Ravens Mate For Life.

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.” 

Joyce Gunn Cairns (Scottish, b. 1948, Bonnyrigg, Midlothian, Scotland, based Edinburgh, Scotland) - Darling Dolly, 2023, Paintings: Oil on Board

I made a new sticker collection of these cute little Pridesaurs!!

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ACE-kylosaurus (Ankylosaurus)

ALLY-oramus (Alioramus)

ARO-margasaurus (Amargasaurus)

BI-rachisaurus (Brachiosaurus)

Me-GAY-losaurus (Megalosaurus)

LESB-beosaurus (Lambeosaurus)

THEY-rizinosaurus (Therizinosaurus)

PAN-oplosaurus (Panoplosaurus...yeah its juts literally its name...)

QUEER-mesaurus (Quilmesaurus)

TRANS-ceratops (Triceratops)

If you are interested in owning one of these pretty pretty dinos, please consider supporting my silly art and visit my shop through the following link

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ShatterHeadShop - Etsy

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‘Frankenstein was the doctor’ first of all that little bitch was a college dropout so don’t you ‘doctor’ me

pt. 2 to this blurb | filthy fingering, a little bit of spiteful smut, overstimulation

Your feet stumble behind Kyle’s, scuffing your combat boots on the white tiled floor in your messy trek. He’s got a tight grip on your wrist, pulling you along with a speed you can’t quite match.

“Kyle, what the fuck are you—“ You start, exasperated, but you come to a startled halt, crashing into his back as he fights with the door handle in front of him.

You’re shoved into the room as soon as he gets the door open, turning to look at him with a scowl, but you don’t get to express your dismay for long when he pushes you on his bed. The springs squeak under you, masked by the surprised gasp you make.

“Kyle. What the fuck.” You say through your teeth, glaring up at him from your seated position.

He’s quiet, lips pressed into a thin line, teeth clenched behind his cheeks, jaw tense. His eyes are just as rigid, hammering you to the thin military standard blanket, offering little room to test his patience. It’s the exact look he wears on the field, dark and dangerous, hooded and intended.

When he speaks it’s the same honey cadence as always, but it’s steady, low. Makes a string of goosebumps spread down your back. It juxtaposes your usual banter, meant to annoy each other, friendly fire, snake baby claws and teased nips under each other’s skin. Except now nothing about his demeanor is friendly.

“Gon’ make you cum jus’to prove a point now, okay?”

You cackle, loud and obnoxious, gripping your stomach in dramatics, “That’s what this is about? Did I hurt poor Kyle’s ego?”

“Are ya backin’ down from a challenge? Too scared to be wrong?” He smirks, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

You scoff, rolling your eyes, dismissing his words with a wave of your hand, “You couldn’t even get me wet.”

“Let’s see, then.”

Your mouth falls open, staring at him in utter shock. “Kyle, you can’t be serious.”

He just looks at you expectantly.

You pause, gulping the excess saliva building in your cheeks, wiping your clammy hands on your knees because he’s dead serious.

“God, what a typical man. You can’t live with the fact that every girl you’ve been with probably faked her orgasm?” You taunt, only egging him on more, but you’re hoping he’ll shove you right back out his bedroom door in retaliation, “Do you even know where the clit is?”

“Only one way to find out.” He replies, arching his brow.

You bite your tongue, let the silence consume the room, suffocate the both of you back to reality, but it does nothing to shift his mood. A man determined, decided the moment you let your smart mouth run too far out of your control.

So you give in, making quick work of your boots because you don’t want him to gain any more ego-driven pride. Your pants follow, dropped to the floor tentatively, squeezing your thighs together in a weak attempt to cling to the last thread of your dignity.

Your eyes follow him to his knees. You think he might pry your thighs open, check if there’s a wet patch on your panties, because you know there is, but he leans forward just enough to hover close to your mouth and dips two fingers into the seams.

“Want you to count ‘em,” He breathes against your lips.

“Lucky if you can even get one.” You say, trying your best to keep your voice stable, but it wavers, embarrassingly so.

He huffs a laugh, “D’ya ever shut up?”

“Try and make me.”

