and let me love you anyway

18+ | this is the place where i’m horny | mostly reposts

[texasafterdark]

trouser snake | joel miller

pairings: caretaker! joel x fem! reader

tags: 18+ only, ICKYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY joel, dark! joel, naive! and oblivious! reader, post-outbreak au, ellie doesn't exist, sweet nicknames, daddy kink, dd/lg elements, large and in-charge legal age gap, oral m receiving, corruption kink

word count: 1868

summary: you ask joel what a trouser snake is...

a/n: i was inspired by a story on an spicy lit website but i cannot for the life of me remember the authors name💔also lowk cant write smut anymore its been too long BOOOOO

in the early sweltering heat of spring, you wiped the sweat that was beginning to form at your hairline with the back of your hand. a cool breeze hit you, the air going straight up your back to dry off some of the sweat there. you were thinking about if maybe joel would be at home yet.

he helped out with the construction of things in jackson with his brother, tommy. joel was more-so the management and tommy was out there with the others, ever since tommy made him quit carrying heavy lumber due to his ever-aching back. as you walked by the swaying trees, the sound of a nearing car motor caught your attention from behind.

glancing back over your shoulder, you saw it was a truck full of boys and smiled politely at them. your late grandmother always told you to smile at everyone, including strangers, but you recognized some of them from town meetings.

you were fully expecting to get a kind gesture back, but were met with confusion instead.

"hey sweetheart! come sit on my trouser snake!" one boy said, invoking laughter from the others. furrowing your eyebrows together, you cocked your head to the side. "your what?"

they all laughed even harder and just sped away, yelling.

"trouser snake…" you mouthed the words back to yourself, trying to put the pieces together but to no avail. as you finally neared the house, you spotted joel's truck in the driveway, and skipped toward the front door as your skirt fluttered in the air behind you. opening the door, your eyes dart around in search of joel. you really wanted to ask him what a trouser snake was.

"hey darlin', that you?" his voice resonated from upstairs. "yes!" you called out to him, practically running up the stairs. he was in his bedroom, back turned to you, accompanied by a drilling sound. walking closer, you see that he was currently working on a miniature wooden house.

"hey princess." he greets again, not taking his eyes off of his work in progress.

you always felt so comfortable with joel. ever since you stumbled upon jackson during that extremely cold winter, he and tommy were the ones at the gate who let you come in. they wrapped blankets around your shivering frame and gave you endless cups of hot chocolate once you were inside the bar.

bringing your hands around his head to rest over both of his eyes, you giggled. joel smiled as well, even though he tried to hide it.

removing your hands, you stand to the side of him. "…um, i have a question?" you propose and he turns his head to you. his hair was mostly silver nowadays, the strands almost glistening in the beams of sunlight that came through the window.

"ok." he nods, awaiting said question.

you just come right out and say it. "what's a trouser snake?" your lips stay slightly apart in wonder in contrast to joel's, who's eyebrows were furrowed and his lips a straight line, mixed emotions on how you know what that is.

or who said that to you.

"where'd 'ya hear that from, princess?" joel asked cautiously, not wanting you to believe that you were in trouble or anything like that. as you shake your head, you recall the whole street interaction with the truck full of boys and them yelling it out to you, plus your confusion and everything.

"the boys outside. they said, 'sit on my trouser snake' but i don't wanna get bit by a snake!!" fear seeps into your brain, never having gotten bit by any type of animal, definitely not by a snake. "i was so confused, i thought you would know because you teach me everything." your eyes light up, so grateful that joel has learned you the ways of this new world.

joel looked like he had seen a ghost.

he sighed out, blowing out his cheeks and shaking his head slowly. "princess...i," he began to speak. "is it poisonous?" you ask carefully.

he stands up from his chair, a quiet groan evident, before going to sit on the edge of the bed, his hands on his knees. "honey, what those boys were talking about...it, well," you cut off his train of words once more. "have you seen one?"

the gears in joels mind were working overtime. he knew that you wouldn't know what a damn trouser snake would be. he didn't wanna ruin your innocence like that.

but he can't lie and say that the thought of you only being taught things by him was darkly exciting. you trusted him with everything in you. he began to nod to your recent question, making your eyes widen.

"what does it look like? he said it's in your pants! isn't that scary?" you asked these questions like you were asking what was for dinner. running a hand through his silver hair, he just went along with it.

"no. it's not scary." he simply said, with a sigh. "oh..." you brought your hands together, rubbing your nailbeds against each other, making a soft clicking noise as you thought.

joel's pants were already a little tight, but now they were restrictive almost. his "trouser snake" was getting a little excited at the whole situation.

"but, princess, don't worry about that. it's really not all that imp-"

"can i see?" you ask with hope. joel's expression contorted. his eyes darted around the room, keeping his head immobile. "see what?"

