johnny and simon both eat like dogs. like you could actually feed their meals to a dog. sweet potato, ground beef, and whatever veg was about to turn rotten. and no seasoning. time can’t be wasted on seasoning in their household.
dinner is a fleeting affair. both of them hunched over their bowls and inhaling. you’re staring at them in shock as they devour their flavorless, meaningless slop.
then to the couch for tv time. you feel a bit like a zookeeper that’s just thrown a limb of mean into a lions enclosure. the beasts fed, and now they lick their paws and relax.
they don’t even like the two teams playing on the television right now.
“why don’t you two come to my place tomorrow for a change?”
“wot? something wrong with our flat, dove?”
“no, no! of course not!”
they may look like lions but they frighten easily. the last thing you mean to do is scare them off.
“course not, just thought a change of pace might be nice?”
they share a weary look. change isn’t their favorite thing, not after years of strict military routine. they agree nonetheless. and they show up right on time, no surprise there.
they share another weary look when you ask them to take off their shoes before coming in.
“i made dinner. just something light,” you smile despite knowing dinner was far more effort than you care to let on.
johnny barrels towards the kitchen. “what’s the occasion, lass? you did all this for us?” and you shrug.
“just thought i’d thank the two of you, y’know. you’re always around to lend a hand.”
they just gape at you like there’s no brain activity happening within their thick skulls.
“well, have a seat then.” you gesture towards the set table with proper cutlery and a vase of flowers in the center.
you bring them both their plates of food, no ground beef, or sweet potatoes, or cottage cheese. and they hunch themselves over, ready to inhale as per usual.
“hasn’t anyone taught you how two to take your time?”
they stare at you again. just as stupidly as they did moments ago. this time they’ve gone silent because both of them are half hard beneath the table.
“going slowly makes it better, you know. not everything is a race.”
and that’s how you end up with simon between your thighs and your back pressed against johnny’s chest as he rubs your shoulders.
“slow, right? that makes it all better?”
simon is rolling his hips agonizingly slowly, dragging his cock against your warm walls.
“simon, faster please,” you beg him. he’s been going at this for the better part of an hour.
he tuts at you. “none of that. you wanted slow, you’re getting slow.
“that’s not—not what i meant,” you pant. you roll your head back to look at johnny, hoping he might help you out. he just brushes your hair from your sticky face instead.
“dinner was nice, sweetheart. now enjoy your dessert.”
Can’t stop thinking about Trucker!Simon who’s been rolling for four straight days without a real shower, big frame crammed behind the wheel of his rig, the sleeper cab behind him smelling like diesel, old sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and faint grease of last week’s truck stop burgers.
Trucker!Simon who’s got you- the pretty little bird he picked up on the side of the interstate at 2am, thumb stuck out in your pretty little sundress, soft tits spilling heavier over the neckline every time you breathe, panicked, after you’d quietly explained through the open window that someone had ditched you out there, hundreds of miles from home with nothing but your bag and you just needed a ride to the next town, anywhere, please- in his sleeper, curled up on sheets stiff with old sweat and cum, stained more than clean.
Soft thighs pressed together, pretty mouth parted, eyes wide and already glassy in the low light from the dash. He’s too big for the space, has to duck his head, shoulders brushing the sides, and he fills it completely when he crawls in after you.
Shirt half unbuttoned and stuck to his chest with sweat, jeans open and shoved down, freeing that heavy cock that you’ve seen the outline of under his oil stained pants when he’d palm at it, bulging against his thigh when he drove under street lamps to this trucker stop.
It hangs thick and flushed between his thighs now, heavy balls drawn up tight, the skin at the base dark with dried sweat and the pre he’s been leaking into his boxers since he got a whiff of your sweet floral perfume as you climbed into his rig.
Kneels on the mattress, one big hand braced on the low ceiling, the other reaching down to fist his cock slow and lazy, eyes dragging over you, your soft curves, the way your pretty clothes are already rumpled from being in his rig, the little tremble in your thighs that only gets worse when he leans in closer.
Mattress dipping under his weight, until his chest is right in front of your face, heat rolling off him intense. You wrinkle your nose hard, trying to turn your face away, shoulders curling in like you can escape the stench.
He shifts his weight anyway, knees forcing between your thighs, spreading them wider, one nicotine stained hand wrapping around yours, yanking it down to wrap around his cock. It’s hot, heavy, the skin at the base tacky. Your fingers don’t quite meet around it.
You flinch violently, trying to yank your hand back with a soft disgusted sound, but he just wraps his bigger one over yours and makes you stroke him once, twice, slow, firm drags that smear fresh precum down the shaft while your lower lip wobbles and your breath comes in tiny, hiccuping gasps. He groans at the skin of your hand around his cock which is all too used to the feeling of his calloused hands and scratchy sheets and not at all used to soft and warm.
His fingers thread into your hair, digging into the base of your skull, and he forces your face down the trail of coarse hair on his stomach until your pretty mouth is pressed right against the root of his cock.
The smell is strongest here, musky and sharp, the faint bitter trace of old piss where he’s been too lazy to stop properly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try harder to twist away, soft disgusted whimpers catching in your throat, hands pushing weakly at his stomach, nose wrinkling as you gag at the smell of him. He holds you there until your lips brush the tacky skin.
Rocks his hips forward, the fat head of his cock smearing across your soft cheek, leaving a shiny streak. “Open up.”
When your lips part and you take him in, he grunts low, the wet heat of your mouth making his balls draw up tighter. He pushes the taste of road and sweat across your tongue, then deeper.
You choke immediately, a wet, panicked sound bubbling up as your hands fly to his hips, pushing hard. Tears bead in your lashes and spill down your temples, nose wrinkling hard at the stench, but he doesn’t let you pull back. Both big hands sink into your hair, fingers twisting tight at the roots, dragging you down, groaning when he pushes into your throat, feels it convulse around the fat head of his cock.
“Fuck,” he rasps, barely a word, more a punched out sound of satisfaction.
Then he shoves you down the rest of the way, using his grip on your hair to force your pretty mouth lower, inch by inch, until your nose is pressed flush against the sweaty, crusty hair at the base of his cock.
Your throat spasms hard around him, fluttering and squeezing, and he groans again, deeper this time, hips twitching forward. Saliva floods your mouth instantly, thick and messy, spilling out around your stretched lips and dripping down his balls in shiny strings.
He holds you there, nose buried in the damp, crusted pubes that smell like days of sweat and road grime, cock buried to the hilt in your spasming throat.
One thumb slides forward, pressing against the outside of your neck, feeling the obscene bulge of his cock stretching your throat. He rubs it slowly, while your eyes water and more tears track down your face.
Then he starts to rut, grinding his cock deeper into your throat while saliva pours out of you. Every time he pulls back just enough for you to gasp a wet, choked breath, thick strings of spit stretch between your lips and his cock before he shoves you back down again.
Your hands keep pushing at his thighs, manicured nails scraping over sweat slick skin, but he just tightens his grip in your hair and fucks your throat harder, deeper.
The wet, gurgling sounds are obscene in the cramped sleeper. Your mascara is running, pretty face a mess of tears and spit, nose still wrinkled in disgust even as your throat keeps fluttering and milking him. He groans every time you gag, the sound low and satisfied, hips rolling in steady, filthy ruts that smear more of your saliva into his pubes and down his balls until they’re shiny and dripping with it.
He doesn’t let up until your vision starts to blur at the edges and your hands go slack against his thighs. Only then does he pull you off with a wet, obscene pop, cock shiny and flushed dark, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the head. You cough and gasp, chest heaving, tears and saliva dripping from your chin onto the stained sheets while he fists his cock once, twice, smearing the mess you made all over himself.
Then his hands fall to your hips, manhandles you between his highs, one big hand under your soft legs. The sundress gets shoved higher, bunched under your tits, grips your panties and pulls, ripping them off, forcing your legs wide even as your thighs tremble and try to close.
You’re crying harder now, soft hiccuping sobs, hands pushing frantically at his stomach and chest as he lines up, eyes wide and pleading up at him.
“Please- wait” your voice cracks, small and teary, “- condom? Do you have a condom?”
He pauses for half a second, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. Then he answers, low and rough, “Ain’t got one.”
The stretch of his cock is immediate and overwhelming, feels like he’s splitting you in half. Your back arches hard, a broken whimper slipping out as your hands beat harder at his chest, trying to push him off, soft thighs shaking uncontrollably.
