Simon Knows Something Is Wrong As Soon As He Comes Home. (a Little 18+, F!reader)

For you

141! Office AU

Small just trying to get into writing. Hope you enjoy

Waking up to the beeps of the hospital machines and your legs and foot wrapped in a cast is a bit jarring. But it all comes back to you pretty quick.

Wacky girlfriend ran you over with her car.

A fucking car.

Never in your life did you think that would have been run over with a car, but here you are in the hospital sore as fuck. Turning your head to the window, you see that it is dark outside. The nurse must have noticed that you're up, “How you feeling?”

“Like I got ran over with a car”, you answer back.

“Well, technically you got hit by a car and not over it”, which has you laughing because you honestly needed.

“I guess that’s true”, you rasp out. Your throat hurts and you’re starting to feel sore from the pain medicine losing it’s kick.

The nurse is standing next to you , clipboard in hand, “You have a lot of boyfriends, very hot one too”, she gives you a little smirk.

Boyfriends?, “huh”, you’re lagging a little bit, but you know that you don’t have multiple boyfriends, shit you just broke up with your boyfriend of a couple years.

“Tall guy wears a scary ghoul mask, another one with a mohawk , one with really pretty curly hair, and one you could only describe as thick”, she wags her eyebrows with that.

Those are your boss and your coworker , well you would hope that Simon would visit you but you weren’t expecting much from anyone.

“Oh, they came?”

“They were here all day, the only reason they left is because visiting hours are over”, she responds back to you.

They were here all day, for you.

being black >>>>>>>>

I just want to suck the cum out of Eddie Munson like 🧃

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ daddy kink

You’re trying. 

Your body language betrays you. The effort and the turbulence beneath, your eyes flicking rapidly through the parking lot, the ramrod straight line of your spine, your quadricep tensing and relaxing under his palm as he works his fingers from your knee up, back and forth. 

“What’s wrong?” You sigh. Slump. Turn to face him with an anxious pout. 

“I just… I don’t love the restaurant store.” He gives you a chance, and then prompts, pushes just slightly.

“What’s the rule?” 

“Tell you when I’m scared, or anxious. Or overwhelmed.” He squeezes approval, and you continue. “It’s chaos, especially on a Sunday, and… it’s like a warehouse so the sound bounces…  all of it is really loud.” You latch onto his forearm, hard intake of breath sharp before softening, your fingers applying firm pressure. He doesn’t mind. You’re anchoring yourself to him, with him. It’s all he could ask for. 

“It’s okay baby, we’ll get it done and then go home. I’ll be with you.” Your head bobs repeatedly with a nod, but you make no effort to unbuckle your seatbelt or get out of the car. You need a little comfort, a little encouragement, things that are his job to provide, so he’s out of the truck on his side to open the passenger door, reaching over to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.” He works his thumb behind your teeth and rests it on your tongue, a pleased flush rushing through him when you immediately pull and suck on him. “Good girl.” You calm almost immediately, strained muscles and back turning plush, tight corners of your eyes smoothing away. When you lean in, looking for more contact, he decides to test the limits. Your limits. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs encouragingly as he presses deeper into your mouth, “there we go.” You try, but when his knuckles meet your lips and his thumb brushes your throat, the back of your tongue, you seize up, trying to swallow, trying to find air, and jerk away, gagging. He follows the movement, width of his hand against your neck with a finger against your pulse, keeping you steady and still through the swift rise and then decline of panic. It crashes like a wave, receding just as quick and leaving something in its place.

You blink rapidly, gears turning, so obviously trying to reconcile something you’re feeling, something he can so easily read. Worry. Shame. Spiral.

“Stop.” He brushes a kiss across your forehead. “Don’t go there. When it’s time, I’ll take care of you. Do you understand?” Your chest loosens. 

“Yes daddy.” Music to his ears.

“Does your throat hurt?” 

“It’s okay.” He cups the back of your head, guides you into his arms, and place your ear over his heart. You’ve started to tap your fingers with the rhythm, against your skin or his, self soothing, and it makes him whole. It’s not just a sexual dynamic with you, it’s everything, an entire soul under his shelter, a whole human using his heartbeat to ground themselves, and nothing is more fulfilling. “Ready to go?” You tug on him instinctively, hopping from the truck, keeping your grip locked in his. 

