warning: 18+, age gap, daddy kink, condescending praise, mock sympathy, manipulation, p in v, cunnilingus
dbf!dean winchester who is only nice to you, and scares off anyone that even dares to look your way while he's around. he would be next to you every second of every day if he could.
dbf!dean winchester who calls you kid and babies you endlessly. you whine about it, pretending you hate it, though you know it gives you a certain type of guilty high that you search out in him. you don't know what your problem is, your dad is great.
dbf!dean winchester who holds your waist, moving you out of the when passing by you- except he's not moving you away, he's making sure his crotch presses right against your butt even though you flinch away at first in surprise.
dbf!dean winchester who calls you a spoiled brat, continues to spoils you anyway by bringing you your favourite treats at least three times a week.
dbf!dean winchester that hates your s/o. hates the way the look at you, the way they smile at you, the way they touch you. he hates the way you seem so oblivious about his feelings even after all this time.
dbf!dean winchester says you deserve way better than that sleazy s/o you keep seeing but never expands on what he means.
dbf!dean winchester who you notice is spending a lot more time at your house, under the guise of seeing your father, but ends up in your room every time.
dbf!dean winchester who comes over and consoles you after your father told him about your awful breakup with your ex, as if he didn't orchestrate it.
dbf!dean winchester who, in an effort to make you feel better, comments on how your ex was a literal piece of shit. you know he's right but it makes you mad so you argue with him, saying he knows nothing about your life. he doesn't take that well because, well,, he knows everything about you.
dbf!dean winchester who shuts your whining up with a kiss. it surprises you but you respond quickly. the not so innocent kiss leads to a hot make-out, palms dragging down his chest, fingers tangled in your hair, tugging harshly so he has better control, little moans slipping out of here and there that get louder when he deepens the kiss.
dbf!dean winchester who decides he's had enough of playing the long game and pushes you onto your bed while kissing you.
dbf!dean winchester who all but rips your clothes to shreds taking them off of you and then he's all over you, your lips, your face, your neck, your collarbone, your tits, your stomach
dbf!dean winchester who finds his way between your legs and nips, sucks and licks at you until you're writhing, crying and begging, drooling all over his chin and lips.
dbf!dean winchester who has waited too long for this and is extremely drunk on you.
dbf!dean winchester who is extremely intense and everywhere at once when he comes up for air, but still makes sure you really want this. next thing you know his fingers are pressed into your throat as he kisses you again.
dbf!dean winchester who practically makes you cry from the sheer size and thickness of him, wraps back around your throat to make both of you feel just a little bit higher.
dbf!dean winchester who fucks you like you've never been fucked before. you feel drunk and high all at the same time, a different type of intoxication- all you know is him. he has to keep your quiet with his other hand.
dbf!dean winchester who's never felt someone so perfect- someone so made for him. that's all he's telling you that too. look at you- just made for me aren't you, fuck you feel so good. meanwhile, you're a whining, babbling mess, but he doesn't care. that's it... tell me what you need baby. tell daddy what you need. you melt around him- for him.
dbf!dean winchester who watches your eyes roll back as he repeatedly hits that spongy spot inside of you, making your gasps, whimpers and moans get louder and louder.
dbf!dean winchester who makes you beg to come. after denying you a couple times, you're sobbing for him and he mocks you for it. saying things like, poor baby, aww are you gonna come, and use your words sweetheart, as he's kissing your tears away as he fucks you harder.
dbf!dean winchester who loves the way you completely engulf him when he finally gives you permission, the way he has to keep your mouth covered with one hand while still pressing into your heavily decorated throat with the other. he immediately comes after you, a loud moan of his own forcing its way through his lips so he has to kiss you to shut you both up.
dbf!dean winchester who, in all his experience, is the king of after care- not that you'd know. you're too far off into dream land.
dbf!dean winchester who sighs, shaking his head in partial disbelief as he tosses the rag somewhere on the floor after cleaning you off, and lays on your bed, snuggling you right into his chest and kissing your forehead. "get some sleep kid. you'll need it."
dividers by @condybunny gif by @deanwinchestersgirl87
did you guys miss meeee? ok this isn't cod but i've gotten into supernatural lately and i've been seeing this trend on tiktok and it gave me inspo to write again.
18+ MDNI can't stop thinking about married price x younger reader and how he fucks you...
the way john sinks into your warm cunt after a long day, letting out a sigh into your neck, relieved that he finally has you all to himself just like he's been thinking about all day...
the way the sheer girth of his cock splits you open like you've never experienced before with any man, making you feel every ridge and vein sliding against your sensitive walls that leaves you ruined and his completely...
the way he has you on your back, his giant form engulfing you entirely, bodies pressed together and drenched in sweat, his hairy chest squishing your breasts as he thrusts into you so soo deep and hard it reaches places that has you screaming his name just the way he loves...
the way he kisses you while slowly fucking you, claiming you with hungry, frantic movements, saliva everywhere as his tongue slips through your lips and explores your mouth sloppily while holding your jaw in a firm grip as if you're gonna move away, biting your bottom lip and licking the metallic taste of blood, leaving you breathless and your lips bruised and swollen...
the way he grinds into you, not thrusting in and out, just a deep grind and roll of his hips that has your toes curl and your eyes roll back into your skull, your legs closing involuntarily around his waist, nails raking all over his back and teeth sinking into his shoulder that would surely leave him bruised the next day...
the way he overstimulates you, thick cock drilling into your sloppy poor cunt that's feeling too sensitive and raw from all the orgasms he's pulled from you. "shh, it's okay, love. just one more." he coos, "you can give me one more, princess. right?" and you babble away some incoherent words in your dazed state as he pushes you over the edge for the nth time, "theeere you go. my good girl."...
but the bubble you've created bursts when his wife calls. "fuckin hell" he grumbles, head dropping onto your shoulder in disappointment as he slowly pulls out, shushing your little wince by a quick kiss before leaving to answer his phone...
husband simon riley with an obsession with wife readers boobs. not even sexual, he just loves them so much and buries his face between them, kisses them, if he’s not smoking he’s sucking them
obsessed with your husband's obsession
pairing: husband!simon “ghost” riley x wife!reader
summary: your husband’s obsessed with your tits
masterlist!
a/n: such a good request, anon!! had soo much fun writing :)) requests are open in my ask box!!
“c’mere,” your husband motioned his fingers toward you, closing the front door behind him, “need m’ sweet wife.” the brute had a long day at work, desiring nothing more than to come home to you.
he eyed your frame scurrying over to him, "hi husband," melodically chiming in his ears as you threw your arms around his neck, slightly lifting on your toes. "how was work today?" you asked, feeling his biceps encircling your torso. you always loved how your husband completely engulfed you— forever feeling safe in his arms.
he didn't verbally respond at first, the man lowering himself to his wife's height, leaving a trail of kisses. he started on your forehead, stealing a kiss on your cheek, before making his way down to your neck. he found that sweet spot on your collarbone instantly, knowing every pleasure point on your beautiful body. simon knew you like the back of his hand.
you had to bite your lip from making too much noise when he eventually reached your cleavage, littering soft kisses on top. "was a little stressful," he answered between smooches, "started countin' down tha hours 'til m' could see ya again." with that, he brought his hands to either side of your thighs, lifting you into his arms with ease. after years of marriage, it still amazes me how strong he is, you thought, wrapping your legs around his waist. he carried you through your shared home.
you held back a giggle when you felt your husband smother his face between your boobs, scared he was going to run you into something, "si! you can't see anything!" "don' need to, luvie'. 'tis 's tha only view m' need."
each time you lounged with your husband, whether it be on the couch, in your bed, hell— even on the floor, he habitually found a way to have his face in your tits. "yer girls are amazin' pillows," he'd claim, getting comfortable on them when you'd watch a movie together.
this man even had the gall to eat popcorn off them, "apparently amazin' tables too." "alright! you lost privileges for tonight," pushing him away as he frowned, but you secretly loved it. simon just matched your freak.
so when he did it again, this time with potato chips, you didn't protest.
your boobs were even helpful in waining simon from his tobacco use. the brit's been smoking since before he's even known you, so it doesn't really bother you when he lights one. shit, you still have a cigarette or two now, but he's expressed interest in wanting to, at least, slow down on his intake.