He’s too big for the cab and he’s too big for you, hips grinding forward, heavy balls pressing tight against your ass, coarse hair at his base rubbing against your soft skin while fresh tears spill down your temples.
You keep pushing at him, palms flat against his sweaty chest, trying to create space, soft disgusted sounds mixing with the first helpless little moans that start slipping out every time he bottoms out.
The mattress creaks. The sheets stick to your back, stiff and filthy. Every thrust makes the cab rock slightly on its suspension. Sweat rolls off his chest in fat drops, splattering onto your soft belly and the swell of your tits while he fucks you in deep, heavy strokes that grind right up against your cervix. The wet slap of his heavy, pendulous balls is loud in the cramped space, scent getting thicker the harder he works, mixing with the new smell of sex and your own unwanted arousal until the whole sleeper reeks of it.
He breathes heavy, low grunts punched out of him every time your cunt flutters and squeezes around the thick drag of his cock. One hand stays braced on the ceiling, the other gripping the back of your soft thigh hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open while he uses you.
Your hands are still on his chest, pushing weakly, fingers slipping through the thick sweat coating his skin, but the resistance is turning sloppy. Your pretty face is scrunched, eyes going glassy, mouth falling open on broken little moans.
He fucks you through an orgasm like that, grinding rolls that drag the fat head of his cock inside you until your soft body locks up and you sob out a high, whiny sound, cunt pulsing and gushing around him.
He doesn’t stop. Just keeps using you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your collarbone, the wet slap of his balls getting filthier as your slick and his precum mix into a messy froth at the base of his cock.
You’re babbling now, soft and fucked stupid, little “ah- ah- plea- ” sounds that don’t quite form real words. Your thighs are shaking so hard they can’t stay wrapped around him. He catches one and folds it higher, nearly bending you in half on the narrow mattress, and the new angle makes you wail, eyes rolling back as he grinds right up against your cervix with every thrust.
When he gets close he drops forward heavier, chest crushing your soft tits, the full weight of him pinning you down into the stiff sheets.
You panic the second you realize what’s about to happen, hands shoving harder at his sweaty chest, legs kicking weakly, soft sobs turning frantic. “Nono, pull out, I’m not on birth control- please-”
He doesn’t even grunt in response, just wraps his arms around your body, shoves you down on his cock throbing deep inside you, and then he’s cumming thick, hot spurts pumping straight into your womb, flooding your uterus with days’ worth of heavy, pungent load. It’s so much it forces its way out around his cock in messy rivulets, smearing down your ass onto the already ruined mattress.
Empties every last drop deep inside you, flooding you until your lower belly feels warm and full. Only when the last spurt finishes does he pull out, thick strings of cum stretching between his cock and your messy cunt.
Before you can scramble away he grabs tou, big hands flipping your soft, trembling body onto your stomach, then hauling your hips up so your face is shoved down into the filthy mattress. One heavy palm plants between your shoulder blades and stays there, pinning your face into the stiff, sweat-and-cum-stained sheets. Your sundress is rucked up around your waist, soft ass presented, and he’s already lining up again, the fat head of his cock nudging through the mess leaking out of you.
You try to twist, try to push up on your arms, panicked little sounds muffled into the mattress. “Wait- wait, you can’t- ”
He pushes in anyway.
“Haven’ fucked anyone in months,” he mutters, hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt your whole body and your mouth opens on a moan, drool pooling onto the mattress beneath your head. “Balls been so heavy they ache. Ain’t wastin’ it on these fuckin’ sheets again when I got a pretty little hole right here to fill over and over.”
Maybe you should have just walked to the next town.
smut !! p in v sex , public sex , degrading ( ish ) , 3rd party finding yall ! enjoy — <3
taking price and ghost fighting and running with it.
some stupid argument about john not following rules in their little tuesday off base bar games blossoming into two weeks worth of high level pettiness.
snide remarks, shoulder shoving, hell the only time they even looked at each other these days was when they were on the mats. knuckles red and angry as they tore at one another. pride too solid to shake.
which is how you landed beneath simon.
wobbling cries muffled by the thick of his glove. baby doll tee pulled over your swaying tits and showing off a glistening sweaty back to him.
"s-si'! hun—" you hiccup, words slurred beneath the fabric. back stinging with wicked pleasure as he bends you into a mean arch. he watches the fat of your ass ricket with every drive home of his hard pelvis.
"sh, lovie. can' let big man see us 'ere hm?" he grins, balaclava pulled over his nose. he licks a fat wet strip up your nape. groaning at the musky sent of sex that pours over the room. "fuckin, juusstt like tha',"
prices room.
atop prices desk.
without price.
he curves his hand around your right thigh, smacking harshly at the puffy skin of your ass. you squirm, nails digging into the wooden desk. moans only meeting his covering hand.
he dips his hand down to the slick cream mess between you two. stringy connections of cum pull taught each time he drags out all the way to his tip, just to shove all the way back in as he hauls you backwards and shoves his hips forwards. you scream, eyes white as you claw at the hand around your jaw.
he gathers the slick, white ring around his cock creating gummy noises he isnt bothered to muffle.
simon also knows important papers lay just beneath your rocking body. he rubs at your clit messily, juices soppy. you keen, stomach throbbing with the buldge he bullies into you. you smack at his hand, water brimming your tearline.
everything blurs hot for a second. the slamming of a door doesnt register past your clotted ears.
"wot the fuc—" price barges in. face hot with anger before his eyes slot to yours. he watches as shameful lust swirls in them before he flickers down to the wet connection between you and the lieutenant.
you whimper, would be more embarrassed if you hadnt fucked them both before.
simon plows into your feral, blunt covered nails digging into your cheek.
"gon' cum pretty girl? righ' on the old mans shite?" his fingers move from over your mouth to cupping your jaw firmly. moving your head to arch it back. eyes bearily finding him upside down.
he grins, eyes squinted in pure joy.
looking back up to price as he feels you tighten around him the most deliciously. browns burning with complete intention. youre lost, too worried about your impending explosion of a release to truly care as price watches you melt dumb.
he kisses your temple. feeling you muddle over.
babbles leave swollen lips and brows completely furrowed. "there! t-there, please si'! f-fuc—" with his mean pinch on your clit you choke on your moans, blanking as all crashes down on you.
nails dig into simons skin, blood prickling beneath. raspy screaming moan bouncing between both mens ears.
by the time you blink back to current reality, youre carefully laid over johns ruined desk. damp body smudging papers as they stick to your panting chest.
simon dutifully rubs your hips. smiling at john like the asshole he is.
Tags: daddy x reader, f/m, spanking, daddy kink, slight breathplay, no y/n
“Naughty little girl,” Daddy growls, grabbing a fistful of your hair. “You know what happens when you break the rules?” You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut. A sharp slap echoed in the room and you felt its impact on your cheek. “Eyes open when I’m talking to you, pup. What happens when you break the rules?” He tugs at your scalp as you struggle with your words.
“Get- Ah!” Another sharp tug. “Get punished,” You managed. He nodded, curling up his lip as he led you to the edge of the bed. You went to lie facedown but he jerked you back. You whined in confusion, and he sat before you, legs spread open. He patted his lap.
“Strip.” As quickly as possible, you threw off every item of clothing and went to straddle him. He stopped you with a hand. “Nope. You need more than a good fuck right now.” You nearly moaned at his words, and he chuckled, before clearing his throat and shifting his tone. “Now, pet. Over my lap.” Slowly, on shaking legs, you bent your torso to lay over his strong thighs. He grabbed at your hips and shoved you forwards so your head was lying on the bed, your arms going above you to grasp at the comforter. Your toes barely brushed against the carpet behind you, your ass and pussy arched into the cool air. A big warm hand caressed your backside, gripping and rubbing at the skin. You sighed into the feeling, trying to lean back into it.
“You’re getting ten, pet.” It felt like a lightning bolt shot through you as it finally dawned on you what your punishment was. You began to squirm, but his other hand came down to press on your lower back. “You will count every one, or I will start over. Is that understood?” You whined out a pitiful yes, breath already speeding up at the thought of what was to come. You shut your eyes tightly and tensed when the hand left your ass.
Smack! His hand nearly covered half your ass and you could feel it. Your skin stung, but you knew it would only get worse.
“One,” you panted.
Smack! Somehow, he hit the exact same spot. A keening moan escaped your lips.
“Two.”
Smack!
“Fuck! Three,” You jolted as he hit, yet again, the same spot.
