#ghost x chubby reader

[merakidoll]

after a long day at work your favorite thing was coming home to your very handsome, very large husband. ghostie was always the best at his housely duties - cooking, cleaning, helping you unwind; he was really good at that. after a long day of being in the stuffy office, and the headache of hearing the constant complaining of your colleagues you we’re finally in your safe space. the marble counter top helped you bend just right, your flexible body awkwardly positioned but you were getting the best pleasure out of it.

as the soup boiled on low just a few feet away you were on your island, head uncomfortably positioned as you deep throated ghost’s fat length. his cock bulging in your throat and the repeated gags and spit bubbles. while your mouth was occupied so was simon’s. your cunt was in his face, slimy wetness decorating him like a face wash, his tounge licking at anything it reached. his objective though? was making your clit so puffy and fat!

you moaned around him, vibrations sending small shivers down his spine as his took a little nip at the fat of your lip and rose up spitting his cream filled mouth back onto your thumping cunt that made a big mess. ghostie moaned, while shaking his head disapprovingly and entered two of his chubby fingers into your hole watching as they stretched you. “nasty slut” he bucked his cock deeper into you groaning at your lewed sounds, and getting his fingers to match the pace of him fucking your face. “makin a mess on my counter tops. a greedy slut who couldn’t wait hmm?” you shut your eyes tight, pussy clenching around him and your breath getting shallow making you choke at the unexpected orgasm

“f-fuck doll take it” he held your head down at the base of his dick, stuffing your throat and shuddering in sensitivity as his cum stared to overflow from your mouth. he threw his head back fucking his fingers into your faster - an unimaginable pace that he knew he was making a mess with your messy insides. his kept his cock stuffed in your warm mouth but unmoving - he used his now unoccupied hand to slap your puffy clit chuckling darkly at your cries when squirt started making yet another mess on his marble.

ghostie was the absolute best at being a house husband. holding your naked body against his own, trying not to touch your sensitive clit as he held you like a baby mixing the warm soup that was now ready!

[backwzzds]

ೃ⁀➷ daddy got you, simon riley

this but with simon. y’all know i love this video

“bet i can make this pretty pussy squirt huh?” simon looked down at you with malevolent eyes. you’re breathing hard and heavy as you strain your neck to look past your chubby tum and watch simon’s assault on your puffy clit.

“nghh!” you’re crying out as his movements against your cunt continues its speed. you began to feel this odd pressure bubble up in your lower region. “s-si—si, si—i have to-i have to pee!” your voice hurries in a high tone as simon stares down between your legs with dark concentrated eyes.

your man chuckles and ignores your cries with the most malevolent grin. unsurprisingly, he knew you weren’t gonna cum normally like you did. no, with the way your pretty cunt was fluttering around his thick fingers more than usual and how your spongy walls gripped his digits like a vice; simon knew exactly what was on the way. “no you dont, sweetheart. ‘s somethin’ else. let it out for daddy, yeah?”

you shake your head urgently, almost feeling as if this was torture, knowing you secretly loved behind held down by your man like this. but you couldn’t hold that burning feeling in your pussy anymore; you had to let go.

“please please, i’m gonna piss myse—“ your mouth falls open as little spurts of clear liquid erupt from your cunt, simon grinning and fastening his assault on your poor clit when the intensity of your orgasmic waterfall increases. you feel tears fall down your heated cheeks as simon’s practically knuckles deep between your legs, still earning that orgasm from you. “oh my g—fuckkk!”

“daddy got you,” he cooed, continuing to rub at your fat nub while you squirted all over him. “daddy got you, lovie. let it all out princess.”

“nghh daddyyy!” you cried out, feeling your breath taken away from you as you couldn’t stop squirting for the next thirty seconds. you don’t know how you had this much built up in you; but the longer simon’s thick digits were inserted into your pussy, the harder you came around him.

when he finally sensed you’d had enough for the night, simon removes his fingers from inside you, eliciting a heavy exhale from you. with a loving kiss to your clit, all puffy from overstimulation, simon places a final kiss on the inside of your thigh with a silent you did good baby in his gesture.

“such a pretty mess you made, mama.”

[dimicul]

wine red

simon riley x chubby!female reader

just something quick i wrote after i saw this ghost headcanon on tt :,)

“Nothin’, just don’t like how my stomach sticks out.”

Simon pauses, his expression neutral. He glances towards you, drinking in the sight of your features drawing into a small frown as you studied your reflection, hands supporting the small pudge around your belly. He notes how bloody beautiful you look in red, but looks back to his own shoes, urging back a grunt of frustration.

You never complained about your belly.

He’s been around you long enough to be aware of your insecurities, watching you pad towards the bathroom mirror and prod at your pimples, grumbling at the bump on your nose bridge, sometimes sat beside him in bed with a sparkly face mask on - it was second nature to know you, and although it pissed him off to no end, he also understood insecurities were normal.

But this - this was different. You embraced your body, curves, blemishes and all, the crooks and crevices denting your flesh - you didn’t care for the sly looks or judgemental comments, you wore whatever the hell you wanted. And if anyone had a problem, Simon would have fixed it in a heartbeat. This wasn’t your insecurity, this wasn’t a flaw, it was a part of you you loved.

Simon couldn’t handle your expression.

A sigh, a clacking of heels - you had torn your gaze away from the mirror, face scrunched up into one of those mopey frowns Simon adored, and grabbed the leather coat from the rack. It’s almost suffocating, the silence, and he does realise he needs to say something, but talking wasn’t always his strong suit. So his jaw clicks into place, shoulders broad and unmoving, gloved hands resting on his thighs.

Suddenly Simon is sixteen again and sat in front of his headteacher.

He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, whiskey irises boring into the back of your head before you turn with a half assed smile. Ha. He’s glad he can understand your little moods now, or else this night would’ve turned for the worse.

