saeish

[saeish]

Trying to break simon out of his smoking habit by not kissing him after he's had a smoke. Just straight up dodging him if he goes in for a kiss. And you keep doing it until he stops smoking 🥰

Simon gets in his feelings until he catches on to what you're doing. Look at you trying to help him, sweetheart. Made of good stuff, you are.

He has another, perhaps more helpful idea.

Every time he's around and he gets the urge to smoke, he'll just make you sit on his face. He gets his fix and you get your cum, and look at you two, killing two birds with one stone. Or something like that. Fuck if he knows.

But it sucks (pun intended) that he's a bit of a chain smoker, eh?

Oh well. Happy cunt, happy grunt and all that fuckin' jazz.

[saeish]

it’s hard for simon to focus on anything other than the way water glides down the expanse of your softened hips, your curves swaying with each move you make.

the man is literally drooling when you bend over to place your bar of soap back where it belongs, breasts bouncing, glistening in the lights of the bathroom when you straighten. residual soap drifts down your arms, legs, the top of your chest, down the planes of your round tummy.

and it’s when you turn that simon realizes you’ll be the death of him.

he knew this from the beginning of course, honeyed eyes watching the curl of your lips when you first graced him with your smile, the sun peaking out from behind the darkest of clouds.

but it’s now, you standing here swollen with his child, that he feels those rain clouds disperse. the final puzzle piece sliding into place.

you turned, eyebrows raised in question as simon looks down at you, his eyes mimicking that of a man starved.

“si? is everything alright?”

he was sure he looked like an idiot, smirking down at you in such a boyish way while he placed his hands at the dip of your hips, one hand snaking down to squeeze the plump of your ass. he was met with a squeak and a playful smack to his arm as you leaned into him, breasts flattening against his chest.

he didn’t mean for his voice to sound so full of hunger, but it was hard when you looked up at him under those fluttering lashes of yours.

“s’nothin’, mama. just thinkin’ ‘bout what i want for dinner tonight.”

[saeish]

thinking about daddy issues (into kink) from price’s perspective that’s like. vocal but not. and it’s not your thing but it’s his, and it’s slipping out in subtle ways.

price won’t call himself it (‘daddy’) out loud, that’s not what does it for him, but the desire to nurture you and to provide for you and to take care of you—that’s what gets him going. and he knows that the torch that is thrumming beneath his skin isn’t just a measly kink, but the pulsing desire is a tangled ball of hunger that is tugged at every time you find him.

the way you curl up beside him, rumbling in a quiet voice like you’re sharing a secret with him. the way you will always hold his hand in a crowded street. the way he is the first person you look for in every happy moment—you can be with mutual friends but you will always meet each other’s eyes in your laughter. the way you rely on him. the way you know that john has the answers for everything.

it leaves him breathless, undone by your devotion.

it makes him pull you close to dazedly rumble in your ear, “c’mere, baby. won’t you give this ol’ man a kiss?”

[saeish]

Just a very short word vomit as I have spent far too long thinking about Captain Price faking an injury just to see his favourite doctor.

————————-

John Price has got years on him.

Enough to know how to play the game. Enough to know how to work the system just a little in his favour. Life experience has given him knowledge, skill, but it’s also given him something a little worse — something that creeps out into the lines around his eyes, the grey peppering his beard, the way he carries himself like he’s lived through every war this world has to offer — lets him move like he’s still in the trenches, like he hasn’t left them even when the fight is over.

Assurance.

It’s practically pouring out of his pores as you rush in — frantic as ever given the late hour and the way your assistant was practically sobbing over the supposed state of him — all to find the man sitting on the stretcher, looking right as rain save for the crimson coating his chest.

At first glance you gather it’s not all his, or at least, not much of it. The dark stain coats his sleeve, a cranberry smear streaking up his neck, lost in the shadow of his collar. You hardly realize you’re just silently staring until he exhales through his nose, amusement seeping somewhere between the showcased exhaustion.

“Y’alright, love?”

You blink. Then scoff. He’s asking you if you’re alright?

“You’re the one bleeding on my floor.”

Price hums, pushing off the stretcher to stand, shrugging off his vest with a wince that looks a little like it’s more for show than anything else.

“Y’gonna patch me up, or just stand there lookin’ pretty?”

That gets your attention. Assured. Typical Price but unusual given the circumstances. You’ve seen enough shot soldiers to know the last thing he should be doing right now is dotting.

Your eyes narrow as you grab for the med kit, pulling it open with a snap. “You actually get shot, or just feeling homesick?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he just watches, waves rocking in the depths of his eyes as you reach for his sleeve, steady fingers brushing blood-stiff fabric. Somewhere between searching for the wound and noticing the lack of bloodshed, you falter — because something isn’t adding up, because you’ve treated enough wounds to know when someone is worse off than they let on, and Price — despite the mess of him, isn’t nearly as injured as he’d told your team he was.

And judging by the way he smiles, he knows you’ve figured it out.

“John.” You wish you sounded more stern, but that cursed thing on his lips is contagious, and he’s given it to you like the plague. “You’re not hurt.”

A beat. Then, he tilts his head, meeting your eyes.

“No,” he admits. “M’not.”

[saeish]

Simon Riley and Sleeping

Simon had always been an insomniac.

Going through nights having not slept in days, tinkering around with his guns and knives, bloodying up his knuckles at the gym just to drown out his restless mind.

Safe to say, the habit was so deeply ingrained in his mind that it didn’t change even when you came into the picture.