“Language,” Daddy growled, putting extra force into -
“F-four,” You bit down on your lip. He changed his aim, fortunately, but it still hurt.
Smack! Smack! Smack! At the barrage of hits you wriggled in his grasp, unable to get away from the sensations. Your leg muscles were contracting and spasming, desperately trying to escape their torture. In your silence, a low voice grumbled: “Count.”
“Five, six, seven.” You downright moaned the numbers as rough fingers danced across your pussy, gathering your slick that had begun to drip down. You felt Daddy rub against your slit, groaning about how wet you were. He barely stuck the tip of his finger in, teasing and prodding at your entrance, and cooed at you.
“You want it so bad, don’t you Princess? Want Daddy’s fingers in your tight little pussy, huh?” You nodded, pressing your face into the mattress. “What was that, sweetheart? I can’t hear you.”
“Please,” you whined, arching your back towards his hand. He hummed.
“No.” And the finger was gone.
Smack! Directly onto your pussy.
“Ah! Eight,” came the high pitched squeak.
Smack! Two fingers this time, shoving all the way into your pussy. You gasped, pressing back to them.
“Nine,” you practically sobbed it. You were almost done, so close to the end. The fingers twisted and pumped inside of you, bringing you deliciously close to the edge. They disappeared once more, and was replaced with one final:
SMACK! It was the hardest one of them all, and a tear escaped you, quickly soaked up by the fabric of the bedspread. The ‘ten’ was barely whispered, but he heard. He picked you up and moved you to rest on your hands and knees, and you heard his belt clink as it fell to the floor. His hands were rubbing and soothing the angry flesh of your ass as he whispered praises and comforts to you.
“Such a good girl, took it so well. Did so good for me, made Daddy so proud. You want Daddy’s cock?” You cut him off with a loud whiny moan, pressing your hips up and dropping to your forearms. He groaned. “Fuck, baby. Pretty little pussy is fucking dripping for me. Needs my cock so badly.” Something that vaguely sounded like ‘please’ fell from your lips, and he happily obliged.
You both moaned in sync as he sank into you, finally filling up your tight wet hole. You sighed and melted into the mattress as he began pounding into you, his pelvis slapping against your sensitive skin. You could hardly form words, just managing to make sounds that were muffled by the soft fabric as you buried your face deeper into the comforter. Your eyes rolled back into your head as he hit that sweet spot deep in your belly, and deep guttural groans escaped the both of you.
“Fuck, baby. Gonna cum, gonna fill you up,” he pressed a hand on the back of your neck and you started to see stars, “ Wanna make you drip. C’mon baby, cum for Daddy, be a good girl.” His babbling sent you over the edge, squeezing your pussy as he bottomed out and spurted into you. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make any noise as darkness blurred the edges of your vision and tears soaked the mattress. One final keening whine left your lips before Daddy pulled out and collapsed next to you, dragging you to lay on his chest.
Cool liquid slowly oozed out of your sensitive folds and sent shivers up your spine. Warm hands stroked up and down your back. Your breathing began to slow, and you felt like you were melting into the body beneath you. Distantly, you registered lips pressed to the crown of your head and low grumbling in your ear, but you were already too far gone to fully care. Your consciousness slipped away, and you fell fast asleep, curled up safe in Daddy’s arms.
You had both joined the military at the same age. You both much preferred a fruity cocktail to a pint. You both had an unhealthy obsession with your lieutenant.
You both had tiny cocks.
Ok maybe tiny was exaggerating. They were below average. Johnny's slightly thicker than yours, but shorter. Something you held over his head every chance you got. But compared to the rest of the team, you both were minuscule. Not that you were looking or anything. Johnny definitely hadn't caught you staring slack jawed at Ghost in the locker room while he changed. Heavy length hanging between his thighs. Bigger than any you'd ever seen even soft.
That was where your obsession had started. Johnny had been madly infatuated for years now, and was very happy to have someone share his fantasies with.
"Come over. Now."
You assumed the text meant something bad. Johnny had gotten in trouble, or even hurt. Hurrying to his room. Only giving Simon a quick nod as you passed him in the hallway.
Just as you were about to knock, the door opened next to you. Not Johnny's room, Simon's. The scot standing there with a grin on his face. You did a double take when you saw the toy he was clutching in his hands. A beast of a fleshlight. Leaking what was definitely cum down its length.
"He didnae get the chance to clean up... 'ad a meeting..."
Johnny had told you plenty of times, in great detail about how much he heard when sharing a wall with Ghost. To the point where you knew the mans schedule. He must have been really pent up. Normally he wanked right before bed.
You never imagined that your little crush on your superior would lead to you in Johnny's room. Pressed against the other man, mouthing at his neck as you rut your cock against his in the toy.
You both fit so easily. Room to spare. You could picture Simon using the toy, stretching the silicone to its limits. Even with both you and Johnny together you didn't come close to his size.
Ghost's cum made every thrust slick. Obscene wet noises sounding as Johnny jerked the two of you off with the toy. Tugging you by your hair to meet his lips. Tongue curling against yours while you panted into his mouth.
"Si..." You whined. Chasing your orgasm. Every twitch of Johnny's cock against yours sending you closer.
"Lt... please..." Soap responded. One arm snaking around your waist to keep you close.
"Fuckin' nasty. The both of you." Ghost grunted from the doorway.
he's far from the most unethical of farmers. you won't be injected with a cocktail of hormones, locked in a pen, and have suction cups attached to your tits. the whole process starts off with him massaging your teats himself, measuring them, feeling the weight of him in his hands. (and no, the size of them doesn't automatically correlate to more milk production. you won't be discarded simply because you don't have the biggest boobs around.) all to get you used to the stimulation.
you'll have some outdoors time with the other cows. you won't be seeing any of the bulls yet. a lot of them are quite intense, and it'll be too intense for a new girl like you. you can enjoy yourself in the outdoor breeze, sniffing at other cows, chewing grass with the herd as you were always meant to do, instincts perfectly happy.
then, the intensity gets amped up, little by little. milking sessions are introduced to your daily routine, though your udders haven't started producing quite yet. a buzzing little toy is pressed to your clit every time you have the cups attached. pleasure to outbalance the discomfort, and also to condition you to associate the two. getting your tits milked = feeling good. it doesn't take long before you don't have to be nudged towards them anymore.
john won't fuck one of his cows, but once your food is laced with special stuff that makes your pussy tingling, swollen and dripping for hours, he'll do a through check down there to make sure you're all good. gloved fingers sliding inside of you, spreading your walls apart and pushing as deep as they can go to see if they meet much resistance.
"you're a natural at this," john says with a pat to your backside, though he knows you won't really be able to understand. "think you're ready for one of the bulls now." putting a calf in you always helps milk production, so it's bound to happen sooner rather than later.
"don't break her, simon." he says when he introduces the two of you outside. john scratches you behind your ears and gives you a little nudge through the fence before shutting it behind you and backing away.
"on you go."
there's hardly time for a few sniffs until you're pushed down on to the ground underneath his weight, mooing as the head of his huge, leaking cock swipes along your folds a few times before finding the right hole. it's far too big to go in all at once, or easily. simon bullies his cock inside of you with little thrusts, inch by inch, until he's bottomed out inside you. and with the load of cum he's certain to stuff you full with, it won't be long until it takes.
he's far from the most unethical of farmers. you won't be injected with a cocktail of hormones, locked in a pen, and have suction cups attached to your tits. the whole process starts off with him massaging your teats himself, measuring them, feeling the weight of him in his hands. (and no, the size of them doesn't automatically correlate to more milk production. you won't be discarded simply because you don't have the biggest boobs around.) all to get you used to the stimulation.
you'll have some outdoors time with the other cows. you won't be seeing any of the bulls yet. a lot of them are quite intense, and it'll be too intense for a new girl like you. you can enjoy yourself in the outdoor breeze, sniffing at other cows, chewing grass with the herd as you were always meant to do, instincts perfectly happy.
then, the intensity gets amped up, little by little. milking sessions are introduced to your daily routine, though your udders haven't started producing quite yet. a buzzing little toy is pressed to your clit every time you have the cups attached. pleasure to outbalance the discomfort, and also to condition you to associate the two. getting your tits milked = feeling good. it doesn't take long before you don't have to be nudged towards them anymore.
john won't fuck one of his cows, but once your food is laced with special stuff that makes your pussy tingling, swollen and dripping for hours, he'll do a through check down there to make sure you're all good. gloved fingers sliding inside of you, spreading your walls apart and pushing as deep as they can go to see if they meet much resistance.