“Come.” The baritone of his voice draws you out of your darting thoughts. You sigh, stepping forward.

You’re not prepared for when his large hands latch onto your hips gently, pushing you forward so his head could rest on your stomach.

“Si-”

And again. You’re doing things you’ve never done before - you always let him rest on your stomach, it was never something you panicked about. A beat passes and your boyfriend lifts his head, penetrating eyes contrasting starkly against the red of your dress.

“What’s up with you?”

You purse your lips, mulling over his tone. “Nothing, just - this dress wasn’t always so… fitting.”

Simon hums roughly, and you inhale sharply at his hands stroking against your hip tenderly.

“Look’s fine to me.”

Neither of you say anything. Not a lot of words needed to be said around him, but then again, not a lot of men were like Simon. Your eyes soften, and you let your palm rest on the back of his neck, your touch making him hum again, the vibrations against your belly causing you to shudder.

“Ev’ry big boy needs his big girl.”

You laugh sweetly, and finally, he exhales quietly, welcoming the feel of your nails against his neck. He supposed it didn’t matter what the hell you thought about yourself.

Because he’d always want you.

[v1x3n]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡+ - CHUBBY READER

simon 'ghost' riley x reader ⸝⸝ navigation ୨୧ tags : fluff, smut

୨୧ 𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 : headcannons about chubby reader x simon riley!!

To everyone who thinks Simon ‘ghost’ Riley would have a chubby/fat partner. You are spot on, ive thought about this for as long as ive seen ghost and he for sure would.

The comfort that he can do whatever and you will not snap in two just makes him feel alive. With anyone he's been with - any height, body type. Anything. You're the only one who he loves most and God, your body is one of the best things!

He loves to grip onto you, your hips, thighs. Anything he can hold and squeeze without it hurting. Your thick thighs moving around the house could make a man levitate. So fucking hot. Your thighs that flow around the couch when you sit could make him cum on the spot. He loves thick, massive thighs. Needs something to sleep on and they do the trick. The most comfortable night's sleep he's ever had honestly.

Your arse is bigger though, the round plump shape that shakes when he slaps it. Each and everything you bend over his hand connects with your bum, ripples dancing along the fat as you spin around and glare him in the eyes.

"Oi"

"couldn't help it, sorry dove” his stupid smirk soon followed.

He felt powerful. No, he feels invisible when he picks you up, showing off how fucking strong he is. He does it a few times a week at least, he knows he likes it and he knows you do too. You both love it, both knowing you are just a feather to him. Hardly anything worth straining over.

If you are insecure, be prepared for the amount of:

Compliments

Ego booting

Telling off (sorta)

Showing off

Touching

cause theres a lot. His compliments ranged from fluffy stuff to the naughty, wet pussy compliments. The kind of stuff that would get you squirming in your seat, legs closed trying not to let the moist out from your dirty cunt.

"Fucking hell, look at this gorgeous ass body. wann’ just bend you over and show how much I love your thick ass.” He would groan.

When trying on an outfit, then wondering ‘do I look massive?’ almost makes him teleport to you. Your trying on a sexy little piece. One you wouldn't normally wear. When he passes you, his eyes instantly spot your thighs, the soft skin glowing under the dress, then your bum (obviously) then your gorgeous hair. He could practically radiate your bad thoughts.

"God, that looks so good on you, so so pretty. You wearing it anywhere? Well other than with me to bed.” Another smirk. You roll your eyes, you always do to his ridiculous lines like that.

Just on the couch, you're wearing something completely different from normal. Most days you were just comfortable in your underwear or just one of his shirts but today? Today you were in a baggy hoodie and joggers that float around your body, the once flesh now just a sag of material. He knew something was off.

“Dove? What are you wearing?” his eyebrows shoving up to almost his hairline.

"something comfy” your faux smile after just hitting him in the head with what was wrong. Your lies were outrageous and he knew whenever something was going on.

"don't give me that, your body is fucking gorgeous!” He sits next to you and wraps his arm around you which shoves you into his chest. "You shouldn't think anything negative about it. Id just have to prove how fucking beautiful you are” a blush spread across your cheeks. Remembering the last incident when he ‘proved it’.

Out at a bar again, you're too hammered. Way too drunk. You had promised you wouldn't that much because it was a little meeting up with his team. His team loved you, all of them. Price treated you as if you were one of them, Soap loved to come round to yours at least once every few months to try your delicious cooking and Gaz loved how you dress, you two would talk about it and pick out orders from fashion brands together. But anyway! You are outrageously drunk. wankered. Barley able to stand up thats when your truck like boyfriend comes to the rescue. Picking you up and shoving your short little skirt down so you dont flash anything thats his. Clearly flexing his muscles as he does so, showing everyone how built and strong he is.

“time for home love, let's get you sober up hm?”

His arm warped around your waist when he saw you cooking, softly patting your belly and his hand moving down your pants. You sequel "Simon! "I am cooking!” your words really pronounced. It doesn't really look like he cares though with how he carries on. His fingers play with the seams of your underwear before slipping into them, touching your clit slightly. "I need to make your- fuck!” moan as he taps into it hardly. His free hand grabs onto your left boob and squeezes the fat. Your nipples pop through the middle of his fingers when he rubs them in between. You scream out. The sensation of both his hands working at you could just make you feel the orgasm pushing out.

"Recken you could focus on cooking? Divint want burnt food dove” his lips brought to your neck and pecks a soft kiss there. His smug grin could be felt. Dick.

