Hello Meine Friend. I Am Anonymously Asking You About My Husband Phillip Graves And If You Have Anything

can i say something crazy? cw: piss

simon who has absolutely no respect for his bird's privacy.

comes back home from work; all sweaty and churlish and dour, soot caked on his face and hands, welder boots announcing his arrival in heavy, lazy footsteps. he doesn't call for you, but your gentle hey babe sounds from the bathroom anyway, half-distracted by the videos on your phone. the idea of you coddled at home since he left at dawn that morning — cushioned in bed until late, one hand in a bowl of cherries on ice that still drips condensation over your nightstand, the other pushing a new record for screen time on tiktok, the lengths of your legs all soft, bitten, exposed in set of flimsy shorts, cooled by the fan overhead, all ready evidence to why he puts up with as much shit as he does — drives him a little mad to think about. stokes a hunger in him, a mix of pride and masculinity and possessiveness that has him pushing into the room. despite the fact that his needs aren't urgent, not pressing enough to justify this.

this — standing right before you, so that your manicured toes kiss his leather soles. saying nothing as he unbuckles his belt, gruff, quiet, completely uninterested in addressing your concerns when you look up at him with those squinted eyes. it isn't above simon to make you suck him off while you're on the toilet, and really you wouldn't mind, but you get the sense that isn't what this is when he knocks your legs apart with his knees. little fuss to the action, little reaction to your spread pussy.

his cock bounces out about eye level with you. soft. nonetheless hefty and thick and large, bowing down even as he wraps a rough palm around its base. he can see the revelation find you in real time when he places his free hand on the wall behind you. the cresting arch of your brows. the grimace mangling your cheeks. the prissy pout of your lips. if he weren't so exhausted, he might have it in him to take your face right there. it's just the right combination of horror and fascination to get him going.

"simon noooo," you whine, throwing your phone somewhere, scrambling back until you can't anymore, porcelain tank pressing flush to your back. "just wait your turn. please!"

"'nuff of tha'. shush now." he huffs, chuckling a bit when he realises that you only made things worse for yourself by leaning away. your hips now jut out, cunt propped centre of the bowl.

there's no shyness, no stall on the release. his piss comes out in one, hot stream, washing right on target to hit your little clit. you shake your head, so disgusted with him he knows he'll have to make it up later. still, you do nothing to discourage it, sitting in place like a good pet, only occasionally tensing your legs against the steaming shower. some splashes on your belly, some on your thighs and the rim, yet it's never ending. you wonder if he planned this all day, held in the four cans of san pellegrino you packed for his lunch, just so he could give them back to you.

you just don't realise that not all of it is his.

"sad t'be missin' out on th' fun?" simon mocks, finally pulling away. he shakes the last of it off his cock, swiping a hand over his tip, before tucking himself back in. you blink, look down, and realise that somewhere along the lines, you started peeing too.

and have yet to stop.

"it's natural!" you wail, squeezing your pelvis floor in a last ditch attempt to save your dignity. it's no use. having started, it's near impossible to stop. your necks discovers a new type of heat in the humiliation, burn licking its way up your face. your ears tuck into your shoulder.

"yeah, yeah." he patiently waits for you to finish, cupping a hand under your elbow to keep you upright as you stand on fawn legs. his lips are paper thin, fleeting, when they press fondly to your temple. "now off to th' shower w'ya."

your nose crinkles. "you know you need one more than i do, right?"

"and wha's a shared bath?"

Concept: John Price has a lovely little wife at home, that he shares with his boys when the going gets tough…

John Price x Simon Ghost Riley x Mrs Price (You)

Shameless smut. Threesome. Squirting. Bit of Price x Riley action. Little bit angsty (blame Simon)

Masterlist

Simon is a special case. You and John don’t acknowledge that, but it’s true all the same. It started when John asked one year if Simon could come for Christmas. You’d agreed, faintly irritated that your peaceful noel with your often absent husband was going to be interrupted.

Then the man had skulked into your bright, festive home, riddled with silent self loathing well concealed under a veneer of indifference, and you’d forgotten about being angry.

Simon adored your soft coddling, the endless rounds of tea you made him and the small tasks he carried out that made you beam up at his thawing onyx eyes. It didn’t take long for him to start trailing around the house after you while John read the paper, then to sit as close to you as possible during firelight warmed nights watching the old sitcom reruns they play over the Christmas period.

From what little John had told you, Simon had a rough upbringing. He’s important to John, as all his boys are. But with Simon there’s a layer of understanding between the two men that runs deep.