“Yeah.” He smiles at your resolve, the confidence. 

“Brave girl. C’mon.” 

It doesn’t bother him that you lock up again, the store is a madhouse. It’s overcrowded, and loud, the metal roof of the warehouse doing nothing to dull the senses, bright lights and too many boxes, bags, things being tossed around. 

You’re wide eyed, rooted to the floor, still clutching his arm in a stranglehold and he herds you towards a corner. 

“Tell me.” You don’t start immediately, scrounging around for words, and he encourages with a gentle reminder. “Remember your rules baby.” It doesn’t take anymore coaxing after that. 

“I’m overwhelmed.” You blurt, wincing, but just as he predicted, hoped, you visibly relax, and he takes your face in his hands. Holds his whole world. 

“Proud of you sweetheart.” Tears shine in your eyes, dew drops in the corners, and when one falls he wipes it away. “Do you need me to finish your list?” 

“Please, if it’s…” He doesn’t waste time, just moves you to the cart, stations you at the helm so you can steer and he can manage the rest. 

“You’ll push the cart, and stay in the middle of the aisles. I’ll get the things you need.” You blow out a breath. 

“Okay.” 

“When?” 

“Dunno. Sometime next week, I think. Wasn’t real clear.” Simon groans, rubs his nose into his palm and then pauses, listening for footfalls in the hall or the adjacent bedroom.

“Well, if they’re goin’ we are too. I’ll see what’s going on, let you know later.” Gaz grunts an affirmative and hangs up. He’s been restless, itchy, just like the others, but Simon’s in no rush. 

Not now. 

Not when he has you, here in house, with your things in his bedroom, his bathroom, with your toothbrush next to the sink. The slow migration of your stuff has begun and is in full swing, two fuzzy blankets, your switch, your kindle, even that weird pillow you have that you call Pusheen. It’s a stuffed cat of some kind, he thinks, and you use it as a pillow half the time, which means it’s little eyes are sometimes staring at him in bed. 

But you love it, and you don’t know yet, but he loves you. 

Every sweet piece, even the weird stuffed cat. 

Which is why he’s dreading the next mission, the next time he loads onto an airplane and drops into an undisclosed location, the next time he has to turn his mind dark, shutter his heart, forget about anything that could interfere with completing an objective. 

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want it. 

And he doesn’t want to dwell on it right now either, so he shoves back from the desk and closes his laptop, opting to find you instead. 

You’re in the kitchen. There’s a beater in your hands, something else that’s new to him, and the rich scent of chocolate in the air. 

“What’s this?” He tugs you close, holds you against him with your back to his chest, kisses your ear. 

“Whipped cream.” You shiver, goosebumps raising the hair on your arms. “It’s for…. I made hot chocolate?” 

“Is that a question?” He nips your skin. it’s getting harder to control the instinct, the urge to mark you in every way possible. 

“N-no it’s… I made it. You can make whipped cream! I don’t know why anyone buys whipped cream in a can. I mean, I know. It’s because they don’t realize how easy it is. It’s really so simple and so much better. Obviously, people don’t have time to make it by hand, I know that, I’m not trying to make anyone feel bad, but…” 

“But?” He squeezes your hip. 

“But… it’s so good this way.” The stainless steel bowl glints under the kitchen’s pendant light. “Do you want some?” 

“Of course.” You bounce a bit on your toes, the smile he dreams about lighting up your face. “I don’t think I’ve ever had hot chocolate.” You give him a shocked look.

“Wha… what?” He shakes his head and sips. It’s silky and smooth, but not something that would rot your teeth. There’s a hint of decadent bitterness to it, well balanced, a roasted coffee taste of some kind.

“Didn’t get a lot of sweet stuff, ’til you.” Whipped cream dots your upper lip and he tries to tamp down the rushing blood in his veins. 

“That’s um… that’s…” He puts the mug down, already half empty. 

“It’s what, sweetheart?” 

“It’s nice.” You whisper, drifting closer, and he slides his hands up under your hoodie. 

“Hmm,” You’re so soft, everything about you, head to toe, and you tremble under his touch, the circles he scrawls into your skin as you try to regulate your breathing. He can’t help himself. “You were such a good girl for me today, weren’t you?” 

“Yes daddy, I tried.”