"you're a natural at this," john says with a pat to your backside, though he knows you won't really be able to understand. "think you're ready for one of the bulls now." putting a calf in you always helps milk production, so it's bound to happen sooner rather than later.
"don't break her, simon." he says when he introduces the two of you outside. john scratches you behind your ears and gives you a little nudge through the fence before shutting it behind you and backing away.
"on you go."
there's hardly time for a few sniffs until you're pushed down on to the ground underneath his weight, mooing as the head of his huge, leaking cock swipes along your folds a few times before finding the right hole. it's far too big to go in all at once, or easily. simon bullies his cock inside of you with little thrusts, inch by inch, until he's bottomed out inside you. and with the load of cum he's certain to stuff you full with, it won't be long until it takes.
Simon had learned over the years to keep his voice down during sex—finding it embarrassing that a hulking man like him would whine like a bitch during sex.
Foolishly, he didn't change his habit when he got with you. Believing the quiet grunts he would allow to be enough for you. Like the other women he'd been with.
God, it was pissing you off.
He didn't account for the fact you'd lost most of your hearing. You never wore your hearing aids during sex because the itch of them wouldn't allow you to concentrate.
Simon was a fantastic lover—gave you exactly what you needed, had you coming until you couldn't fucking think anymore. But he just wouldn't make any sound. You know you should've been used to guys not making sounds by now at your big grown age, though you got your hopes up with Simon.
Simon was holding back his moans as he fucked into your perfect pussy, thrusting at that perfect angle that made you keen—Only allowing quiet masculine sounds to rumble from his chest.
But you finally had enough of seeing his mouth part, while being unable to hear anything.
"Simon," you pant, grabbing his jaw roughly "fucking moan, goddammit. I can't fucking hear you."
Simon stilled, looking down at you with flushed cheeks. "Y'sure? Didn't think women liked I' when a man makes noise."
"Need to hear you." you whispered, grinding your hips upwards impatiently.
Simon finally broke down that wall in his mind, leaning down to your good ear and letting out a loud groan, thrusting frantically. His big meaty paws clawing at you.
"Fuck!" Simon babbled "Feels so good, so tight. So so so tight."
You gasp at how loud he was being—getting what you always wanted from a lover.
"y'don't get it. Wanna be inside you all the time. Just wanna fill you over and over and over." He groaned, his hips becoming erratic and needy as he brings a hand to your clit—desperate to get you off before he came himself.
Your nails clawed down his muscular back, leaving red streaks in their wake. But the unrestrained whimper Simon let out in response?
You were coming with a squeal, locking your legs around his hips as he fucked his come inside you.
"Don't" you pant "You ever hold those sounds back again."
Simon huffed, wrapping his arms around you. "'s embarrassing, love."
"I just came harder than I ever have in my life, you can handle some embarrassment."
You stash the fact Simons softening cock twitched inside you at the thought of being embarrassed for later. Fucking pathetic thing, your boyfriend.
Price being in a meeting with the rest of the taskforce, then you walk in, and everyone else is wondering who the hell you are. Price guides you over to his seat at the head of the table and makes you sit on one of his thighs. "This is my daughter. Love, this is my team."
Everyone is in utter disbelief, they never knew he had a family. Little did they know, Price and you were dating. Its just that you're so young that everyone disapproves of your relationship.
So for the rest of the meeting, everyone focuses on the debriefing for the rest of the meeting. Sometimes Price bounces you on his knee and whispers something dirty into your ear. "You like being my baby girl, don't you?"
You feel the tingles of his fingers gracing your inner thigh and begins pulling your panties aside beneath your skirt. You muffle your gasp, eyes flinching up to see if anyone else can see.
"Shhhhh.. be a quiet little girl for me.." he'd whisper, already shifting you on his lap to spread both legs over his thighs. The subtle sound of his zipper being pulled down is lost in the presentation on the board. You feel his cockhead run through your pussy folds, and his fingers part them before he pushes inside.
He groans into your hair, murmuring "thats a tight pussy, huh? You like my big cock inside it?"
You nod profusely, shifting as he begins bouncing your up and down, just enough for your ass to lift up before settling back in his lap again.
Eventually the meeting ends with your face flushed and trying to hide against Price's chest. You cant even tell if any of his staff have noticed, though a couple definitely seem suspicious.
As soon as the door to the meeting room closes, he stands up, jostling you from your place on his lap, and roughly bends you right over the table. The glasses on each coaster jiggle, and you moan as he begins pounding his hips, making your ass slap with each thrust.
"Dadddyy-" you whine, and he stuffs three fingers into your mouth with a gruff, "Shut up, little girl. That's enough of you." He doesn't even let you come, just stuffs the length of his cock inside, his tip bruising your cervix, and fills you with cum like a worthless little pocket pussy.
You may gain a few interested looks when you stumble out of the meeting room with an uncomfortable limp.
John "christ, kid, slow down—" price who can hardly keep up with his younger partner in bed. He's gotten used to distracting you with his mouth or hands, you even broke his pride down enough to invest in toys after begging for a fourth round in a day. He's old and hasn't exactly prioritized his health, which means he often ends up on hid back breathing through his teeth while you ride him to your heart's content.
Vs
Simon "another? C'mon, please love I'll be good–" riley who even in his forties has the energy and want to bend you over every surface he can manage. Seriously, you're pretty sure his dick his permanently half-chubbed. You, the one nearly half his age, have to shove him away and whimper before he lets up to go take a cold shower. He says its all the love he has for you, you're pretty sure he's just a freak.
johnny mactavish has a tattoo below his belly button. he has to push down his trousers slightly for you to see it, pubic hair appearing just slightly.
it's not gonna suck itself
it's in loopy writing, like something so desperately trying to be elegant. but it's not. it's vulgar, a command.
and you're willing to obey. on your knees, your fingers run over it. it's not gonna suck itself. that's why you're here. with your lips wrapped around his cock, eyes watering.
Captain John price who feels a little insecure with his much younger girlfriend. It’s been so long since he’s been intimate with anyone and perhaps he didn’t have the same amount of “spring” as the younger folk.
So he goes to his most trusted lieutenant, asking for help.
That’s how ghost ends up holding your back against his chest while your boyfriend John is settled in between your legs.
“Look, see that Captain?” Ghosts fingers barely brush your clit, pulling the hood back. “You’re gonna need to show this part some extra love. Kiss it, suck it, lick it, hell, even spit on it.”
Price stares at your pussy with infatuation, drooling at the sight of you being so shy in his best man’s arms. He can feel your legs trembling as they drape over his shoulders.
You immediately let out a soft gasp as prices lips tenderly suck your aching clit.
Now price is a quick learner, and it doesn’t take him long to find just what makes you tick- you make it so easy with your adorable reactions after all.
You’re squirming, panting, whining- “shh shhh shhh,” muses ghost from behind, muscular arms holding you back. “Don’t make it harder for the man.”
He sets you straight with a decent slap to your right tit. You yelp, earning a low chuckle from the man. “Sorry, doll. Force of habit.”
Ghosts eyes trail down your body to where his captain is vigorously working his mouth like a starved man. “Doing well, sir. She’s ‘boutta cum.”
Prices tongue does a lovely flick over your clit before engulfing it whole again in his warm mouth. You can’t help yourself as you desperately roll your hips over his chin and beard, increasing the friction.
Ghost holds you tighter against him, hands resting on the underside of your chest as he whispers something only you can hear. “Cmon, baby. Cum for the captain why don’t ya? And after, we can get to the main event.”
You’re so caught up in the growing knot in your stomach that you miss the way ghost rolls his stiff dick into the curve of your ass from behind. “I like to lead by example y’know.”
Fat Reader crying because theyre insecure about their weight, and when Simon, the man Reader's been pining on for months confesses to them, they think its a cheap joke, and degrade themselves, saying "You can't even pick me up!"
Simon somehow gets Reader's number (Reader did NOT give it) and sends a video of Simon hip thrusting double Reader's weight with sweet groans, the outline of his bulge straining, clearly imagining Reader was on top of him.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; getting shot at apparently has its benefits, one of them being that you get to meet your future husband.
𝐜𝐰; hospital setting, descriptions of gunshot wounds, post surgery pain, swearing, military inaccuracies, reader and ghost are sarcastic asf, hurt/comfort, fluff, it’s 6k words long.