All the sensitivity is working up and creating loud moans and high pitched whines. Your eyes roll back for a second before you focus back on the food, trying not to let it burn. Flipping it over and gribbing his hand from over the fabric. Pushing his fingers onto it more which makes yet another mewl. “dirty little thing, ain't it?” he taps it a few times. Like a pat you give your mate before leaving. And with that he removes himself from the sticky situation. Plopping himself onto the couch, ready for dinner and hoping for dessert.

comment to join main taglist!

[thirstydemisexual]

LINGERIE||Simon"Ghost"Riley X Plus size!reader

Plot: A package that you definitely did not order gets delivered to your house

(inspired by the amazing fic "Friction" by @daisies-daydreams , I just had to write my take on Ghost buying his plus size girl some lingerie because DAM if it isn't stuck in my head)

Rating: (18+)

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: smut!, smut with little plot, body worship, mirror sex, Simon fucking your insecurities away, a lot of self projecting, a lot of pet names, p in v you know the drill, unprotected sex, creampie, oral(f!recieving)

This is the first smut I write and English isn't my first language so please be kind :)

No beta we die like the respect I hold for myself

It was a quiet morning, you had been lounging on the couch reading a book a friend recommended to you months ago and you just got around to actually give it a go, when the sound of  the doorbell startled you. You quickly got up from the couch putting your slippers on and went to open the front door, retrieving a package from the hands of the delivery man.

You were slightly confused, the package was clearly addressed to your name but you couldn't remember ordering anything. Curious you settled the package on the kitchen counter and made quick work of the tape with some scissors.

Inside of the cardboard box was another smaller box, decorated with a pretty flower motif and the name of a brand that was not familiar to you. Opening it and unraveling the various level of tissue paper you found your face heating up once realising the content of it.

It was a lingerie set, and a pretty expensive looking one at the sight of it.

It was a blush pink lace babydoll with matching lace panties and matching fishnet stockings with lace trims.

You quickly dropped the fabric trying to regain some composure and made a beeline for the door leading to the garage where your  boyfriend was busying himself working on his bike.

Simon didn't hear you coming in, too busy on his work and distracted by the music blasting from his phone or at least you thought so.

You see Simon knew exactly what package was going to be delivered that day and since the doorbell rang he was expecting for you to get to him.

"Si" you called out from the doorway, face flushed and voice uncertain.

He turned around, teasing smirk on his face, dark eyes meeting your gaze.

"Hey love, something's wrong?" he asked turning the music off and going to the sink and heading to the utility sink to clean his hands from the motor oil that was adorning the hands that you loved so much.

"Did you ehm-" you faltered " would you happen to know who exactly ordered a lingerie set to my name?" You ended crossing your arms under your breasts, looking at your feet.

His smirk turned into a full on smile while he strode towards you, his tattooed arm reaching out to hold on your plump hip, bringing you closer to him while the other hand reached for your cheek, caressing it tenderly before grabbing your chin and bringing your eyes to meet.

"Oh that?" he said then, head lowering to kiss just below your ear " I thought I would spoil my little princess for once"

No matter how many times he would use terms of endearment your heart would still flatter like it was the first time.

"Don't you think it's a bit too much?"

His gaze from playful quickly turned serious as he rose from the crook of your neck to look back into your eyes.

"What do you mean sweets?" He asked as you tried to look away "look at me"

"I mean" you pause swallowing, eyes quickly becoming lucid "Would something like that even suit me?"

"Again, what do you mean with that?" He asked again, gaze never leaving yours.

It took you a moment to get the words out, with a little tear

"I don't think something like that would suit me. I would look ridiculous with all THIS spilling out" you finally responded, indicating your thick thighs and soft stomach with your hands.

"(Y/N)" Simon's tone was serious as he leaned in to kiss your tear strained cheeks "I wish you could see yourself with my eyes"

His arms suddenly reached down under your ass and you quickly sneaked yours around his neck as you got what he was doing. He quickly picked you up, eliciting a surprised sound to leave your lips.

No matter your weight, in his arms you felt light as a feather as he walked with you in your arms, no signs of struggle. He left the doorway before pushing your back against the wall of the hallway that led to the kitchen. His lips met yours in a slow but fiery kiss. Your hands found themselves in his hair pulling, eliciting a little moan from him. He then pulled just enough to be able to speak, lips still basically on yours

"I'll kiss every insecurity out of your body or die trying"

He then secured his arms around you once again and began walking towards your bedroom and unceremoniously trowing you on your king size bed

"Wait for me" he then dashed out of the room.

You didn't have to wait long for him to come back with the lingerie box in his hands, placing it on the nightstand before climbing on top of you.

He kissed your forehead and started leaving a trail of kisses from reddened cheeks down to your throat.

"You are so perfect darling" his lips settled on your pulse point, eliciting a moan to leave your kiss swollen lips.

His hands roaming the curves of your body before making their way under your shirt stilling for a second, waiting for your permission to go on.

"Please" you let out of your shaky lips.

He didn't waste a second before removing your oversized t-shirt, revealing your bare chest, before pulling back and take in the sight of you.

"Look at you" he cooed, pupils blown wide while he licked his lips as if he was about to devour the most delicious meal.

Having him look at you with so much desire and want had your blood rushing south.

He started trailing kisses from your neck to your chest, your breath quickening.

His mouth immediately attached to one of your nipple, tongue playing with the heartened peak, a hand sneaking to your other breast playing with the left out nub, twisting and pulling in the way he knew was going to make you moan the hardest.

"Such perfect tits" he commented, deciding to abandon the peak to leave hard kisses all around your breasts, that were most definitely going to leave hickeys.

You arched your back, hands reaching out to his shoulders, grabbing and pulling at his black t-shirt.

"Si, 's not fair. I wanna touch you too" you mumbled between moans before his hands left your breast to capture yours in his, pinning them at your sides.

Mouth leaving your chest to look in your eyes once again.