“You were. So good, and so sweet,” he taps your phone and sighs at the glowing numbers on the screen. Tomorrow. “It’s late, and you should be asleep already, go on.” He urges you away from the kitchen with a pat on your ass, even as you try to protest. “Bed, little berry girl.” 

“I can clean up-” 

“Bed,” he pauses, cocks his head and reaches for the bowl of whipped cream. “Will this still be good in the morning?”  Maybe he’ll wake you up with his mouth on your nipples, tongue working circles through cream as he drags his teeth across them, pinching them so he can hear your surprised little squeak. He’d paint you with his own if you were ready, decorate your body with his cum, drag it down to your pussy and then smear it over your clit, working back and forth until you were making your own mess on his hand. 

“Um… yes? If it’s left in the fridge.”

Maybe… 

“Perfect.” 

ok simon and his mail order bride live rent-free in my head now and, like, what i wanna know is what their anniversaries look like? not just their one year anniversary, but also their fifth or tenth? how does it change as they settle into that deep comfortability that comes with being with someone a long time? -391780

this piece i still consider canon mail-order bride, but i see it almost as an extra than a continuation of the current story since it is very much in the future of that timeline. <3

mail-order bride

it's difficult to see the potential of something so mangled. sometimes things are so worn out and so used that they don't reflect what their purpose was. instead of function, they see flaw. instead of value, they see waste.

sometimes you wonder if that's what they saw in you. sometimes you wonder if that's why you were given to him.

that's what they made him. simon was a tortured dog they let loose. they saw value, but only what was left, and perhaps they thought something like you might help them squeeze just that little bit more out of him. one more year. one more op.

the sunlight wakes you up. you forgot to pull the blinds, but when you see simon sleeping peacefully next to you, it's worth it to be up so early. you know as soon as you move, he will wake, so you keep still for just a few more minutes.

today marks ten. he doesn't look much older. he seems to have stopped aging ever since you asked him to put in his papers.

like always, as soon as you sit up, simon blinks awake. he's bleary, but conscious, and when your eyes meet, you smile at him. he lifts his big hand and rubs your back gently. you don't speak any words so early in the morning, but you don't have to. there isn't much to say when the love of your life loves you, and you love them back.

you push the blankets off, giggling when you reveal the black and orange balls of fur that blink up at you. they almost seem irritated that you interrupted their sleep, snuggled in the heat that simon radiated. they'll just have to deal with it.

you drag your hand down simon's leg wordlessly. you hear his deep breaths from behind, and you reach into your bedside table to press a little balm into your hand before spreading the ointment across his knee and under it. you work it into the muscles nice and slow; any faster, and simon will hitch his breath in pain, and you'll have to start over.

you kiss his knee before laying back down, settling into his side, and you lift up your left hand, wiggling your fingers knowingly at him before looking up towards his face. he smiles down at you sleepily, raising his hand to cup your fingers.

"still love me?" you ask softly, and simon pretends to think about.

"mmm..." he rumbles. "still love ya."

"but do you still like me?"

"more everyday."

the first few years were spent trying to play catch-up. fancy dinners, expensive gifts, handwritten letters that could've been novels to try and stuff the love you have for each other all in one night. they were all wonderful; you think about those nights all the time, and you cherish the gifts he's given you like they are a part of you, but today feels different.

today might not be just another day, but it's just as special as yesterday. and the day before that. and the day before that.

when it's time to really wake up, you let simon guide you. he walks easy, barely a limp, and he sits you down at your vanity to help you do your hair as you add your serums and moisturizers. he's good with that brush, running it through gently, parting your hair the way you like so he can tie it up. he'd braid your hair if you asked him to (he said it wasn't unlike all the knots he knows how to tie--and he meant it, no one dutch braids like him), but you know your show came out last night, and you want to watch them with the scones you have proofing in the fridge.

he makes the coffee and tea while you set the scones in the oven. you fill the cat's bowls while he cleans out the water fountain. it's wordless, the morning routine, but you like the times when you brush by him. when your arm runs against his. when your hands bump going for the same cabinet. when he leans down as he passes you, kissing along your jaw before he keeps walking.

bliss. fucking bliss.

he's waiting for you in the living room once you pull the scones out of the oven. your coffee sits on the table on its coaster, in your favorite mug, and he's under your blanket as he flips through the tv. he already knows what you'll want to watch, and you bite back your smile when you notice him typing it into the search bar because he didn't see it when he scrolled past (you keep telling him to wear his glasses, but he'll never listen).