𝐚/𝐧: so many of you loved my lieutenant!reader drabble and it motivated me to write the couple’s first meet. A thank you for reaching 1.5k followers<3
Everything the doctor says reaches you through a thick, cottony haze. His voice drifts in and out like a radio station struggling through static, words slurring together into meaningless fragments of medical jargon you neither have the energy nor the patience to decipher. The anesthesia still clings to your veins, heavy and nauseating, making your thoughts sluggish and your temper dangerously short.
The room smells sharply of antiseptic, sterile enough to sting the inside of your nose. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeps in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Footsteps echo faintly beyond the door. Metal clinks against metal. Every sound feels amplified, scraping against the inside of your skull.
Then the pain starts settling in.
At first it's distant, muted beneath the fading anesthesia. But slowly, steadily, it crawls up your thigh like fire spreading beneath your skin. Deep. Throbbing. Relentless. It coils around the muscle and bone until even breathing feels difficult. You suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, your fingers twitching weakly against the stiff hospital sheets.
“We managed to save your leg and restore blood flow to the severed artery. That tourniquet saved your life, Lieutenant.”
You can finally make out enough of the doctor's words to understand him, though opening your eyes feels like dragging sandpaper across your skull. When you manage it anyway, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stab into your vision so violently you immediately regret it. White. Endless white. It burns behind your eyes.
“You’ll be off active duty for several months,” the doctor continues, voice calm and practiced. “You’ll need physiotherapy. We can discuss the details of your recovery before discharge.”
His voice sounds farther away now, as though he’s standing at the end of a tunnel instead of beside your bed.
“Okay,” you rasp out, "thank you."
Even speaking hurts.
You try shifting your weight, desperate to find a position that doesn’t feel like someone is driving nails through your leg, but the slightest movement sends a violent flare of pain through your thigh. Your entire body tenses instinctively. A strained groan escapes your throat before you can stop it.
The doctor offers you a sympathetic look, scribbles something onto the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then finally leaves you alone.
Silence settles over the room or something close to silence. Machines continue humming softly around you. Somewhere outside, muffled voices drift down the hallway alongside the squeak of rubber soles against polished floors. The IV taped to your arm pulls unpleasantly every time you move your arm and your mouth tastes stale and metallic.
You should probably sleep, let the anesthetic finish wearing off, but even lifting a hand to rub at your burning eyes feels exhausting.
With a frustrated exhale, you give up trying to get comfortable. Nothing helps. The pain isn't worth the effort. Instead, you slowly roll your head from side to side against the pillow, trying to ease the stiffness lodged in your neck.
That’s when you notice the figure in the bed several meters away.
At first, your blurry vision struggles to make sense of him. Just a shape beneath dim hospital blankets. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes folded over the chair beside the bed. Then your focus sharpens enough to realize, the figure belongs to a man. Your brows knit together immediately—you could’ve sworn the men’s and women’s recovery rooms were separated.
As if sensing your stare, the man slowly turns his head toward you.
The movement is sluggish, clearly painful. His face comes into view little by little, littered with scars, rough around the edges and pale beneath the hospital lighting. There’s faint surprise in his eyes when he realizes you’re awake, quickly followed by visible confusion at the expression you’re giving him, like he's the reason you're stuck in that hospital bed.
Before he can tell you off for it, you speak first.
“Why are you here?”
Your voice comes out rough and hoarse, stripped of its usual sharp authority.
“Too many casualties,” he says after a moment, his tone low and gravelly. “Hospital’s full. Had to stick you in a spare room.”
You blink slowly, processing his words through the lingering fog in your head, followed by a soft nod.
“Okay.”
And just like that, silence returns.
─☆*:・
You can’t sleep, not even close.
The pain keeps gnawing at your leg, the mattress feels too stiff, the IV needle in your arm is irritating enough to make you want to rip it out entirely, the smell of disinfectant hangs thick in the air and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Every distant sound from the hallway drills into your skull.
But worse than all of it is the realization sitting heavy in your chest: You can’t walk—not yet, at least.
A lieutenant reduced to lying helplessly in a hospital bed. Useless. The thought sours your mood almost instantly.
Eventually, the boredom outweighs your irritation.
You glance toward the man again. “What happened to you?”
He doesn’t look at you this time.
“Got shot,” his answer is short, straight forward and his tone awfully flat. “Upper abdomen,” he adds a second later, followed by a quiet groan as he carefully shifts against the bed.
“Oh, fuck,” you mutter weakly.
“Yeah,” despite his—still flat—tone, there’s dry humor buried underneath it. “Didn’t hit anything vital, though.”
“Lucky, I guess.”
“Still feels like shit.”
A breathy laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches upward into something resembling half a smile. The room feels a slightly less unbearable after that.
“What’s your rank?” you ask once the silence stretches too long again.
“Lieutenant.”
That catches your attention immediately. You study him more carefully now, eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his profile. The broad frame, the military posture even while half-drugged and injured, the roughness in his voice.
“SAS?” you ask cautiously and he gives a small grunt of confirmation.
Weird. You know the faces of almost every lieutenant attached to the force. At the very least, you know their names, but his face doesn’t ring any bells at all.
It takes a few moments before the realization clicks into place, making your eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re Simon Riley?”
That finally gets a proper reaction out of him. His head turns toward you again, slower this time, and you catch the unmistakable flicker of surprise crossing his features. A tad of confusion and suspicion too.
How the hell did you figure that out?
“I’m pretty sure it’s you,” you continue, voice quieter now. “Only lieutenant whose face I’ve never seen.”
For a moment, he just stares at you. “Yes. It’s me.”
Your brows lift in amusement despite the pain pulsing through your leg.
Well.
That’s one hell of a roommate assignment.
─☆*:・
The Simon 'Ghost' Riley is lying three beds away from you in hospital issued clothes that looked one size too small.
The name alone carried enough reputation to make most recruits stand straighter. Half the stories about him sounded fabricated, stitched together from barracks gossip and post-mission exaggerations. Cold as winter steel. Mean enough to scare grown men into silence. Efficient enough to make enemies disappear before they realized they were being hunted.
“You’re staring,” he says flatly.
You blink, realizing you absolutely are. “Just making sure you’re real.”
His visible eye narrows slightly. “Disappointed?”
“A little,” you admit. “Thought you’d be uglier.” A rough chuckle leaves him, it's low and brief, like the sound surprised even him.
“You always this chatty?” he asks eventually.
His voice is rough with exhaustion, scraped raw around the edges like gravel dragged across concrete. The words come slower now, dulled by painkillers and fatigue, but there’s still something dryly amused underneath them.
You shift slightly against the stiff hospital pillow, immediately regretting it when your thigh throbs in protest beneath the layers of bandages. The pain has gone from sharp to heavy now, deep and pulsing, like someone lodged molten metal into the bone and left it there to cool.
“Just heavily medicated, don't get used to it,” you mumble and he just grunts in response.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly above you, one of them flickering every few seconds in a way that’s starting to feel personal. The air conditioner hums somewhere near the ceiling, pushing cold recycled air through the room that smells faintly of antiseptic, old coffee, and hospital linens washed a thousand times too many.
You slowly turn your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. He looks terrible. Not in an insulting way—he got shot, and he looks like it, which is absolutely normal. His skin’s paler than before beneath the harsh lighting, shadows sitting dark beneath his eyes. The bandaging visible above the collar of his shirt disappears beneath the fabric wrapping around his torso. One arm rests across his abdomen instinctively in a protective manner.
Somehow he still manages to look intimidating lying half-dead in a hospital bed. Honestly impressive. You can't imagine how much more intimidating he gets when he's on duty. You have to admit: the mask really matches his demeanor.
"You're staring. Again."
"I've got the Ghost laying a few meters away, I'd say it's understandable"
"I'd say it's rude."
“You're the man people describe like some kind of cryptid in tactical gear talking to me. It is understandable.”
Simon’s brow furrows almost immediately.
“You're dramatic.”
"Oh bollocks," you momentarily let you head drop to the side, your entire face visible to him, “you've got quite the reputation.”
His lips crack into a faint smirk, "the mask helps."
"Definitely," you agree with him, “probably terrorize recruits with it.”
"Efficiently so," that earns him a low chuckle from you.
You sink lower into the pillow with a tired exhale, letting your head rest fully against the mattress for the first time since waking up. The pain killers are finally settling in properly now, smoothing the jagged corners off everything around you. The pain’s still there, buried beneath your skin and stitched into your leg, but it feels farther away. Manageable enough not to grit your teeth through every breath.