"m' pack 's empty, hon'. and we both know m' probably shouldn' buy anotha."
plus, you wanted to help your husband, "you can suck on my boobs, si!" what a great idea! since his lovely wife suggested it, how could m' turn down tha offa'?
using his gruff hands, he clutched your tits, holding one in each. he took his time sucking on them, showing each girl their own affection.
you both knew there was never sexual innuendos behind this, but you couldn't help the way your eyes rolled behind your skull when your nipples reached a certain numbness, the sensations toe-curling. you'd get so sensitive after the five minute mark, "sweet'eart', m' smoke for at least ten," you'd hear simon tease.
you loved how much attention your husband showed your girls. you were obsessed with your husband's obsession.
Simon "Ghost" Riley is not the kind of man to get your name tattooed on his skin.
He is the kind of man to get a red line tattooed, though.
"And what's this one?" You point to a circle-shaped serpent eating its own tail. "What does it mean?"
Simon closes his eyes for a moment, relishing on the feeling of having your hands on him. Your fingertips trace the black ink on his bicep, touch soft, touch too soft for him. Too tender. He shivers.
"Ouroboros," he grunts out, voice thick, as though that should clarify everything. The arm he has wrapped around your middle is pushed away as you sit up on the bed and glare down at him. He holds your glare for a moment, not because he’s returning it, but because your eyes are so beautiful and expressive that he bet he could tell what you're feeling just by the looks you give him.
Right now, you’re feeling mildly annoyed; he's confident in that.
His arm snakes around you, lightly pulling you back to lay beside him again, squeezing your waist as an apology. You relent, allowing him to pull you, resting your head just under his chin. "Means cycle," he murmurs against your hair. "Means..." he sighs heavily, not really into this whole pillow talk thing you’re doing, but indulging you still. Anything for you. "Means eternal cycle. Bein' stuck in it. Never breakin' free; eatin' you away."
That's the meaning he'd attributed to it, when he got that tattoo. Corny in hindsight, but true, nonetheless. Accurately reflects his life; born to a druggie father who'd beat him up, and his brother, and his mother. Grew up to be an angry teen and even angrier adult, so full of rage it scared him. Burdened to a shitty life as a butcher, and stubbornly rejecting it and choosing his own destiny by joining the military didn't help much. More suffering there, more violence, more blood. Different, but at its core, the same. Certainly didn’t stop things from crashing down right in front of him; didn’t stop his brother from following his father's footsteps and shooting junk up his veins. Didn’t stop his family from being killed. Over and over and over again; past, present and future, always been like that for him, full of grief and anger and violence, no matter how hard he tried to break free.
Until you. Until he met you.
You went quiet for a while in his arms, a frown on your face, looking pensive. Simon takes it all in while he can; he takes in the weight of your body against his, the smell of your hair, of your skin, of sex. The feeling of your body rising and falling with your breathing against his ribs, of your warmth, of the little hairs on your forearm that stand up as he traces an aimless finger there. Then you shoot up again, disrupting his quiet relaxation once more.
"Well," you start, turning away from him and rummaging inside one of the drawers on the bedside table. He feels your absence like he’s got a collapsed lung and someone has ripped away the oxygen mask from his face. "You're just perpetuating it, then. With that tattoo."
Simon lifts a skeptical brow. "Meanin'?"
"Meaning," you triumphantly hold up for him a red sharpie, "you're doing it wrong. If you want to break free, you gotta kill the snake."
He watches, immobile, as you uncap the pen and draw a single, thick line across the serpent's neck, like you’re effectively cutting its head off. The red ink contrasts nicely with the black, almost making it look real. Final.
"There," you smile amusedly, though behind your eyes Simon can see the seriousness there. The sternness of you, like you have his shoulders pinned with an iron grip, nails digging into his skin so he can’t tear himself away, an angry frown on your face, teeth bared. Like you’re shaking him, shaking the suffering off him, shaking all of the blood off, the death, the rage, the sadness and the violence. Forcefully cleansing him of the guilt that sticks to his skin like tar. "You've been freed."
Simple as that. Like he has no choice but to accept it. Accept your kindness, your understanding, your mercy. Let it make him into a better man; into a better person. Let you help him to forgive himself.
He'd spent almost a week bent awkwardly over the shower so the water wouldn't wash away your red line.
"If you don't got this exact shade of red ink," Simon had warned the tattoo artist, a scrawny bloke shaking from head to toe, "I'm –" gonna make you do it with your own blood, is what Simon was about to say, but stopped himself before the words had built up. Cutting the snake's head off, or whatever. "I'm leavin'."
tags | abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, religious guilt, infidelity, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, murder, please read at your own risk
final chapter | masterlist | ao3
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Simon Riley has had years of practice.
The beast that used to live inside of him, an impulsive thing with gnashing teeth and an ugly vengeance, is tucked away in his chest now. It's grown into something controllable. Something that's grown sense and direction.
A moral compass of sorts.
His younger self would've had your husband skinned in the back of his butcher shop the first night he saw you. He still remembers it now, the way you peered at him with wide eyes. A hummingbird heartbeat in your chest because you were afraid of finding another man other than your husband attractive.
Those first words too— 'I have a husband.'
Like it ever mattered to a man like Simon Riley. He might've even called that whole ordeal a meet-cute if he hadn't immediately decided your husband and your fate that exact moment.
Truthfully, he expected you to shy away, create space between the two of you, but then you showed up with a bowl of food for him. It was quite the bold move on your part, and then you went on to tell him you cooked it for your husband. And that ugly beast in his chest perked up at that. How could it not?
Your husband hadn't been deserving enough of that meal, so you thought to bring it to him. That was all the confirmation he needed that you were something worth pursuing and Simon always takes his pursuits seriously.
He was bold for you after that. Dirty thumbs and all. He didn't think you would say yes, but he did anyway because he wanted to see how you would squirm, eyes dilating to hide the lie you muttered to him.
He waited. Patience has been built into a man like him. Another routine he faced until you built enough courage to face him again. He'd wait forever for you; he knew you'd come.
And then you did, his pretty bird built up the courage to walk into his shop, burying the overwhelming thoughts of your husband somewhere deep. That was an issue he'd deal with another day, for now, the only thing that mattered was rewarding your bravery. What better way was that than to make you forget your husband's name on his fingers and tongue?
You were so pretty on his butcher block too. A sweet lamb, tangled into the arms of two men who were probably too corrupt for you. It made you taste better; the sweet sap right from the core, tinged with bravery and courage.
You were too naive. Why wouldn't you trust him to drop you off at home? Except now he's got your address and there's no way the beast in his chest could control the obsession he had with you. He watched you through the window, sad eyes in the morning when your husband left for work.
And your husband? The sorry loser had no idea that another man was watching the both of you, that there was another man between your legs most nights. No idea that you came to him all by yourself with a drooling mouth to taste the skin of his cock.
Simon plotted after that, mulling over how he would finally do it.
You surprised him again, then. You beat him to the punch and maybe that's why he chose you.