"your trouser snake!" you say matter-of-factly as you plop down next to him on the bed. he was now aware of how close you two were, and scooted away a little bit. "no, i don't think that's a good idea." he says firmly, he raises his hand in your direction briefly before setting it back down on his thigh.

your expression showed slight irritation. "joel! that's not fair, you said you'd always explain things to me. they didn't teach me anything at the other camp! pleaseeeee?" you drug out the last word. and it was true. the camp that you were previously at raised you from a baby to a now 20-something-year-old, but it was mainly elderly women who were nun-like. they told you to not think about or trust boys, but you knew you could trust tommy and joel.

"…no baby. i'm sorry." he managed to get the words out clearly.

you turned away from him before standing up and stomping your foot. "fine!" you call out, making joel raise an eyebrow at you, but you didn't care right now. "i'll just ask jesse! he'll show me what a trouser snake looks like since you won't show me yours." you huff out. you didn't understand why joel wouldn't agree to your request.

"jesse?!" he asked, anger seeping around the edges of his tone, making you retreat just the slightest. "you go ask jesse and see what happens." he spoke lowly as your eyes dropped to the carpeted floor, doubtful now. "you know better than to stomp your foot at me. go to your room." he pointed to the wall, to your room which was right next to his own. you knew not to push any further and begrudgingly obeyed his order, slamming your door shut before plopping face down on your bed. out of the corner of your eye, you spot your withered sketchbook and pencil, grabbing them both to doodle to calm yourself down.

you weren't aware of how much time had gone by until there was a knock at your door.

"princess? can i come in?" joel's soft voice spoke from the opposite end of the door. pausing for a moment, you answered yes and heard the door creak open. you stayed on your stomach, with your back to him, quiet. then he sighed. "you really wanna see one, hm?" this made you immediately turn over, making joel shake his head.

"come here." he motioned with his hand as you scurried to stand up and go over to him.

"close your eyes." he continued, and you did so. he grabbed your hand, flipping it palms-down and guided it until your fingers bumped into something…hard.

“keep those pretty eyes closed, babygirl.” his breath came out a bit labored. he hadn’t felt a touch other than his own in years. his fingers closed around yours, putting pressure on both his hand and his clothed cock. you gasp at the feeling of it in your hand. “joel yours is big?” you say curiously, making joel smugly smile.

“yea, baby. he is a little big, huh?” he speaks, his mind barely focusing on his words and more so on your hand rubbing him so good through his jeans.

“oh that’s a good girl baby. just like that.” joel breathed out, breaths uneven as your tongue glided up and down the side of his aching, throbbing cock. and an old tie as a blindfold over your eyes.

it was awful.

joel lying and saying that sometimes a trouser snake needed to be licked like a lollipop so it won’t be angry and bite him. your eyes enlarged to saucers at the thought of joel being injured and jumped at the idea to help.

the condition?

you couldn’t look at it or it would bite you too. that’s where the blindfold comes into play. so there you were, on your knees before him, mouth open and dragging your tongue around his heavy meat like it was the best lollipop in the world. his hand was on the back of your head now.

“open your mouth and stick your tongue out, baby.” seeing nothing but the darkness caused by the tie over your eyes, you do as he says. shortly after, you felt the heavy slaps of it on your wet tongue, with joel loving the site.

“will ‘ya be a good girl and do this for daddy when he needs it?” he runs his head across the flat of your tongue, then pulls back to rub against your lips. you nod almost immediately. “yes, yes i will.”

“say, ‘yes daddy i will’.” he softly commands.

you swallow briefly. “yes daddy, i will..”

“atta girl. open up wide, baby.” his length invaded your mouth, lips stretching as you try not to gag. soon enough, your spit was dribbling down your chin as joel gently fucked your mouth, his hands keeping your head close.

“oh baby. you’re making him realll happy. such a good girl.” each thrust in your mouth brought joel one step closer to his peak. his cock slippery with a mix of your spit and his precum, made every single one of his nerve endings buzz with complete pleasure.

“fuck fuck fuck. oh here i co—it comes. don’t be scared princess.” he warned you before his trouser snake sprayed its seed all over your pretty blindfolded face. spurts came out and landed on your forehead, cheek, nose, and even in your hair. you weren’t scared only confused.

