🧧

He tried once- some lean bird with sharp hips and delicate wrist bones that looked like they’d snap if he squeezed too hard. She was pretty in the way fragile things are: all long lines and hollow shadows. When he gripped her waist, his thick fingers overlapped easily, too easily, and the thought hit him like ice water: he could crush her if he forgot himself for even a second. When he buried himself deep, she gasped sharp and tight, her whole body tensing like it hurt more than it pleased, fighting to take the stretch of him. Every thrust felt like walking a razor’s edge, one wrong move from snapping her in half.

It left him cold. Detached. Fucking her was like handling fragile ordnance- too much awareness, too much restraint. Her flesh bruised too easily, blooming purple under his grip like overripe fruit splitting open in the summer heat if you squeezed just right. Her thighs shook from strain instead of pleasure, barely able to wrap around his waist without trembling.

There was no soft give when he pressed his full weight down, no warm overflow of flesh to sink into. Just sharp bone digging back at him, quiet winces she tried to hide behind bitten lips, and moans that sounded more like endurance than ecstasy. She didn’t beg for harder. She just took it, eyes squeezed shut, surviving him.

And Simon Riley had spent too many years surviving on endurance already. He didn't want a body that reminded him of fragility every time he fucked it, one that made him feel like a brute, something dangerous that needed to be leashed. (Something that made him feel like his father.)

The first time he sank his fingers into your soft, overflowing hips, something deep in his chest unclenched like a rusted lock finally giving way. No brittle bones under his palms. No fear that one rough thrust would bruise or break you. Just warm, yielding flesh that took every brutal snap of his hips Cushion. Give. A body that could handle his full weight.

He loved the way your belly pressed soft and warm against him when he folded you in half, how your thick thighs tembled and squeezed around his waist. He liked burying his face between them, smothered in heat and softness while they shook and soaked his face.

You could take him, cock pounding so deep it punched the breath from your lungs and still look up at him with heavy lidded eyes and moan "Harder, Simon, please."

He’d never say it out loud. Never explain the way your body made the constant roar in his head go quiet. But the truth was brutally simple:

Delicate things broke under his hands.

Soft, heavy, generous bodies didn't.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

Simon Riley didn’t do soft.

He didn’t do gentle smiles across a room or teasing glances that lingered too long. He didn’t know how to lean against a wall and charm someone with a few well placed words. Those were things other men did—men who grew up in homes where love looked like laughter and warm dinners.

Simon grew up where love looked like broken dishes and bruised knuckles.

So when he realized he liked you, it confused the hell out of him.

It started small. You worked nearby—same building, different department. He’d seen you around enough to recognize the soft way you moved through rooms, like you were trying not to disturb the air. Always polite. Always quiet. Eyes that never quite held his for long.

At first, he thought you avoided him because of the mask.

Wouldn’t be the first.

But then he started noticing other things.

The way you’d freeze when he walked past, shoulders going stiff. The way your fingers would tighten around whatever you were holding. The way you’d duck your head so quickly he barely caught a glimpse of your face.

Right.

You were scared of him.

Simon leaned back in his chair in the rec room one night, arms crossed as he stared at the ceiling.

Brilliant, Riley.

Still… it didn’t stop the feeling.

It was strange, liking someone. He didn’t know what to do with it. Soap had once said something about flirting—buying drinks, cracking jokes, smiling.

Simon wasn’t about to start cracking jokes.

After two weeks of overthinking it, he came to a conclusion.

Best to just ask.

Direct.

Clear.

Efficient.

All the things he was good at.

So the next morning, when he saw you standing alone near the coffee machine, he decided that was as good a moment as any.

You didn’t notice him at first.

You were focused on the coffee cup in your hands, carefully stirring sugar into it. Humming under your breath as the small spoon clinked softly against the ceramic.

Simon approached like he would a hostile building.

Measured steps. Quiet. Controlled.

When he stopped behind you, his shadow fell across the counter.

You noticed immediately.

Your shoulders stiffened.

Slowly—very slowly—you turned.

And then you saw him.

Six foot something of silent military presence, broad shoulders filling the small breakroom doorway. His skull mask stared down at you, dark eyes watching from behind it.

Your brain immediately chose panic.

Your hands tightened around the coffee cup like it might protect you.

Simon studied you for a moment.

You looked… small.