You had looked at him with so much fear, and the beast inside of him roared. You came to him for protection?
This was the easiest part. Simon's a practiced man in blood and flesh.
Even then, his main concern was always you. Staring with tears down your cheeks that clump your lashes together. And maybe the feeling in his chest is wrong, foul. He's sure of that because he shouldn't be jealous of the fact that he wasn't the one to make those tears collect at your collarbones. Shouldn't make his dick twitch in his jeans.
Your husband is an issue for a later moment. Right now, he's got you clinging to him for support, and he's never really been someone's safe space. He shouldn't be yours, but you're a bit too naive to realize that. Too used to the mistreatment from your husband that you don't see the sick and twisted thoughts swimming in his brain.
He takes you to his, of course, makes you at home. And maybe he should stay, make you the priority right now, but he leaves you in his kitchen with a kiss to your forehead and a promise of being back in an hour.
Business is what he calls it.
You're in the shower when he comes back and you don't even react when he joins you. His shower isn't built for two people, especially of his size, but he forces himself in. You can't move much, not like you had plans other than standing in the water and letting the water wash away the stains of your husband's fingertips. The waters hot, like it could scald the sins right off your tainted skin.
Simon replaces them then, hands probably more rugged than your husband's, who's had more blood on their fingertips, but you let him because at least it isn't his. And the sick and twisted version of your chest likes it because at least it's not your blood.
His calloused hands feel nice on your skin and it helps you forget. Forget everything your husbands ever said to you. Unworthy. Harlot. Going to hell. Forget the way his hands felt around your neck trying to drain the life out of you. How his hands felt on your body at night when all you could imagine was Simon.
Marriage is a funny thing, isn't it? Something sacred, meant to twine two souls together for eternity. It's not a fragile thing. Your husband managed to taint it all. Push you into the arms of a man who you're sure doesn't deserve it either, but he's put you first and that's more than your husband's ever done.
You don't think God intended this for you. Didn't put Simon in your life because he was your soulmate and he doesn't act like he's the son of God. Your mother would hate him, take one look at his gangly teeth and scarred lips and shun the both of you. You don't really care, how could you when she's played a part in the abuse you've faced from your husband for years?
You chose you when you chose Simon.
Maybe you shouldn't; you don't know much about the man. Like how he got all those scars decorating his body. That's why marriage is a funny thing, how can a man you know nothing about treat you better than your husband?
You do know that he lets you act on your desire. That he practically controls those desires in the palm of his hand. That his chapped lips on your neck, nipping at the bruises left by your husband, feel better than anything God has ever promised you. That his fingers, trailing down your stomach and slipping between your thighs, make your core tighten in a way you've never felt.
The both of you don't even think about waiting, let you gather your emotions from the night you just had. You'd rather have him fuck your mind blank, and the slick he's greeted with is enough proof of that. Truthfully, there's this part of you that likes it even more, that it's wrong, that your husband's lying on the shed floor while you've got another man's fingers curling into your waiting cunt.
You can't find it in yourself to really care.
Simon likes it more too. You barely know him outside of the way he makes you cum, but you're not entirely ignorant despite the way your husband promises you are. You know the type of man he is, one who likes corruption a little too much.
He's not a saint. He's no angel.
Not with fingers like this or a mouth like that.
You're fine with that, you'll do anything he asks as long as he keeps your mind foggy and a little melted.
"Not here." He speaks for the first time since he's joined you and it makes you jump. "The bed."
You hadn't even realized you were grinding your ass against him, his cock pressed between the clefts of your ass.
It doesn't have to be anything sweet. You're not losing your virginity and Simon hardly knows how to be gentle, but that's not what you need. Not right now. You want it to hurt, to feel any sense of guilt for what you’re about to do.
You're impatient when he lays you out on his bed and takes his time like he hadn't taken you apart layer by layer more times than you can count on his butcher block. Like he hadn't had his tongue pressed against your clit for hours or mapped out the spot that makes your toes curl and back arch.
He laughs when you push at his head with a whine, "Just want you already."
He remembers when you first denied him, when you held on to your dignity and told him you weren't hungry. That dignity was lost somewhere in between all this. Now it's got you impatient and demanding.
Simon obliges, of course. He'll deny you another time, make you beg and twitch with overstimulation when it doesn't feel this urgent. When you aren't shaking in the palms of his hands because the memory of your husband is still at the corners of your eyes.
He'll make you forget.
You don't even know what he's done. That he's got your husband's blood under his nails and slabs of meat in the back of his freezer. What will you think of him when you find out? Will you thank him for finishing the job for you? Or will you look at him with fear?
He glides his length along your slit, dragging down until his head notches at your entrance. He keeps it there, for a second too long, to watch the way you part so prettily for him, slick pouring out over the sides of his tip. You squirm, hips shimmying in annoyance because he's still dragging it out too long for your liking.
Finally, finally, when he breaks the barrier and pops through your walls it's worth it all. You fist the sheets, tongue pressed to the roof of your mouth, throat tense to stop the way you want to drop it in bliss. And when he bottoms out, you swear you see this God everyone's been telling you about since you were a little girl. Maybe it's because you died then and there, split in half by the massive girth of Simon and you're face to face with judgement.
You think you did, or maybe you just held your breath for so long that everything around you started to get blurry, white specks falling before your irises. But then, Simon's there, gangly face invading your space, tapping your cheek with his knuckle.
"Jesus—bird." It's through gritted teeth. "Bloody breathe."
It's not enough, not until he presses his palm on your chest and pushes down. It makes you stutter, the breath stuck in your throat finally escaping. You gasp; it's loud and burns, but it brings you too.
Simon's there and he's real, and he's got his cock pressed so far inside of you that you feel his heavy balls pressed at the base of your cunt. Your fingers clammer to his shoulders in a panic and he thinks you're regretting this but your next words are rushed.
"Move, Simon, move-- please, god hurry."
You know you haven't died when his hips move, slow and languid, sliding just far enough to give him room to thrust forward again. He's so big it hurts at first, tears welling in your lashes and maybe you should've let him finger you for longer. You don't regret it though, not when the pain from your marriage, from your husband, melts away to this.
A tangible pain.
A pain worth feeling for once.
It makes the thought of your bloody hands, the poor bunny, the years of pretending for other people finally fade away. All that's left is Simon. His weight pressed to your chest, almost suffocating you with his scent. Larger frame curling over you like a prey, shoulders so wide you can barely see over them, blocked by his chest and collarbones, and thick neck, and all the scars that litter his body. Fat cock kissing your cervix with each thrust, bullying his length into you so harshly that you think you'll be ruined forever.
That's what he wants isn't it? To ruin you for anyone else. Leave you with nowhere to go but back to him. You can't even find it in yourself to care, not when his thumb finds your clit and his filthy mouth finds your ears and presses words into your skull you've never even imagined. They're possessive, growled into your skin like you're his territory, an angry indicator over the fact that your husband didn't appreciate you enough. That your husband even had you at all.
But that's why he likes you, isn't it? Damaged goods is what your mother would refer to you as. A divorcee and a sinner. Simon doesn't mind. He likes you that way. He's a stray too after all.
A particularly harsh thrust does it for you. Teeth in your neck, thumb on your clit, and cock pressed against the sweet spot in your cunt. Your toes curl, your voice escapes you, jaw slack.
"There ya go," Simon groans, voice tight.
He's putting up a front you can't even recognize because you're much too far gone to realize anything but the way the sweet honey in your core has turned fire hot, burning and scalding your skin. It makes it sticky, hot honey molding the pleasure into the exact shape you need.
Everything goes white after that. Everything is forgotten and all that matters is that you can feel Simon. Urging you on, praise on his lips and the tip of his tongue.