“it’s warm daddy.” your fingers were splayed out, not used to the foreign substance. joel was still standing above you, trying to catch his breath from a mind blowing orgasm. “it’s okay, princess. that means he likes you.”

taglist: @sunshineflowersandkisses @taniamiller @ilovetoomanymen @ghuoab @joelsarchive @wand-erer5 @mydarlingjoel @pleurspetal @politeolive @twilightvelour @h3avenlyglory @kkatnapp

[chillisoni]

He was unhappy in the sketch, but I got carried away

[mariasont]

BRACHYURA ⋆˚࿔

langdon discovers your weakness: being correct. you discover his: needing to argue with you about it

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted

PAIRING: frank langdon x nerd!reader WARNINGS: fluffity fluff, nerd!reader, sunshine!reader, intern!reader, pre-relationship pining, academic flirting, shirtless langdon, reader is clumsy, langdon manhandling once again, beach setting, slow burn as always PROMPT: here! WC: 0.9k

You’re crouched by the rocks, thinking (maybe overthinking, definitely overthinking) about how tides are basically nature’s very slow, very patient way of rearranging furniture, nudging the shoreline grain by grain. Erosion as decoration, oceanic feng shui.

Your toes, lacking imagination or enthusiasm for your existential oceanic musings, wriggle unhappily in gritty sand, damp and insistent, like the world’s least appealing exfoliation treatment. 

But you’re stubborn, and stubborn means you’ll ignore discomfort if there’s something captivating enough to distract you. And just ahead, caught in the safe anonymity of shadow, is a small crab. It skitters sideways, freezes mid-motion, as though playing the world’s tensest, tiniest game of red light, green light. 

You’ve never really gotten the hang of “enjoying” the beach like a normal person, have you?

Even as a kid, your beach trips meant scraped knees and awkward contortions above tiny tide pools. Scientist postures adopted decades too early. Your mind always running away from you, darting through an endless maze of questions that refused resolution.

Once you tried to smuggle an entire jar of seawater home, insisting it was important, vital even, despite overwhelming visual evidence that it was just… salty water with a few grains of drifting sand. 

“Brachyura,” a voice says from behind you, abrupt and far too close to your ear to belong to a stranger. Your breath hitches and your foot slides ineptly in the damp sand.

Gravity lurches enthusiastically toward public embarrassment, already whispering promises of sandy humiliation, but a pair of hands find your shoulders, tugging you gently upright like an oversized marionette whose strings they’ve begrudgingly learned to untangle.

You crane your neck up, blinking upward through eyelashes clumped from salt air.

Langdon. 

Fresh from the water, apparently. Incarnation of stern practicality wrapped in saltwater shine. Hair dripping small rivulets of ocean down his neck, skin glistening damply, sunlight skittering over his features as if it, too, is uncertain it will find a kinder place to rest. 

“I — uh, well yes, that’s — technically that’s just the infraorder,”  you stumble hurriedly, words tumbling like dominoes, trying desperately not to acknowledge the persistent warmth of his hands still bracing your shoulders. You straighten your spine, awkwardly graceful (okay, mostly awkward), as your mouth rushes ahead without permission from your brain — “Which is good, infraorders are perfectly good places to start, broad strokes and all that, but, if you want specificity, which I assume you do, since you’re you and everything, accuracy-wise, I’d guess Grapsidae? Because of, um, the carapace? Although I realize that’s probably not visible from your angle, which makes this an educated guess — or maybe an overly ambitious one? Anyway, I might be wrong — though, honestly, I don’t really think I am.”

Langdon’s eyebrows lift fractionally, and without explicitly calling out your obvious spiral into nervousness (small mercies), he simply crouches next to you, hands moving from your shoulders to his knees, leaning forward into your shared fixation on the tiny creature.

“Carpace shape would definitely clarify,” he agrees softly, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Of course, if accuracy’s our goal — and you’re right, that’s very much my thing — we could always catch it and verify. Or is speculation more your comfort zone?”

“Catch it?” You practically squeak, eyes wide, picturing your clumsy human hands accidentally crushing something so small and helpless, immediately spiraling into guilty imagined apologies and crab funerals (poorly attended, perhaps only yourself, a few baffled seagulls, and the soundless waves). “No, no, speculation is good. Excellent, actually. Much safer for everyone involved, particularly tiny, defenseless beach residents.”

“Probably wise,” he murmurs, his voice barely louder than the tide hushing at your feet. “Better not to risk it. I suppose some things are best left unconfirmed.”

You shift infinitesimally closer, almost involuntarily, and find your voice tumbling out again before you can reconsider, earnestness coloring each syllable: “I'm still inclined to think it's Grapsidae, though.”

Langdon hums in soft acknowledgment, a small sound that vibrates through him into you, startlingly intimate in its resonance.

“Confidence is appealing, even misplaced confidence,” he remarks casually. “Though I’d argue it looks more Portunidae.”