If anything happens to John abroad, it’s Simon that’s written into his will to stand beside you through the agony of it. Simon who has access to John’s offshore accounts so they can’t be traced back to you in the event it all goes south. In essence, Simon’s so thoroughly invested that at times he feels like he took the same vows to you John did, no wedding band upon his finger needed.

Simon was the first person you both let into your marital bed. More than that though he became a part of your marriage, the silent third in the relationship, never asking anything of either you or John, but gratefully included all the same. It’s not official, Simon visits sporadically like an alleycat with several homes that feed it.

But you enjoy the intimacy and so does John. It isn’t unusual for him to visit without your husband at his shoulder, and John is always quietly thrilled when he comes home to Simon’s boots neatly resting next to your smaller shoes on the rack. You invite him for Christmas every year, and Simon always comes home with John a few days beforehand to maximise the time you all have together.

No one else on base has a clue, and though Simon would never admit it, he loves you both entirely. His loyalty to John is unwavering, a steadfast commitment made years ago in the wreckage of his old life, the one that came before Ghost or skulls reeking of gunpowder.

The adoration of you came unexpectedly, from a place of intense jealousy that John had love in someone else and the home comforts he had always failed to find. At first Simon resented John’s insistence that he should meet you, stay in your shared house filled to the brim with simple domesticity.

But after that first taste, Simon knew he’d found a place for himself, lying between you both in the long hours of the night, his head on your chest and John’s broad hand at the nape of his neck.

Perhaps that’s why he takes it so very personally when he feels a spare part. A cuckoo finally recognised and flung from the nest. Jealousy has no place in this arrangement, Simon acknowledges that, though he still feels it regardless of whether he’s allowed to or not.

“Come on, out with it then.”

“What?”

“You’ve been in a foul mood lately. At least do me tha’ curtesy of tellin me why.”

“Not in a mood, dunno watcha mean.”

“Simon.” Price leans back in his creaking desk chair, arms resolutely folded and leaving no room for argument. “You knocked a blokes teeth out for lookin at ya the wrong way last week.”

“He fuckin had it comin.” Replies Simon darkly, scowling so his eyeblack creases around the bottomless darkness of his eyes. John raises a brow, cerulean gaze meeting a suddenly contrite mahogany one ringed by ash coloured lashes. “And I said I was sorry for tha’.”

“Know somethin’s wrong, even if you won’t spit it out.” John pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s getting a headache.

Simon scoffs, rocking back on his heels. There’s a pause where he seriously considers being honest with his Captain, but that entails emotional vulnerability which Simon abhors. It’s a stranger to him, something that doesn’t feel safe unless he’s at home with the people he cares about, balaclava off and softness allowed to seep into his chest.

“Can I go? Said I’d spar with Johnny before I finish up that paperwork.”

“By all means.” John gestures sweepingly to the door with unnecessary flamboyance, still looking searchingly at the man towering opposite him, the embodiment of death dressed from head to toe in black.

Before he can stop himself, Simon lets something slip that suddenly throws his viciously sharp mood into high relief.

“Tha’s if he’s not fuckin playin with that scrap of fabric your missus calls knickers again.”

It’s spoken under Simon’s breath, mulish and uncharacteristically bitter. While Simon is prone to fits of quiet displeasure, it’s rare for him to snap his maw at John, rare enough that the older man takes notice immediately.

“Green isn’t a good colour on you Simon. Stick to black.”

Simon slams the door a little harder than intended, dragging his heels while he curses internally. That was petty, he knows it was.

It isn’t like he minds Johnny having his way with you, hell, it isn’t like you belong to Simon either. But he can’t help the elements of possessiveness in his nature, they are inbuilt and unavoidable. You and John are his little family, the three of you coexisting in perfect harmony while Simon eats up anything you cook and nods off to sleep against John’s shoulder on the sofa.

Actually it’s anxiety that’s currently eating away at him, though Simon isn’t prepared to acknowledge it yet. Johnny is far more easy going, a sunnier personality, better company than Simon could ever be. The Scot is fun to talk to, Simon knows first hand how disarmingly enjoyable it is spending time with him.

People laugh easily with Johnny, whereas Simon carries a potent aura of sullenness, black orbs full of heavy energy and mistrust of most social interactions.

At it’s root Simon wonders whether you might prefer Johnny in your bed, or if Price might find it more uplifting to have him at his side when tackling DIY projects around the house and garden. Simon loves Johnny too, but also envies him slightly, bold and brave, a heart worn on his sleeve rather than one guarded close to his chest. Instead of talking about his fears, Simon hides in them.

Back in his office, John presses his mobile to his ear, waiting for the dial tone to connect him with your soft voice. It still gives him a surge of adrenaline when he hears you speak, the same as it did when you both met.