Your limbs feel strangely heavy, oddly warm, like gravity suddenly doubled. It's probably the medication making you groggy.
Ghost watches you from across the room for a moment before speaking again.
“You look less murderous now.”
You crack one eye open toward him. “Don’t worry,” you mumble sleepily. “Still judging your face.”
"Scars 're a turn off?" he raises his eyebrows.
"Quite the opposite" you respond, the words escaping your lips before your brain could process them.
"What if I told you my back's filled with 'em?"
"Don't tease me like that, lieutenant."
Then air leaves his nose sharply in something dangerously close to a laugh—not a full one, though. He probably hasn’t laughed properly since birth, but it’s there enough to count and you look absurdly pleased with yourself.
─☆*:・
Morning arrives without permission, not gently either.
Your eyes crack open reluctantly, every inch of your body still wrapped in that strange post-surgery heaviness where even existing feels physically expensive. Pale morning light bleeds weakly through the narrow hospital window, washing the room in cold blue-grey instead of the aggressive fluorescent white from yesterday, since the overhead lights are off.
The world feels quieter, softer around the edges. You're not used to this. Staying in bed after waking up, taking in the silence of the early morning. It feels odd. You try to enjoy the calmness of it all, until you do the mistake of moving your legs to get comfortable. Pain immediately shoots through your veins in your entire body, tensing up, a low groan escaping your lips, "fuck me."
"Mornin' to you too." the gruff voice of your roommate slices through the quiet morning.
His shirt hangs crooked across broad shoulders, his buzzcut already slightly overgrown from being stuck in bed for the last five days. The morning light catches against the rough edges of his scars, softening some and sharpening others. He looks less intimidating half-awake like this.
“Go back to sleep,” you groan, eyes shut tightly, waiting patiently for the pain to subside.
“Tempting,” he mumbles, "should I call a nurse?"
"No. I'm fine."
"Doesn't look like it."
"Shut up."
The agonizing pain finally dies down and you feel like you can breath again.
"I hate this."
"Everyone does."
The room falls into a quieter silence afterward—not awkward this time. Outside the window, rain taps softly against the glass in uneven rhythms. Somewhere farther down the hall, a nurse laughs at something muffled beyond your hearing.
“First time being benched?” he leans back carefully against the pillows, studying you for a moment with that same unreadable expression he seems to wear instead of normal human emotions. You don't glance toward him, it feels wrong—being this vulnerable, exposed. Instead you stare straight ahead at the ceiling tiling, "that obvious?”
“A bit.”
You exhale slowly through your nose. “I don’t know how to sit still,” the honesty comes easier than expected. Maybe because neither of you has enough energy left to pretend much right now. "Feels wrong," you admit quietly.
Simon gives a faint hum of understanding. It's not out of pity for you, he knows exactly what you're feeling.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Gets ugly in your head when you stop moving.”
The words settle heavily between you.
You look at him more carefully, past all the scars, the sharp edges of his features. You stare at the exhaustion carved into his eyes, the stiffness in every movement he makes, the instinctive way his hand still guards his side even while resting, like his brain refuses to believe he's safe. Now, Ghost feels less like a myth and more like a man held together by scar tissue and stubbornness.
"Any advice?" you ask, returning to lazily staring at the ceiling.
"Try not to kill yourself."
"Oh, okay," you exhale deeply, "you've got more pessimistic shit to say?"
"It's true."
"Who on this bloody earth gives that as a piece of advice?"
"I'm no motivational speaker." he defends himself.
"Could've fooled me," that makes him huff out another breath through his nose.
Hours pass strangely after that. Slow and syrup-thick beneath pain medication and rainstorms and terrible television neither of you actually watches, but the noise is a good enough distraction from your thoughts. Nurses drift in and out checking vitals. Time moves a lot differently when you're stuck in a hospital bed.
—☆*:・
By the third day, you learn two things about Simon Riley.
Firstly, he wakes up violently alert, not like a soldier ready to fight the enemy, but more like a man trying to fight his life's demons away.
One second asleep, the next fully conscious like somebody flipped a switch inside him. Eyes sharp, his breathing steady and his hand already halfway toward the knife that isn’t there before reality catches up.
The first time you witness it, a nurse accidentally drops a clipboard outside the door. The crack echoes down the hallway. It has Simon jolting upright instantly with a sharp inhale, every muscle in his body locking tight enough to snap steel cables, eyes darting wildly around the room for half a second before settling, before he realizes he's at the hospital and the tension drains in visible increments, even though his jaw remains tight.
You pretend not to notice. Mostly because the brief glimpse of genuine panic beneath all that control feels strangely private.
Secondly, he hates asking for help with almost pathological dedication.
You discover this around noon when he decides, for reasons known only to himself and whatever ancient curse fuels male stubbornness, that he can absolutely reach the cabinet across the room without assistance.
Despite being four days post-op with a bullet wound on his chest and the shit ton of painkillers.
You wake up from a light nap to find him standing. Debatable if that's even considered standing.
One hand grips the IV pole while the other braces hard against the wall, his shoulders tense. His face has gone concerningly pale with effort.
You stare at him for a long moment.
“Riley.”
“I got it.”
You shift slightly, as much as your wound will allow you, "Simon."
"Said I got it."
“You look like one inconvenience away from meeting God.”
“'M fine.”
“I'll smash the IV poll on your head. Go sit down.”
His visible eye narrows immediately.
“Thought ya leg didn’t work.”
“Temporarily,” you shoot back. “Unlike your brain apparently.”
A dangerous silence follows.
Then, somehow, he takes another step.
Pain flashes across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn’t catch it, but you do. His breathing shallows almost immediately afterward.
You sigh heavily.
“Congratulations,” you mutter sarcastically, "you're a fuckin' idiot."
“I was getting water.”
“There is literally a button beside your bed to ask for help.”
“I can do it on my own.”
You blink at him.
"No, you can't. You got shot, for fuck's sake.” you say flatly. “You’re allowed to ask for help, just—go sit down.”
His mouth twitches faintly at that. You’re strangely caring with him. Part of him likes it more than he wants to admit. Likes that his name, and whatever ugly reputation dragged itself all the way to your team, didn’t make you flinch. Likes, embarrassingly enough, the way you called him a fucking idiot like it was the easiest thing in the world.
But there’s another part of him that hates this. Hates that the first time he meets someone as pretty as you, he’s a complete bloody wreck who can barely stand on his own two feet. You got shot and still somehow look gorgeous. He got shot and looks half-dead.
Doesn’t feel fair.
─☆*:・
The next morning is quiet, wrapped in rain and pale grey light.
The hospital room looks softer this early, less clinical—sort off. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead remain switched off, leaving only the dim glow of dawn filtering through the wide window across the room. Rainwater slides slowly down the glass in uneven trails, blurring the city skyline into streaks of silver and charcoal. Somewhere far below, traffic hums faintly through wet streets. Tires hiss against pavement. A siren wails in the distance before fading back into the rain.
You wake slowly at first, trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness while pain medication drags heavily through your veins. Everything feels warm and sluggish beneath the blankets. Your thoughts drift lazily in disconnected fragments. The scent of antiseptic lingers thick in the air, tangled with stale coffee from the nurses’ station and the faint metallic smell of rain pressing against the cracked window seal.
Then the pain hits—one brutal pulse tears through your thigh hard enough to wrench a broken sound from your throat before your eyes are even fully open.
Breath vanishes from your lungs instantly.
Your body locks around the agony, muscles seizing beneath the blankets while another pulse crashes through your leg like a live wire buried beneath skin and bone. Heat spreads viciously through the injury, deep and swollen and unbearable, pressure building inside the muscle until it feels like the stitches themselves might split apart.
Your eyes snap open.
The ceiling above you blurs immediately.
“Oh, fuck—”
The words barely make it out.
Your fingers twist violently into the sheets as instinct takes over, your body curling inward around the pain despite knowing movement only makes it worse. The bandages around your thigh suddenly feel too tight. Too hot. Every heartbeat sends another sickening throb through the damaged muscle, radiating upward into your hip and lower spine until even breathing becomes difficult.
Cold sweat prickles along the back of your neck.
Your stomach twists sharply.
Another pulse hits.
White flashes behind your eyes.
For one terrifying second you genuinely think you might pass out.