Not weak. Just… delicate. Like if someone spoke too loudly you might flinch.

He frowned slightly behind the mask.

Right.

Words.

He cleared his throat.

It came out rough.

“You.”

That did not help.

Your eyes widened immediately.

Simon mentally swore.

He tried again.

“You’re… uh.”

Christ.

Why was this harder than interrogation?

“You’re the one who works down the hall.”

Your voice came out soft and nervous.

“Y-yes, sir.”

Sir.

He hated that.

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Oh—sorry—”

You looked like you were about two seconds from apologizing yourself into the floor.

Right. Focus.

Simon straightened slightly, forcing himself to just say it.

His tone was blunt. Matter-of-fact.

“I want to take you out.”

Your brain completely short-circuited.

“…what?”

Simon nodded once, like he was confirming a mission objective.

“Dinner. Or coffee.” He gestured vaguely at the machine. “Whatever people do.”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Your face slowly turned pink.

Simon misread your silence immediately.

His stomach dropped.

Right. Of course.

Why would someone like you want anything to do with someone like him.

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly, voice flattening into its usual military tone. “Was just askin’. Forget it.”

He started to turn away.

And that’s when you panicked.

“N-no!”

Simon froze.

Slowly, he turned back.

You were gripping your coffee cup with both hands, face red, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

“I mean—” you swallowed hard. “I—I’d like that.”

Simon stared at you.

“You would.”

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded quickly.

“Y-yes.”

Simon studied you again.

You were clearly terrified.

Fidgeting. Avoiding his gaze. Nervous energy practically vibrating off you.

And yet… you said yes.

Something unfamiliar settled quietly in his chest.

Not pride.

Not victory.

Just… warmth.

He nodded once.

“Alright.”

You waited.

Simon waited.

Neither of you moved.

Finally you asked softly, “S-so… when?”

Simon considered it like he was planning a tactical operation.

“Friday.”

“O-okay.”

“Six.”

“Okay.”

Another pause.

You looked like you might faint.

Simon shifted awkwardly.

Then, after a moment, he added gruffly,

“I won’t wear the mask.”

Your head snapped up in surprise.

Simon rubbed the back of his neck again, clearly uncomfortable.

“Figured it might help.”

Your expression softened just a little.

And for the first time since the conversation started…

You smiled.

It was small.

Shy.

But real.

Simon felt something in his chest do a strange, unfamiliar flip.

Yeah.

tw: smut! MDNI!!!!!

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

Simon’s home.

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

A hug.

It's routine.

But you’ve got other plans.

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

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

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

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

You know, I usually do paint the 141 in pretty decent light. With that being said, I do believe that Simon is perfectly capable of being just a bit of an ass.

He'd be sarcastic and a bit mean with his words. He would just ignore you if he didn't feel like dealing with you. If you bothered him too much, especially on bad days, he'd snap at you. In those moments, he may intentionally try to tear you down verbally. He wouldn't apologize afterwards either, believing he did nothing wrong even if he hurt your feelings. (Of course if you bring it up to him, in calmer hours, he would apologize. He's a jerk with some anger issues, not a completely heartless monster).

He might grab a bit too roughly, leaving some light bruising here and there (not always intentional). Might enjoy scaring you when you're alone cause he knows he can be really still and quiet. He might steal your favorite items simply because of them being your favorite. Who knows?

ghost as the line cook who has nicotine stains on his fingers no matter how much he washes them, and somehow thats the first thing you notice when he hands you a plate over the pass through. not the skull on the back of his hand or the mishmash of weaponry and warfare that decorates the rest of his arm —though you should have because the tight roll of his shirt sleeve around his bicep had been for no one's benefit but yours— but the slightly yellowed tips of his thick fingers.

female reader + violent men trauma × simon riley who's too in love to be angry

Simon wasn't one to submit to anyone, but you knew that you were the only exception. He was aware that you struggled with fear over authority figures or men in general who looked massive like him. Simon had big shoulders, hands, thighs, and biceps; he had all the built muscles from his military training, and you couldn't deny that, even though it made him attractive, it also showed how he could easily overpower you.