Giddy and grinning from ear to ear, John tells you a soft hullo down the phone every time he calls. It makes you laugh, a little routine built on a fundamental adoration and understanding of each other.

“Hiya darlin, you having a good day?”

The light of his life and Simon’s too by all accounts, John listens to you talk, any irritation at Simon’s temper tantrum soothed.

“Listen, Simon’s ‘avin a bit of a wobble, think we might need to give him some TLC this weekend love.”

“Have you upset him Jonathan? What have you done?!”

Your voice is teasing, with the barest edge of a telling off hidden in the crackle down the line. You know them both so well, one a husband in name and both a husbands in your mind. John is sure you’ll have a remedy for it, bash their heads together until your shared coupling is balanced again.

“It is my fault actually, sometimes I don’t appreciate Simon like I should. Don’t appreciate how sensitive he is underneath.” John sighs heavily. You read between the lines, sensing the issue at hand.

“You better both come home to me then.”

Simon deliberately works late that night, burning the midnight oil, eyes strained as he completes reams of tedious paperwork, dotting his signature out with the pen clutched tight in his fist. By the time he makes it back to your house, John’s car has a thin sheet of ice covering the windshield and only a few glowing lamps have been kept on in the sitting room.

It looks so warm and soft inside, amber coloured windows and a short stream of steam flowing out into the chill where the heating has been put on. Simon almost aches with it, until he remembers he’s supposed to be in a bad mood, giving himself a shake and mulishly slotting his key into the lock.

“Dinners in the microwave Si.” You call out as he steps over the threshold. No fanfare, no drama from his spat with John earlier. He slumps into the kitchen and starts heating the plate you set aside for him. He hears you enter behind him, two arms wrapping tight around his middle as you burrow into the back of his hoodie.

“Hi.” Voice muffled, you rub your face against the muscles woven beneath the fabric.

“Hi.” He replies wearily, covering your linked hands on his stomach with his big, calloused paws. “Where’s the Cap?”

“Out for a run, s’just you and me for a bit.”

Simon frowns, you tug off his balaclava ready for the washing machine tomorrow morning, smoothing his ruffled blonde strands and pressing a hand to his forehead.

He sighs, leaning into it, the warmth of your palm, the smell of a tea you’ve spent all day cooking up for him and John. Perceptive as ever you sit with him while he eats, letting him play with your fingers, then you make him a cuppa and a slice of cake for pudding.

The silence between you is golden, every now and then you rub his knuckles, smile in that mellow way that quietly reassures him.

“Will you be here on Sunday? I’m doing a roast.”

For a split second, Simon considers being bluntly honest, asking you to tell him if his company is truly wanted around the table, if the happy way you phrase that question comes from a place of love that mirrors how he feels. A lump rises and gets caught in his throat. Greedy, he’s always been the same. Resource guarding as a stray does over a full dinner bowl.

He swallows the emotion barely, it catches, chokes on the way down his throat.

“Sounds good.”

“It will be good!” You pet his head while the plates are cleared. If you notice the way his jaw is clenched, dark eyes burning over bright with something akin to devotion, you don’t mention it.

Full and placid, Simon rests with his head on your lap in front of the TV. You’re no fool, aware that Simon finds it impossible to be moody when he’s eaten a good meal and that your husband is always relaxed and mellow when he’s worked up a sweat pounding the roads around your house.

That’s why you all work so well together, you are the equilibrium keeping both stern personalities combined and harmonious.

Gently, you tug Simon into a sitting position, reclining and stretching your legs out so he can settle beside you. Chest to his back, the drone of some innocuous sitcom blurring in the atmosphere, he sinks into the embrace, lets you wrap around him. Warm and fuzzy, a hand sneaks underneath the hem of his T-shirt, fingers teasing the rough hair on his lower belly.

But he catches them before you can hook one beneath his waistband, holds them firm and links his digits against your own.

“What do you need Si?” You ask him quietly.

He doesn’t know how to say it, what to verbalise when the only thought in his mind revolves around vanquishing the turgid anxiety forming within his chest. Simon wants you to touch him like you cherish his very marrow, make believe he’s truly accepted in this space he occupies made originally for two but now squeezed for three.

“Dunno.” He grunts roughly, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth when your lips nuzzle into the soft skin of his neck.

The kisses you press beneath the cropped hair on his nape make him breathless. John’s shadow hangs heavily over the spectacle of you both spooning on the sofa, almost as if Simon needs the older man’s permission.

Instantly regret floods him for his earlier outburst. John’s been nothing but generous, welcomed Simon into his team and then his home, while the jaws he fed snapped ravenously for more.