“No — no, see, Portunidae is — well, not impossible exactly, but definitely unlikely, because the back legs on Portunidae are paddle-shaped, distinctly modified for swimming, right? And this crab, if you look closely, has pointy, ordinary walking legs, which —” Your eyes flicker upward, catching the small, barely-there curve of his mouth. “Oh. You’re… you're totally messing with me right now, aren’t you?”

Langdon’s smile broadens just enough to confirm your suspicion, eyes glinting. He lifts one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, lightly apologetic in theory, not remotely in reality.

“Guilty. Sorry,” he admits. “I have this innate desire to contradict you. Consider it a character flaw.”

You tilt your head slightly, making an unsuccessful attempt at hiding your grin, cheeks undeniably warm. Purely sun-induced warmth, naturally (or at least that’s what you tell yourself).

“That explains everything,” you say, affecting an exaggerated, mock-serious air. “Honestly, this puts your whole personality into clearer perspective.”

Langdon chuckles quietly under his breath, the sound rare and low enough to draw your eyes back to his face. “Well, now you know. Incurably flawed, I'm afraid.”

“Deeply incurable.”

He holds your gaze for a second longer, a quiet smile playing softly at the corners of his mouth, before turning toward the distant line of waves. 

“Come on,” he says, voice gentle, almost affectionate. “Let's walk. We'll leave our mysterious friend to its existential privacy.”

You follow, still smiling, sand soft beneath your feet and heart inexplicably lighter.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

FIND YOUR SUITCASE HERE!

MARIA'S SUMMER IN SANTORINI MASTERLIST

[gothcsz]

it’s crazy how hot pedro’s characters are in their own way. it’s like he shapeshifts

[grooviar]

Patrick Hockstetter ☆

[shellminded]

Happy Pride from Spybot! Love is love and love always wins!

[honeyroots]

headcanons. — FRANK LANGDON

⚠︎ — minors do not interact, 18+. corruption kink. dacryphilia. brat taming.

౨ৎ — CORRUPTION KINK. . .

Frank Langdon has a thing about you peering up at him with innocent eyes, questions about his body rolling off your tongue with a curiosity that cannot be quenched. You remind him of himself when he was a first year med student, always wondering, always asking.

“Can I watch?” you mutter, the question that would once make you feel sheepish under Frank’s gaze feels normal now. Although, the word ‘dick’ is still hard for you to say, “I wanna see… one… in person.”

He nods, slipping his boxers down just enough to give you a good display of his most intimate parts. With widened eyes, your mouth feels like it’s beginning to overproduce saliva in anticipation to drool over Frank as he puts on a show for you. “It’s soft,” he chews his bottom lip, one hand fondling his balls and the other squeezing his length as he works himself up in front of you, “Once I start playing with myself, it’ll get hard.” Frank, such a gentleman, avoids words you’re too nervous to use.

There’s something about your inquisitiveness, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s defiling your purity, but he can’t get enough of how he’s gonna teach you all about the things you like— until you’re a whiny mess, constantly begging Frank for more.

౨ৎ — DACRYPHILIA. . .

It doesn’t matter the situation, Frank Langdon can’t help but get hot and bothered when he sees tears staining your cheeks. He’s fucking you so well your eyes are leaking? Hot. You’re so overstimulated that you can’t help but sniffle and whine? Great. You’re in a sour mood and can’t find it in you to regulate yourself? He’ll help, but he didn’t say he won’t get hard about it.

It’s something about how you look when you’re crying. Red eyes, bottom lip quivering, and your nose running like a faucet. He doesn’t understand it, really, he just knows that when you’re a vulnerable mess around him, blood flows straight to his dick. He loves being the one you seek out when tears prickle at your waterline, threatening to spill over. It could be all the years he spent emotionally stunted, refusing to acknowledge anything other than joy and adrenaline. Some may think it’s a little twisted, but the less control you have over your emotions, the more he wants to fuck you.

౨ৎ — BRAT TAMING. . .

Brat taming comes naturally to him, though, brat taming for Frank looks a little different. It’s less about taming, and more about trying to piece your emotions together like a puzzle. When he gets you to submit, it’s usually not followed by impact play or sex bans, even if he’s not opposed to those methods. Brat taming for Frank Langdon is a disappointment look thrown at you, the cross of his arms, or taking away privileges like free use. Frank’s version of brat taming is reward based with minimal warnings. If you do something you shouldn’t, he might not correct the behavior in the moment, but in a few hours when you think the incident is behind you, he’ll remind you of your behavior until your cheeks are hot and your eyes are full of shame.

He doesn’t want to fix your personality. He knows that sometimes you brat out and it is what it is, but he does like to get to the bottom of your behavior.

“Are you needing attention, sweetheart? You know you shouldn’t be doing that,” and “you feeling insecure? You need some reassurance, baby?” are a couple phrases he keeps locked in his arsenal that are bound to disarm you. There’s something about the shame of Frank calling out the root of your behavior that melts you into submission.