But though the overall lack of sleep never went away, he did have to make some adjustments to his routine — because now every night he had you tucked up against his chest and breathing quietly, out cold. Your head nestled against his warm chest, eyelashes fluttering with sleep. A nightly treasure that he had once been certain he would never experience in his lifetime.

And as gorgeous as this you were, he had learnt the hard way that the moment he tried to move to go to the bathroom or otherwise, you were immediate blinking up at him with bleary and confused eyes, an adorable concerned frown pulling your eyebrows downwards.

Moving whilst you were asleep on him — an action which took up a surprisingly large part of most days — became out of the question. So, his nights became… calmer. Less full of panic and throbbing migraines, and more of a peaceful serenity as he listened to your soft breathing, smoothing the hair on your forehead with his big hand as he did so. Just being.

It calmed his racing thoughts. Slowed the painful beating of his heart when he got too worked up, and dulled any unpleasant thoughts, to the point where sometimes — just sometimes — he nodded off right next to you, almost instantly, even after a lifetime of turmoil.

[saeish]

Thinking about Simon accidentally scaring the shit out of reader who has never seen him in his mask/gear

Simon has done everything he can to separate his home from his work. He can’t let you see the side of him that they call Ghost.

It’s around 10:30pm when you first hear something in the kitchen. You’re reading your most recent book in bed when your ears pick up the quiet *thump* across the house.

You ignore it at first. It’s probably just the foundations of the old house settling, or maybe even a book falling over in Simon’s study. As it’s not unusual to hear small noises at night, you pay it no mind as you go about your business, locating the right spot on your page.

It’s not until you hear the third thump when you become suspicious of the strange noises. You bookmark your page and roll out of bed, padding over to your bedroom door to investigate the noise. It’s probably a fox outside trying to get in the rubbish, or maybe a branch hitting a window.

As soon as you open your door, you notice a soft glow coming from down the hallway. Strange, you must’ve forgotten to turn off the kitchen light. No biggie, it happens every now and then.

As you turn the corner to the living room/kitchen space, you stop dead in your tracks as you stare at the large figure behind the kitchen counter.

No. No, no no. This can’t be happening. Fuck, who is this? How’d he get in?

You gasp as you step back, bumping into the wall. The figure quickly turns around right before you run back down the hallway.

“Shit-“ you hear the voice in the kitchen curse as he thumps after you. He calls your name right as you trip on the carpet. How the fuck does he know your name?

You scramble on the floor, pressing yourself up against a wall and shutting your eyes. Fuck this is it. This is what Simon warned you about. He’s going to take you and torture you for information and you couldn’t even get to Simon’s gun in the study in time.

He turns the corner, calling your name again.

“No, no please! I don’t-“

“Love! It’s me! It’s me.” He cradles your face, forcing you to look towards him. You thrash, turning your face away from the man. “Look, look at me.” He says softly, trying to calm you down.

You know that voice. Slowly, you open your eyes to see him kneeling in front of you on the floor. You know those eyes.

“Simon?” You breathe softly, scanning the hard shell of his skull mask.

“Yeah, love. It’s just me. I’m here.” He slips off his mask, wiping away a stray tear that falls from your eye. You look into his brown eyes. Tired, concerned and filled with guilt. There’s some kind of black makeup smeared around them.

You catch your breath, taking in the sight before you as you scan his face. “Simon, what the fuck!?”

“I know, I know I’m sorry, love. I came straight from work. I wanted to… I forgot…” He struggles to find the words, glancing at his mask on the floor.

How could you have known that was him? That mask brings out the fear in hundreds of trained military men every day. That mask haunts their dreams, a powerful death omen that’s the last thing most see before they die. If they’re lucky enough to live, they warn their comrades about the skull. The Ghost…

Of course you’re terrified. This mask is designed to scare. And yet here he is late at night waltzing into your dark kitchen, donning not only the mask, but in full tactical gear as well. How fucking stupid could he be?

“I didn’t mean to scare you, gorgeous. I’m so sorry.” He strokes your hair.

Fuck, he can’t have you being scared of him. Not ever. Not after how he’s seen his mother cower in the very presence of his father every day of his life.

“You’ll never have to see that again, I promise, Love. I promise.” He whispers.

“It’s okay.” You chuckle. “You’re home early.” You point out as you card your hand through his messy blonde hair.

“That I am. Come on, let’s go take a shower and go to bed, yeah?” He rubs his nose against yours, causing you to giggle as he squeezes you tight. Oh how he’s missed that noise.

—

(I’m tired and not too proud of this one but here you go🫠)

[saeish]

he can feel your stares. he's been in the military his whole life, ofc he's hyperaware of his surroundings. but he also knows why his lovely wife is gulping everytime his biceps flex, he tracks your cycle because ofc he does, how else will he know how to take care of you and your physical and emotional needs otherwise. knows you're ovulating and decides to be a lil shit about it. not his fault darling, he's just helping you around the house, it's just too hot for him to wear a shirt darling, (he loves the way you're so obsessed with his body). for someone who has been insecure of his scars his whole life your eyes and attention make him love them too.

and when you finally have enough of his teasing, he's matching your fervor. letting you take whatever you need, he, your husband, aims to please darling.

[saeish]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][fingering][passionate][ex!fwb][quiet reader][slight breeding kink][light choking][hair pulling][quiet sex][no nudity][nipple play][nipple sucking][promise of pregnancy][low-key right person; wrong time][not proofread because my beta reader's asleep]

"I have a fucking kid and you didn't think to tell me?!"