John and you are the only people who have ever seen his soft underbelly, the sole humans he’s rolled submissively over for and offered that bitter, black heart to.

You hum in response to him, and he thinks there and then he might break with it. Your nose nuzzling his flesh softly while a few kisses linger there.

“I put clean sheets on the bed.”

A short pause follows that, he waits, listening intently.

“I’m gonna have a shower…then I want to cuddle up with you in them.”

Simon shifts a little.

“That okay?”

“Had a row with John today.” Simon speaks quietly, shame drenching each syllable. “Overstepped myself.”

He takes a short breath, the tension across the big shoulders you’re resting your chin on could be cut with a blunt knife.

“Don’t reckon he’ll be up for tha’ tonight.”

“If that’s what you think…why are you here?”

He has to consider that for a second. In truth he’s in your house because it feels like his too. The place Simon can be himself for brief periods until the longing for permanence becomes too much.

“Because…”

“Because it’s where you want to be, where you should be and you know that.” You finish the words for him, giving Simon an out from saying the things too difficult to give a voice to. “We want you here too.”

Sliding off the couch, you get to your feet.

“Come on.” One smaller hand beckons to him.

Hours later, he’s dozing. Your head curled within the crook of his arm when he hears John’s key turn in the latch. Simon listens intently, the sound of heavy, grumbling movements on the stairs, the bathroom door shutting with a snap.

After a few moments the shower starts running and it’s then he makes his decision. Placing you carefully on the pillow, fast asleep, Simon makes his way slowly to the source of rushing water, moving silently as a panther would through tall grasses.

He doesn’t knock, there’s no need to. Simon has no intention of ruining the moment with announcements. John’s broad back is to him, the steam curling over the sun damaged and freckled muscles lining it, his dark hair drenched in the moisture. His head turns very slightly, the only indication he knows someone is in there with him.

It takes Simon less than a heartbeat to shed his clothes, to climb in behind John. In the same way you did, he moulds himself to fit, forcing his big body close. His forehead rubs lightly against the beads of water caught on John’s flesh, backwards and forwards. Repetitive, self soothing.

“M’sorry.” He mumbles and John knows that doesn’t come lightly. “Was out of order weren’t I.”

John doesn’t immediately reply. Simon stands there, feeling more unwanted by the minute, wondering if he should disappear entirely from both of your lives. That would hurt, but he’s lived through worse. Hasn’t he?

Before the spiral completes itself, John has turned, grabbed him by the back of his neck and dragged his mouth forwards. The kiss that follows is layered with unspoken things, quiet and silent emotions only two men like Simon and John could understand.

The stubble of John’s beard scratches, firm hands cradling him in a way that leaves no room for doubt in his head. His tongue pushes, probes the line of Simon’s lips as a grunt leaves him at the response he receives.

“Listen to me.” Nose to nose they stand, azure pupils boring into the darkness fighting within Simon’s own eyes. “Ain’t nothin to apologise for. The missus likes the boys, but they ain’t the ones she wants to wake up with every mornin. You and I are.”

Simon chokes, held together purely by the force of that statement and John’s presence alone.

When they kiss again, it’s softer, far more content and comfortable. They linger there for awhile, surrounded by artificial rain, lost in it’s rhythmic pattern.

You wake groggy, the lights off, only the low blur of the alarm clock on the sideboard. Your sleep addled brain takes time to compute that you’re surrounded by two hulking forms. John lies on one side, Simon curled on the other.

Quietly you stroke the curve of John’s face, letting the pads of your digits brush against the strong jawline under his beard. He opens an eye, resting it lovingly on you. When you smile he does too.

Simon stirs, one of his hands looking for yours, but when he locates it you only get a brief squeeze, before it moves upwards to sneak beneath your pyjama top. His callouses catch on the budded skin of your nipple, while it rises to a peak at his touch.

The resolution soars and falls with each beat of your heart, a steady pulse that becomes clearer.

Slowly, you reach for John, moving his palm to twine against Simon’s on your breast. They both rest there, the three of you sighing in sync. Then John shares a look over your shoulder, one you can’t see returned. But you feel Simon move.

You’re rolled into him, face pressed against his chest and tugged to straddle his body, while John adjusts too. John runs one finger along the curve of your form spread over his lieutenant, it ignites, makes warmth spread from your crown down to your toes.

Simon moves your face to his, several long and slightly urgent kisses pressed against your lips. Then he makes a low sound in the back of his throat, hoarse and bitten off. The rustle of fabric behind you, but he won’t let you turn, grasping your chin harshly and nipping at your mouth when you try and move.

Without vision, your imagination starts to flourish, blooms fantasies that make your pussy clench. Fuelled entirely by desire, Simon refuses to allow you an inch of room, as John’s rough hands make short work of your panties, ripping them clean in two.