[letterstotheflre]

he looks tew good here my god

[ghostedink]

Monthly Checkups and Grumpy Soldiers

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

The first thing everyone notices about you is the color pink.

Pink scrubs. Pink pens. A pink clipboard covered in tiny pastel stickers—hearts, flowers, and a little cartoon bandage with a smiley face on it.

The second thing everyone notices is that you aren’t afraid of Ghost.

Which, according to the entire base, makes you either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

You hear the warnings your first week.

Soap leans against the med bay counter one morning while you organize gauze rolls, watching you with mild disbelief. “Ye know who that is, right?”

You glance up from the gauze rolls. “Who?”

“The big skull mask bloke who walks around like death himself.”

Gaz laughs from the doorway. “Lieutenant Ghost. Terrifies recruits for fun..? Breaks doors instead of knocking. That one?”

You blink once.

“Oh.”

Soap waits for you to react properly.

You simply shrug. “He seems nice.”

Soap nearly chokes.

The truth is, you’ve already met him.

It was two days ago. He walked past the med bay after training, boots heavy against the tile, gear slung over one shoulder. He’s massive—broad shoulders, tall enough that the overhead lights catch on the edges of the skull mask he never takes off.

You looked up from your desk.

And you smiled.

“Good afternoon..” a pause to look at the name Velcroed to his chest “Lieutenant Riley.”

He stopped walking.

People don’t greet him like that. You could tell by the way the hallway went quiet.

He stared at you for a moment through the black eye sockets of the mask, eyes dark and unreadable.

“…Afternoon.”

His voice was low. Almost.. hesitant?

You nodded politely and went back to writing on your clipboard.

Like it was completely normal.

After that, you greet him every time you see him.

“Hi, Lieutenant.”

“Morning, Lieutenant!”

“Hope you’re having a nice day Lieutenant.”

He never smiles—at least not that you can see—but he always gives a small grunt of acknowledgement. That’s enough for you.

What you do notice is that he never shows up to the med bay.

Which is a problem, because everyone is required to attend a monthly checkup.

Soap comes in complaining the whole time. Gaz jokes through the entire exam. Even Captain Price shows up on schedule.

Ghost?

Doesn’t come at all.

Three days after his appointment passes, you spot him turning the corner of a hallway and nearly run into his chest.

You stop just in time.

He looks down at you slowly.

Up close he’s even bigger.

You smile.

“Hi, Lieutenant Riley.”

“…What.”

You check your pink clipboard.

“You missed your checkup.”

He stares at you through the mask.

“…No I didn’t.”

You turn the clipboard around so he can see the neat list written in pink ink.

SIMON RILEY — MISSED APPOINTMENT

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“Not goin’.”

You tilt your head a little. “Why?”

“Don’t need it.”

The tone clearly says the conversation is over.

So you write something on your clipboard.

“Okay.”

He seems surprised by that. Like he expected an argument.

He steps past you.

Then you add sweetly, “I’ll just have to keep finding you until you do it.”

He stops walking.

Slowly turns his head.

You’re still smiling.

“…You serious?”

“Mhm.”

You tap the clipboard. “You’re overdue.”

He studies you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking.

You aren’t.

So over the next few days, you keep finding him.

In the hallway. Near the training room. Once outside the armory.

Every time, you smile.

Every time, you remind him.

“Your checkup is still overdue, Lieutenant.”

By the fourth time, he finally walks into the med bay himself.

You look up from your desk and brighten immediately.

“Oh! Hi, Lieutenant Riley.”

He sits in the chair like a man being sentenced.

“Do it quick.”

You nod happily. “Of course.”

You move through the exam like you would with anyone else. Pulse first. Your fingers rest lightly against his wrist while you count.

His skin is warm.

“Heart rate’s good,” you murmur, jotting the numbers down on your pink clipboard.

You reach for your stethoscope next. “Deep breath for me.”

He obeys, shoulders rising slowly.

The med bay is quiet except for your pen scratching across paper.

You don’t rush. You don’t treat him differently.

He’s just another patient.

“Alright,” you say gently after a moment. “Next I need to check your throat.”

He goes still.

You pause.

“Oh—right. Mask.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a small moment of silence before you ask softly, “Would it be alright if you lifted it just enough for me to see?”

You wait.

Most people would probably push him. Demand it. Try to force the issue.

You simply stand there patiently.

Eventually his hand lifts to the mask, pulling it up just enough for his mouth to be visible.

You don’t react. Don’t stare.

You lean a little closer with the small penlight. “Open please.”

He does.

You check his throat quickly, professional and calm.

“All good.” you say a moment later.

He lowers the mask again.