Dick's voice is low, frustration bleeding into his words and his fingertips dig into his palms, blunt nails leaving crescent indentations in the flesh as he stares down at you.

The worst part is, you look so fucking nonchalant about it too.

Sitting crossed legged on the couch, a mug of steaming hot chocolate cradled in your hands and a plate of cookies resting on the surface of the coffee table. The TV plays one of the older episodes of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, and God, the sight of you so relaxed while watching trashy TV makes Dick falter in his anger.

"How do you know he's yours or even mine?"

You speak, your voice soft and gentle, despite the way your eyes burn with annoyance at the fact that Dick's just.... Standing there, in your space, his suit clinging to him like a second skin in the way it always has.

Dick leans forward, his breath fanning across the surface of your face and he gives you the opportunity to see the stormy rage that swirls in brilliant blue irises, darkened by the sense of betrayal at the fact that you've kept his son from him for so long.

"Because he looks like me. He looks fucking just. Like. Me." Dick grits the words out like they're liquid sulphur, burning his throat on the way out.

Before he lets out a breath, dropping onto the seat beside you and he cards a gloved hand through his hair.

"And he told me I look.... Romani. And proceeded to call me a 'gypsy bastard'."

Your apartment looks different from when he was here last.

Warm, pale blue walls, a dark leather sofa and a bigger TV mounted on the wall. Fuzzy blue throw pillows and the bowl of fruity gummies on the coffee table is a fun new addition, just like the drawings that line the walls of the living room, and clutter on top of the fridge.

On each drawing, Dick can make out the scribbled out 'Mommy And Me', usually in a colour that has no match in the palette and he can't deny the heaviness in his heart when he reads that.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dick speaks softly, hands moving to carefully remove the mask from his face, tossing it onto the coffee table and he grabs one of the throw pillows, resting it on his face.

You can practically smell his emotions.

Confused, hurt, betrayed. Frustration's a big one though, and you purse your lips.

"I didn't wanna have the 'is it mine' conversation."

You speak so softly, so sweetly and it reminds Dick of how much motherhood's softened you. It reminds him of the way that you'd have pushed him out the window for showing up unannounced, but instead, you're letting him sit on your couch, and you talk.

Not argue.

You just... Talk.

"I'd know he was mine." Dick murmurs. "We were... Exclusive."

The way Dick says it makes you feel like it was more than just occasional hookups, more than the odd movie date that ended with your ankles touching your ears.

The silence between you is comfortable.

The soft pitter-patter of raindrops dropping against your aluminium window, pot plants on the terrace watered so gently and the TV continues to play, although at a much softer pace.

Dick lowers the pillow, looking at you with big, almost teary blue eyes. Eyes framed by long, inky lashes, full brows and striking hues that make you feel like your breath is dying in your throat with every passing second.

"He's beautiful."

Dick's voice is soft.

"A little bit of an asshole, but he's beautiful."

Before you can answer, before you can even fathom properly what Dick's saying, you hear the crack of a door and the shuffle of tiny feet as Riot stumbles into the living room, fists balled and rubbing at his eyes.

"Mommy, my eye." He sniffles, continuing to scratch at his eye before you let out a quiet hum, your hands hooking underneath the little boy's armpits before you tug him onto your lap.

And you open his eye, the sclera just a bit red and you hum softly.

"Dickie, can you put on the light, please?"

Dick doesn't question the nickname, because it makes his heart swell in a way that has him internally screeching, even as he reaches for the overhead lamp and switches it on.

And your lips purse as you blow on Riot's eye, watching the way his lashes flutter and his eyelid twitches before a teary droplet plops down his cheek.

And you wipe it away, feeling the distinct strand of cat fur against the pad of your thumb.

"We don't even own a cat." You mumble, before using your index knuckle to wipe the watery eye.

"All better?" You muse softly and Riot nods his head, before glancing at Dick with sleepy eyes, lashes fluttering even as he clambers across your lap, and into Dick's.

And his tiny arms wrap around as much of Dick's midsection as he can, his chubby and rosy cheek pressed against Dick's chest.

And the man's expression crumples.

Brows twitch and eyes begin to sting as one of his long fingered hands move to rest on Riot's back, feeling the soft fabric of his pajamas through the glove. And Riot lets out a content sigh.

"Deadbeat gypsy." The words are muffled, but they're audible enough for Dick's lips to part in shock, brows raising before letting out a bark of laughter.

Before he glances at you.

"He's just like you." Dick murmurs, before watching as Riot climbs from his lap, and heading back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

There's a still silence in the air, only filled by the sound of Kim's voice and rain droplets crashing down outside before Dick clears his throat.

"My— uh...— my patrol ended early." He murmurs softly.

"Do you wanna watch a movie?"

The way you're slot under Dick's bicep, your head against his chest and your legs tossed across his lap makes him feel 4 seconds away from crashing out. Because God, you're so warm and so much softer.

Dick stares unabashedly at the way your plush thighs brush against his when you shift to make yourself comfortable, he feels the way heavier breasts push against his side as you snuggle closer, before ultimately decided to pull the quilt over the both of you.

Your eyes remain glued to the TV, occasionally letting out snorts of laughter as you watch Grown Ups for what you could guess would be the 60th time on your lifetime.

But you can feel Dick's eyes.

Following the curve of your face, watching the way your lashes fan out and watching the way breaths leave your soft, glossy lips. And before Dick can even fathom it, his arm behind you is shifting, hand moving to wrap around your neck, long fingers stretching effortlessly and he brushes his thumb along your pulse, the action causing your head to tilt up and you meet his gaze.