A small noise leaves your throat when the coarse hair of John’s beard brushes the soft skin of your thighs. Simon places one heavy palm against your lower back, forcing you to arch, putting you on display for your husband.

The air is cold, legs moved further apart so you’re entirely exposed.

“Fuckin gorgeous.”

That’s the only warning you get before John’s tongue lathes against the exposed seam of your cunt.

You jerk, twitching as Simon keeps you rooted in your position, John taking his time, painting gentle motions backwards and forwards. He catches your clit and you keen, try and wriggle to escape the intensity until Simon knots his fingers against your scalp.

The blunt head of John’s cock nudges at you, spreads the layer of arousal his roused alongside his spit until he’s soaked. Your teeth nip into the meat of Simon’s pec, his hand still caging you there, deliciously restrained.

The first thrust of John into you sends a simultaneous grunt from both men. You’re jolted harder into Simon, strands pulled taut and painful, his other fingers reaching between you both to tease the apex of your pussy until you hiss.

John holds your hips, surging inside your cunt red hot until the fierceness of taking him blends into a fever. There’s nowhere to run between them, John’s thick cock stretching you tight, Simon bullying your clit, not gifting you an inch of reprieve. Shuddering, you can feel the crest of a burning orgasm hovering.

Simon spits on his fingers, increasing the pace of his movements against your nerves until you shudder, whimpering with overstimulation that borders on intoxication because your brain might well melt out of your ears.

The pull on your hair sends the muscles of your neck recoiling, leaves your throat open for more kisses. Simon layers them there meanly, swipes his tongue along the column of your windpipe and leaves you gasping. Unable to utter a word, only breathy slugs of air are sucked inwards, the soft slick of flesh meeting flesh filling the room obscenely.

It hits, crashing over you until your toes curl, pussy filled to the brim and fluttering around John as it’s his turn to groan. Warmth flows over, his spend seeping out onto the covers.

There’s no time to collapse, even catch your breath. The small movement Simon allows is only used to angle your pelvis, seat himself inside your aching cunt to the hilt. The lubrication of John’s cum helps, Simon is bigger, almost as thick at his base.

For a moment, Simon’s fingers cup your cheek, caressing feather light in a way that hints at unrestrained adoration, pieces of hair tucked off your face. He’s so hard it’s almost impossible, you can feel him in your throat and you sob with it. Simon shushes you gently, John kissing the small of your back lightly as he moves around the bed.

Simon rocks up into you, trying to ease the pressure and you cling to him. John settles next to you, pulls you upwards so you’re tilted snuggly, drags your mouth to his. It helps, the safety of his body, emboldened you start to move.

Simon’s hands at your waist, John pressed close and grounding you. It’s right where you should be. Each gyration nudges your clit teasingly and Simon huffs at the sensation of you taking him deeper.

“M’close.” He murmurs. “Fuck! I’m so close!”

“Not until she cums.” Growls John and Simon nods urgently in response.

When you start to quiver, John takes you by the throat, adds just enough pressure to make you gulp, to remind you of his raw authority. It makes your head swim, eyes searching for his, because the sight of that grim determination in his face will make you burst over the banks of another climax.

Simon powers into you from below, his grip now harsh, struggling to keep himself from following. He’s rewarded when you cry out, a thin stream of arousal drenching his balls until his cock swells with need. Simon moans hoarsely, drags you to grind harder against him until you shake.

Finally, with a nod from John, Simon spills deep, tears beading at the corners of both onyx eyes with the pleasure of it. Combined they coddle you, Simon whispering moans and aching thoughts. John’s presence steadies you both, pieces you back together brick by brick.

The sight of your husband putting Simon on his knees, sinking inside him with relish while Si drags your cunt to his mouth by one ankle, isn’t one you’ll forget.

You add it to the catalog of cherished memories you’re keeping. The way Simon eats you out, tastes the remnants of himself and his Captain their with relish speaks of deep feeling. Even if he won’t vocalise that.

Simon keeps the panties you wore that night. But never lets Johnny catch a hint of them.

Sevika x Male Reader headcanons!

• She leaves you for a woman.

sf: https://www.tumblr.com/tonsillessscum/769541848758910976?source=share

MDNI 18+

loser simon riley unaware that he is largely endowed getting laid for the first time

cw: loss of virginity, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, simon is down bad

simon getting pussy for the first time and doesn’t know how to act

“fuck si, your huge,” your hand gently stroking his cock, as he tried his best to not come right there and then. everything felt like a wet dream, a pretty girl like you all dolled up fisting his cock as you kissed his neck, perched up on his lap. your pretty pink lace panties tossed on the floor as you grinned on his muscular thighs, the idea of his cock deep inside you made you feel little achy in between your legs.