He lasts much longer than you, fucking into you even when you go limp, muscles loose, and morphed into the mattress under you. You don't mind, not when the drawl of his hips keeps you in that fuzzy state where the only thing in your human brain is the primal urges of release.
When the morning comes and you've got his cock snug in your cunt again, you ask, breathlessly,
Could we get a Drabble of soldier boy being jealous🩷
(If you want to of course)
I LOVE MLT THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE AUTHORRR💗💗
⋆｡ ˚ mouth like that 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘺
lowdown ☆ a routine stakeout reunites you with an old coworker, and soldier boy learns he hates the idea of you having a past that doesn’t include him.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2543 ride style ☆ giggling 🤭
danger on the trail ☆ jealousy, possessive behavior, suggestive dialogue, strong language, soldier boy being emotionally constipated
liv's log ☆ this is set after chapter 18 of the mouth like that universe, but can be read as a standalone.
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the stakeout has been boring for nearly three hours.
not pleasantly boring, either. there’s no coffee, nowhere comfortable to sit, and the sun’s heat has settled between the buildings with the personal determination to make new york smell worse.
frenchie’s pretending to study the newspaper in his hands while watching the entrance across the street through a gap above the sports section. hughie stands beside him with his phone held at chest height, repeatedly forgetting that he’s supposed to look casual and staring directly at the building instead.
soldier boy’s behind you. he’s dressed like a civilian, which means jeans, a dark jacket despite the heat, and a baseball cap he’s complained about every few minutes since butcher handed it to him.
“take it off, then,” you mutter.
“whole point is not getting recognized.”
“then stop touching it like you’ve got lice.”
“looks fucking stupid.”
you glance back. “it’s a hat.”
“yeah. a stupid one.”
hughie makes the mistake of looking toward him.
“eyes on the building, hughie.”
“my eyes were on the building.”
“your whole head turned.”
frenchie lowers the newspaper by half an inch. “perhaps we should all speak less.”
you’re about to agree when someone says your name. not through the earpiece. not from across the street where the four of you have been watching a side entrance for long enough that you’ve started recognizing the employees by their cigarette habits. no… this comes from behind you.
your body turns before your brain catches up. for one strange second, all you see is a man standing outside the hardware store halfway down the block. worn work boots. faded gray shirt. a paper bag tucked beneath one arm. dark hair slightly longer than it used to be, curling where the heat’s made it damp near his temples.
then he smiles. “holy shit.”
the rest of the street disappears.
“luke?”
his smile breaks wider. “you’re alive.”
you laugh, already moving toward him. “last time i checked.”
“that was apparently a long fucking time ago.”
he meets you halfway and pulls you into a hug without hesitation.
you don’t hesitate either. his arms close around you, warm and familiar, and for one second you’re standing behind the reception desk at the motel again. stale coffee burning in the machine. the bell over the office door sticking. luke coming in through the maintenance entrance with grease on his cheek and a complaint about room twelve’s toilet.
he lifts you just slightly off your feet. you laugh into his shoulder.
“you vanished. no call. no message. nothing. i thought the old bastard finally killed you and put you in one of the mattresses.”
“please. he would’ve charged guests extra to sleep on me.”
luke laughs warmly as he sets you down, but his hands stay around your upper arms as he looks you over. “you look good.”
there’s no performance in it. no exaggerated sweep of his eyes. just something warm and relieved.
you smile. “so do you.”
behind you, something creaks. you glance back. soldier boy has both hands in his jacket pockets. his face’s completely blank. hughie looks between the two of you, then quickly becomes fascinated by the building again. frenchie’s newspaper rises a little higher.
luke doesn’t follow your glance. if he notices the others at all, he gives no sign of it. “you still working nights?” he asks instead, eyes fixed on you.
“sometimes.”
that answer’s vague enough to contain several felonies. luke seems to notice, but he doesn’t push. he never used to push. that’d been part of why you liked him.
the motel hired luke to handle repairs, which meant he spent most of his shifts being summoned to fight air conditioners older than both of you combined. during quiet nights, he sat behind reception while you ate dinner, brought you coffee from the machine without asking, and invented increasingly ridiculous reasons to wander through the lobby whenever you were working.
something had nearly happened. several times.
then butcher arrived with a bleeding man and a gun, and your life became something you couldn’t explain without sounding deranged.
luke snaps his fingers suddenly. “do you remember that night with—”
the memory catches before he finishes. your hand lands on his arm. “oh my god!”
he starts laughing. “with the—”
“window spray!” you say it at the same time.
luke bends forward, laughing harder, and you grab his forearm to steady yourself because the image’s returned in full: his face dripping blue cleaner, a stack of towels collapsing around his legs, the broken window slamming shut so violently that both of you thought it had cracked.
“you sprayed me directly in the mouth,” he says.
“you told me to spray the track!”
“the track, not my face.”
“you moved!”
“because the window tried to kill me!”
another laugh escapes you, bright enough that two people passing on the pavement glance over.
luke looks at you in the middle of it, and his expression softens. the laughter fades slowly. his thumb brushes once against your arm, easy and absentminded. “i missed that.”
something in your chest pulls. before you can decide what to do with it, frenchie clears his throat. loudly. you glance back. he smiles apologetically above the newspaper, then taps two fingers against the watch on his wrist. right. surveillance. possible criminals. butcher waiting to criticize everyone’s efficiency. normal life remains annoyingly inconsiderate.
“i have to go,” you tell luke.
“yeah…” he lets your arm go, though he doesn’t look particularly pleased about it. “of course.”
“it was really good seeing you.”
“you too.”
you begin to step away.
“wait—”
you stop.
luke reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “same number?”
“no.” you hold out your hand. “give it here.”
he unlocks it and passes it over. you type your number into a new contact while he watches. there’s a pressure at your back that you refuse to turn around and acknowledge.
“there,” you hand the phone back.
luke checks the screen and smiles. “don’t disappear again.”
“i’ll try.”
he hugs you again. shorter this time, but softer. his hand settles between your shoulder blades. yours presses against his side. you catch the clean smell of laundry detergent beneath the heat and faint sawdust clinging to his shirt.
when he releases you, he walks backward for two steps. “i’m serious,” he smiles. “answer me.”
“send something worth answering.”
“window spray.”
you laugh again. “terrible start.”
“worked, though.”
you watch him turn and continue down the street. only when he disappears around the corner do you return to the others. frenchie folds the newspaper carefully. hughie stares very hard at his phone. soldier boy looks across the street.
“sorry,” you say. “old coworker.”
nothing.
“we worked at the motel together.”
deadly nothing.
the rest of the stakeout passes in almost complete silence. soldier boy answers questions when he absolutely has to. one word at a time. sometimes not even that. when hughie asks whether the man leaving the building is their target, soldier boy looks through the binoculars for five seconds and hands them back without speaking.
“so,” hughie says carefully. “is it him?”
“no.”
“right. okay.”
ten minutes later, hughie tries again.
“the van’s moved.”
“saw.”
“do you think we should—”
“nope.”
frenchie keeps his attention on the building, but the corner of his mouth twitches once.
soldier boy sees it. the twitch dies instantly.
you assume he’s irritated about the stakeout, the heat, the hat. hughie breathing too loudly. any of the thirty-seven things that can offend him during a normal afternoon.
you don’t think about luke’s hand on your back. not much, anyway.
the safehouse is quiet when you return.
butcher disappears with frenchie to look through the photographs. hughie goes searching for annie. mm asks whether anyone was followed, accepts the answer, and returns to the kitchen table.
soldier boy goes to the living room.
you get yourself a glass of water and spend several minutes helping frenchie label times beneath blurry pictures of people entering and leaving the building. none of it leads anywhere useful. eventually, frenchie takes the laptop into the back room, leaving you alone at the table.