" Nah ah sweetheart, this is about you"

He moved south, letting go of your hands with a look that let you intend that you better keep your hands for yourself. Simon started kissing your abdomen, hands kneeding at the flesh at your sides before settling on the waistband of your shorts.

"Can I?" He asked eyes locking into yours, before tugging your shorts and panties down in one move after you gave an enthusiastic nod.

"Such strong and beautiful legs" he started praising leaving kisses and small bites to your thigh, gaze still fixed into yours.

"You know I can't get enough of you, right? You-" he took a moment to raise from his position to place a sloppy kiss to your mouth"-are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. Do you believe me?"

Your insecurities were screaming in the back of your head but you couldn't let them win, not when he looked at you like this, with so much love and desire. You believed him, it was impossible not to.

"I do"

A huge smile made his way to his face, eyes squeezing into small crescents as he got up from the bad. A whine of protest rising from your throat.

He took your hands and led you to your feet, before reaching for the box.

"Will you let me?" He asked, fabric in his hands.

"Yes"

"Hands up darling " you did as he said, fabric gliding over your arms. He caressed you while positioning the babydoll correctly over your figure, kissing you're shoulder right next to the strap before going on his knee. He made you step into the matching lace panties of the set, slowly dragging the piece up your legs before fitting it to your bottom.

He looked up at you while lifting one of your legs up to slip on the matching stockings. It all felt so heartworming, the way he treated your body like a precious thing, how he touched you like he was afraid to break you but his moves still confident like always, he knew what he was doing to you.

Once he had finished dressing you he rose up and you didn't waste a second before throwing yourself at him, passionately kissing him.

He left out a low chuckle before sliding his hands to your hips to softly push you around. You complied but let out another whine at not being able to kiss him how much you wanted.

You now where facing your full length mirror, hammered to the wall of the bedroom.

A rush of blood run to your cheeks, you weren't used to wear this type of things but you had to admit that it didn't look half bad.

"What do you think?" Simon asked, back pressed into yours, moving your hair away from your shoulder to kiss your exposed skin.

"I actually like it" you replied, letting one of your hand run on the fabric while the other reached for Simon's hand on your hip.

"Good" he whispered in your ear before starting to let a trail of kisses down your jawline and to your neck "because I intend to fuck you in it"

You let out a small yelp at the sudden attack on your neck, before Simon took your hands in his and positioned them on either sides of the mirro before taking your hips and moving them backwards so that your body was now in a 90 degree angle.

"Si~" you whined looking at his reflection in the mirror after he left a light spank on your butt "I want you"

He chuckled before stepping back to strip out of his clothes, his hard on slipping free from his boxers already covered in precum.

"Who am I to keep the most beautiful girl in the world waiting?" He knelt once again to the ground "But I need to prep you first"

He didn't bother taking off the panties you just put on and that were already soaked, he just pulled them aside before diving face first into your dripping sex.

As he licked up you slit and one of his hand slipped to your from to start circling your clit, you couldn't help the loud sounds you were making or the shaking of your legs.

His other hand reached your needy hole, spreading your folds with two fingers before letting one of them slip in.

Then one finger became two and then three and you were coming so close to your release.

Until Simon pulled out, sticking the slick fingers into his mouth and releasing a guttural sound at the taste.

"Simon" you nearly screamed " I was so close" a couple tears of frustration leaving your eyes.

"I know baby but I want you to come on my cook alright?"

He wasted no time before pushing is hard member into your pussy, thrusting so hard you almost smashed your face in the mirror with every push.

Upon realising that his tattooed arm sneaked to yourself and made you stand up a bit straighter as his hand gripped on your throat, not enough to stop you completely from breathing but restricting it enough in the way he knew made your head spin like crazy. His other hand steading your hip and keeping it still while he rocked into you.

"Look at yourself" he grunted "look at how beautiful you look while I fuck you"

It didn't take long for you to come after that, moaning his name, head falling back into his shoulder.

"Fuck, I'm close" his thrusts becoming sloppy "where do you want it?"

"Inside" you let out as best as you could with the small amount of air you had access to.

"I need you Simon" another breath "Need you so, so bad"

That was all it took for him to come, his hips stilling, painting your insides with his seed.

You both took a moment to breathe before he picked you up, still balls deeps into you, before dropping you both on the bed. He then pulled out, you hissing at the missing feeling of him inside you before turning around and nestling your head on his chest, sliding your arms around his waist. His hands bring you closer, one softly playing with your hair.

"You did so well for me, my beautiful, beautiful princess"

I hope you all enjoyed this, thank you all for the support and I hope I'll be able to post more after this week

Please feel free to point out any grammar error you find but please be kind, I'll cry

[itzmnne-3-111]

Tears & Kisses♡

(daddy’s home 😋)

You and your husbands first ‘real’ fight!

“No what I don’t understand is why you came home smelling like some other bitch!” You yelled as your husband came back from the store.

You and Simon rarely fought, yeah there’s tiny arguments about where this goes and why some girl was looking at him or you funny but it never truly got heated but when he came back from the store and he smelt like perfume and roses you knew something was up…..Or did you?

“Love js’ listen It’s not what you think-“ Simon tried to explain as he put the bags down on the floor and took a step closer to you. All he saw was your hand in his face as you put a hand on your hip and started to speak “I ask you to go out and get me somethin’ while I make you dinner. And you come back smelling like some bitch from the suburbs. What she look like?” You said as you pushed past him and went to grab your car keys but you were blocked by his arm. “Just lemme talk love, please” he said and gently put his hand on your shoulder. You looked up at him one eyebrow cocked as you crossed your arms “hurry up cause I don’t got all day” you said your voice annoyed and cold. You heard your husband sigh then he slowly put his hands down. “Alright.. was just walkn’ through the mall jus like ya told me. Then went into that store ya fond’ over, Poolta? Bulta?..”