you take a seat next to him, thumbing at his cheek, and he takes a scone off the plate before biting into it. he smiles when he tastes chocolate, looking at you knowingly, and you reach for his hand as you settle against his chest.

you used to be mangled, too. a mess. pretty on the outside, dying on the inside. all fried wires, a traumatized animal, learned behavior of relieve and appease that kept you out of trouble and out of sight.

you have never seen simon this way. and simon has never seen you this way. no hopeless potential. no wasted space. no diminishing value.

i matter because you matter. you matter because i matter.

hidden, not broken. disguised, not incomplete. you did not have jagged edges, only armor that you tried to put up to protect yourself.

you tip your head back to look up at him, and when he cups your jaw to stare back at you, you're relieved by what you see in his eyes.

ten years. it will be nothing like forever. it will be nothing like your next life, nor like the life after that. it's comforting to know what home looks like. maybe you will recognize it the way you recognized it in this life.

no, that can't be it.

you recognized it because it had already happened. in some other time, in some other place, you were sitting where you sit now, looking at simon the way you look at him now.

you knew who he was before you even met him, and you will know who he is when you meet him again.

Simon would never argue with MOB, that’s a given. And defending her honor??? Maybe it’s leaked that Mrs. Riley is in fact a Mail Order Bride for who knows where doing who knows what and let’s just say someone spreads that rumor around base and it gets back to one Lieutenant👀👀

mail-order bride

cw: graphic depictions of violence, a little smidge of dark!simon, misogynistic language (18+)

"here to see your husband, mrs. riley?"

you smile, shuffling in the chair. the woman who greets you is always here with a happy disposition, even when she's drowning in paperwork and the telephone on her desk won't stop ringing. she looks a little stressed today, but she gives you a smile anyways.

"yeah," you smooth your hands down your jeans, looking around. "told me his day would be slow, so i thought i'd bring him--"

you're interrupted by the sound of intense laughter and loud voices. the front doors open, banging against the wall practically, and a group of soldiers move past you. you fiddle with your purse, smoothing your thumb over the leather, but when you hear the subtle laughter and whispers still around you, you look up.

you make eye contact with several privates. they're whispering in each other's ears, but once they notice you're staring, they laugh a little more and make continue into the building. some of them look over their shoulder at you, and you look down to see if something is wrong with your outfit. when you check to make sure no tags are sticking out and that you haven't worn two different shoes, you just try to shrug it off, tucking your hair behind your ears and tapping your foot anxiously against the linoleum floor.

"okay, he's ready to see you. you know where it is by now, right?"

you blink, nodding, and then you swing your purse over your shoulder to walk over.

there's a game playing in the rec room. they've got banners up for their teams hung on the walls and streamers in different colors, and there's lots of men cheering and whooping in the room. just as you pass by the door, you squeak as you bump right into two laughing men, stumbling a little as they try to right themselves.

"fuck, sorry--" one of them chuckles. you frown a little but try to smile, moving to shimmy past them.

"is that her?"

"who?"

"didn't ya hear? lieutenant bought her off some sort of fucked-up catalog. heard she's real expensive."

you whip around, your lip trembling, and your shoes squeak against the floor as you stare right at them. one of them is smiling from ear-to-ear, and the other is laughing to himself.

"where did you hear that?" you ask.

"everybody knows, love," he winks. "so how much is it for a night? maybe we can do a group rate."

"e-excuse me?" you whisper, and he leans his arm against the wall, trapping you there.

"we heard all about the...program. thought maybe if we asked real nice, maybe we'd even get a discount."

"i don't know what you're talking about," you spit at him. "whatever you think this is, you're wrong. now get out of my way--"

"how much? how much did he fucking pay?"