“so what about the window spray?”
you glance over your shoulder.
soldier boy sits on the couch with one arm stretched along the backrest and a beer on the coffee table. the stupid baseball cap’s gone. his hair’s flattened where it sat.
“what?”
“the window spray.”
you look toward the cleaning supplies beneath the kitchen sink. “do we need some?”
his stare hardens. “the thing with your boyfriend.”
“boyfriend?” you blink. “what—who? luke?”
something in his shoulders shifts. “looked like he wanted to be.”
you turn in your chair. “are you asking what happened?”
“asked a question.”
“you’ve apparently been thinking about it for hours.”
“answer it.”
you stare at him for a moment, then lean back in the chair, already smiling.
“god, okay—so the window in room fourteen kept getting stuck,” you say, a laugh slipping into your voice before you can stop it. “luke had it half taken apart, and i was supposed to be cleaning the track.”
“exciting.”
“and he’s like, ‘just spray the track,’ right? so i go to do it, and the stupid thing drops all at once—” you huff out a laugh, shaking your head at the memory. “—and i jump, and i just—i spray him directly in the face.”
soldier boy waits.
you’re already laughing now, one hand coming up to cover your mouth. “like, full blast. eyes, mouth, everything. and he just freezes for a second, completely soaked, and then he tries to step back and—” you break, laughing harder. “—and he trips over the housekeeping cart and goes down with all the towels.”
“that’s it?”
the disbelief in his voice only makes you laugh more.
“you had to be there,” you manage.
“yeah,” he says. “i bet.”
you smile into your water, still a little breathless.
he doesn’t. “he always wears his shirts that tight?”
your head lifts slowly. “what?”
“guy looked vacuum-sealed.”
“it was a normal shirt.”
“no, it wasn’t.”
“you noticed luke’s shirt?”
“hard not to.”
you bite the inside of your cheek.
“he still work at that dump?”
“i don’t know.”
“useful guy?”
“very.”
“fix toilets?”
“among other things.”
“great.”
you study soldier boy across the room. his face gives you nothing. his beer remains untouched. one boot taps against the floor once before going still again.
“what’s happening right now?”
“nothing.”
“you’ve spent all afternoon acting like somebody shot your dog.”
“never had a dog.”
“somehow, that explains a lot.”
his mouth tightens. “you fuck him?”
the question lands so bluntly that you almost choke on your water. “excuse me?”
“at the motel. you two sneak into empty rooms between clogged drains?”
“no!”
his expression doesn’t change.
“but we almost went out,” you add.
his jaw shifts. “you almost went out? the fuck does that mean—almost?”
“something always came up. somebody called out. a guest flooded a bathroom. once the owner made luke spend six hours trying to remove a raccoon from the laundry room.”
“sounds committed.”
“and then butcher showed up…”
soldier boy goes quiet. you don’t have to explain the rest. butcher showed up. mm was bleeding. hughie looked terrified. a gun pointed at your face, and somehow that became the dividing line between the life you had and the life you have now. luke belongs to the other side of it.
“you gonna call him?” soldier boy asks.
“probably.”
“why?”
you stare at him. “because i liked him.”
“liked.”
“maybe i still like. i haven’t exactly had time to find out.”
his eyes settle on yours. the air changes. not dangerously. not the kind you measure by exits and distance. something smaller. meaner. the danger of realizing you’ve stepped into an argument that began several hours before you knew it existed mixed with the weight of the gym, the kisses, the bad idea.
“guy changes lightbulbs for a living.”
“you’re unemployed.”
“i’m soldier boy.”
“that’s not a job. it’s barely a personality.”
he narrows his eyes at the jab.
your phone buzzes on the table. both of you look at it. a message waits from an unknown number.
“not at their phones unless somebody’s saying something stupid.”
you read the message aloud. soldier boy scoffs.
“i thought it was cute.”
“course you did.”
you look at him properly now. the silence during the stakeout. the shirt. the questions. the sudden interest in motel maintenance and whether luke had ever touched you in an empty room. a laugh begins low in your chest.
soldier boy’s eyes narrow. “what?”
“are you jealous?”
he looks personally insulted. “of him?”
“yes.”
“the maintenance guy?”
“his name’s luke.”
“don’t care what his name is.”
“you seem pretty invested.”
“bullshit.”
“you noticed his shirt.”
“everybody noticed his shirt.”
“frenchie barely noticed he had a face.”
soldier boy leans forward, forearms resting against his thighs. “you gave some civilian your number in the middle of a job.”
“he already knew me.”
“doesn’t know you now.”
“you don’t know him at all.”
“know enough.”
“what exactly do you know?”
he stares at you. for a second, you think he’ll dismiss the whole thing. call you delusional. take his beer and leave the room like the question is too stupid to deserve an answer. instead, he says, “i know how he looked at you.”
your amusement softens around the edges. “and how did he look at me?”
“like he’d already decided you were going home with him.”
“i didn’t.”
“you wanted to.”
“maybe.”
his expression turns murderous. and suddenly you understand. not just the jealousy. the precise shape of it.
“you’re not jealous because he wanted me… you’re jealous i wanted him back.”
his eyes stay on yours.
you purse your lips, fully entertained and begin typing on your phone.
“don’t answer him.”
your thumb stops. you look up. “and why not?”
he’s got nothing respectable to say. you see that too.
“because i said so.”
“not good enough.” you return to your phone.
“you want coffee, i’ll get you coffee.”
your thumb stops again. “what?”
“coffee.”
you lower the phone slowly. “are you offering to take me for coffee?”
“i know what i said.”
“you said you’d get me coffee. that could mean you’re planning to rob a café.”
“jesus christ.”
you wait. he glares at you from the couch, every inch of him offended by the fact that you’re making this difficult when, as far as he’s concerned, he’s already made an extraordinarily generous offer.
you enjoy every second of it. “ask me properly.”
he stares at you like he might detonate from humiliation alone. “come have coffee with me.”
“instead of luke?”
“yeah.”
“because you’re jealous?”
“because his joke wasn’t funny.”
you smile.
“still not admitting it?”
“you coming or not?”
you pick up your glass and phone. “i’ll think about it.”
you make it three steps toward the hallway. your smile widens where he cannot see it when the outraged scoff leaves his mouth.
Yea yea we all love to obsess over sweaty men... but what about that man being obsessed with you?
Simon felt filty. Utterly disgusting, as he slowly kneeled right in front of the laundry basket that is filled to the brim, your short, cute sports wear just within an arm reach.
You had just taken a shower, would probably let him smear his face all over your hot and wet body if he had asked nicely, but Simon knows better than that, it would be embarrassing for the both of you, right? Maybe he'd make you uncomfortable and you'd get the ick, making things awkward.
So yeah, sneaking around to take a quick sniff without you noticing could be justified.
He keeps his head in an angle to be able to glance around if needed, on alert as if on a mission, the absurdity of it all almost makes him scoff. His giant hands reach down to grab your shorts and quickly press it to his crooked nose, his white lashes fluttering and eyes nearly rolling back in response.
Simon bites down on his lower lip, cock stirring in his sweatpants as he keeps inhaling your scent like a mutt, the bright shade of red on his ears spreading to his cheeks by the time his tongue peeks out to have a taste. He bucks into nothing, humping the air until his brain gets enough oxygen to drop one hand down and squeeze around his hard cock.