And Dick's lips are pressed against yours, his fingers twitching against your neck before leaving the column of your throat, instead, shifting until you're resting back against the sofa.

You can't refuse. Well shit, you don't want to refuse.

Dick's kissing you like he's dying tomorrow. Lips pressed against yours, his hips nestled between your thighs and his arm moving to support his weight, elbow braced on the armrest above your head, and his other hand cradling your face.

His thumb strokes along the soft skin of your cheek, his hips pushed against yours and his tongue brushing along yours, but his movements stutter when your thighs wrap around his waist, arms around his neck and bringing him down to deepen the kiss.

Dick swears he sees heaven when your fingers card through his hair in that way.

Starting right at the nape of his neck, before dragging those manicured nails, up up up, before they disappear beneath silky raven strands and he sighs into the kiss, before pulling away.

Dilated pupils, and heavy breaths are exchanged between the two of you, and Dick swallows hard.

"Is he a heavy sleeper?" Dick whispers softly, gaze darting towards the bedroom he saw Riot disappear into and you nod your head.

"He is but you're pretty loud." You tease softly and Dick pushes his hips into yours, his bulge prominent beneath his suit and you can feel the way his tip brushes against your clit, even through the layers of fabric between you.

Dick always could find it in record time.

"Fair point." Dick whispers softly, a breathy laugh slipping past his lips, just a bit reddened from the intense kiss and he speaks again.

"But you never were loud."

Two digits bully their way into your cunt, your shorts and panties tugged to the side and Dick's lips are pressed against yours, muffling any sound you could even think of letting escape from your lips.

His tongue is buried in your mouth, thumb rubbing sloppy circles against your throbbing clit and your nails dig into Dick's biceps when he prods at a particularly sensitive spot. Your lashes flutter, and you take a shaky breath when Dick's fingers curl, his glove abandoned on the surface of the coffee table, and Dick pulls away from you, a thin, glossy string of saliva between the two of you before it ultimately breaks.

Landing across your chin and he giggles.

The man fucking giggles, as he uses his free hand to wipe away the mess, before ultimately moving your hair out of your face, staring down at you with pretty, big eyes that look at you so adoringly.

"You're so pretty." Dick murmurs softly, pressing a peck to your lips as he stares at you.

And fuck, you are.

Pretty eyes fanned by long lashes, perfect eyebrows and rosy cheeks, wet and parted lips (both pairs), and a few strands of hair clings to the thin sweat on your forehead and Dick sighs softly.

You're perfectly spread out too.

Hands gripping at him like you're scared he'll disappear, thighs spread messily and your panties and shorts tugged aside. Gummy walls thrum around his digits, pulsing at the intrusion and all he does is he continues to tease your clit, the rough pad of his thumb circling the sensitive and swollen nub as he continues to look at you with those heart eyes.

"Can I take you out tomorrow?" Dick's question is unexpected but he can't lie and say he hasn't been thinking about it since he saw you.

Plush, squishy, and so soft.

And he'd do anything to see you pregnant.

To watch you move around in oversized shirts, a belly swollen and heavy breasts that he could tease because they're just so sensitive and pretty.

And God, he can't even imagine the way your perfect, plump pussy would look, nestled between even rounder thighs, clit completely hidden until he uses his thumbs to spread the lips.

Dick swallows.

Hard.

And he doesn't even notice that his fingers begin to move, curling and prodding, nudging at that little fleshy spot that has your toes curling in your mismatched socks and your nails dig into his forearms.

And Dick remembers just what a sight you are when you come.

Brows pinching into the cutest little frown, lips forming a little 'o' and that gasp that leaves you has him leaking in his suit and he's so glad it's dark.

"That's it, princess, come on my fingers." Dick coos softly. "Use my fingers to make your pretty pussy feel good."

Your eyes roll back, you hide your face in your shoulder and your body freezes, the only movement being the rhythmic spasm of your cunt around his fingers.

His stupidly long, incessant fingers that keep dragging out your orgasm even as you nod your head, a silent answer to his prior question.

And Dick gleams, dimples in his cheeks and brilliant blue eyes lighting up in a way that can only be described as cosmic.

Blue eyes flecked with silvery stars and the gleam of the moon, dilated pupils and pretty lashes and Dick nods.

"Okay." He breathes out. "We're gonna go to the museum, okay? He's a little artist so I think he'd like looking at the paintings?"

You nod meekly, chest still heaving even when you watch as Dick licks his fingers, cleaning them up like he's just licking syrup from his fingers. His long tongue swivels around his digits before he carefully tugs up the fabric of your T-shirt, exposing your torso to the cold air.

Perfect tits, dotted with pebbled nipples and Dick swallows.

He never thought he'd be someone to have a kid out of wedlock but fuck, is he happy to be your baby daddy.

"Come on, princess." Dick hums sweetly. "Let me worship those pretty fucking tits before I leave."

Dick leans down, breath fanning across your chest before his tongue drags along one of your sensitive nipples, and he watches the way your face screws up, biting your bottom lip to stifle any sounds.

And you look at Dick from beneath your lashes, bleary eyes and rosy lips and he groans low.

A rumble in his chest that has your needy pussy pushing out a trickle of slick.

"Keep looking at me like that and I'll get you pregnant again." His lips latch onto the sensitive nub, his free hand moving to palm your other breast, thumb brushing over your nipple.

"Fuck that, I'll get you pregnant anyway."