The rest of the checkup is quick—blood pressure, reflex test, a few more notes on your clipboard.

When you’re finished, you smile.

“All done.”

He stands from the chair.

There’s a brief pause before he gestures toward your scrubs.

“…Pink’s not regulation.”

You glance down at yourself.

“I know.”

“Why wear it then?”

You shrug. “Because I like it.”

He stares at you for a quiet second longer, eyes unreadable behind the skull mask.

Then he turns toward the door.

Halfway out, he stops.

“…Thanks.”

The word comes out rough. Quiet.

But genuine.

You watch him leave before looking down at your clipboard and writing the final note beneath his name in pink ink.

SIMON RILEY — MONTHLY CHECKUP

You tap your pen thoughtfully before adding—

Very grumpy. But cooperative.

Then doodle a tiny pink heart next to it.

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

[honeyroots]

i need the version of frank langdon who finds out how traumatized you are and thinks that he can make you all better. it’s his new addiction, replacing pills with trying to fix you. gets you into subspace and tells you he’s gonna fix whatever they did to you, just trust him <33333

[ghouljams]

it's just that you have the perfect look, exactly the kind of vibe that pornstar!ghost wants in a costar. innocent eyes, perfectly parted lips when you look up at him, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of the baby doll dress the producers put you in, his mouth waters, fingers itching to grip and grope. he wants to eat you alive.

"I'm excited to work with you," you tell him, voice like bells in his head. darkness starts to fuzz his vision, his zipper biting at his hardening cock.

"'m gonna rip you apart." He grunts.

"what?" your lips part wider and ghosts fist clench tight.

"dont fucking talk to me."

[graywrenhart]

Who knew all it took was one look at Simon Riley covered in blood to make you fail miserably at your job.

Price, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost stand behind your pilot’s chair, chests heaving from the effort of throwing themselves through the plane doors, fresh off the op you’re supposed to be flying them out of.

But you just sit there, jaw stupidly slack as you take in Simon’s already dark clothes, absolutely drenched in the proof of what a powerful predator he is. Deep red dots splatter his mask, too, and streak down his forearm, his fingers curled lazily around the handle of a knife. 

Then he turns sharply, like he’s just noticed that the plane isn’t moving.  

“The fuck are we waiting for?” Simon snaps.

Soap looks from him to you, then lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Don’t look at me. Seems the pretty pilot’s got a thing for blood.”

Simon’s head whips towards you. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and your hand flies to the throttle. But then his gaze catches yours and he chuckles darkly.

“ 'S that right?” 

The rich brown of his eyes grow molten beneath the smudges of red across his mask as he takes in your expression, and for one incredibly embarrassing moment, you almost forget how to actually fly this fucking thing. 

Without breaking eye contact, Simon steps forward and crouches down to your level. 

Your breath catches as his gloved hand closes over yours, gently pulling back the acceleration lever. The plane lurches forward hard enough to send the boys tumbling into a pile of grunts and curses. 

Your stomach dips and you snap back into gear instinctively, flipping the switch on the dash to pull the wheels up, hands flying to the control stick as you build in altitude. 

“Don’t worry, Bird,” Simon says gruffly, raising that knife and dragging one finger down the bloody blade. “It’s not mine.”

Fucking hell. 

[nanamincreampie]

Okay....welll......now I'm horny

[maulsbby]

Warnings: 18+, Maul is a pervert, panty thief Maul, cumming in your panties, stalker Maul, obsessive ideations, tpm Maul

────୨ৎ────

PervertMaul! Who’s been obsessed with you from the moment he first met you through Sidious.

PervertMaul! Who starts off subtle, walking past the training room while you’re in there to catch glimpses of you. Or when he lingers after his briefings just to watch you walk into the room with that typical scowl on your face.

PervertMaul! Who stands a little too close to you on missions. Moving in ways that makes you think he’s just adjusting, meanwhile he’s getting whiffs of your shampoo, body wash, or detergent.

PervertMaul! Who under the rouse of taking the first shift, spends it watching you sleep. Despite being indoors, at a shady inn for a - days long task, knowing you can handle yourself. He can’t get enough of every twitch you make, how your lips part in your slumber, what are you dreaming about?

PervertMaul! Who takes this as the perfect opportunity to touch himself to you. How he shamelessly pulls his cock out as he sits in the dingy looking chair in the corner.

PervertMaul! Who with a wave of his hand, makes the blanket shift, catching a glimpse of your panties poking out from the baggy part of your sleep shorts.

PervertMaul! Who made sure to steal the worn pair of panties the next day when you showered. Keeping them stashed on his person. Knowing exactly what he’s going to do with them.

PervertMaul! Who with any free time he gets, has that single pair of panties wrapped around his girthy cock. Fisting himself with the soft cotton material.