"oh, mate--mate, you have to stop--" his friend tries to warn him, smacking him on the shoulder, but he glares down at you still, in your face, accusatory.

his face goes from smug to absolutely terrified when he's grabbed from behind. the hand that cages you against the wall is gripped by a gloved hand, twisted at an unnatural angle, and you flinch a little at the sound of his wail when his arm follows it's motion and a sickening pop echoes in the hallway.

his screams are suddenly drowned out by the cheering from the football game. someone scored maybe, but the man underneath simon screams, too, terrified as your husband mounts him like a fucking horse and slams his face against the floor.

it's like watching an artist. he paints his surroundings in flecks of red, the occasional clatter of a tooth falling at their feet, and you tilt your head to the side as you watch simon fist that man's hair and makes him eat whatever that floor is made of. he's in agony--that much is clear, from the way he shakes to the terrified look in his eyes, the pleading he sends your way as he asks for mercy.

when simon lets him go, he collapses onto the ground in a fit of bloody coughs and groans. his arm hangs from his shoulder limply (surely it's been pulled out of its socket), and his face is unrecognizable. you think his eyes were blue, but you can't tell anymore. they're red now, pupils blown wide, and he keeps moaning between broken teeth, "didn't mean it...i'm sorry...i'm sorry..."

simon kneels, leaning over him, and he grips the front of his uniform and pulls him up to sit, making him cry out from the pain. he tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes, and he drops his voice low.

"dunno where ya heard all tha' shit," simon mutters. "ain't true."

"n-no, sir--"

"i didn't say you could fuckin' talk," simon continues. "and if ya do again, i'll make sure ya can't." when he says nothing, simon tsks. "maybe ya wish ya could even afford my wife, mate. but ya can't." he tugs him a little closer. "'m gonna make ya an example. 'm not done with you. you are going to eat a fuckin' bullet from me, mate, but it won't be today. it'll be someday." simon presses his masked mouth to his ear. "but if i hear anyone else repeat wot you said 'ere today, i'll do it sooner. and you should know better than t'run...because i will find ya. wherever ya go." simon jostles him, and you swallow as he cries, trying to pull away, "now say thank you t'my wife. say thank you, because if she wasn't 'ere, i'd put my fuckin' boot in yer mouth--say it!"

"thank you! thank you!"

you simply blink as simon lets him go finally, standing, and as he walks past you, he grabs your hand roughly in his and starts to walk. you look over your shoulder as he tugs you along, and when you look back, you intertwine your fingers with his.

when the door closes behind him, simon slumps in his chair. he grips his mask from the back of the neck and pulls it off, burying his face in his hands. you set your bag down and kneel in front of him, putting your hands over his.

"simon--"

"wot the fuck is wrong with me?"

"simon--"

"i-in...i...i fuckin' lost it--"

you pull his hands off his face gently, cupping his cheeks. the eye-black smears a little around his eyes. there are no tears, but his eyes are watery as he stares into yours. his hands are shaking, and he palms his thighs to keep them steady.

"it's okay, simon," you whisper.

"i didn't want you to see me tha' way," he shakes his head. "violent. aggressive. fuck, i must've terrified you--"

"i'm not scared," you say softly. you smooth your thumbs under his eyes. "no one...no one's ever done anything like that for me before." you meet his eyes, and he leans a little more into your hands, bending low to get closer to you. "maybe he deserved it."

"i would...i would never--"

"shhh," you quiet him gently, shaking your head. "i know. i'm not scared of you."

you lean up, putting your hands on his knees and getting up just enough to get into his lap. you close your eyes as you kiss him softly, hugging him close, soothing him with a soft hand on the back of his head.

"you didn't do anything wrong, simon..."

"it's okay, baby..."

"i love you."

you know it isn't true. you're lying, somewhat, but it doesn't feel like a lie because it feels good. sick of being smaller, sick of being stepped on, sick of letting other people not be held accountable for the things that they do.

just this once maybe, you can let someone bleed. for misunderstanding you. for judging you. for not realizing there is a thing attached to you that bites and tears apart.

the world is a terrible place. and maybe you are simply just owed.

blue collar or cowboy!simon riley who would fuck you in the bed of his truck

simon was always out working so hard all day, coming home with dirt caked on his clothes. you'd have to scold him when he would track mud through the house—that you had just cleaned from whenever he came in yesterday.

he'd grovel, pressing kisses to the bare skin of your shoulder, the well-worn, holed shirt you stole from him slipping off your frame. muttering promises between each press of his lips further up your neck, along your jaw.

who are you to resist?

and who is he to either?

your pants pooled at your ankles, shirt hiked up your back and drooping off one shoulder. your inner thighs are slick and glistening with arousal and saliva.

a rough hand pushes down on your back, further squishing your chest into the hard metal of his truck bed, another grasping firmly at the fat of your backside where simon's face is lapping at your dripping cunt.