You look for him around the house, only to find him on his knees, smelling your dirty clothes. Your boyfriend almost cries after getting caught, you've never seen his face so red, trying to hide what he's been up to.
you don’t know why you thought simon would be a cocky fuck.
maybe it was how cool and collected he always was. that hot, quiet confidence.
if only you knew when you’d finally got him into bed. ready for him to be rough, to be a little mean, not that you’d mind.
in reality, he was whining into your neck as he pumped into you at a primal speed. whispering and mumbling half words into your throat as he groped you anywhere he could. his eyes were rolled and he was drooling on your collarbone.
“o-oh.. oh, fuck- nghhhuhh… yyeah?.. awww… my baby.. gonna fill y-you… mhm…”
sweet little brain-numb nothings falling of the tongue of the smartest, coldest man you know.
and you could’ve cum just from the sight when he lifted his head and started actually panting and pathetically stuttering his hips against yours like a mutt.
there’s a woman flirting with simon riley at the bar. that’s all well and good because simon riley is a single man, except little ol’ analyst you has a big fat crush on him. (1.5k words)
warnings: 18+ mdni SMUT !!! smut smut smut !!!! possessive! simon. reader is jealous and pathetic. hello. reader is insecure with her appearance. misunderstandings but simon loves you and you love simon riley <3
authors note: i am, as the youth say, clockin' in. first ever longfic. ever. hope it goes well.
you’ve had a crush on simon riley for a long time. that’s nothing new. he’s been the brute that barges up into your office at four in the afternoon with some intel, and you’re left staying overtime waiting for his scarred face to show up.
he always has a smile for you. even when he’s walking into your room with a limp, or with blood on his shoulder. fuck one time you saw him with a stab wound.
simon riley tries very hard. that’s what’s endearing. the captain you’ve been assigned to is dismissive, he barely cares if you live or die. you know the last analyst had barely lasted more than a few months before they took the transfer.
captain price never hands his reports on time. if they are handed in, they’re a voice recording, which you take hours to painstakingly transcribe, just sitting in your office with headphones on.
the lieutenant’s also barely give a shit, garrick is always handing things in on time, but he barely looks. and johnny mctavish keeps flirting with garrick, everytime he walks in like a puppy.
and yet all in all the three barely care about you. barely paying attention to you, and yet simon riley walks on every month with a report on what the 141 have done, right on time, for you to analyse.
you almost wish you could kiss him.
thing is, and thing is. you really fucking do wish you could kiss him. you would kiss him, it’s just his majesty’s service has a lot to say about fraternisation. although you guess it is for those on the frontlines, but you wouldn’t want to be the analyst who fell for the soldier.
you were. you absolutely were, but they didn’t have to know…
you’re sitting at the spoons near hereford’s base, it’s full of army men. like your office, and your life. all these muscular me that won’t even look at you like you mean something. your eyes flit down at yourself, and then your hands curl around the cocktail you’re drinking, a porn star martini. hilarious name considering how miserably slow your sex life was.
you do like the vanilla flavour of it though. the aftertaste is lovely. which is not the word you’d describe for this evening.
you’re sat with the 141, and garrick and mctavish are too busy whispering to each other about… something. price’s beady little eyes are on a young thing at the bar, already a little tipsy on her cider.
…and simon barely looks at you. his blonde hair almost luminescent in the yellowing pub lights. he’s got a pint in his hands, and he’s beautiful. magical. something out of what you have in your head whenever you imagine a hot man saving you from the boring ol’ life you have.
he’s looking off into the distance, his brown eyes like crystals in the lights.
“hey handsome,” a sweet voice calls out, and your torn away from staring at simon, to look at her. she’s stunning, in a way that you’d look at yourself in a mirror after and throw up. you see his eyes trail over to her, a small smile on his face as he tilts his glass at her.
something in your stomach curdles, it’s like when you were eleven again, and weren’t picked for the basketball team. it was like you were twenty one, and your boyfriend broke up with you for his ex. your throat
closes up, and you want to run away, hideaway somewhere.
she steps a little closer, and her arm is around him, her face right in his. he could kiss her.
he should kiss her.
just because simon riley smiled at you when he gave his reports in didn’t mean he liked you. and you were stupid to believe it.
you rush outside the pub, your hands shaking as you reach for the cigarette and lighter you have in your purse. fuck your life, fuck everything.
it’s raining. you sit on the curb, your knees tucked under your chin. fuck the white button up you wore, the tights getting snagged on the footpath. you stare into the mid distance.
“love?” a rough voice calls out, and you look up to see
simon fucking riley in all his scarred glory, run out of the bar to look down at you. you turn back to the road, your hands shaking as they try and light the cigarette.
“looking for someone?” a droplet hits you square on the nose, another puts out the cigarette. fuck everything. genuinely. fuck.
“love? come back in.” he says, you know he’s got this frown on his face just by his voice, the way the corners of his mouth turn down. “you’ll catch a cold.”
“fuck the cold.” you shrug.
“that’s not nice is it?” he teases, and then folds his legs to he sit beside you.
“fuck off riley.” you say, after a moment.
“won’t unless you come back in with me.”
“why do you care?” you make eye contact with him, probably the first time this evening. why does he care, he’s hot, he’s simon fucking riley, he doesn’t need a nobody like you, behind your big glasses and your perpetual scowl.
his eyes flick down, then dart around.
he’s bad at eye contact.
“don’t you have someone waiting for you back in there?” you add.
“who?” he sounds genuinely confused, finally, finally looking at you.
“the woman—“ you sigh, “her!” you wave inwards, “there’s a perfectly good woman waiting for you inside.”
he stares at you, with his soft eyes.
“love, why would i go back to her?” he asks, and it’s frustrating how fucking genuine he is.
“because—“ you stamp your dying cigarette out with your shoe, “that beautiful woman is head over heels for you.”
“but there’s a beautiful woman outside on the curb, that i’m talking to?”
what. the actual. fuck?
you look at him, and then back in the bar, “you’re blatantly jus’ lying.” you laugh, and then make your way to stand up, but he catches your wrist with thick, callused fingers.
“no.” he frowns, “i’m not. i swear.”
and there, in the rain, in front of the stupid hereford spoons, simon riley. the ghost of the 141 bends down to kiss you on your lips.
he barely can keep his hands off you as the uber takes you back to base, his hands gripping your arms as he leaves sloppy kisses in your mouth. a big hand runs over your cunt.
“all this f’me?” he says, growling into your ear, loud for you but you pray the driver doesn’t hear.
“for- for you…” you let out a breathy gasp. he’s got you like a sack of potatoes as he walks by your office into his room on base.
it’s not a complete shithole, but it’s messy, bed unmade with a pile of clothes in the corner. simon riley is painfully human.
he presses you down on the bed, rutting against you desperately, you can feel his cock strain against his trousers. “y’makin’ me crazy love…” he moans, “ever since i saw y’ four months ago.”
you look up at him with soft eyes, “fuck, fuck you look jus’ like a doe…” he growls again, before fumbling with his belt, unbuckling with shaking hands, before you bat them away and start fiddling with it yourself.
his cock is leaking and it’s so large as it slaps against his stomach, and he looks down at you with the softest look on his face, flushed red.
“love, let me know if it’s too big, yeah?” he says, pushing your panties off with his hand, before he rubs at your clit with his thumb. “so fuckin’ tight love…”
you can just nod as he slides a thick finger into you, and then another, filling you up snugly with his warmth. you swear he smiles at you, before he puts his head down and starts lapping at your clit. his tongue isn’t trained, but he feels so good, and your legs are twitching as he wrings an orgasm out of you.