“Ulta” you interrupted “yeh’ tha.” He said then took another breath “went to get you some make up the..shit you put on your lips yeah? Then some broad walk n’ fronta me n started sprayin her body with some shit shot all over me” he said as he looked at you softly, hoping you’d listen to him he was about to speak again before you sucked your teeth and slammed your keys on the table “you lucky cause I woulda whooped yours and her ass” you said then sighed as you put one hand on your hip and the other on your head as you shook it slowly “thank you lovie” he said softly as he came a bit closer. You looked up at him “you wanna..go get somethin to eat? We can go to that English place you like?” You stammered as you tried to figure out a way to apologize without physically saying sorry. You felt a pair of chapped lips kiss your cheek then forehead as he pulled you into him slowly “Nah jus wanna cuddle t’nite” he said as he lifted you up and took you upstairs to your shared bedroom “You better wash that damn shirt though” he chuckled as he kissed your neck and cheek as he held onto your in the bed “corse I will, n’ you can cover me in your perfume” he said as you two fell asleep together ♡

-Bonus!-

Simon groaned as he smelt a sweetish sent coming from downstairs. He slowly walked to see you in his shirt and some shorts as you made another piece of beans on toast “love? What you doin?” He said as he walked up behind you to give ya a little hug “It goes against everything my mama done taught me but..I wanna make you happy cause..I might have did you wrong last night..” you said and handed him the plate. “You’re so sweet love, makin yer’ husban’ happy yeah?” He said then took a bite “even burnt the toast a little cause I know how you like your food n shit..” you said and patted your bonnet before you felt saucy lips press against your cheek “Aww Simon you got bean juice on my face!” You said and wiped your cheek as he laughed “Love you too hun”

(If you didn’t notice I dunno how to like write his accent the way I want but imma learn 😭🙏🏾)

[bamblepee]

After reading so much fan fiction (thank you @ 391780) I decided the only way to alleviate the brain rot was to just draw this big doofus and a y/n loosely based off me.

Just a doodle bc I’m busy with stuff but I love Simon sm and I’m gunna make a price one (maybe) later.

Edit: I rendered this image btw here

[1simpchunkygirl]

Will be silently waiting for part 5 but this is good \(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/

P2 P3

Reader who gets pregnant off of a one night stand with some soldier during armed forces day, showing your appreciation for his service a little too well.

You had a support system, friends who joked about you having way too much fun, hence your predicament, others already offering to buy things for the baby and your parents who couldn't be happier to meet their grandchild.

But what about the father?

Well, it's not exactly like you could track him down. Fuck, you didn't even know the man's name, only how he made you feel, his filthy words strumming in your ear, big hands tight around your waist, hips slamming away in a desperate chase.

Let's forget how you leg-locked him.

When your daughter was born, everything changed, and time slowed down. She was a quiet baby, barely crying or having any outbursts like a normal child would but outspoken in her own little way. That chunky thing came out of the womb with a glare. Brown eyes staring down anyone and everyone but you.

That's something she definitely got from her father. You vividly remember how his umber eyes watching you from across the bar. He was like an eagle waiting for the perfect moment to strike his prey. A perfect soldier.

So, you named your daughter Adira in memory of his strength. That's one thing he could have.

Adira loved to be by your side. Her chubby cheeks pressed into the nook of your neck, holding you close with strength of a thousand babies. Your clingy little thing was a koala, always by her mommy's side, never straying far no matter how curious she got. When she learned to walk, her favorite thing became to hug your leg, especially while in stores. She hated people, wearing a tiny scowl whenever customers passed by tucking herself closer to you.

Maybe it was a good thing her father wasn't around. Having to compete for her first words would've been a bloodbath.

You spent two years in bliss. The fact that you were a single mother an afterthought to raising what you considered a blessing.

With Adira's second Christmas coming up, you wanted to do something special. She loved trains and found them absolutely amusing, often mimicking the honk as she ran around your apartment. Thankfully, there was a train ride for kids around the park during this time of year.

Here, you stood in line, bundled up to the nines. Big poofy coat, warm gloves, and fuzzy boots. As the crowd moved, Adira clung close, arms wrapped around your leg, glowering at any passerby with an annoyed look on her rosy cheeks.

That one was new. Maybe something else she got from her father.

The two of you took steps in tow, keeping Adira close and comfortable as the train came into view. Her expression shifted, excitement palpable. "Twain!" She squealed, jumping up and down.

Before you could respond to Adira's childlike joy, a man bumped into you by accident, nearly stumbling over his own feet. He turns to look at you, blue eyes meeting yours, but you were too focused on the weird ass Mohawk on his head.

People wore still those?

"Sorry bout that lass." The man starts to apologize, a Scottish accent lacing his voice.

That breaks your stare, laughing awkwardly to mask your wandering gaze. "Oh no, it's fine. You should be careful. you might slip on ice."

He nods, giving you a kind smile. The Scottish man starts to leave, but the look your kid was giving him sent shivers down his spine.

Little Adira was giving him a fierce stare down from behind your leg before ultimately cutting her eyes at him as if he were merely a nuisance.

"Next in line! Mctavish!"

The man doesn't stay after that. You assume that it was him they were calling with the way he hurried off. Hope he doesn't fall, seemed like a nice guy.

Soap can't help but do a double take when be gets to the front. The little rascal was wearing his Lieutenants face, hawk eyeing anyone who dared got to close. It was like looking in a mirror.

He nudged Gaz, making a gesture to look back without making it obvious. "See the lass and her bairn in line?"

Gaz gives him a raised brow, looking back for a second before turning around. "There's a lot of kids with their mother's, Johnny."

Soap glances back, double checking to make sure you were still in line. “The lass with the wee one—she’s got the same wicked look as Lt. You cannae miss her.”