PervertMaul! Who inhales deeply. The mix of your natural scent and sweat filling his nostrils. Imagining what you taste like. His pace quickening as he feels himself reaching his peak.

PervertMaul! Who cums with a broken whine. Your name falling from his lips as his load is shot, coating the delicate fabric with his essence.

PervertMaul! Who watches you from a distance, getting a kick out of the way you begin to squirm when you feel prying eyes on you. Only failing to realize it’s your partner.

PervertMaul! Who’s read all your files, and dug into your past whether it be from asking Lord Sidious, or visiting your hometown when on a mission in that sector.

PervertMaul! Who’s followed you home on countless occasions, who now slips into your apartment through the window anytime you’re not home or at night when you’re fast asleep.

PervertMaul! Who’s gone through all your beginnings, touching your things, reading from your books and scrolling through your data-pad. Going so far as to see what’s stocked up in the kitchen, finding out what drinks you prefer, and your favorite snacks.

PervertMaul! Who beats off every single time he’s in your home. Using items from your dirty clothes basket to pleasure himself with. Imagining how soft your skin is, the noises you would make, and how godly you’d feel wrapped around his cock.

PervertMaul! Who enjoys the confused expression on your face when you’re doing the laundry. Confused on where these new stains are suddenly coming from. But knowing it’s not worth it to ask anyone about it.

PervertMaul! Who stands with a painfully erect cock as he watches you touch yourself for the first time. How your hand vanished under the waistband of your pants, the way your cheeks flush red, the soft whimpers that escape you as you chase your release.

PervertMaul! Who cums in his pants when he hears the name that falls from your throat as your orgasm hits you.

“Maul…”

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

[zanerose]

I love deeply traumatized men with haunted eyes. Like hell yeah babe look at me as if I'm the only good thing you've ever known.

[adelineriley999]

simon accidently yelled at you

The apartment had gone unbearably quiet after he yelled.

Not the comfortable kind of silence either. Not the kind Simon liked after long missions where the world finally stopped demanding things from him.

This silence was wrong.

You stood by the stove with your back turned, shoulders tense, blinking rapidly like if you just tried hard enough the tears would disappear before he saw them.

Too late.

Simon stared at you like he’d just watched himself pull a trigger he couldn’t take back. His chest rose once. Heavy.

“...Fuck.”

The word came out under his breath, barely audible.

You wiped quickly at your face. “It’s okay.”, you whispered , hurt and embarrassment blooming in your chest.

It wasn’t okay.

And Simon knew it immediately because your voice did that tiny shaky thing it only did when you were trying very hard not to cry.

He felt sick.

The kind where the person you love looks hurt because of you.

Simon took one cautious step forward. Then another.

“Love.”

You shook your head without turning around.

That hurt more than the tears.

Usually when he came home, you gravitated toward him automatically. Hands on his chest, arms around his waist. Soft little smiles like he was something worth waiting for.

Now you were standing as far away from him as the kitchen allowed.

Because he yelled.

Because he came home carrying all his anger and dropped it right at your feet.

His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”, you mumbled, trying to smoothen your voice.

“Stand there acting like you deserve that.”

You finally turned a little at that, eyes glossy. “Simon-”

“No.” He scrubbed a hand down his face harshly. “No, don’t excuse it.”

You went silent. He looked wrecked now. More wrecked than when he first walked in.

Rainwater still clung to his jacket. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but guilt sat on him even heavier.

“I came home to you,” he said, voice rough. “Warm flat, food on the stove, you waiting for me.” He laughed once bitterly at himself. “And first thing I do is bark at you like some miserable prick.”

Your lips parted slightly.

Simon looked away, jaw flexing.

“Spent two bloody weeks thinking about getting back to you.” His voice got quieter. “Then I walk through that door and make you cry inside five minutes.”

The tears you were trying to stop spilled over again.

The second he saw them, he looked genuinely devastated.

Not angry. Not frustrated.

Devastated.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

He crossed the room immediately then stopped himself halfway, hesitating.

Simon Riley, who would walk through gunfire without blinking, suddenly looking uncertain about whether he was allowed to touch his own wife.

“You don’t have to comfort me,” you whispered.

That nearly broke him, his eyes shut briefly.

“Christ.”

He finally stepped closer carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. His hands settled lightly on your arms, almost tentative.

“I’m sorry love,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Ever.”

You looked down, vision blurring, “I know you’re tired.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I wasn’t trying to annoy you-”,you huffed ,choking slightly on the tears.

“I know.” His voice cracked slightly then steadied. “I know you weren’t.”

The guilt in his expression got worse somehow.

“You were taking care of me,” he murmured. “That’s all you were doing.”