“see, it’s just…” he looks up at you, nose and mouth glistening, “i ain’t get pretty women in my bed like you…”
he lines up his cock, now painfully hard, with your cunt, and slides into you with ease. “god, f-fuck—“ he lets out a moan as your cunt clenches with a vice grip against his cock, “s’like you were made for me…”
his teeth glint in the moonlight, and yet you find him beautiful.
it isn’t long before his cock twitches, kissing your cervix, “oh l-love i’m go-gonna…” and then you feel his cum deep in your stomach, thick and warm and filling you in a way nothing else could fill.
he lays his head on your chest, feeling the soft cotton of your button up against yourbreasts.
“think i’ve always loved ya dovie…” he says, and you just look at him with your hazy eyes.
“course you did. i did too.”
endnotes: i am SO FUCKING SCARED I HOPE YALL LIKED IT....
Summary: After your breakup, the last place you want to be is your dad’s family barbecue, until Soldier Boy shows up - what starts as risky flirting by the truck ends with Ben fucking you in secret.
𑣲 warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, smut, large age gap, dad's best friends, secret sex, slight risk of getting caught, unprotected sex
wc: 2k
Your dad had hosted a family barbecue, which would be fine, but you and your boyfriend had just broken up. You felt horrible. You didn’t wanna see anyone, let alone your family and dad’s friends. Except one. Soldier Boy.
Ben was hot, like really hot, and always touching your shoulder. Since you turned 18, he was always leaving comments about how mature you were and how much you’d grown.
The way his eyes lingered on your body made it clear exactly what kind of “growth” he was talking about. So today, even though your heart was aching, you made sure to put on your shortest jeans, the ones that rode up high on your thighs and made your ass look incredible, and your most well-fitting tank top, the thin white fabric hugging your curves and showing just enough.
You were sitting on the back porch steps, staring at nothing, when your dad’s voice cut through the noise. “Hey, did you get the cooler from my truck?”
“Huh? Oh, no, I will now.”
He nodded and turned back to the grill, flipping burgers while the rest of the family and friends chatted and laughed. You sighed, pushing yourself up and heading toward the front yard, the gravel crunching under your sneakers.
You sighed as you yanked down the tailgate of your dad’s old pickup truck, the metal groaning in protest. The afternoon sun beat down on the backyard barbecue, laughter and the sizzle of burgers floating through the air like some cruel reminder that life was moving on while you felt stuck in the wreckage of your breakup.
Maybe it was desperate. But if you had to be miserable, at least you could look good doing it.
“Ya’ need a hand, sweetheart?”
The deep, gravelly voice hit you like a shot of whiskey. You turned, heart skipping, and there he was, Ben. Soldier Boy.
Your dad’s oldest friend, the walking embodiment of arrogant, old-school masculinity.
He was leaning against the side of the truck, arms crossed over his broad chest, the fabric of his button-up straining against muscles that definitely weren’t from just working out.
You swallowed hard. “Oh, hi Ben. Yeah, please. The cooler’s in the back. It’s heavier than it looks.”
He pushed off the truck, stepping close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne, something woodsy and expensive with a hint of cigar smoke. His hand brushed your lower back as he reached past you into the truck bed, the touch lingering just a second too long.
“Damn, look at you,” he murmured, voice low so only you could hear. His eyes dragged slowly down your body, taking in the tiny shorts and the way your tank top clung to you in the heat. “All grown up.”
Heat rushed to your face. You bit your lip, trying not to smile too obviously.
Ben grabbed the heavy cooler with one arm like it weighed nothing and set it on the tailgate, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he turned toward you, close enough that you had to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. His fingers grazed your bare shoulder, the same casual touch he’d been doing for years, except now it felt electric.
“Rough week, huh?” His thumb brushed a slow circle against your skin. “Heard you and that little boyfriend finally called it quits. Kid didn’t deserve you anyway, You need a man who knows how to handle a woman like you.”
You leaned back against the truck, arching your back just a little so your chest pushed out. “And what kind of man is that, Ben?”
“C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s not keep Daddy waiting.”
You followed him back, heart racing. When you reached the backyard, your dad spotted him immediately.
“Oh, hey Ben, you finally made it.” Your dad took the cooler from him and set it down with a grateful slap on the back. “Say hi to Ben, honey.”
“Oh, she already did,” Ben said with a knowing smirk, glancing over at you. His eyes lingered on your legs before he looked away.
You blushed hard and quickly turned away, heading over to talk to your cousins. But you could feel his gaze on you the entire time. Every time you moved, his eyes followed.
The afternoon dragged on with food, laughter, and games. Ben stayed close to your dad, cracking jokes and drinking beer, but he never stopped watching you. When you bent over to grab a soda from the cooler, you caught him staring openly at your ass.
Later, while everyone was distracted by a loud cornhole game, Ben wandered over to where you were standing near the edge of the yard. He stopped beside you, shoulder brushing yours.
“You’ve been avoiding me since we got back,” he said quietly, that deep voice sending warmth pooling low in your stomach. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Scared I might say something your dad shouldn’t hear?”
You glanced up at him, “You keep on making it obvious looking at me like that.”
Ben’s smirk grew. He leaned in slightly, his hand brushing the small of your back again, hidden from everyone else. “Like what? Like I want to pull you behind the shed and see exactly how well these little shorts fit when they’re around your ankles?”
Your breath hitched. He chuckled softly at your reaction.
“Easy, baby girl. Not yet.” His thumb stroked your spine through your tank top. “But keep wearing shit like that and I might forget I’m supposed to be the responsible one here. You keep teasing me with this body and I’m gonna stop being such a good friend to your old man.”
He gave your waist a gentle, possessive squeeze before stepping back just as your dad called his name for another beer.
The rest of the afternoon was pure torture in the best way, stolen glances, “accidental” brushes when he passed by, and low comments whispered when no one was listening.
“Those legs look even better when they’re walking away from me.”
“Careful bending over like that, darlin’. Not sure I can behave all night.”
By the time the sun started to dip, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. You knew it was only a matter of time before Ben made good on every filthy promise.
The last guests finally trickled out, and the backyard grew quiet except for the low hum of crickets and the distant clink of your dad cleaning up the grill. The string lights glowed softly as the clock pushed well past midnight. You were exhausted but buzzing, every whispered word and hidden touch from Ben still burning under your skin.
“I’m heading in,” your dad yawned, wiping his hands on a towel. “Lock up when you’re done, kiddo. Ben, you crashing in the guest room tonight?”
“Yeah, might as well,” Ben replied casually, stretching his arms overhead. His eyes flicked to you for a split second, “Too many beers to drive.”
Your dad nodded and headed upstairs. A few minutes later, Ben muttered something about using the bathroom and slipped inside the house. Your heart pounded.
You waited just long enough for your dad’s bedroom door to click shut upstairs, then followed Ben inside, telling yourself you were just “going to bed.” The house was dim, only the kitchen light left on. You barely made it past the living room when a strong hand grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the small hallway bathroom.
The door clicked shut behind you. Ben spun you around, pressing your back against the sink counter in one smooth motion. His big body caged you in instantly, hard muscle and heat pinning you there.
“Been waiting all fucking night for this,” he growled. One large hand gripped your jaw, tilting your face up as his mouth crashed down on yours. The kiss was greedy, demanding, all tongue and teeth, like he’d been starving for you. His other hand immediately slid down to grab a handful of your ass, squeezing hard through your tiny shorts.
You moaned into his mouth, hands fisting his shirt. He tasted like beer and sin, and the sheer size of him made your knees weak.
“These fucking shorts,” he muttered against your lips, yanking them down roughly along with your panties in one tug. They pooled at your ankles. “Been teasing me with this ass all day. Turn around.”