Gaz rolls his eyes but humors Soap by looking once more, his eyes scanning the crowd until they land on a little girl already mean-mugging him from a distance. He swiftly turns around, blinking in surprise, trying to comprehend what he saw. "Uh..."

Soap only nods in agreement. That was Ghost's face, on a kid no less. He wastes no time, elbowing Roach and getting him to look back as well, leaving the other Sergeant in the same shock as Gaz. "That is not a face a kid should have."

"Agreed." Gaz added, shuddering at the thought.

"Where's the cap?" Soap asks, the train ride no longer feeling like fun now that he’s discovered the jackpot.

"Market place with Lt. for cigs," Gaz knowingly remarked, remembering that Price had run out on their way here.

"Well, let's go show them a Christmas miracle," Soap shot up from his seat all too eagerly.

The sergeants just got their Christmas present.

[beloveds-embrace]

Telling Ghost/König you are too heavy for him to pick up or sit on his face, and he doesn’t say anything at first so you think he just accepted it even if your heart kinda twinged a little in pain because you know you are just not skinny enough-

Only for him to send you a video the next day: in the gym, looking mighty hot in a compression shirt and sweatpants just a touch low on his hips, and lifting a bar with ease. On a closer look? The weighs attached to the bar weigh far more than you do. And he so easily maneuvers and controls and manhandles it…

Between the heat curling in your stomach, face pink and thighs clenched shut, you almost miss the incoming text.

Never too heavy for me, doll.

[backwzzds]

thinking about olderbf!simon who finally goes out clubbing with his younger girlfriend. of course it took you weeks to even convince him to go with you. but all your friends were bringing their partners so of course you wanted simon to join you on the night out.

after a few drinks, you and your homegirls are already turnt up at the table. their boyfriends weren’t exactly simon’s age group, so he didnt find himself conversing with them much other than sharing a beer with one another tonight. your friends actually didn’t mind your age gap, especially when they noticed how chill simon was with you.

he practically let you do whatever you want, bought you whatever you want, and did everything you asked without a second thought. he spoiled you endlessly, and your warm touch engulfing his body at the end of every other night that he was home was enough for him to feel loved by you.

you and your friends continue your fun as you suddenly gather the brilliant idea to dance the moment you hear sexyy red play on the speakers. the alcohol fully clouds your judgment at you climb against the booth and began twerking behind simon, laughing as your friends join in and mirror your actions.

simon, slightly feeling buzzed from the sips of his own drinks tonight, can’t help but reach back and pull down your short skirt, making sure you don’t flash anyone in the club especially cuz you don’t always wear underwear. the last thing he needed was to get into a fight tonight.

the older man can’t help but bob his head to the catchy beat of the ratchet song, silently supporting your drunk antics as you practically shook your ass cheeks against the back of his head. his face remained hard and stoic as he continues nodding along to the music, eventually patting your ass in the rhythm that you dance. it was obvious that he was having a good time though, simply by being in your presence.

usually, simon didn’t fit into typical crowds. i mean, not with your age group at least. he was almost 40 and as youthful as he looked, his age also showed occasionally. he didn’t like to party often or constantly be in social outings, but he did only if you asked him to accompany you. he looked like the odd one out having your fine ass dance on him the way you were, especially when he only kept a straight look on his face for the majority of the night.

“girl he’s so chill!” your friend yells over the loud music ass she danced against her own man’s head.

with a grin, you look back down at simon to see him still pulling down your skirt attentively as the waves of your ass constantly caused it to inch up with every move you made. you grin and yell back. “he always is!”

[monstersholygrail]

Imagine an indecisive Monster lover who doesn’t know what he wants to do more with your cum.

He stares down at your weeping pussy, pearly white droplets of cum dribble out of your spent cunt, ruining your freshly washed sheets and making a mess of your thighs. Your Monster lover nervously nibbles at his bottom lip, focusing so deeply on your leaking core while his mind debates between tasting you or making sure to save every last drop so that his seed will finally take and he’ll get to see you all round, beautiful, and full of his kits.

“G-gotta decide, baby, or the sheets will soak it all up,” you say shakily, body still spasming from the countless orgasms your monster lover had given you. He whines in protest, wanting to take his time but knowing he needs to do something. Maybe just a taste… and then he’ll save the rest.

Monster lover hesitantly leans in and the scent of your arousal washes over him, filling his senses. His eyes nearly roll back in his head, lashes fluttering as he groans. His tongue ever so slowly darts out, flicking along your slit to catch the slightest taste of you. But just that one drop has his mind spinning. He growls ferociously and latches onto your sensitive pussy, swirling his tongue through your messy folds and devouring every drop of your mixed release.

“Fuck, my love. Augh! You taste so good. It’s ok, it’s ok. Will just have to pump another few loads into ya. Make sure they take,” Your Monster lover babbles against your pussy as he feasts on you like a man starved. Unleashing his tongue upon your poor puffy clit and quickly building you toward another explosive climax.

[1simpchunkygirl]

Need a man like this ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡(✿ ♥‿♥)

an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k)

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

[callsigngrim]

Simon Riley is a chubby chaser

He's constantly surrounded by violence he needs to be harder and sharper than his enemies.

He's covered in scars and hard skin from years on the field and his missions always leaves him on edge... until he comes home to you.

You are his complete opposite. You and your soft plush body. The only marks on you skin are the stretch marks you shyly tried to hide the first time you two fell into bed together.

The way everything about you is a luxury he thought he could never deserve.

It takes him a day or too to settle at home. For his brain to register that he's safe and he doesn't need to be ghost he can be Simon.

You don't have time to even think when you hear him come down into the living room before he's on you. Groping your soft flesh and kissing you like there is no tomorrow.