soft mewls cry from your lips, hands reaching back to grasp as his head, fingers tangling through the shirt locks of dirty blond. he only grunts in response—sorry, luvie, he's in heaven.

your legs are trembling, knees threatening to buckle under you with three orgasms already coaxed out of you on his tongue alone, milking you of your sweet, slick nectar.

your quiet, strained cries do nothing, but aid the tightness in his dirtied jeans, his cock oozing arousal in his boxers, dampening the fabric beyong his zipper. every involuntary shift of his hips causes more friction and tension with the denim, sending a groan throughout your pussy.

his noises vibrate against your pussy, shocking your overstimulated, and oversensitive, clit. all you can do is cry out as he pushes himself deeper, closer. his tongue is merciless, selfish as he threatens to swallow you whole.

at this point, you're begging for relent, repeated pleas of his name falling from your lips as the familiar heat builds in your tummy, and you writhe under his hands. the cold metal turning warm under you as it digs into your skin.

everything becoming overstimulating as the world begins to spin, jaw going slack, saliva pooling in your mouth as it threatens to spill over your swollen lips.

tears are streaming down your flushed face, your hair is frizzy and eyes are practically rolling to the back of your head as yet another release washes over you, sending a shudder through your body.

simon finally pulls his face away from the heaven between your thighs, not without flattening his tongue over your cunt for a last taste.

the lower half of his face glistening, coated in your juices, he desperately licks his lips to savor it. as he stands up from his position, his hand on your back pushes you back down onto the bed of his truck.

"n't done, luvie, be'a gud girl 'nd stay still," he kneaded the flesh of your backside, groaning at the sight in front of him.

his hands meet your hips, pulling you back on his clothed erection. a small yelped wince escapes your lips at the friction against your sensitive cunt. your frayed nerves against the harsh material that soaks up your arousal and previous releases.

you whine as he rocks his hips slowly, grunting as he watches the material dampen so easily before he pulls away from your hips.

his movements are hasty, not wasting any more time as he barely undoes his belt and zipper, freeing his heavy cock from the constraints of his jeans.

he whines softly at the warmth of your puffy, swollen folds as he rubs his cockhead up and down your pussy before catching your slit.

he groans at the tightness that welcomes him, the slick, clamping, spongy walls that pulse around his dick almost milks him of every last drop of sperm that fills his heavy balls.

your voice is hoarse, almost gone by the time his cokc is sheathed in you, his cockhead brushing your cervix as you feel the precum oozing from his slit. you can feel every prominent vein of his cock against your spongy walls, they're practically ingrained in you, your pussy molded to take his dick.

a creamy, white circle forms at the base of his cock as he forces his entire length inside, his girthy dick stretching your weeping pussy with loud, lewd squelches.

he doesn't give you time—he's selfish tonight, unapologetically so because luvie, he didn't track any dirt through the house! this is him rewarding himself for being so good! you can't discourage that, can you?

it isn't long until your backside is red, his hips pistioning into your sopping cunt, the sight of your slick pussy swallowing his red, angry cock so needily, sucking him in so desperately and clamping around him was addicting, and the feel even more so. his pace isn't nice, it's mean, and relentless, and bruising.

"fuck, lovie, couldn' wait t'hav ya," he whined in your ear, his cock drilling into your tight hole as he nipped at your earlobe. calloused, rough and dirty hands kneading the fat of your ass, a sharp slap to your skin causing it to turn even more flushed and red as he fucked himself stupid.

he was pussy-drunk, drool dripping from his cracked, dry lips onto the expanse of your shoulder. he'd press lewd, wet kisses against your supple skin, adding to the trails of saliva that pooled from his lips.

you'd have bruises the shape of his fingers on your ass for days, maybe even a week after, because of how hard his hands grasp your backside, pulling you back onto his cock as he milks himself dry.

"need t'fill y'r pussy, baby," his voice comes out a low, rough whine, despite the heavy grasp and force he exerts, "fuck, 's all f'me, ain't it?"

he'd always make sure to put dirt on the floors if it meant making it up to you by stuffing his face between your thighs.

or, making sure to kick off his boots outside the door if it meant rewarding himself like this, again, and again, and again.

Felt on another level 😌

Me: Men ain't sh*t.

These mf's show up:

Me upon seeing these men:

ATSV + textposts/tweets