“i don’t know if it’ll fit,” you whined as you rubbed it along your glossy cunt, his cock painfully hard as he smeared the pre cum all over you. “it’ll fit, i promise,” simon groaned when you gently nudged his sensitive tip to your soppy hole, barely in and he was already a mess.

he would make it fit, god he would do anything to feel your small cunt around him.

you sank down inch by inch, but the stretch was too much, burning slightly as your cunt accommodated to his length. “is it all the way in si?” your voice trembling as you bit down on your glossy lip, your body already trembling.

“almost half way,” his large tatted hands gently holding your sides, “please, i need all of you.”

simon didn’t care if he sounded pathetic, because he was. he was so god damn desperate to feel something other than his calloused hands, or the stupid flesh light that he got.

“please, jus’ a lil more, i’ll make you feel good, please.” he begged, barely half way in and your cunt felt so warm, so welcoming - he couldn’t just let you go.

slowly you took him all the way in, your body shaking as the prominent bulge in your stomach was displayed, your breaths coming out in pants.

“i’ll make you feel good, i promise.”

his thrusts were awkward at first, you were just so damn tight like you are sucking him back in, barely pulling out a few inches before slamming back into you.

“too big si,” your nails slowly digging into his skin as your gummy walls clenched around him. “you can take it, yer doin’ so well.” he cooed softly as his mind went hazy with pleasure, a guttural groan leaving his lips as he bounced you on top of him.

you were like his personal flesh light, so warm and loving, your sweet cunt tightly snug against his cock - god he wasn’t going to stop.

his thrusts turned sloppy, the sound of skin slapping filled the room as you bounced mindlessly on his cock. you were too damn cock drunk to even think, his fat tip hitting all of your sweet spots.

“si, i think i’m gonna come.” the comment alone snapped simon out of his trance. the thought of you clenching tightly around him, whilst you came on his cock, it dribbling down almost made him come right there and then.

he wrapped his tatted arm around your waist, pulling you to his chest as he thrusted into your cunt harshly, your body trembling trying to get away from the amount of pleasure. “stay here please, i’ll make you feel good,” simon mumbled as he held you tightly in his arms,

the moment you came so did he, the feeling of your walls clenching around him was too much, he wasn’t used to it after all - only the feeling of his rough palms and the loveless toy.

“did you just-”

“fuck ‘m sorry, you just felt too good.” he grimaced at his apology, his hands wrapped your waist as if he didn’t want to let you go. “jus’ one more please?”

his eyes glued to the way his cum slowly oozed out of your cunt.

tag list: @happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @prettyinpink-bimbo @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969

Some old poly 141 art. i dont think i like this one too much but still. Eepy boys that were trying to watch a movie.

ghost x reader x soap smut | +18/mdni!

making out with soap on simon's dick... like literally on his dick.

fuckin' hell, the two of you have driven the man to a sweating, tense mass of muscle as you snog johnny with wet, swollen lips against simon's leaking tip. the head is a ranging red and shines with a mixture of spit and slick that johnny laps up with a heavy lick before enveloping it with another deep kiss.

simon's mind goes completely numb when you twirl your tongue, snaking it in a long drag to meet soap's. his head rolls back in a lull, only gaining enough consciousness to mumble out a mouthful of groans low curses.

the sounds rock from somewhere low in his chest to mix with wet sounds of you lapping together along his thickness.

"jus' like tha'. good–ah. ah, shit, yeah–good fuckin' pets gettin' my dick nice 'n wet. god, look at you two. can't get enough, huh?"

he grins a little at the desperate shake of the head you send him, pulling back for the tiniest second to suck in a quick breath. the man next to you steals the moment, using your break to sink onto simon, tongue dragging out against the underside as he works his way down.

"stop hogging, johnny," you whine, a soft pout on your face when soap flinches with a wet gag that has simon entire body jerking. ignoring you, johnny continues his warm sucks before a rough pat to his face finally forces him to retreat. he slips off simon with a loud pop to wink at you.

"sorry, hen." soap grins, a grunt leaving him with he smashes your face into his. simon watches with greedy eyes at the way your lips glide together easy, tongues dancing to share the lingering taste of simon's cock. his gaze only darkens when you and johnny part with one last peck. "tastes too good."

simon huffs a little laugh, hand snaking to rest at the back of your neck. he pulls you into a brief kiss, thumb rubbing gently at the skin of your cheek, johnny watching a enamored tilt of his head.

"s'alright, pretty," simon coos. "i'll spank him later for it."