He spun you to face the mirror, bending you over the sink. Your hands braced on the counter as he kicked your legs apart. In the reflection you saw him behind you, eyes dark, jaw tight with hunger. He freed himself from his jeans, thick and heavy, already rock-hard.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, one hand stroking down your spine while the other gripped your hip. “All bent over and dripping for your dad’s best friend. Such a naughty girl.”
You whimpered as he rubbed the thick head of his cock along your soaked folds, teasing your entrance. Then he pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open with his size. You gasped sharply at the feeling, so full it almost hurt in the best way.
“Shit, Ben...” you moaned, pushing back against him.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Take it.” He bottomed out with a deep groan, hips flush against your ass. “So fucking tight. Better than I imagined.”
He didn’t give you long to adjust. His grip on your hips tightened and he started thrusting, deep, powerful strokes that rocked your whole body against the sink. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the small bathroom, mixed with your desperate moans and his low, filthy grunts.
“Look in the mirror,” he ordered, one hand tangling in your hair to lift your head. “Watch me fuck you. Watch how pretty you look taking my cock.”
You obeyed, eyes locked on the reflection: your flushed face, mouth open in pleasure, tank top still on but pushed up so your tits bounced with every hard thrust. Ben looked feral behind you, shirt half-open, muscles flexing as he pounded into you.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, reaching around to rub your clit in rough circles. “This pussy was made for me. Been mine since you turned 18 and started prancing around in tight little outfits.”
Your legs shook, pleasure building fast and intense. The risk of your dad being right upstairs only made it hotter. Ben’s pace grew faster, more punishing, the bathroom filling with wet, obscene sounds.
“You gonna cum for me, baby girl?” he rasped, lips against your ear. “Cum on my cock like the dirty little slut you are for me.”
The combination of his filthy words, his thick cock stretching you, and his fingers on your clit sent you over the edge. You cried out, clamping down around him as your orgasm hit hard, vision blurring.
Ben groaned loudly, thrusting through it. “Good girl, fuck...”
A few more brutal strokes and he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a low, satisfied growl. His hips jerked as he rode it out, filling you up.
For a moment the only sounds were heavy breathing. Ben stayed buried inside you, leaning over your back and pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder.
“Keep it a secret, okay?” he said, eyes locked on yours. “This stays between us. Your dad can never know. Last thing I need is him trying to kill me, even if it’d be funny to watch him try.”
You nodded quickly, still dazed from the intense orgasm. “I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”
I just want you to write more about ghost and the reader he makes laugh. Those were funny and good.
I’m glad you found them funny ❣️ here’s some more !!
cw: none, English it’s my first language !
—————
It’s a mission abroad when he cracks yet another stupid joke.
You don’t remember if it was in Russia or Greenland, but what you do remember is the freezing cold.
It gnaws at you through each layer of fabric, settling deep into bone, Fingers turn pale purple around the sniper.
You flex your fingers one at a time, trying to regain a peck of heat back but they only twitch and ache in protest. muscle spams underneath the weather as you settle behind the scope, shifting your weight every now and then before the numbness locks into your joints, and wins.
Nothing helps, not the clothes, not the thermals. Not even the calculated breathing.
Seeking warmth.. you press on the comms.
“Lt..” breath condenses into a cloud of tiny crystals.
“speak to me” shameless.
Silence follows.
“A joke” you plead, voice barely above a whisper.
Like a moth to a flame, he obliges.
“What do you call a sleeping bull..?” Static hisses through the cold as he awaits your voice again.
“..hmmm..”
“I don’t know Lt.” despite yourself, a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. Cheeks flush pink beneath the cold weather, and for the first time in days, the bitter bite of the wind doesn’t seem to relentless now.
“Bulldozer.” The punchline is followed by silence, then shortly the unmistakable sound of your breathless giggles.
“Want another luv?” Hopeful and pleased with himself.
“Got nowhere else to be Lt..”
The mission was never what made him feel accomplished. It was the rare notes of your laughter carried by the wind and static. Proving once again he managed to steal a smile, he can make you laugh. That little by little, he can get you addicted just like he is to you.
"That wisnae funny." the Scot breaths back to life through his comms.
A big kiss to @sheepispink for making me write a continuation for this fic , I had fun !! it was rushed ofc so forgive me for any mistakes.
part 3
cw: none just Simon being utterly adorable w reader. English isn’t my first language :)
———
It’s cute.
His presence, a shadow of demise, commands respect followed with genuine looks of fear. Everyone is terrified to fall short of any order he barks, the requests he makes, the questions he asks.
Yet somehow that’s all out the window when the sweet sound of your giggles turns the Skull Wearer into putty. Your voice taffy stuck to his teeth, stubbornly sweet, impossible to shake. he rolls the sound around, tasting it, salivating at its notes, craving it.
It intoxicates him, it thrills him, he seeks it like seeking god after tragedy, water for thirst, forgiveness for sin.
Greedy, he finds himself praying for another day to come- another joke to crack.
The sound of your voice.
———
“Lieutenant.. you’re so silly” cheeks aching, teeth on display flashing him between cackles.
The result of another dark joy. May god save him.
“Tha’ right?” the mask fails to hide his grin.
“Mhm… so silly” breathless.
silly would get a recruit pushing hundred underneath the torching sun, a terrorist tortured for the fun of it. But when it comes out of your mouth, it’s truth in scripture, sun after dark, he’s the silliest man alive.
“what can I say luv, It’s a gift.”
“Tell me another..” voice low, shyly looking up at your lieutenant, eager for more of his attention, courage ignite within, you take a step closer.
His jokes never made sense, they’re hardly funny— borderline scary but you don’t care. It’s the gravel in his voice, the lazy flutter of his lashes, the warm rumble of his chuckle that makes you flush despite effort.
Pondering, his eyes stare at the bright moon deep in thought, he taps the rifle underneath his gloved carpals, in search of another-
“are ya made out’ of glue?”
“no.. why?”
“Cause I'm stuck on you”
That earns another laugh.
“So silly..”
“whatever you say luv”
stuck to you like an ant in honey, a fly tangled in webs, he knows rescue is impossible when he frantically ravages the corners of his mind, desperate to find yet another joke.
The first time you meet him after moving in the apartment next to him he barely acknowledges your existence, only stopping for a moment, looking you up and down and then moving on, apparently having decided that you weren't a threat.
Bringing him a tray of homemade muffins has him looking at you suspiciously and only after sniffing them does he finally eat one. The only thanks you get is a half-pleasant sounding grunt between mouthfulls of muffins, he even picks up the crumbs.
After that you bring him cookies and a caraf of lemonade because last time he was almost choking with how fast he inhaled the food. It happens the same with the cookies, shoving handfulls of them into his mouth and then washing it down with lemonade, downing the entire thing in a few gulps.
Maybe it's your soft side acting up, but you get it into your head that poor Simon must be starving so you decide to keep feeding him. You learned his name after the fourth time bringing him food and sometimes when you're cooking something and hear his door open, you just pop your head out in the hallway and call him to taste test.
The first few times he entered your apartment he was a little apprehensive, refusing to sit down and keeping an eye on the door. Now he comes and goes during all the hours of the day, murmuring about having smelt something good. Sitting on your couch with a plate on his lap and eating contentedly while watching one of your favourite shows, staying longer and closer to you with each visit.
It's unfortunate that you left on vacation a day before he returned from a long deployment. Imagine your surprise when you come back late at night, exhausted after the long flight and plop onto your bed without turning on the lights. It's only after your eyes get used to the dark that you finally notice a dark shape at the end of the bed, his face obstructed, but the hunger in his eyes unmistakeable.
It's your fault really. Don't you know not to feed strays? They always come back for more.