He pushes your soft thighs apart yanks your underwear off. And he feasts. You lock him in soft thighs keeping him in place while he makes a mess out of you.

You've learned fairly quickly that Simon is a talker when he has his face buried in your pretty cunt. He's the happiest when he's being suffocated by the fat of your thighs.

And when he looks up at you and your pretty bouncing tits? The man is in heaven.

He pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you. And he hasn't even fucked you yet.

[tojisun]

the lights are on

!! simon riley x afab reader; chubby reader; confidence and body issues; past bullying (not by simon and briefly mentioned); smut - minors dni // divider by @/plutism!

i projected too much of myself onto the reader so do forgive me for that. this is a milestone celebration for me, mostly, but also for you all so i hope you all would like it too <3

this is inspired by rachel wiley’s “10 honest thoughts on being loved by a skinny boy” - a slam poetry

you are told that love comes easily — that it is the budding of spring, shimmering and vibrant, and blooming oh-so tenderly. unfurling oh-so carefully, like you are melting into padded sheets and cashmere sweaters.

you are told that love comes easily — that it stands out amongst a vast ocean. that it is distinguishable; a beacon so familiar you run towards it, unafraid and unashamed. like fate or destiny; like fairytales being remade.

you are told that love comes easily, but you know they mean to people who don’t look like you; only for the girls with slim arms and robust legs, with dips in their waists and hour-glass figures, with bones pressing against their skins like carved mountains.

love comes easily to thin girls. to the girls whose loud laughter are heard as wind chimes, whose jolly isn’t sneered at or embarrassing to see, whose confidence is just is — that it isn’t an act of empowerment or a statement or a message.

so you slink back into your shadows with little laughs and curled shoulders, like maybe if you diminished your presence enough, you would be seen physically small too. petite is a word no one has used for you but how else can anyone explain the way you trim yourself into bite-sized pieces?

you aren’t the first to be chosen; not the one people fight over. when you walk into a room, the best that could happen was that no one would notice you. that you would blend into the shadows or the walls, quiet and peaceful. painfully lonely, yes, but peaceful, nevertheless.

(you still have nightmares of high school.

of boys using you for their dares, like the only thing good about you was to be the butt of the joke; like asking you out was a comedic show.

of girls and—

sometimes, they’re meaner than the boys with all their lilac and softness; you thought that at least they were a kindred soul, but so many times, during lunch, you were cornered into tears until you became full from nothing but your anguish.)

when simon first walked into your life, you knew it — whatever ‘it’ could be — was impossible.

you had already ended the tragedy before something could even begin. you saw his beauty — in a way that you cannot explain; in a way that is rugged and scarred and terrifying, almost, but beautiful, still — and knew there was no way he would fall for you, anyway.

but simon was… persistent. charming you in a way that was painfully absent of all suave but he was still so charismatic, he always left your stomach in knots. hope bloomed in your chest and you realized that maybe it needn’t be a tragedy; that it mustn’t be a joke nor a dare; that you must be—

loved.

that you are loved — just that. just as is.

.

.

simon watches as you lay down on the bed, your cheeks tingling with heat as embarrassment rises from the base of your neck, dancing past your shoulders and devouring up until even the tip of your nose thrums with feverish touch. you look away from him, feeling so shy at the intensity in his eyes. he looks at you like he is ravenous for you; like you are the only nourishment he needs, and that you have made him hungry, his gums aching with the need to sink his teeth into the soft parts of your body.

you have never been looked at like this before, and it is intoxicating. it makes you heady, breathless, lips parted open as you gasp for air—

rustling fills your ears and you perk up, getting ready to snap your bra off, only to find simon naked, bare, his cock chubbing up from underneath his bush, and you have never loved a body until his. lust coils in the tendrils of your heart, stretching into the yawning that burrows in the pit of your stomach to capture you whole.

you want him.

god, do you want him.

he falls to his knees, stalking close to where you are splayed on the bed like the offering you are that he says he will never deserve, but you stop him with a hand up and a quiet breath, and, “the lights.”

your voice trembles. shame slowly snuffs out the greed.

“can you turn them off, please?” you ask because it is a courtesy you were taught to—

‘can you bathe me in darkness so that the two of us can pretend that i am not undesirable and that your love is not a fluke?’

‘can you hide me from your eyes so your mind does not give you reason to pull away?’

‘can you reduce me into a body to fuck into, so that our pretend-love story does not end?’

your question makes simon still, his heady eyes lightening up again. recognition slips into his consciousness and he rouses up — you tell yourself that the caving in your chest isn’t a heartbreak — to reach forward.

to reach for—

you.

simon’s scarred palm falls to your stomach, planting atop the sea of stretch marks. his thumb traces their ridges, so soft and slow and intimate, and your eyes burn because why is he so cruel?

why must he touch you like you are something to revere? like you are something priceless and that he is undeserving of you? like you are, all parts, beautiful?

“won’t you let me love you like this?” is what he says instead, and he moves, desperate to meet your eyes. “can we do it with the lights on, from now on?”

all the air in your lungs is knocked out of you.

his words were quiet but they resonated so loudly, almost booming and deafening. the world doesn’t freeze nor does time slow, but there is something in that moment that makes you feel like you are at the throes of something divine. like you are finally sewn together.

you do not sob but you are so close to doing so. instead, you pull him close, trembling, and give him a kiss. he melts into it, his hands mapping the softness of your body, digging into the fat and never letting go.

he devours you like this — hot lips against your own. spit is shared, moans fall in between the tiny cracks whenever you pull away to breathe only for simon to push close again, never letting you stray alone any longer, and clingy as he fits you into him.

the first drag of his fingers into your cunt makes you gasp, your head falling back to the pillows as a mewl drips from your mouth. he pulls away, huffing, and positions himself so he can watch you. you keep your head tipped up, still so embarrassed by being exposed this way, but simon curls his fingers just right, and he strokes against something that punches a gasp out of you.