Taglist:

@allycat4458 🪻

@lucky-beheaded 🌻

@fayethefaerie 🦋

@jasontoddswhitestreak 🌸

@moristhesecond 🍓

@anesthesia-4rizzle 🎀

@feral010 ✨

@mgarcia4130 🐚

@blckbarbiedoll 🌷

@custardpuddingprincess ⭐

[saeish]

Petty arguments turned to silent treatments. Its not even big serious arguments, no. Its far from serious, silly even, how they would argue about a fictional characters actions, theories, and so on.

Now, Simon is a quiet man himself, he's used to silence, quiet...he can go days without uttering a word. But you? Now that he cant handle.

He always breaks first. Always come to initiate, new for him, but for you? He is so willing, a weak for his love.

But he got an idea, if you wont come to him to talk, then he would make you.

Petty, sure. But he did it. Tightened jars and placed it high up, smirk on his lips as he imagines how it'll turn out.

But oh, youre so unpredictable.

About to make a pasta, you did struggle to reach the cupboard but managed by using a chair, then tries to open the jar, with him lurking behind, pretending to rummage the pantry on the side all while eyeing you with a small smirk, waiting for you to call for help.

Then the sound of glass braking made his smirk drop so fast. All while you stir the tomato paste into the pot- along with the broken shards of glass.

Simon knew you are stubborn, but this sure did prove him wrong, you were more than stubborn.

And like everytime, he breaks.

"..Luvie...you could have asked.."

You keep on stirring as if its normal thing to do, broken shards of glass clinking the pot.

"I wouldnt have to if you didnt tighten them, no?"

One glare from you and he knew he fucked up. "Luv, I-"

With ladle in hand, you pointed at him, "Dont try me again."

Simon watched you threw the ladle on the sink and walks away, leaving him stunned.

Scared and inlove even more than he already is.

And hard 'coz a threat from you is sexy- a whole kink awakened something in him.

[saeish]

Husband!Price who never called your name, instead, he always used terms of endearment.

And now you're little daughter genuinely thought your real name was 'sweetheart'.

[saeish]

Don't Run

tw: smut! MDNI!!!!!

You hear the front door click shut, the familiar sound of boots thudding lazily against the floor.

Simon’s home.

“Where’s m'girl?” His voice rumbles through the hallway, making something flutter deep in your chest. You peek out from around the corner, catching his eyes - the sharp gleam tells you exactly what he wants.

A hug.

It's routine.

But you’ve got other plans.

Before he can take another step, you bolt, a giggle escaping as you dart through the living room. His footsteps pause, followed by a low chuckle.

“Oh, we’re doin’ this, yeah?” He says, voice filled with amusement. “Think y'can run from me in m'own bloody house?” You duck behind the couch, peeking out to see him stalking forward ever so slowly. His mask is off, face relaxed, lips curled into a smirk. You dart left, and he mirrors you lazily. “C'mere, sweethear'.” He drawls, holding out a hand like he’s offering peace. “One hug. Won’t hurt ya.”

You snort, shaking your head, heart pounding with excitement as you backpedal toward the kitchen. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

He hums, rounding the corner after you. “Know I always do.”

You slip around the table just as he steps into the kitchen, using it as a barrier. He moves deliberately, giving you the illusion you’ve got a chance. You shift left - he follows. Right - he mirrors you.

“Givin’ ya a head start, love.” He warns. “Don’t waste it.”

Your laugh bubbles out as you try to fake him, darting around the other side.

But just when you think you’ve gained space. . .

Strong arms hook around your waist, yanking you flush against his chest. You squeal, breath hitching, and he huffs a laugh against your ear.

“Gotcha.” He murmurs, voice thick with smug satisfaction. His arms tighten, locking you in place as he rocks you back against him. You wriggle, breathless, but he only grins, his lips brushing along your cheek before trailing down to your neck.

His kisses start soft - teasing - but quickly turn into that familiar action, teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath your ear. You gasp when he bends you forward over the table, his body leaning over yours, his hands pressing firm against the table at either side o fyour head.

“Should’ve let me have tha' hug.” He breathes, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress. “Now look at ya.”

His touch glides up the inside of your thigh, pausing over the thin fabric of your panties. His fingers stroke lazily, making your hips jerk.

“Simon-..” You start, but he shushes you with a low hum.

“Say it.” He mutters, lips ghosting over your ear. “Tell m'what y'want.”

Your heartbeat quickens as you press back into him. “Please… need more.”

A satisfied hum vibrates in his chest as he hooks his fingers under your panties, tugging them down achingly slow. You barely have time to catch your breath before his fingers are back, tracing over your clit, sending a shiver through you.

“Like tha'?” He whispers, voice rough and amused at how fast you’re unraveling. You whimper, lifting one knee onto the edge of the table, desperate for more.

“Greedy little thing.” He growls, rubbing faster now, his hand slick with your arousal.

His voice stays in your ear, low and steady, talking you through every wave as your body tenses tighter and tighter. Until it breaks... your release crashing down, messy and hot, covering his fingers, the table, and the floor beneath. You barely can think of anything except your breath coming in gasps as you slump against the cool table, heart still racing.

Simon leans over you, pressing one last kiss to your neck, his lips brushing your skin as his voice drips with that playful edge. “Next time, don’t run from me, yeah?”

Not all the way proofread!

I have no idea why I had this dream last night but I did lol! I could literally hear Samuel Roukin's voice as Ghost in my ear as this played out in my dream and I woke up needing to post it before the thoughts vanish lmao!!!

Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon

[saeish]

Simon Ghost Riley x you

He can't sleep

The room is dim, bathed in the soft glow of the moon filtering through the curtains. The warmth of sleep still clings to you, but something feels off. You shift, reaching out toward Simon’s side of the bed - only to find it empty.

Your eyes flutter open, adjusting to the darkness. He’s there, sitting at the edge of the bed, his back to you, broad shoulders tense and rigid. The air feels heavier, charged with something unspoken.

You don’t call out to him right away. Instead, you watch for a moment, taking in the way his hands are clasped together, his head slightly bowed. He’s deep in thought, lost in something heavy.

Slowly, you push the covers back and crawl toward him, the cool air brushing against your skin. Your fingers touch his back, tracing along his spine, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your touch.

“Simon?” Your voice is soft, hesitant.

He doesn’t flinch, but you feel the way his muscles tighten beneath your touch. A slow exhale leaves him, almost as if he’s trying to steady himself.

“Go back to sleep, love,” he murmurs, but his voice is off - low, strained.

You don’t listen. Instead, you move closer, pressing your cheek against his bare back, your arms circling around him from behind. His body is warm, solid beneath your touch, but there’s a distance in him that you don’t like.

“You’re awake,” you whisper against his skin. “And you’re not here.”

A heavy silence settles between you before he finally speaks. “Mission went bad.” His voice is rough, edged with something deeper. “Could’ve gone worse.”

You know better than to push for details- if he wants to tell you, he will. But right now, it’s not about the mission. It’s about this - whatever storm is brewing inside him.

Your hands move over his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. You press a soft kiss to the curve of his shoulder. “You’re home,” you remind him gently. “You’re here.”

Simon is still for a moment. Then, suddenly, his hands come up, gripping yours tightly against his chest. Not pulling them away - holding. Like he needs to feel you, needs to ground himself.

Then, he turns.

In a blur of motion, you’re beneath him, your back against the mattress, his body caging yours in. His weight presses into you, solid and heavy, pinning you there. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but you know that look - the quiet storm, the unspoken battle raging inside him.

His fingers trail up your thigh, slow, deliberate. Possessive. “You don’t get it, do you?” His voice is low, almost a growl. “You’re the only thing that keeps me sane. The only thing that makes this life worth coming back to.”

Your breath catches as his grip tightens slightly, his body pressing closer, the heat of him sinking into you. His lips brush against your jaw, down to your neck, lingering there as he exhales shakily.

“I almost didn’t make it back to you,” he murmurs. “And that thought? It fucking destroys me.”

You feel the weight of his words settle deep in your chest. You reach up, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

“But you did,” you whisper. “You did make it back.”

His lips find yours then, but it’s not just a kiss. It’s desperate, consuming - like he needs to remind himself that you’re real, that you’re his.

And tonight, you let him.