After you became a couple, the initial fear you felt when meeting him disappeared because you learned that he would never dare to hurt you in any way. If he did, this would have caused him unbearable guilt and pain. You knew this, that is why you took special care of him. But, of course, Simon was not as soft with other people. Or with anyone else at all. In the eyes of everyone else, he was a huge body mass of raw violence and bad temper. When he was on base, the recruits he trained were always on edge around him, knowing that at any point he could lose it if anyone dared make a mistake or pretend to be working. That was the worst sin of all: faking productivity in front of a man who had the eyes of an eagle. He knew what they were all up to, and he didn’t let it slide.

Soon enough his authoritative, raspy voice would be heard with all its strength indoors. Everyone jumped in their seats as soon as that common, "Keep moving lads, you've got a hundred more laps to do thanks to your friend here!" hit them, though it was not intended for them. But that was at his job. At home, Simon was different.

He would get home and immediately remove his mask, boots, and gear. As soon as he stepped into that threshold and saw you lying on the sofa, he would get closer, lie on top of you, and nuzzle his face in your neck.

"Hey, luvie."

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.

"Was it good today?"

Simon grunted.

"Neva' a good day training recruits."

"Oh, baby... I'm sorry," you said, as you caressed his hair.

He wouldn't admit it but he loved when you called him nicknames.

"Nothing to be sorry for, luv." Simon sighed when your nails scratched his scalp.

You realized that he didn't understand you were saying sorry for something else entirely different. The truth was he got home and you didn't have anything ready for him because you fell asleep earlier. You always prepared his meals because he would never cook for himself. Simon always said that his cooking was shit, and yours was amazing, which was true based on the one and only burnt meal he cooked for you earlier in your dating days. You knew that if it weren't for you, he would skip his meals as he used to do when you weren't around. But that is not something you could allow anymore.

Taking his face in your hands, you made him look up at you.

Simon frowned, moody. "What?" His accent sounded thicker than ever when he whispered.

"I don't have food ready for us. I fell asleep watching TV, and it started raining, so you know how I get sleepy when it's rainy outside..." Si didn’t let you finish.

"Doesn't matta,'" he said, putting his face back into your neck.

"But..."

"It's alright, luvie. Let's just order some food."

You felt your cheeks blush at his calm attitude. You loved that about Simon, he would yell, and reprimand anyone outside of your home, but you? You were not one of the people on his list. He could never raise his voice at you, never mistreat you. How? You were a sweet little thing that deserved nothing more than thoughtful and gentle care.

"You never get mad at me. You should sometimes, you know? I also make mistakes," you said, completely overcome by guilt.

"No, you don't," he argued, voice muffled against your neck. His hands traveled upward to your waist, where he squeezed you lovingly. "And even if you did something, I wouldn't get mad. It's not good for you."

Your heart squeezed at his words. Simon was so aware of your fear of men and violence that he knew better than to be the cause of your distress. He would rather cut his throat first than ever shout at you in an angry fit and watch you flinch, as he had seen happen in the past with strangers in the street. Even though the shouting was not directed at you, he had seen your shoulders hunch like you wanted to hide inside of yourself and disappear.

No, he would never make you feel that way. You were too precious for him, too soft.

"If I ever shout at you, shoot me with the gun hidden in the cabinet."

"I wouldn't."

Simon snorted as he changed positions and lied on his back, putting you on top of him and wrapping you in his arms.

"I'll do it myself, then."

You punched him in the shoulder at his stubbornness.

"Stop that nonsense. There will be no shooting at anyone."

Si grabbed your hand and pressed it to his lips to kiss every nuckle. His eyes connected with yours in a way that made your heart skip.

"Anybody hurts you, and I'll take care of it. That includes me. But no worries, luvie. I wouldn't let such a pretty girl like you go away."

And you knew he meant it by the way his hands gripped your hips with enough strength that you couldn't move, but enough softness that it wouldn't bruise. You also knew there wasn't any other way that you wanted this to be, you were perfect for each other, and both of you knew it.

☆☆☆

my baby swingin’ — simon (ghost) riley

biker!simon (ghost) riley x fem reader

They're getting away!! My fat neolithic ponies are this month's mail club mini print. I printed them so petite and tiny so you can put them on your desk at work and think about discovering fire. Join on Patreon asap so I can send you your print in the mail!

❀ In which you beg husband!nanami to skip the foreplay

“Please, Ken? Just do it. Just fuck me.”