You tried to look away again but Simon gently caught your chin before you could.

“Look at me.”

You did. Big mistake.

The second he saw how hard you’d been trying not to cry, his entire face softened into something painfully guilty.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”, he murmured ,gently cupping your face.

“You never yell at me.”, you sniffled.

That one hit directly to the ribs.

Simon actually flinched.

His thumb brushed carefully under your eye, wiping away a tear with absurd gentleness for a man built like a concrete wall with emotional constipation.

“I swear to you,” he said quietly, “the second it came outta my mouth, I wanted to take it back.”

You could hear how honest it was.

Simon wasn’t good at pretty apologies. He wasn’t poetic, wasn’t smooth. But guilt made him painfully sincere.

“I hate that you looked at me like that,” he admitted softly.

“Like what?”

“Like you were trying to figure out if I was angry with you.”

His voice nearly disappeared on the last part. Because that was the thing eating him alive now. The fact that for even one second, you’d looked at him uncertainly instead of safely.

Simon pulled you against him suddenly, firm and desperate, burying his face into your h.air.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly against your temple. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You felt the way he held you tighter after every apology, like he was trying to physically make up for it.

“I missed you,” he admitted in a low murmur. “Missed you so bad it felt wrong sleeping without you there.” His arms tightened. “Then I come home and act like that.”

Your hands slowly curled into his shirt. Simon exhaled shakily at the feeling.

“There she is,” he whispered, relief and guilt tangled together. “Thought I fucked this up properly for a second.” he mumbled ,inhaling the scent of your hair.

“You didn’t.”

“Nearly did.”

And judging by the way he kept pressing little apologetic kisses into your hair like a man trying to repent for his crimes against domestic peace, he was going to spend the rest of the night making absolutely sure you knew he regretted it.

lol yeah i'm procrastinating my long fics TT

[ynstark]

imagine in hard of hearing Simon if reader lost their voice temporarily

hard of hearing!simon riley who comes home and immediately notices the silence. No loud greeting, no mid-rant about your day, no off-key singing. Just you waving at him with a little note that says “lost my voice 🥲”. His stomach drops. Your voice is the one sound he actually wants to hear.

hard of hearing!simon riley who becomes extra protective and attentive. He sits you on the couch and pulls you into his lap, resting his good ear against your chest just to feel the faint vibrations when you try to speak. Even the weak, raspy whispers you manage feel like a gift.

hard of hearing!simon riley who starts carrying around a notepad and your phone everywhere so you can type or write what you want to say. But he still prefers when you try to talk, no matter how scratchy and quiet it is. He’ll lean in close, eyes half-lidded, chasing every little sound you can give him.

hard of hearing!simon riley who gets oddly frustrated by the silence. Not at you — never at you — but at how much he didn’t realize he depended on your constant yapping to feel grounded. The flat feels too much like it did before you.

yapper!girlfriend (temporarily mute) who keeps trying to talk anyway, only for nothing but pathetic little rasps and squeaks to come out. Simon finds it unfairly adorable and infuriating at the same time.

hard of hearing!simon riley who fucks you extra slow that night, face buried in your neck, desperately chasing the faint broken whimpers you can still make. Every tiny raspy moan you manage goes straight to his cock.

hard of hearing!simon riley who growls against your throat, “C’mon, love… give me something. Need to feel you.” He thrusts deep and holds there, grinding against that spot until your voice cracks and you let out the loudest hoarse moan you can manage. It’s enough to make his hips stutter.

hard of hearing!simon riley who puts you on your back, hooks your legs over his shoulders, and eats you out like he’s trying to draw your voice back out. Every time you try to moan his name and it comes out as a wrecked whisper, he sucks harder on your clit, determined to force louder sounds from your damaged throat.

hard of hearing!simon riley who flips you onto all fours and presses his chest flush to your back, mouth right against your good ear so you can hear his low growls clearly. He rails you hard, one hand gripping your jaw, murmuring, “Louder. Try for me.” Your hoarse, broken cries are weaker than usual, but the vibrations against his palm and the way your body shakes make up for it. He cums harder than he has in weeks.

hard of hearing!simon riley who wakes up in the middle of the night to you trying to clear your throat and whisper something. He immediately pulls you on top of him, guides his cock back inside your soaked pussy, and makes you ride him slow while he holds your face to his better ear. Every weak, raspy little “Simon…” and broken whimper sends electricity down his spine until he’s gripping your hips and thrusting up hard, chasing those precious, limited sounds.

[unconventional-user]

This is the life.

I'm trying to say i love staying up late and got to read this beauty but I didnt know how to word it to make it funny.

[softlyunwell]

a man who gets rougher the second you whimper, like that sound unlocked something he was holding back.