Tonight, you remind him that he’s yours, too.

~~~~~~

The first thing you feel when you wake up is him.

Simon’s body is wrapped around yours, solid and warm, his arm draped over your waist, holding you close. His face is buried against the back of your neck, his breath slow and steady, ghosting over your skin.

He’s still here.

After last night - after the way he took you, claimed you, like he needed to drown in you just to stay afloat - you weren’t sure if he’d be gone by morning. Sometimes, when the weight of his past gets too heavy, he disappears into himself. But this time… he stayed.

You shift slightly beneath him, and his hold tightens instinctively, his fingers digging into your hip.

“Don’t,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep.

You smile softly, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes are still closed, but you can tell he’s awake now. The tension from last night has faded slightly, but there’s still something lingering behind those dark lashes.

“Not even to get up?” you tease lightly, brushing your fingers over the rough stubble on his jaw.

“No.” His voice is rough, his grip firm. “Not yet.”

You exhale softly, pressing your palm against his chest. His heart is steady beneath your touch, strong. Alive.

“I’m not going anywhere, you know.”

His eyes finally open then - half-lidded, still heavy with sleep, but intense. His gaze locks onto yours, like he’s searching for something, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

“I know.” He lifts his hand, brushing his thumb over your lips before cupping your jaw. “But I need you here.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something that makes your chest tighten.

“You have me,” you whisper. “Always.”

Simon doesn’t answer - not with words. Instead, he pulls you against him, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours. His grip softens, but he still holds you close, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on your back.

For once, he doesn’t need control. He just needs you.

And you give him exactly that.

[saeish]

i saw a tiktok of a heavily pregnant woman saying “maybe i dont give him butterflies anymore but i do give him high blood pressure” then they walk by their S/O with a latter and power tools. and i have been thinking about how the guys would react ever since

Oh, anon. This is so cute! I love this. I know the trend you're talking about, but I feel like I haven't seen it with pregnant women specifically, but I find it even more hilarious if it is. I had a lot of fun with this one. Thank you for sending it in!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, dad!141, pregnancy, married life, parenthood, domestic fluff

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“Get off the ladder, cabbage.” John exhales, trying his best to keep his voice calm.

You’re standing just high enough on the ladder to rest your pregnant belly on the top rung. John stands directly behind you, both hands firmly planted on either side of you against the rail. It’s not to support the ladder but to catch you if you fall. A potentially likely possibility since you’re carrying extra weight in front of you. You could easily tip back enough to lose your balance.

“I’m fine, John,” you reply, continuing on as if he’s not worrying.

It’s maddening how relaxed you are, like the potential factor of danger is a completely foreign concept.

“Please,” he emphasizes. “Get off the ladder.”

“Why?” you ask. “I’m more than capable.”

“You are,” he agrees. “But you’re also pregnant.”

“So?”

“Cabbage,” warns John.

“Fine,” you exhale.

John keeps his hands on your hips the entire time. When you’re back on solid ground, some of that tension melts away, but his heart still thumps quickly.

You lightly cup his cheek, batting your eyelashes at him. “Were you worried about me, John?”

John places his hand on your belly. “Worried about all three of you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle sits at the kitchen table, sorting through the mail. With a heavy sigh, he opens the energy bill, removing the paperwork, reading over the breakdown of energy usage for the month.

From his peripheral, Kyle notices movement. Glancing away from the itemized bill, Kyle’s gaze softens when you walk into the kitchen. You’re pregnant, close to your due date. Even waddling around, Kyle can’t seem to keep his hands off you.

He leans back in his chair, appreciating you for a few languid seconds, then his heart drops into his stomach.

“Damn it all. Put that down, love.”

Kyle shoots out of his chair, trying to calmly but quickly make it over to you.

“I’m fine,” you insist, attempting to walk by. “I can assemble it.”

“No.” Kyle’s tone is firm but gentle. “Give it here.”

His heart is pounding, anxiety spiking from not just the power drill you carry, but the cardboard box full of wood you’re attempting to guide down the hall.

“You sit here.” He points to the chair. “Sort the mail. I’ve got this.”

You slowly ease down into the chair, and Kyle breathes deep, trying to calm his nerves. “Bloody hell, woman,” he mutters.

John "Soap" MacTavish

He hears your footsteps first, and then your voice as you curse under your breath.

Johnny lounges on the sofa, reclining against a fluffy pillow. At his feet are his two-year old twin daughters. On the television, a Bluey episode plays. The girls aren’t watching. They’re smashing their dolls together and running them over with the yellow toy excavator.

Sitting up, Johnny glances over the top of the couch

At first, he smiles. Then frowns. Then launches himself off the couch.

“Put it down,” commands Johnny. “Drop it.” He steps on a doll and winces, wobbling slightly.

You turn toward him, pregnant belly coming into view. You’re carrying a ladder, the large one, and you’re not supposed to be lifting anything over a certain weight.

“Down,” he repeats. “Put it down.”

You roll your eyes and turn away. Johnny makes it to you quickly, grabbing the ladder and placing it on the floor.

“What are you thinking?” he asks. “You’re bloody pregnant.”

“Don’t yell at me.”

“I’m—I’m not yelling,” soothes Johnny, cupping your face in his hands. “But you gave me a right scare, yeah?” He kisses your forehead. “I’ll take care of it. Go sit with the girls.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon is curled up on the sofa, a precious bundle in his lap. His two-year old daughter rests her head against his chest, gaze focused on the colorful pages.

“He started to look for some food,” reads Simon from The Very Hungry Caterpillar. “On Monday he ate through one apple.” His daughter traces the outline of the apple, and then runs her finger over the caterpillar. “But he was still hungry.”

As Simon turns the page, he hears your soft but determined footsteps. He briefly looks away from the book, his gaze falling on your belly, round and full of his child. Inwardly, he smiles, knowing that the family you’ve created together is about to grow by one.

“On Tuesday he ate through two pears,” continues Simon. “But he was still—”

His voice disappears, and his stomach flips, blood pressure spiking as he watches you turn the corner. You have a step stool tucked under your arm and a drill in your hand.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, lifting his daughter out of his lap and placing her on the sofa. “Daddy will be back shortly, doll.”

He kisses the top of her head, and then takes off after you. With the added weight, your steps are slow, and it only takes Simon a few strides to walk past you and cut you off before you make it to the nursery.

“What are you doing?” he asks, reaching for the drill.

“Hanging a painting,” you reply like it’s no big deal.

Simon sighs. “Give it here.”

“I can do it,” you insist, turning away from his reaching hands.

Simon plucks the drill out of your hand and holds it out of reach. “Give me the step stool.” With a pout, you surrender it. “Gonna give me a bloody heart attack.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @hisuccubus @all-by-myself98

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving

[saeish]

salivating over Simon just doing Simon things throughout the house. shirtless and in a pair of black sweats.

seeing the muscles in his arms and back contract as he's making a cuppa? swoon.

seeing the muscles in his arms contract when he rubs the back of his neck absentmindedly or goes to light his cigarette? panties off.