The look in his irises glimmers mischievously, but he doesn’t say anything else, just holds your gaze as he slips your underwear over your legs. You exhale a shaky breath when scorching palms part your knees, eyes steady on yours as he rubs his hands to the inside of your thighs.

His stare makes the air feel thick, a heavy weight smothering your chest, and fills your lungs shallowly. Makes the few seconds seem like an eternity too long.

When he does finally drop his gaze, his eyes pool dark, irises dilating at the sight of your bare cunt. You tilt your own head to the ceiling, squeezing your eyes shut because you can’t muster the strength to watch him examine your pussy. So, you fall back on your palms unexpectedly when he hoists one of your legs over his shoulder.

You know you’re pent up, don’t necessarily get much action in your line of work, but the noise of your arousal squelching loudly in the room when he slides two fingers between your folds stings embarrassment down your chest and behind your eyelids.

“Thought I couldn’t get ya wet, love?” He drawls.

God, you didn’t know you were that wet. Hadn’t even been touched yet, not even a kiss, and your traitorous pussy is leaking for any attention.

You do know that it only makes him entirely too smug. Even more so when one finger slides in with no resistance despite how thick it is, practically suctioning him in for more. But he works you up to it, takes his time dragging against your eager walls until your fingers fist the blanket under you.

You have to roll your tongue over your teeth to stop yourself from moaning when a second finger joins the first. They’re bigger, thicker, longer, fucking better than yours, scratch a delicious ache against your gummy pussy that makes your head slump forward, each thrust finding a spot your slender fingers can’t quite reach.

The pleasure goops over you, tacky and thick, melting the molten lava in your core into your bare flesh. It takes every inch of your control to remember that you’re supposed to fight your impending orgasm, pretend that you’re not clinging to desperate straws to deprive Kyle of your own pleasure.

It almost hurts. Your body wants it so badly, haven’t had something warm, something real stretching your walls in so long that it wages a war between your willpower and your animalistic innate desires. And Kyle knows that, of course he does because he’s Kyle fucking Garrick.

“Fight it all you want,” He says, curling his fingers against the exact spot that makes a pinched whine escape the tight confines of your lips for the first time the whole night, “Only denyin’ yourself of the inevitable.”

“Fuck. You.” You grit, “Not even— mmh! close.”

He laughs, “Didn’t your folks teach you ‘t’s bad to lie?”

You open your mouth to respond, snarl at him not to talk about your family when he’s got his fingers buried in your cunt, but he presses against that sweet gooey spot again and all you can manage is a pathetic mewl.

And then his deft fingers turn brutal, unrelenting, bullying that spot until you’re snapping your head forward, eyes flying to his.

He tilts his head, smug grin on his stupid lips, “What’s t’matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You want to yell at him to shut up, go to fucking hell, anything, but it takes all your energy to focus on not finishing, have to bite the inside of your cheek until you taste metallic blood. Even still your arms are slowly dipping lower onto the bed, brows pinched, face squished in agony because you’re too stubborn to give in that easily.

Your nails are probably ripping the seams of his blanket, but you’re holding on to them for dear life as if they’re the last thread connecting you to your diminishing self-control. Like tearing his mattress to shreds will stop your hips from bucking into his palm.

It doesn’t of course.

He hums, approvingly, satisfied like he already won long ago. He did, you’ll just fight tooth and nail, fangs and claws, to prolong his pleasure for as long as you can manage.

“Tha’s more like it.” He purrs, “Can’t hold it much longer, can you?”

“Shuddup,” You slur, grounding your hips stiffly so they stop betraying you.

Suddenly, his face is next to yours, leg unceremoniously falling to his hip, “Gonna cum f’me? Huh?”

You shake your head weakly, but tears are welling in your lashes at the sheer force you’re trying to drench the unyielding fire thrashing under your skin cold and dry.

“Hate you.” You croak, staring at him with dewy-eyes and heavy lids.

“Wouldn’t ‘ave my fingers in your pretty cunt if tha’ was true, would I?” He lilts, and a part of you knows it’s true, but it only makes you want to hate him even more. “We both know I won, love, jus’ let go.”

