere better to be.
But Kyle so desperately wants to talk about his baby boy. He doesn't like having to leave him at home with the missus, missing what little time left he has of the newborn scrunch and soothing him at night when his wife is asleep.
When he finds himself approached by Nikolai, he expects to have his last fag stolen from him or find himself entangled in a joke he'll have to adamantly pretend wasn't funny the next time he sees his captain.
"So, you're a father? If his name isn't Nikolai, I'm going to be disappointed, Sergeant. I'd assumed we were over the mishap with the heli."
Then again, Nikolai is a man of many surprises.
"Sorry to disappoint, Nik, but his name is Ethan."
The pilot sighs, loud and dramatic, but his smile is hard to disguise under all of his feigned anguish. The hand on Kyle's shoulder grips tightly, and suddenly Kyle is aware that he isn't getting out of the conversation. Better yet, he doesn't want to.
"Ah, like Mission Impossible. Acceptable. What's fatherhood like? I assume it's mostly piss, spitting up and crying. And then there's the baby."
His son is actually named after his wife's brother, but the idea of naming an infant after a Tom Cruise character is infinitely funnier.
I hate you shipping discourse I hate you unnecessarily aggressive DNI banners I hate you dehumanization of those you disagree with I hate you harassment over ships or favorite characters I hate you purposeful lack of nuance I hate you false equivalencies I hate you policing how people engage in fandom I hate you actively trying to make fandom spaces hostile I hate you refusal to filter your feed I hate you making it everyone else’s problem
sex with bkg is 30 mins to 1 hr of pussy eating turning to pussy eating and fingering -> making out while he grinds his palm against your cunt while you come all wet and sticky against him -> soft and slow missionary with intense eye contact and a lot of very dirty grinding -> rinse and repeat
Socially awkward Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader | Pure Fluff and Meet-Cute!
In my heart of hearts, I just know that Simon Riley flirts like he’s never talked to another human being in his entire life.
He’s surprisingly willing to converse with the boys, having worked with them for years, but even then, it took ages and a monumental effort to get him to come out of his shell.
But if they’re at the bar, and god forbid a pretty girl even looks in his direction, he goes dead silent. Nervously twirling his glass of bourbon on the table (a tick that not even his closest friends notice), resisting the urge to bounce his knee, mind an incomprehensible buzz of pure static.
He’s not as subtle as he thinks he is. Why?
Because he just stares at you. Unspeaking and incessantly. For damn near twenty minutes straight. Like an utter creep.
And that…well, it’s kind of impossible not to notice.
Just when you’re contemplating telling the bartender that there’s a masked serial killer sitting in the corner, your friends pull you back into their unstoppable shenanigans.
It’s only later that night when all your friends have gone home and you’re struggling to hail a taxi in the pouring rain that it all comes to a head.
One minute, you’re whistling meekly into the rainstorm, like Rose off the edge of the titanic. And the next, the rain has stopped altogether.
When you turn to see who’s holding the umbrella above your head, you literally flinch when you see the giant masked figure from back at the bar.
He doesn’t notice your awkward expression.
“Hello,” he says—stupidly—still staring like an idiot.
“Um—hi,” you reply weakly, trying to gauge whether or not you could sprint in these heels without breaking a leg.
…Meanwhile, Simon’s entire body is imploding trying to think of what to say next. Like, we’re talking heart racing, palms sweating so fiercely they’re practically dripping, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth never to work again.
He doesn’t introduce himself. Doesn’t give you his name or even ask for yours. Nope.
What’re the first words that come out of his mouth, you might ask?
“You like Marlboro Red?” He grunts brutishly.
After sitting in silence for a few minutes, a respectful distance between the two of you, the fear is slowly hedging into straight up confusion.
“No,” you answer bluntly.
“…Okay,” he replies after a painfully long pause…LIKE AN UTTER IDIOT.
For the next ten minutes, you sit in pure, uninterrupted silence. Simon, holding the umbrella above your head even when his shoulders become drenched in rainwater, making sure to blow his cigarette smoke in the opposite direction.
And you, slowly taking stock of the man before you.
The way his eyes flit back and forth between your face and the street, watching carefully for a taxi.
The way his hands shake around the handle of the umbrella, not daring to move a single inch, as if you were a T-Rex threatening to eat him.
The way he quietly takes stock of the entire situation without you even having to ask, despite how you can practically see his pulse jumping in his neck.
When a yellow taxi finally comes cruising down the street, he doesn’t hesitate to let out a loud whistle—one that is much, much better than your crude attempt. Without jostling the umbrella, he takes your purse from your hand and wordlessly opens the door for you, making sure you’re comfortably seated before he withdraws the umbrella.
When he goes to hand you the purse, content never to let you see his face again, you don’t let him escape so easily.
You grab him by his pale wrist, yanking it through the taxi window while you pester the driver for a spare pen. Simon can only stare down in shock as you scribble ten little digits onto his skin, making sure they’re not smeared by the falling rain.
“See you soon,” you quip as the driver turns the ignition.
Meanwhile, all Simon can do is look on incredulously, only managing a single, hoarse word: “what?”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you met your husband.
Needless to say, the proposal somehow went even worse than your first meeting (it was the best day of your life).
Simon Riley with his weird ass acts of love and bizarre concept of boundaries
You’ll be waking up confused in the middle of the night, feeling a strange pulling at your feet, only to glance down and see your boyfriend has thrown the covers off and is attempting to clip your toenails for you
“What in the actual f-”
“I’m tired o’ your talons diggin’ into my legs every nigh’. This is for both o’ us, love.” He’ll grumble in that tone of his that leaves no room for argument, only the sound of nail clippers echoing in the room as your roll your eyes before shutting them again
Every so often when you’re on your period, you’ll be stepping out of the shower, bewildered to find that the night time pad and underwear you’d set aside with your pyjamas on the bathroom counter top, have been put together for you?
“Simon- you saved me all of two steps at most? Opening the wrapper and sticking it on?”
“And you’re welcome.” He’ll mutter casually with a quick kiss to your forehead before he’s off to brush his teeth
“I’m so confused. I might be losing it, Si.” You’ll mention one time, coming home after work with bags of greasy takeout food in hand, his brow only raising in question. “This is maybe the third time now I’ve noticed that the petrol was nearing a quarter tank, so I’d plan to fill up the next day. But next time I get in the car- the tank is fucking full! The first time I thought I had dreamt it, second time I thought I was hallucinating a little bit, but now-”
“Love, I’ve been filling up your car.”
“…what?”
“That’s me. Every time I’ve heard you say you need petrol- I’ve filled up the car.” Simon shrugs as though he’s simply telling you what the weather is for today, not that he’s been sneaking out in the middle of the night with your car keys to run a quick errand for you as you sleep
“I don’t know if I want to ask how or why first.”
“Well petrol’s fuckin’ expensive now, that’s why. You don’t need to be payin’ tha’.”
“You could have just … asked me?”
“… righ’. Noted.” He’ll nod in quick agreement before moving on to take the bags from you, no intention whatsoever of changing his habits
romaincrisis
vaporwave
areudirty
titsay
origamiaround
kianamaiart