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

“you are on the couch tonight, riley!” you shout, pointing a finger toward the living room. simon stands there, his jaw clenched, hands clenched at his sides, clearly unhappy but resigned.

there’s a flicker of hurt in his eyes, masked quickly with his usual steely glare. he just nods, not saying a word, as he grabs a blanket from the closet and settles down on the couch without another look your way.

the apartment feels colder without him by your side, and the silence that follows is louder than any argument. you lie in bed, your head turned to the wall, arms crossed tightly as if that could keep out the ache creeping in.

you feel miserable, thinking over the fight, wondering if you were too harsh, if maybe he wasn’t entirely in the wrong. but you bury it, refusing to let yourself soften too quickly. this isn’t the first time you two have fought; being with simon means loving him as he is, stubbornness and all.

but tonight, it feels different. minutes stretch into hours, and you find yourself glancing at the empty side of the bed, missing his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. you turn over again, clutching the pillow tighter, but it doesn’t help.

meanwhile, simon’s on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, a sigh slipping out into the darkened room. his mind replays the fight in quiet fragments, the words that had been said, your voice still ringing in his ears.

he knows he messed up, though he’d never admit it to anyone but himself. he misses you too, even if pride keeps him rooted to the couch, where the cushions dig into his back, and sleep refuses to come.

after another endless stretch, you finally can’t take it anymore. you get up, padding softly into the living room. simon’s form is a dark silhouette against the dim light from the window, his breathing shallow, not quite asleep. he hears you but doesn’t move, as if afraid to let hope show too early.

“simon…” your voice is quiet. you see his shoulders tense before he slowly drops his arm from his eyes, looking up at you. his gaze is guarded, but there’s an unmistakable softness there, a glint of something like regret.

“can’t sleep either, huh?” he mutters, breaking the silence, his voice rough from the hours of silence.

you shake your head, and without another word, he shifts to make space. you sit beside him and lean against him, letting your head rest on his shoulder, and after a beat, his arm wraps around you, pulling you closer.

“i’m sorry baby,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.

“me too,” you murmur, feeling the tension melt away as he holds you tighter.

neither of you says anything more. words don’t matter as much now, not when the warmth of his arm around you feels like coming home.

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@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving @blackhawkfanatic

On domesticating Simon Riley.

Simon knows people, knows how to read them and how to get what he wants out of them, in a general sense. He also knows women, their bodies and how to handle them. How to pick one out that wants the same thing he wants, how to approach them and then how to cut and run.

What he doesn't know is how to stay. How to let someone else know him, even see him. What makes a home.

So you're going to have to teach him.

He has the most minimal wardrobe you've ever seen -- a few pairs of jeans, a handful of t-shirts, a couple of hoodies and one pair of boots. After a few weeks of watching him lace up those boots every time he takes out the trash, you check them for his shoe size then order him a pair of crocs to wear around the house and when they arrive, you leave them by the door, where he keeps his boots.

"The fuck are these?" he grumbles that evening when he goes to grab the boots while you're cleaning up after dinner. They're too big to be yours, but he knows they're not his.

"I got them for you," you answer, coming to stand beside him. "Just something to wear when you need to step outside for a minute or if your little feet get cold and you wanna wear something around inside."

"I don't have ... fucking hell," he says, pointing down to the shoes. "They've got holes all in them."

"That's so you can accessorize!" you say proudly, pulling out a little bag full of charms that you picked out for him.

It's ridiculous. It looks absolutely absurd. But he wears them anyway, because he's learning that when people care about each other, they make little gestures like this, and if there's a way that he can wear your love for him around like a badge of honor, then no matter how goofy it looks, he'll be proud to do it.

Simon chews his fingernails down to the quick, a nervous habit that he's had for as long as he can remember. After catching him with a couple of bloody fingers after one particularly bad evening, you tenderly pull him into the kitchen, wash his hands and dry them, then sit him down at the kitchen table and leave for a moment, only to come back with nail polish.

"Really, love?" he asks, looking up at you with a smirk. "Gonna give me a manicure?"

You roll your eyes, pulling one of the chairs closer to him and reaching out for his hands, replying, "What, too manly to have your nails done?"

"Yeah, that's what it is," he smirks, all sarcasm, then says, "Why though?"

"It's the taste," you explain, shaking a bottle of black polish before taking the cap off and carefully leaning in to start on his right thumbnail. "The idea is that when you go to bite your nails, the polish will make it taste bitter so you stop."

He can't help but smile a little to himself as he watches you work. He doesn't care one way or the other about his nails, but it's cute, watching you so focused on him. Still, something about it nags at him, because while it feels good, having you care, it doesn't quite feel right, not all the way. Not just yet.