You bare your teeth at him in a growl; you know he’s just trying to convince you to finish, to succumb and let him win, but it works. It’s not like you had much control anyways.

Your body seizes, falling back on to the mattress as you arch your back, jaw going slack. A broken noise leaves your chest as you tremor with every pulse of the searing pleasure. It seeps throughout your body, blinding and uncontained, makes your legs shake as you struggle to breathe.

“There’s a girl,” Kyle praises when you mutter a weak ‘one.’

His fingers slow just a bit, allow you time to come down from your high. Your hips convulse involuntarily, swollen walls fluttering frantically around the girth. Your eyes are hazy, look at him a little dazed, like you hadn’t expected to finish that intensely.

You think it’s done, prepare to hear his boastful bragging you don’t really care about because you’re entirely too blissed out to care about anything, really. But the bastard seems to have other plans.

Three fingers swipe against your clit, and your muscles tense, stomach tighten at the sensation.

Your hand flies to his wrist, “Kyle, no, no I can’t.”

“I won,” He says plainly, pinning your hand down, “I’m taking my prize.”

And he doesn’t stop until there’s an obscene amount of your cum gathered in his palm, a sopping filthy mess. Sobbing into the sheets with pure overstimulation, malleable and pliant, crying his name orgasm after orgasm.

I’m fine, girl……

Love the trope of Price mentally constructing a nursery in every home and apartment he’s ever known, in the house of everyone he’s ever dated— it’s the first thing he thinks of (right after where on his body he’s gonna tattoo their name).

He has his dream nursery memorized. It’s his mind palace. He wants cream yellow walls, because his baby is going to be the sun, the same way his wife is his moon, with the away she has over his heart of the sea. He wants an accent wall with wallpaper in a classic motif— the kind they use in pediatricians offices, to be honest. Building blocks, fluffy clouds, circus animals.

John loves tradition, generational passings on, well-crafted things that can last centuries if cared for well enough. He wants his nursery furniture, all of the stuff in his house, really— to be solid wood, handmade (he promises that he’ll make the bulk of it himself, the rest antique). He’d rather die than buy a brand new house without any history. No craftsmanship, all straight lines and 90 degree angles, no consideration to what makes a home feel like home.

Despite being such a trusted member of the team, he knows precious little about your home life. Fine by him— your past is your own, he has no right to it. One day, as you’re about to pack up for leave around the holidays, you ask to speak to him as a friend, rather than a captain.

It’s well known that Price doesn’t have the family he’s dreamed of. An old war dog, bridges burned with the ex wife from his youth, he doesn’t hold out a lot of hope. Maybe in the next lifetime, it will be different. He’ll have that yellow nursery.

You tell him, with an astonishing amount of composure, that your parents passed away almost a year ago. They’ve left the care of the family home to you. It’s quite an undertaking— large, as it used to host all manner of aunt and uncle and cousin generations ago. But now, people are in the spirit of moving far away. Old wounds and grudges, new opportunities. Your parents had their own issues conceiving— leaving you an only child.

Gaz has his family to go home to, so does Soap. No one knows what Ghost does, but everyone suspects he follows Soap home for the holidays. Price has been invited time and time again, but always politely refuses. He doesn’t want to be reminded of the dream out of his reach.

But you tell him this will be your first holiday alone in the house, and that you need him. You don’t know if you can bear the silence for the season. Not to mention all of the upkeep you’re behind on. He figures it’s as good a place to be as any, and he’s the type who needs his hands busy to find any peace.

He falls in love with your old place. Sure, the bannisters could do with being refinished, a bit of carpeting could come up, a few fixtures are spotty— but it’s a beautiful place. Still very much full of love and warmth, the traces of you and your little family are everywhere. In the tarnished silver picture frames, the fraying knitted potholders, the penciled in height markings at the kitchen door.

On the tour, he’s stopped dead in his tracks at one open door. Faded yellow walls, slats of chestnut. A crib.

