frazzledfawn

[frazzledfawn]

proper fed — simon “ghost” riley

simon ghost riley x fem!chubby reader

warnings: tried to mimick his accent in the writing but i probably failed cause im extremely southern

when ghost comes home, he’s all worn-out muscle and quiet exhaustion, his broad frame leaning against the doorway as he watches you from beneath that ever-present balaclava. but the second he sees you—curled up in one of his old shirts, all soft and waiting for him—his shoulders ease just a little.

“missed you, love,” he mutters, voice thick and gruff as he strides over, pulling you into his arms like he’s been starvin’ for the feel of you. his hands, rough and calloused from too many fights, find your waist, squeezing just enough to make you shiver.

“you’ve lost weight again,” you scold, smoothing your hands over his chest, frowning at the way his body feels sharper, leaner.

“been busy, ain’t i?” he grumbles, but you’re already dragging him toward the couch, settling yourself in his lap as you grab the plate you made for him earlier. He doesn’t argue—not when you’re all warm and snug against him, not when he can feel the soft press of your thighs over his own.

the telly’s on, some football match playing, and he barely glances at it as you lift a forkful of food to his lips. “c’mon, si,” you murmur, tapping it lightly against his mask. “up.”

with a quiet sigh, he pulls it up just enough, letting you see the sharp cut of his jaw, the hint of stubble he never quite gets rid of. and when he takes that first bite, his eyes flutter shut for a brief second, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

“bloody hell, you tryna fatten me up, sweetheart?” he mutters, cockney drawl thicker now that he’s home, safe, warm.

you grin, feeding him another bite. “maybe. can’t have you wasting away, yeah?”

his arms tighten around you, one hand settling on your hip, thumb rubbing slow circles over the softness there. “gonna make me proper spoiled, you are.”

but he doesn’t complain—doesn’t stop you from feeding him, doesn’t stop himself from pressing his face into your neck between bites, inhaling deep, like he’s trying to memorize the way you smell. and when the match ends and he’s full, relaxed, his hands stay where they are, holding you close, keeping you exactly where you belong.

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what goes on in my brain every single day

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if there really is a john wick 5 in progress they better show my man retired with dog.

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Keanu on his Norton Commando

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an extremely overdue vacation with spencer on the coast somewhere sunny. ⋆˚꩜｡

staying in bed till noon and leaving the beach well after sunset.

the two of you drift off into naps under the rays of light, a warmth that tingles pleasantly on your skin, bodies draped over soft towels. spencer makes sure to reapply your sunscreen every two hours.

the sun brings out a light dusting of freckles on his chest; you trace along them, stringing them together like constellations.

spencer lets you hold onto him as he walks to the deeper end, his height posing an advantage. he relishes in the soft press of you behind him, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, leaning his head back so he can catch your lips.

the orange glow of the sun illuminates his skin beautifully, you're doomed to admire him the entire time. fortunately for you, he does the same, leaving you both reeling, sheepishly ducking your heads, a pink flush accompanying the light sunburn.

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Whoever wrote this, slayed so hard with all these statements, truer words have never been spoken

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one day, you’ll celebrate your birthdays over there, and your wishes may turn softer, more resigned—no longer the desperate wishes you make now. these weeks of struggle will be no more than a fleeting thought, something you’ll brush off with a small giggle, then bury back in the deepest, dustiest shelves of your mind. you’ll look back at the nights you spent wondering if this was it, and you’ll laugh, and laugh, and laugh—a hollow but somehow full sound, at how little you knew then.

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Do y’all watch a movie see someone from your dr and like

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i accidentally deleted the ask bc i'm silly but this is for the anon asking for more telepath!reader and how she riles ghost up just to see how nasty his thoughts can get :3

cw: piss mention, minor foot fetish, ghost is filthy as usual

i loveee the idea of telepath!reader first being put off by ghost and his desolate wasteland of a brain, doing her best to avoid the warmth that creeps up her neck and settles low in her belly whenever she thinks about him and the wild shit he imagines, only to constantly be subjected to the things he wants to do to her and very shamefully ending up using his thoughts as wank material.

you're trying your best to respect his privacy, which is funny because ghost doesn't seem to have an issue with pondering if your cunt tastes as good as he swears it smells. he doesn't see anything wrong with imagining what you might look like underneath your knickers, whether you have a nice bush he can plant his nose in or a bare mound he can press his lips against. he doesn't have a problem with staring at your ass and thinking about breaking that little hole open. meetings are the worst, having to sit near him and maintain a neutral face because he's daydreaming about you cockwarming him to pass the time, rather than paying any attention to whatever price is talking about.

you wish you could just smack him over the head for always being the cause of your ruined panties, but you know it's not entirely his fault for your predicaments because you're the one who keeps peeking into his head, drinking up all the filthy ways he wants to split you open on his cock. you're the one who files away the lewd images he pictures for later, when you're alone in bed and your little bullet vibrator is calling your name, eerily sounding like ghost's voice.

it's him you think about when you wear a skintight shirt one day, taut enough that he's able to make out the mouthwatering sight of your nipples poking through, teasing him. it's hard to stay composed under his leer, and one might even think he had it out for you, but you know what he's thinking better than anyone else—his cock slotting between your soft tits while you do your best to lap up the precum leaking from his tip, the picture so vivid you nearly trip over your own two feet warming up for practice.