“shit—”

“like this, sweetheart?” simon croons, nuzzling his face on your rib, his cheek bumping against your boob. he pulls his fingers out, dragging with him muffled squelching noises that tickle your ears, before fucking his fingers in you again.

you whine, a drawn hiccupped sound, and claw at the sheets at the pace he adopts. it is fast, overwhelming, but still not enough. it seems like he’s spoiled you rotten, and left you needy for nothing but his cock.

“fuck me,” you whimper, arms looped around his wrists. you feel so weak from the pleasure, wrung out of orgasms with his fingers in your cunt and his palm against your clit. you flick your eyes up, meeting his gaze. “si, please?”

he lets out a snarl, his softness and need peaking into something dangerous. you find that you are not scared, instead, you are besotted — inviting him in by spreading your legs wider, showing him how wet your pussy is and that it is ready for his taking.

your face crumples at the slow slide, his cock fucking you raw like this is the first time again. like you two have more to explore, more to uncover, and you keen at the intensity of it all.

missionary has never felt this good before; simon thrusts his hips, humping the remaining inches in, and you scream — your hips snapping up, and your throat burning with the ache. simon holds you by your waist, his fingers dimpling your flesh, and fucks you with gusto.

he chases his orgasm as he melts into you. he is louder today, and more guttural with his desires. he snarls his praises, the words curling from the backs of his teeth until they drip on you like hot wax — scalding, overwhelming, and leaving you to feel all tender and raw.

“si!” you cry out, reaching forward to play with your clit. “m’close, baby. m’close!”

“yeah?” he rasps out, his balls slapping against your ass. you go dizzy, eyes rolling to the back of your skull as goosebumps rise across the expanse of your body. “do i make my baby feel good? tell me, sweetheart, go on. tell me, huh?”

he is rambling, untethered, himself, as he loses in his own swelling euphoria.

you sob, toes digging into the mattress because you are unable to properly vocalize the pleasure, your mind all razed by the way he fucks you, but your baby is asking you to do so, so you tell him, “s’good. baby, s’good! i feel so full an’ only you can fuck me good an’— an’ si, i’m gonna— i’m gonna—”

your orgasm hits you like a fever breaking; like you are feeling a sense of release that has never been felt before. you feel like you are suspended, floating, your skin buzzing with lightning. you don’t even know you are screaming, deaf to anything but the explosion of ecstatic pleasure.

your teeth rattle at the first spurt of simon’s cum, and he presses uncoordinated kisses on your lips. it makes you giggle, all sluggish now that exhaustion is weaving in, and it is then that you meet simon’s eyes.

they are so clear and vibrant, the way they only ever are under light. they crinkle in his smile, and you puff, snuggling close, feeling like you can drop to sleep with his cock still in you.

“love you si,” you murmur, your words sticking together in your drowsiness.

he presses a kiss on your temple and breathes you in. then, “i love you too, sweetheart.”

and the lights are still on.

thank you once again for the 15k, and i hope you have loved this the way i loved writing it <33

i was struck with the poetry, and the way wiley described the way she is loved. she started her performance with the lines: “i say, ‘i am fat.’ he says, ‘no, you are beautiful.’ i wonder why i cannot be both.” and i have never related to anything more. wiley then talks about how their relationship unfurls, and in ‘6’ (it is a list poetry), she says, “he tells me he loves me with the lights on,” and i sobbed.

so i wrote a fic of me, and i hope thats alright.

[thirstydemisexual]

Tonight I can't stop thinking about pussydrunk!Ghost

In terms of receiving or giving oral Simon definitely prefers giving. Not going to lie he loves to see you on your knees for him but being between your thighs just-

Like he could have the worst day but in the end if he gets to come home and dive in between your thighs all worries are left behind.

He would gladly die in between them. And when you ride his face?

The man is a goner, don't expect him to be able to form coherent sentences for A WHILE

[1simpchunkygirl]

Treat me like a rag doll

request: I headcanon Simon as a gentle dom but by reader’s request, Simon roughly fucking you :((( having his cock in your mouth and tears in your eyes as you moan from him hitting the back of your throat :(( massaging his balls. You just want to be covered in his cum!! Simon having enough and hastily getting you up into his arms and finally fucking into you while holding you up. He’s nipping at your jaw and neck, grunting into your ears and letting his mouth run wild as he talks about your wet pussy. Bonus points for a very sloppy creampie :(((( I just want his cum so bad it hurts

sloppy drooly sex w simon :(((

you asked simon to be rough w you this time and even though he was unsure at first because he knew he wouldnt hold back he agreed :(((

simon and throat fucking !!!! he wouldnt even let you have your way :(( hes got his hands tangled in your hair holding your head and forcing his big cock down your throat :(((

and when you look at him with teary doe eyes that man loses it 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 he will throw his had back while the sluttiest moan makes his way out of his throat 😵‍💫

and he will cum all over your face!!! and make you swallow his cum that went in your mouth :((

'swallow it, love' and then you open your mouth to show him that you did in fact swallow :((

'mmh yeah, thats my good girl' 😵‍💫 (istg that man-)

and then he scoops you up in his arms (because yes that bitch can manhandle you no matter your size) he burries his face in your chest or neck and leaves hickies EVERYWHERE!!!! :((

no because he WILL grunt in your ear and nuzzle his nose in your hair 😵‍💫

'nngh, fuckin' love this pussy, baby' while hes nipping at your jaw :(((

and then you both cum at the same time 😵‍💫 but im telling you that man can cum so much that he cums both inside of you and all over your tits and tummy :(((

hes sloppy hes messy and i need him so bad.