Across the room, you hear movement, it's fast, sharp.
Simon wakes instantly. The mattress creaks beneath sudden weight, sheets rustle violently. There’s the sound of bare feet against polished floor before his voice cuts through the haze surrounding your thoughts.
“What happened?” still rough with sleep, lower than usual, but alert immediately after.
You try answering him—you really do, but the pain swells again before words can form properly and all that leaves you instead is a strained gasp that sounds humiliatingly fragile in the quiet room.
You hate this—how helpless it feels. You hate how one moment later your breathing is ragged and labored.
You’ve spent years training your body into something dependable, useful, strong enough to survive things other people wouldn’t. And now you can barely breathe through pain without feeling like you’re falling apart at the seams.
The realization sits ugly and heavy in your chest.
Simon reaches your bedside, his hand clutching his abdomen—he had his stitches removed yesterday so it doesn't hurt the same when he's walking anymore, makes it easier to get to you.
Tears are already burning unexpectedly behind your eyes, you turn your face sharply toward the wall before he can see them, but it's too late.
The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight as he braces one hand carefully against the bed rail. You can feel his presence before you properly look at him. Warmth cutting through the cold recycled hospital air. The faint scent of soap and antiseptic clinging to his skin. The uneven rhythm of his breathing, slightly tighter now from moving too quickly.
“Hey,” he says quietly, the word lands softer than expected.
You squeeze your eyes shut harder. Another wave of pain tears through your thigh and suddenly your breathing stutters apart completely. A broken noise slips from your throat before you can swallow it down, your entire body tightening instinctively around the pain.
Then his hand settles against your shoulder, instinctively you grab it and squeeze—hard, maybe too hard.
The contact startles him, you feel it immediately in the way he stills afterward, like reaching for you happened before he consciously decided to do it, but the pain is too much to care right now.
His palm feels warm, solid, steady. The weight of it anchors you enough that your breathing slows by the smallest fraction.
Still, embarrassment crashes over you almost immediately after.
“Don’t,” you mutter weakly, voice rough around the edges.
Simon’s brows knit slightly.
“Whot?”
“Don't look at me like this,” the words come quieter than intended, raw enough that you instantly regret saying them out loud.
For a moment the room falls silent except for rain tapping softly against the window and the low mechanical hum of hospital equipment surrounding you both. Simon doesn’t answer immediately. His hand remains where it is, holding yours tightly, grounding you.
“How’m I looking at you?”
You don’t answer, mostly because you don’t know how to explain it. He is looking at you like you’re something fragile and your pain matters, like seeing you hurt bothers him more than he expected it to.
Another pulse of pain rolls through your leg and your composure cracks completely this time. Your breathing shudders sharply. Tears blur your vision despite every effort to stop them.
Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin.
You lift a trembling hand to cover your face instinctively.
The movement is weak.
Exhausted.
Simon goes very still beside you, before you feel his hand slide slowly from your palm until his fingers close carefully around your other wrist instead. Not restraining, just holding on.
Your pulse jumps strangely beneath his fingertips.
“You need a nurse,” he says quietly.
“No.”
The refusal comes too fast, you hear it yourself immediately, it's not stubborn this time, but something else, something weaker, more fragile.
Outside the window, rainwater races down the glass in silver streams while distant thunder rolls softly somewhere across the city. The room feels dim and close around both of you now, wrapped in early morning shadows and the quiet rhythm of your uneven breathing.
Simon studies your face for a long moment. There’s exhaustion carved into every line of your expression this morning. Shadows are darker beneath your eyes. Healing bruises fading yellow along the edge of your jaw. Your shirt sticks to your sweaty skin, the shorts you're wearing visible since your thrashing pulled the thin blanket to the very end of your feet. Your bandages around the gunshot are clean, that's good, you didn't bust a stitch and you're not bleeding out. But that doesn't mean you're not tired, you look exhausted. Despite all the sharp edges he usually keeps wrapped tightly around himself, there’s something openly unsettled in his eyes right now that wasn’t there before. Because of you, of your exhaustion, your pain.
Another wave of pain rolls through your leg, though weaker now, dulled slightly by whatever medication still lingers in your bloodstream. You suck in a shaky breath through your teeth.
Simon’s grip tightens instinctively around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to steady, to let you know he is here.
Your eyes lift toward his without meaning to, your free hand searching for something to hold onto. He immediately notices and your fingers interlock with your grip so tight you obscure normal blood flow to his fingers. His attention moves over you carefully, tracking every flicker of pain that crosses your expression like he’s trying to memorize how to soften it. It unravels something within you more than the pain does.
Nobody’s ever looked at you that way before. It has your chest tightening strangely.
His jaw shifts slightly, gaze flicking away toward the rain-streaked window, but his hand never leaves yours.
The silence stretches. It's not awkward or comfortable either, just full—heavy with things neither of you knows how to say.
Eventually, when your breathing returns to a steady rhythm, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound roughened by exhaustion.
“Scared me for a moment,” the confession comes so softly you almost think you imagined it it has your breath catching unexpectedly.
He doesn’t look at you after saying it. His eyes stay fixed somewhere toward the floor instead, expression unreadable again except for the faint tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. Like he regrets letting the words slip out at all, but they settle warm and aching beneath your ribs anyway.
You stare at him, "me too." Without thinking, your fingers shift slightly against his hand, squeezing it, not like before, it's soft now and he goes completely still beneath the slight movement of your fingers.
Most people wouldn’t even notice it, but you do. You feel it in the way the muscles in his hand tighten faintly before relaxing again, careful and controlled like every instinct inside him is suddenly being held back by force. His thumb shifts once against your skin, absentminded almost, brushing lightly over your the back of your hand.
The contact sends something warm and disorienting through you.
Outside, rain continues slipping down the windows in silver trails, turning the early morning skyline into a blur of pale concrete and distant lights. Thunder rolls low across the city again, softer now, like the storm is beginning to drift farther away. The room smells faintly of rainwater sneaking through old window seals, tangled with antiseptic and the bitter scent of stale coffee lingering from somewhere down the hall.
The silence settles around you slowly, thick without becoming uncomfortable. It feels oddly fragile now, as though one wrong word might crack whatever this strange new thing between you has quietly become overnight.
Your breathing finally begins to steady beneath the pain.
Your leg still throbs viciously beneath the bandages, deep enough to make your stomach twist every few seconds, but the sharpest edge of it has dulled into something survivable again. The agony no longer owns your entire body, exhaustion starts creeping in behind it instead, heavy and slow and impossible to fight.
That doesn't go unnoticed by Simon.
His gaze flicks briefly toward your face again, studying you with that same quiet intensity that’s become strangely familiar over the last few days. You’re beginning to realize Simon Riley pays attention to everything when he cares enough to—tiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, the way your fingers tense before pain hits harder.
It should feel invasive.
Instead it makes something low in your chest ache softly.
“You should sleep,” he says eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion and something gentler buried beneath it.
The words settle into the dim room quietly.
You glance toward him properly for the first time since he crossed the room.
Up close like this, he looks exhausted in ways that go deeper than lack of sleep. The pale morning light softens the harsher angles of his face, catches silver against old scars and tired shadows beneath his eyes. His overgrown hair sits messily flattened from sleep, the collar of his shirt hangs unevenly near one shoulder, exposing the edge of white bandaging wrapped around his torso beneath.
He looks worn down. Human in a way Ghost never sounds in stories.
And suddenly you become sharply aware of the fact he’s still standing despite the pain he must be in himself. Your gaze drops instinctively toward the hand pressed unconsciously against his abdomen.
"You just got your stitches off. Go sit down," your tone is less demanding and more caring, it has Simon’s eyes flicking back toward you, one corner of his mouth twitching faintly upward. There it is, that tone he has grown quite fond of.
“'M fine.”
“Go lay down,” your tone is strict, matching at the slightest the one you use to bark orders.
"Said I’m fine," he repeats dryly, before walking towards the room's far corner where a chair is discarded for visitors.
The scraping of the chair's legs against the floor stops you from asking what he's planning on doing. A moment later he is finally lowering himself carefully into the chair he dragged beside your bed instead of returning across the room. The movement is slow and controlled, tension tightening visibly across his shoulders as he settles back with obvious effort, a quiet breath slips through his nose afterward.
"Go lay down," you repeat, voice softer than before, the adrenaline from earlier completely wearing off by now.
"Negative."
"You're insufferable."
“Hm.”