You explain to him that it used to be your nursery. It had been your mother’s, too, and many more. They kept it perfectly in tact when you’d grown up and moved into another room, hoping that they’d give you a little sibling. The day never came. You’re wondering yourself what to do with it— your career hasn’t left you with much time or appetite for romance. There’s a stinging sadness dripping from your words like lemon juice. You admit that you suspect this family, once monumental, will end with you— the house passed to someone who will strip off the carved filigrees of the stair railing, throw white paint over all of the walls, and put grey vinyl over the hardwood. That is, if they don’t just tear it down. Land could be divided up into a few new apartment units.

You’re barely listening to yourself talk— just ambling along, as if you haven’t just revealed to John Price what his life’s been leading up to all this time.

It's very easy to select the text of a fic and copy-paste it on Ao3, right?

Well, we can stop people (and AI) from doing this by adding a skin to our fics!

I just did it with all my fics and it works.

How to do it, step by step⬇️

1) Log in. Click 'Skins' in the menu, at the left. Then click 'My Work Skins' and after doing this, click 'Create Work Skins' at the top right.

2) Write a title for your skin (anything you want, it doesn't matter). Then in the large text box, write this:

#workskin * {

user-select: none !important;

-webkit-user-select: none;

-moz-user-select: none;

-ms-user-select: none;

}

This is what you should see:

3) Click 'Submit'. Your skin has been created, and now you have to add it to all your works.

4) Click 'Works'. Then click 'Edit Works' at the top right.

5) Click 'All' to select all your works. Scroll down and click 'Edit'.

6) Scroll down until you see 'Select Work Skin' and select the one you just created.

7) Click 'Update All Works'.

Now, people can't select the text of your fics and copy it😊

PS: I also recommend changing the visibility of your fics to 'Only Show to Registered Users'. You'll lose your anon readers, but it will protect your works a bit more against AI scrappers

I would like to humbly more soup

(The one with detached reader and traumatized Simon that blurb was so tasty and ONLY only if you have the spoons for it ♡)

i have a ladle so have this

they share a cig together; it’s not even from simon. he found it in the drawers in their bedroom, stashed underneath a couple of CD’s that are only encased in paper folders. it’s an old pack with only four sticks left and they’re not even the potent kind, and simon realizes, then, that they have been hidden so carefully.

he purposefully lays them on the kitchen table, after dinner, to watch how she’ll react. it is, after all, still a breach of her privacy; that, sure, she opened her home to him but he knows, all too well, that there are certain corners in every house that are never meant to be prodded — apparitions made from memories live along too, and simon knows to be careful lest he rouses a nightmare from its burrow. he knows. he knows. still, he thinks about what he can coax from her, and chances it with the shadows.

but she just blinks at it, her eyes flicking between simon and the pack, slowly and cat-like, before heaving a sigh and reaching for her lighter in her pockets. simon hums, something low and curling with a quiet wash of disappointment at her impassivity, and moves to take a stick out from the pack, only—

a twitch in her fingers. a slight pause in her movements. a crack in the facade; a blip in her silence.

simon smells the blood in the water and pounces on it with snapping maws. he grins, careful, and utters, “y’don’t like it that i found them.”

he doesn’t need to ask when it is obvious that it is true.

she licks her lips, eyes meeting his, and simon wants to commend the way she was quick to gather her spillage and force it back in her mask, but her hands are still quaking, and her fingertips have turned light with how hard they are pinching the lighter, and simon knows that he’s won this one.

she knows it too. he sees it in the way she takes a ragged breath in; in her continued silence.

“they’re my mom’s.”

her voice doesn’t waver, it doesn’t break. it rings clear, like he just asked her what the weather was and she knows it is raining outside because when does the rain ever stop? but she is no longer looking at him, and simon—

he knows enough about the apparitions made from memories and pulls his hand away.

“i see.”

simon wonders if it’ll look too much like he’s licking the wound of his shame if he offers his pack instead, but in the silence of his words, as his own memories unfurl like miasma, she lights up one.

he devours the image she makes — the quiet ember flickering across her face, now smoothed off any storm — when she takes a puff. he doesn’t look away even when she passes the stick to him; doesn’t look away even when it is his turn to breathe it in, and for his patience, he is rewarded the sweet image of the smoke spilling from her lips as she collapses back to her seat with a soft upturning of her lips.

and, somehow, the night isn’t over even when they’ve finished the pack.

simon knows that this is the true victory.