sparring with him is a whole other thing, and your performance drops significantly, but only so you can push your ass up against his groin and hear his breath hitch when he pins you down. "gettin' lazy, are we," is what drawls from his mouth, but in his head, all he wants to do is grind his stiffening cock against you until he's cumming in his pants like a virgin. you try not to squirm too eagerly beneath him when his thoughts stray to your bared neck, wondering if you'd bruise from his teeth as prettily as you do from his hands.

most times, you don't even need to do anything. overhearing you say that you're going to the bathroom prompts him to think about you standing over him and pissing in his mouth instead. talking about getting a mani-pedi with one of your girlfriends when you're finally on leave makes him entertain the idea of you playing with his cock, pretty nails sparkling, before finishing all over your toes and lapping at the cum that drips down your arch. even seeing you drink water has him wishing he could just sustain his life with your spit and cum; they're the only essentials he would ever need.

if you hover around him more often just so you can keep your spank bank loaded to the brim, that's no one's business but your own.

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a pro-palestine group has vandalised parts of donald trump's turnberry golf resort in scotland.

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“source?” divine intuition, gut instinct, and cryptic symbolism from my dreams

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They’re making Joel Miller so fucking gray in the second season of this show…my coochie is not behaving y’all. IM GETTING OVERWHELMED! I need to be snowed in with that man in a cabin a bit ways off from Jackson on patrol and fucked STEWPID for a couple of days until the storm passes. NEED DAT OLD MAN SO FUCKING BAD YOU GUYS DON’T FUCKING GET IT!!

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“my fuckin’ pussy” simon says as he’s pounding you in a mating press. your heel-clad feet are hung over his burly shoulders, flopping with every thrust.

“mmmn, yer fuckin” pussy” you slurred back.

“oh my, we’ve gotta talker, doing a little repeat after me? fuckin’ simon says, huh?”

he’s such a tease.

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He’s a grumpy veteran. Sleeps with a knife under his bed, flinches at fireworks. Get the dog, is Price’s order advice. So he drags his feet begrudgingly to the local shelter, fully expecting to walk out empty handed. Just for the sake of it, so Price’ll stop bothering him.

You’re working the shift that day. Immediately clock him as ex-military. Take him to the room of older, more scarred dogs–shared trauma helps the two animals bond. Tell him to take a look around, wait for that special connection, that special click moment to happen. He thinks it’s all bullshit, but he bites regardless.

His eyes roam the room. Pitbulls, dobermans, rottweilers. All tough and scary looking, but their eyes are kind and their tongues hang out in pants. They all look excited to see him. Except one.

One, looks more than pleased. Dutiful. The german shepherd stands, notched and torn ears perked up. She has small punctures on her snout. Her neck is riddled with raised, old bites, a ring of scar tissue that has scarce and patchy fur. One of her paws is slightly misshapen, toe sticking out. Her elbows are viscerally calloused.

He walks closer to her, slowly like he’s approaching a startled doe. She’s silent, body flinching slightly with him. He looks her straight in her eyes, brown boring into yellow. You and I are the same, he tries to say. And he knows she’s trying to listen.

“She’s a special one,” you say, the voices of the other dogs quieting at his obvious interest. “Think she escaped from a dogfighting ring.”

He inhales sharply, now crouching down to her level. She stares at him with an unwavering posture, but behind her eyes rages a flame of something uncertain. Shaky. He recognises it better than his own mirror.

“What’s her name?”

“Doesn’t have one. Abandoned, no chip or collar. Everyone here just calls her birdie.”

The corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly. “She’ll do.”

He takes her home, carries her in his big arms. She’s heavy, well fed. He has you to thank for that. You talk him into buying this pink collar for her, a bunch of toys that make a noise when squeezed, and a bed that’s probably softer than his own. There’s this one dirty, tattered bunny plushie Riley insists on taking with her. 

Convinces himself he’s not attached. But everytime someone so much as tries to pet her without permission, he glares. Bites out the words “show some respect” with bared teeth. Damn dog doesn’t even use her own bed. Sleeps at the foot of his, and only because he won’t let her come to the main bed. Something about being dirty and slobbering over him. All that goes out the window when he wakes to sounds of whining and whimpering, her body twitching in sleep. He recognises that better than anyone.

It’s her first nightmare with him, and thanks to her sleeping cuddled in his arms every night from then on, it’s her last. He sleeps better, too. Mutually beneficial arrangement, he justifies it as. Sneaks her scraps during dinner, all the while telling her how spoiled she is. How ill mannered she is. But the grin on his face says otherwise.

He keeps visiting you at the shelter. Dog’s good for something, at least. Asks you questions he knows the answer to. “What the hell does it mean when she whines like that?” 

“She wants attention, Simon.”

“Bloody princess,” he mutters, proceeding to pet her for ten minutes. Scratches her behind the ear and below her chin, gives her belly rubs just to see her wiggle around. He used to be something scary and serious, you know. Now he’s just some guy who’d kill for his daughter.

He comes to see you even if he doesn’t have questions. Makes up some stupid excuse like, “came to see if she needed… supplies. Or something.” Won’t admit that he’s interested in you. Riley foils all his attempts at being nonchalant by wagging her tail whenever she sees you, or slobbering over your face in kisses.

Eventually, he stops pretending. Brings you coffee. Comes there just to hang out and talk. Stutters and leaves immediately when you ask him on a date, but Riley drags him back by sheer force. It’s ridiculous.