"Not hurting anyone with biting them," he says quietly, his eyes on his hands as you finish up.

You give a little sigh, capping the bottle before meeting his eyes, and you tell him, "You're hurting yourself. And that's not ok, not with me."

He doesn't do birthdays, not his anyway. Not in a dramatic "I hate my birthday" way, it's just not something of note to him. He knows the date, acknowledges it to himself when it comes just as a reminder that he's 40 now, not 39, nothing more. The first birthday he has with you comes after you've been together for several months, and you only hear about it after the fact.

"My sweet boyfriend," you coo at him one night in bed, a little tipsy from the wine you'd had with dinner. "My beautiful, beautiful boyfriend."

He chuckles, still marveling at how much you seem to marvel at him. Your hands are on him, gentle and doting, and he hears you giggle as you ramble on.

"Sweet and kind and handsome and strong," you say, running a hand through his hair. "He always watches out for me. He always takes care of me. My favorite person."

"You're drunk," he points out, smiling softly, cheeks red.

"Am not," you reply. "Even if I am, the truth is the truth."

You go on, praising him for everything you can think of. Pretty blonde hair, pretty smatterings of freckles, pretty dimples that only you ever get to see. It's almost unbearable, hearing how much you adore him, but in a good way. Like it's stretching something in him that's been closed for far too long.

You're breaking him in, slowly and carefully.

"Have you ever," you ask him at one point, "ever in your entire 39 years, thought that you'd get a girlfriend as thoughtful and loving as me?"

It's a playful question, but of course he's never thought that. His chest aches at the thought of just how much you've given him, and how much you let him give you in return. So instead, he dodges it.

"Not 39 anymore, sweetheart," he says softly.

Your brow furrows immediately, not understanding, and he laughs quietly, his hand on your stomach under the blankets sliding to your side to pull you closer.

"A few weeks ago," he explains.

"Your birthday was a few weeks ago?"

"It was."

"And you just ... didn't think to say anything?"

You're serious now, almost concerned, and he can't stand it.

"It's not a big deal, love," he says, leaning in to press kisses against your forehead and temple. "Just another day."

"It is a big deal," you argue, pulling back to look at him. "I would have ... I don't know, I would have gotten you something. Treated you special. Thrown a party, something."

"One, I don't like parties. Two, you treat me special everyday. Three, you've already given me more than you know, I don't need anything else."

All those things are true, but it still takes much longer than he'd like to get the frown off your face.

The next day, you ask him to run some errands for you. You need the oil changed in your car, some things from the big grocery store on the other side of town, but you need to stay home and take care of some things that need done around the house. He agrees easily. He likes taking care of you.

When he comes back later that afternoon, he goes for the kitchen, ready to put up the groceries he'd picked up, and there you are, leaning against the counter and smiling at him like you were waiting for him.

The homemade cake on the counter beside you, with candles sticking out and "Happy Birthday Simon" written in icing on top, tells him that you were.

Every time you do something like this, perform some little act of kindness that comes so naturally to you, it feels like something gets unlocked inside him. Like there have always been chains wrapped around his mind and his heart, keeping him tight and cold and alone, padlocks piling on top year after year, keeping all the hurt secure inside. But somehow you have the key, and you take your time, undoing them all.

Undoing him, completely and thoroughly, until he's open for the first time. And it's raw and new, and it hurts, but something in him knows that the pain will give way to something beautiful.

He watches as you step up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and leaning your head against his chest.

"Happy birthday, Simon," you say softly.

He can't say anything, not now, so he pulls you closer to him, strong arms cradling you against him, and you're close enough that he can feel when the corner of your mouth turns up into a smile

Another lock coming off. Another piece of proof that he can be something different, something better, with you.

hello has anyone ever thought about sevika accidentally taking more shimmer than she's used to thinking it'll be nothing but then realizing it was indeed something because she's feral. I'm talking drooling, biting, panting. coming home to fuck reader until the overwhelming feeling is out of her system even if you're full of scratches because her prosthetic arm is sharp and she's too far gone to control her strength. absolutely shameless, moaning into your neck like a bitch????

'accidental baby daddy soap mactavish' aka the worst man in the world to accidentally knock you up after fucking casually a couple times. there's no such thing as personal space or boundaries or distanced co-parenting with him; he already broke his lease / sold his house. shows up on your doorstep with all his belongings in the world. you wouldn't let the bairn's dad sleep rough, would you? no, the couch won't do, doe, he needs a tempur pedic bed or his sciatica will act up. knocked him flat on his ass last time it flared up, so just let him in the bed. if you're cold, they're cold 'n all that shit.