You’ve been begging your husband to forego the foreplay and take what he wants from your more-than-ready body for what feels like hours now, but, ever the gentleman, he refuses again and again. Groaning initially, he shook his head and tried to get his hands delving into your panties, insisting that you needed attention before he could even think about letting your pretty pussy take his cock whole. 

Kento sighs. “Sweetheart, you know it’ll hurt.”

“It won’t! I’m already wet, I told you.”

Straddling his big thighs, he can hardly fight you off when you’re pushing your panties to the side and aiming his pretty pink tip to your hole. You have your bare breasts shoved in his face and he has half a mind to succumb to the pillow-like softness of your body. Still, he argues, “That may be so but you haven’t been loosened at all, darling. It’s going to hurt.”

“Don’t you want to, Kenny? Don't you want to make love to your wife? Oh, I get it. Maybe you’re just trying to make excuses not to fuck me.” Twirling a lock of his blond hair, you pout, really pushing the theatrics on him just as you pump him once and twice. “Maybe I’m not pretty enough for you anymore – my tummy hasn’t bounced back as quickly as I’d hope and all these stretch marks make me look like a tiger. Is that not your thing, Ken? I bet you wish I was younger and hotter and tighter everywhere, right? I’m sure you want to upgrade to the latest model.”

His brow twitches. Jaw flexing, he throws his foggy glasses off to the side and grabs your hips firmly, a fiery resolution boiling in those eyes off his. You clit twitches at the sound of his deep timbre, taking a threatening pitch. Oh, how you love this side of him; Mean Ken you call it. Mean, Scary Ken.

Kento growls, “That’s enough. You’re playing dirty again. You want my cock that bad? You want to be filled up, to be fucked, so badly that you’d let filthy lies leave these lips of yours? Well, then, here you go, honey.”

In one harsh tug, he’s inside you. Inches are shoved into your pulsing pussy, forcing your doughy walls to stretch suddenly, accommodating that thick girth of his that never fails to leave you panting for mercy. It’s too much too fast. Fuck. He was right. He’s always right. Shit. Your nails dig into his broad shoulders, back arching, thighs threatening to snap shut around his hips, head thrown the fuck back. 

“Ah! S-stop, Ken. It -hah- hurts. Stop. Please.”

Kento shakes the overwhelming lust making him stupid. He got carried away. And, though he vowed to satisfy you, to fulfill every whim and desire, and to spoil you rotten, he should have had the wisdom and control to know this could only end one way. But his wife sounds so pretty and angelic when she begs. Now, look. His darling wife is wincing, body shaking like a leaf, and biting back tears. Something tightens in his chest and he has to resist the urge to stand in the middle of oncoming traffic – a dramatic habit to self-sabotage he never fully left behind from his teen years. 

Cooing, he says, “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. Look at me. Let Kento see your pretty face. Hi, darling. I’m sorry. I hate seeing you like this. Fuck. I told you, didn’t I? I told you, you needed to be loosened properly. Foreplay is important and I shouldn’t have skipped it. I’m sorry. Forgive me, darling.”

“No, I’m sorry, Ken. It was stupid. Ugh, I just wanted to make you feel good; you came back home looking more tense than usual. And I hate feeling useless when you’re working so hard to provide for us.” 

He clutches you to him, calloused hand rubbing circles into your back as the other grips your bare thigh and thumbs at the crease where your leg and hips meet. “How many times do I have to tell you, honey? Making you feel good makes me feel good; I could spend hours tending to you, never touching myself, and I’d be more than happy. Don’t you know by now how much I love eating your cunt? Don’t I show it enough? Have I not been a very good husband lately?”

You shake your head. “No, you’re the best, Ken. Always the best.”

“Hmm, aren’t you sweet?” Kento nuzzles your cheek, teasingly scratching your skin with his growing beard the way you like and slowly pushing his hand up and up until it’s squeezing a tit tight, flicking your nipple on the way to listen to your sharp intake of breath. “If your husband is as great as you say, don’t you think he deserves a reward?”

His cock slides out of you with a pop! and you’re laid out on his desk, papers crinkling under your body, faster than you can say ‘yes.’

With your pussy lips spread for his viewing pleasure, he teaches you the importance of patience, foreplay, and letting your husband take what he needs from you the way he wants and not how you assumed. That evening, you learn a valuable lesson: listen well.

After all, Kento always knows best.