“You’re injured.” you debate a second later.
“So’re you.”
“Yes, but I’m clearly the more emotionally compelling patient.”
That finally earns you the smallest exhale of laughter. You hadn’t realized how tense the air felt until that sound loosened it.
The rain outside begins falling harder again, tapping steadily against the windows now in soft rhythmic waves. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a nurse laughs quietly at something muffled beyond the walls before the sound disappears again beneath the hum of hospital machinery.
Your eyelids begin growing heavier.
Pain medication and exhaustion drag at you relentlessly now that the worst of the agony has passed. Still, you fight sleep instinctively. Partly because you’re afraid the pain will spike again the second you let your guard down. Mostly because Simon is still sitting beside you, and some selfish, odd part of you doesn’t want him to leave yet.
Your fingers remain loosely tangled with his, but neither of you mentions it.
“You don’t have to stay over here,” you murmur eventually, voice quieter now from exhaustion.
Simon glances toward you.
“I know,” the answer comes immediately, but he chooses to stay, he wants to stay.
You stare at the rain for a long moment, watching droplets race one another down the glass while silence settles softly around the room again.
Your thoughts feel slow, heavy, dangerously honest around the edges. "I fucking hate this," you say quietly.
"You'll get used to it"
"That's what I'm afraid of," the confession hangs in the air.
"Everything about the job is scary."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"You took a bullet. You're still here tryin' to recover to get back out there. That's something to be fucking proud of."
"I can't even walk."
"You got shot on the damn leg, give yourself some time."
"Still sucks."
After a long moment, his voice breaks the quiet.
“I know.”
Just two words, but they land heavily.
Because suddenly you realize he truly does, not in a hypothetical or sympathetic way. He knows exactly what it feels like to wake up for the first time changed by pain and wonder if the person left afterward still fits inside their own skin.
Your eyes drift toward him again without meaning to. He’s already looking at you, his gaze quietly present in the dim morning light while rain shadows move softly across the room around him.
And for one suspended moment the hospital, the pain, the machines humming softly around you both—all of it disappears beneath the simple realization that neither of you feels quite as alone as you did a week ago.
Simon’s gaze drops briefly toward your joined hands then returns to your face.
Something unreadable flickers across his expression. It vanishes almost immediately beneath the familiar rough edges he wears like armor, but not before you catch it. That brief glimpse affects you far more than it should.
Simon shifts slightly in the chair beside you, exhaustion finally beginning to weigh visibly against him. His head tips back briefly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second too long before reopening again.
You study him quietly.
The tension still lingering around his mouth. The faint lines exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. The stubborn effort it clearly takes for him to stay awake despite his own injuries.
A strange tenderness catches you off guard.
“Go sleep,” you murmur softly.
One corner of his mouth twitches faintly again.
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
─☆*:・
Night settles slowly around the hospital room, quiet and blue at the edges.
The overhead lights are turned off, leaving only the soft amber glow from the hallway slipping through the cracked door and the far away muted city lights beyond the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere outside, water still drips steadily from rooftops and fire escapes after the storm, the sound faint beneath the distant hum of traffic moving through wet streets.
Everything feels softer after dark. The hospital itself seems to exhale. Voices lower into murmurs beyond the walls. Footsteps grow less frequent. Machines continue their endless quiet beeping around you both, but even that begins blending into the atmosphere after a while, becoming less noise and more heartbeat.
At some point after the nurses finish their evening rounds and repeatedly tell him to return to his bed—advice that he doesn't follow, he shifts his chair closer to your bed, close enough that he can rest his arm on the mattress, you let him. You like it.
Instead he sits beside you now, fingers occasionally brushing lightly against your forearm whenever either of you moves.
Tiny accidents that neither of you acknowledge.
Your leg still aches relentlessly beneath the bandages, but the pain medication has dulled it into something distant enough to tolerate. Warm heaviness settles through your body instead, leaving your thoughts slow and dangerously unguarded around the edges.
Simon sits close enough now that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, that you notice details you probably shouldn’t: The rough scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw by the end of the day, the way his hands flex unconsciously whenever pain pulls through his healing abdomen—fingers curling slightly against his knee before relaxing again.
The strong hands, scarred knuckles, they're careful too, he is a sniper after all.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs quietly beside you, voice roughened by exhaustion.
You glance toward his face and immediately regret it because he’s already watching you, head tipped slightly back against the wall. The dim lighting softens the harsher planes of his face, shadows settling deep beneath tired eyes. He looks unfairly good like this, worn down enough to seem real. Dangerous enough to still make your pulse trip every time he looks directly at you.
“You make it difficult not to,” you answer before thinking better of it.
The words settle into the quiet room between you.
His gaze lingers on your face a moment too long before shifting downward briefly. Your mouth. Your throat. Then back up again.
A subtle movement.
Still enough to make warmth spread slowly through your chest.
“Should I be concerned ya flirt with the entire force like tha'?” he asks eventually.
There’s dry amusement in the question.
You study him for a second before answering.
“No,” the honesty slips out easier than expected.
Simon’s expression changes almost imperceptibly afterward.
Not surprise exactly.
Just awareness.
The room feels smaller suddenly, neither of you looks away.
Your pulse feels loud in your own ears. You both let the silence settle, it doesn't feel awkward, or comfortable. Just something you've grown used to.
Several minutes pass before Simon glances toward you again, his gaze dropping briefly toward your leg before returning to your face.
“How bad is it?”
“Better now.” You answer without looking at him.
Something flickers behind his eye at that—relief. It's real enough to affect you immediately.
No one should look that relieved over your comfort. No one should stay awake watching your breathing like it matters. But he does.
You look down briefly at your own hands twisted loosely in the blankets.
“You stayed all day," the observation comes quieter than intended.
Simon leans his head back slightly against the wall again, “Didn’t have anywhere else to be.”
He could have asked to have you transferred once a bed cleared. He could've left this room whenever he wanted. He could have disappeared back behind all those carefully built walls and sharp edges and distance, hide his face like he does with everyone. But he wanted you to see him like this, to stay next to you.
“You know,” you murmur softly, “you’re not nearly as cold as everyone says.”
Simon’s eyes drift toward you slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts faintly "Meds are doing their job."
"Oh?" you raise your brows, acting offended, "and here I thought I was special."
He rolls his eyes in response, still smirking faintly.
You let the silence linger again, it's somewhat comforting at this point. Charged with things you don't think you'll ever share with each other.
His eye drifts shut briefly before reopening again a second later, like he caught himself slipping. “You should sleep,” you whisper.
Simon turns his head just enough to look at you properly. “Eventually.”
You roll your eyes softly. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
There’s a quiet ease to it now, the kind that sneaks up on you without permission. Minutes pass by and you allow the quiet of the room to swallow you whole. Your gazes are fixed on anything but each other. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for something more interesting than the hospital ceiling, you’ve been staring at for the past three days while Simon’s stare blankly on the floor, lips slightly pursed into a thin line, deep in thought.
The sound of the rain from outside and of your breathing fills the lack of words.
“We should go out once we’re discharged.”
His words are so casual it takes your brain a full second to process them. “Are you asking me out?”
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Thought I was being obvious.”
A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, warm and sleepy and a little disbelieving.
“You know you'll have to put up with my limp, right?” you question a second later, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.
Matching your expression he also raises a brow at you, entirely unimpressed, “not a problem.”
You smirk satisfied with his response, tilting you head softly at him, “Date sounds fun."
you know when men slap their dick on your pussy a few times before they put it in? i feel like the 141 each have their own ritual.
simon? he slaps with weight. his cock is heavy, girthy, and he sort of just lets it drop against you, wet, blunt smacks across your lips and clit until you’re slick enough that every smack sounds obscene and you’re whining for him to just put it in already.
price slides his. he doesn’t tease so much as he just wants to watch his cock coat with your come. dragging the length of himself through your lips slowly, getting himself nice and wet until his fat head finally catches at your entrance on its own.
kyle’s the kind to feed you only the tip just to pull it out and drag the whole length of his cock up to your clit and back down, notches the head in again, pulls out, drags it back up. he’ll get lost doing it too if you let him, ten-fifteen minutes of it.
johnny slaps your cunt with his cock because he likes to watch. eyes locked on the way you twitch every time it lands, bringing it down in quick, smacking succession. distantly wondering where the hell he left his phone.
If youre interested in any of these tropes while reading a dark romance book, i recommend you read my book which I will publish within the next year or two