simon catching wind of you watching him and he smirks 'round said ciggy, watches you watch him, and proceeds to makes his dick jump in his sweats to surprise you? priceless. wait a goddamn minute—

[saeish]

reposting in hopes that it reaches more people 🥲

simon riley who is a walking contradiction.

“leave and go find someone else worthy of you” except his hips piston into you at such a quickened yet deep angle as his arms trap you between the sheets in an undoubtedly possessive manner - as if he was to go absolute insane if you were to ever leave him or even dared having such a thought like that.

it reminded you of that ‘bastard from your workplace’ who had offered you an evening out to dinner to discuss ‘work matters’ one friday night, simon would glare at you across the room leaning on the door frame in the process of your getting ready in a way that if any stranger was to witness such a glare they would of sworn he was your enemy “where ya going looking like that pretty girl?”. eventually you found out your coworker was trying to take you home to his and get into your pants. that day you came home to a pissed off simon blaming himself for letting you go, he’d already seen through the idiots plan - call it common sense but it was definitely part of the forward thinking he’d developed from time in the military. “stop getting yourself involved with miserable blokes who don’t even know a thing or two about how to treat a woman proper dove” his fingers delicately remove your necklace lightly tracing your neck with one rough finger. it took a lot trying to convince simon to let the situation go.

simon riley who always reminds you of the analogy he tends to make whenever he notices you get a bit too clingy. “ just a weed that happen’ to be kept alive beside a pretty flower”, you continue kissing down from his jaw to neck practically inhaling his musk in attempt to have it instilled into your senses. his words just end up falling on deaf ears every single time.

“leave and go find someone else worthy of you”, except he accepts the hand crafted bracelet you give him as you say quietly: “you don’t have to wear it, i just thought it would be a nice memory of us when you’re deployed”. he’s brought back to a point in time when you asked what his favourite colour as you run off in suspicion after getting your answer. now he looks down at the bead combination of your favourite colour with his closely inspecting the thing. you begin to mistake his intense stare at the bracelet as a disinterested one causing you to immediately withdraw your hand back muttering how you knew it was a silly idea, however a quicker gloved hand gets a hold of yours as he snatches the bracelet from your hand without thought. “sorry dove i ain’t mean it like that i’ve just never been gifted such a thing like this before, i really do appreciate it. it’s not silly at all.” moments after your wrists are engulfed by simon’s hands on the sheets as the bracelet adorns his own wrists. “better not hear news that you let some bastard in your panties when i’m gone, ya hear love?” you hastily nod as you throw your head back in ecstasy to then pull simon down to indulge in a deep kiss.

simon riley who feels it necessary to firmly claim you as his in front of his fellow task 141 members to avoid them making jokes about stealing his “pretty thing away from him”. oh how he regrets so deeply the time when he accidentally revealed a picture he took of you that one time you were in your pretty yellow sundress; it was something simon just couldn’t let go of or else it would of been gone in a blink of an eye so he decided to take a picture. as much as you hated being caught off guard in pictures simon’s photo was different, he managed to capture a radiant smile that was enhanced by that sundress you wore that day. such a prized possession reached the eyes of people that weren’t him. his intentions to show them pictures of the enemy base sight took a turn when in the middle of his swiping the men would catch a glimpse of your picture. “pretty lass you haven’t introduced us to yet?” johnny raises his brow with a wide grin on his face. “is she your missus? didn’t know you were into young women like her”, price lets out a chuckle and lightly elbows simon. “better shut your bloody mouths”. now they get a glimpse of your bracelet as it falls down from his wrist to his lower hand but none of them dare to say an inch. shit, and you were debating on how long the string should be and stuck with the smaller side of the scale. “did ya see the thing?” price mutters to johnny, “eh, what are you on about?” “the bracelet ya knob!”. johnny gives him an expression of sudden realisation letting out a long ’ahhhh’. “I know it ain’t one that you can get from ya local jewelry shop down the road, it’s definitely from the missus he still ain’t tellin us about”. “you guys are still going on about simon’s mystery woman?” kyle walks into the mess room shaking his head, “you know how simon will react if he catches you guys talking about her.” johnny gets off of his chair slapping a hand against the table, “oi we weren’t talking about his bonnie lass in particular but we were actually-

simon walks into the room with a flat expression on his face causing complete silence among the men way too quickly. “oi is there a problem?”

simon riley who eventually returns at the end of his deployment with the belief that no one was at home waiting for him anyways except to his irony you were there patiently waiting for him the whole time, waiting to welcome him back and accept him in such comforting arms. when he’s finally in your hold you urge him to stop his bluffs, stop all the pushing and insisting you to stay as far away from him as possible and you finally finally tell him you don’t care about whatever terrible thing he could possibly be in comparison to you, you just want to be able to hold him and truly declare that “you’re the only one worthy of me and you’ll always be the only one worthy of me”.

requests always open ･:*

[saeish]

He married you immediately after his discharge, deciding rather quickly that why wait, he knew what he wanted, he had all the time in the world now that there wasn't a lingering cross hair on the back of his head 24/7.

So he tied the knot, a quaint ceremony with only the lads and a few of your family members, nothing too fancy while appealing to all of your demands.

Next was the house, Simon insisted on building himself only to be joined by his old team, who refused to leave him alone despite not being in the military anymore. They all spent years together, side by side, in some of the shittiest places imaginable, and now they were helping him build his dream cabin a bit a way from the city, his little peace and quiet.

Price teases him for gaining weight, a testamant of your cooking. Johnny jokes about Simon needing to share, earning himself a glare that could boil water and Gaz? Well, he couldn't help but snag a couple bites of your food whenever possible, eating from the retired lieutenants lunch.

The ongoing peace was something Simon never imagined for himself.

Truth be told, he wouldn't have retired at all if it wasn't for the uncontrollably shake in his hands when idle. Simon tried to hide it—get control of the tremors. But nothing could, and eventually, it became an issue. No longer was he able to sit in long perches. The insistent shaking left him mixed focused, unable to concentrate.

Simon wasn't a man who liked to admit he had a weakness, so the true nature of his discharge had always been a mystery to you. Until he returned to your temporary home one night, struggling to pour himself a glass without his hands battling their own ongoing earthquake.

All it took was your gentle touch on his arm, cooing if he was alright to ease the trembling. He didn't know how or why you had such an effect on him. Simon placed the cup away, hands sinking into your plush hips, face buried in your hair, your softness a palm to his unease, salve to his wound, an angel sent from heaven just for him, a sinner who didn't deserve this life.

What would he do without you?

[saeish]

Missionary with your fav military man, but his dog tags keep tapping you in the face, causing you to giggle. He scoffs and nips at you playfully before taking the chain in his teeth and thrusting even harder, fucking you up the bed in punishment