cw: afab!reader, sexual content, mentions of sex 18+ MDNI
Simon loved to shower with you, but he loved watching you shower even more.
There was a certain intimacy and sensuality to showering with you. Watching the water sluice down body over the hardened peaks of your breasts, down the curve of your back and ass. Your hair darkened by the water, sticking to your face and neck.
But there was something different in seeing you naked normally and in the shower. Simon can't explain it. It was hypnotic. Addictive.
When Simon would come home after a long op he'd drop his bags and toe off his boots already calling out your name. Then he hears the shower running. He doesn't even bother with knocking anymore just opens the bathroom door, the sound muffled by the pattering of water against your body and bathroom tiles and just take in the view of you.
The glass is a vignette of steam as you're lathering clouds of perfumed suds all over your body completely unaware your boyfriend is watching you like some pervert. Any other normal boyfriend would just make his presence known and probably join you in the shower. Not Simon. He would be content to watch with a half lidded gaze and half hard cock as you massage all those nice smelling shampoos, conditioners and shower gels in. He should get in the shower with you. God knows he probably smells like sweat and someone else's blood all metallic and musky, coppery and earthy.
"Jesus Christ-!" You shriek as you finally lift your gaze up and see Simon leaning against the door watching you. "Simon why don't you fucking knock?"
"Nice to see you too, love." The corner of his lips tug upwards, his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Don't stop on my account. You didn't do yer conditioner." Simon jerks his chin towards the shower shelf with your array of products.
You can't help but roll your eyes as you reluctantly grab the conditioner. "Fuckin' weirdo." You mutter under your breathe as you squeeze a dollop into your hand, glaring at Simon while doing it. "Did you even call me? Thought you were getting home later."
Simon shrugs as he steps forward and leans against the shower door. "Wanted to surprise you." Those soft brown eyes of his are locked onto the way the water cascades down your sternum, how it drips off your pebbled nipples. Your drenched hair sticking to the back of your neck, forehead and temples framing your face into an image Simon wishes he could sear into his brain. The water glistens and highlights every delicious dip and curve of your body. He could take a photo. Then add it to his ever growing collection of lewd photos of you in his phone.
"Are you gonna shower too, Si?" You finger comb the conditioner through your hair as you turn to him, his eyes are still taking you in like you're a marble statue in a museum. All soft and perfectly shaped. He could drag you out of the shower and into the bedroom and stuff his aching cock into that cunt he missed so much. Or he could strip off his clothes right now, step into the shower and press you up against the cold tiles as he'd stuff you full of his thick fingers until your thighs started to shake. Tempting offers all of them, but he had to wait at least two minutes until you can rinse out your conditioner.
"Take your time, love. I've got all night." Simon's length was starting to strain at his jeans now, but you know what they say. Good things come to those who wait, right?
Random headcanon I have: Simon gets migraines. Like, the excruciating kind. They’re infrequent, but when they do happen, he’s down for the count for the entire day. They drop him harder than the bullets he’s taken in the line of fire.
You’ll find him curled up in bed, hoodie pulled tight over his face, blackout curtains practically sewn shut. And even at your small whisper of “you okay, Si?,” sometimes, all he can muster is a pained grown in response.
Touch will set him off. Trying to eat or drink is a chore. No amount of painkillers will help.
But at the same time?
This man would rather die than go to the doctors. Seriously, trying to get him to admit he needs a helping hand rather than pure will-power is damn near impossible.
You get him into your general practitioner eventually…but until then, you witness many of the (insane) ways he’s tried to relieve the pain before—and some of them worked too!!
Clipping your claw clip onto random parts of his face until it’s in juuuuuuust the right spot. (He accidentally fell asleep with it on and woke up with horrifying bruises all over his face).
Tying shoelaces around the circumference of his head…didn’t work as well as he hoped.
He once took four shots of vodka after barely being able to eat because…why not? Surprisingly, not as bad as he’d thought it’d make him feel (once he got over the insane tunnel vision first).
He smoked a full pack one time leant miserably over your bedroom window (he damn near threw up right after…actually, he did throw up right after).
But the absolute best method? A frozen bag of mixed vegetables over his eyeballs for at least an hour. And, no, it can’t be frozen potatoes or frozen green beans or anything else, even when those go on sale. It has to be frozen peas and carrots, mixed and cut the way that one company he can’t remember the name of does it, or else the paltry bag doesn’t fit on his fat forehead correctly and only makes the throbbing worse. You’ve gotten that lecture many a time by now.
He forces you to buy 14 bags of the damn things. You literally cannot put anything else in the freezer because of how much space they take up.
He hates peas by the way. Carrots are a close second.
pairing: husband!simon riley x wife!reader (call of duty)
genre: angst
warnings: mild profanity, divorce themes, no emotional resolution
word count: ~500
summary: you ask simon for a divorce.
a/n: this idea has been tormenting me for days so now you have to suffer with me. also i have so many more ideas for this theme so if you don't absolutely hate me for this lmk :)
────────────
you slide the papers across the kitchen table.
simon feels the blood rush to his head as he reads the title.
petition for dissolution of marriage.
he doesn’t reach halfway for it. he doesn’t look up at you. he rereads the title one time. two times. he even reads the contents to make sure he’s not imagining things.
“...what is this?” he rasps, staring at the papers.
you sit across the table from him, arms wrapped around your torso.
“you know what it is,” you whisper, throat too tense to speak any louder. “we’ve had this conversation a hundred times already.”
his eyes glisten under the kitchen light as he finally looks up at you.
“but why, love?” he leans forward, closer to you, refusing to acknowledge the papers between you. “just tell me what i did—i’ll fix it.”
beneath the table, his hands are shaking.
“tell me what needs to change and i’ll do it,” he continues, voice cracking. “just…don’t do this.” he finally reaches out for the papers, only to slide them away.
“i’m so tired of doing this.” your hand comes to your mouth to stifle a sob.
“i know, baby, but we can fix this. i can fix this.” he leans in, trying to catch your gaze just once.
you run a hand over your face, letting out a shaky exhale. “can you…god—can you just sign it? please?”
he doesn't move from where he sits. he doesn’t reach out for you, even though he wants to more than anything.
“no.”
you sigh.
“i'm not signing that fucking paper.”
“si—” your voice breaks as you let out another sob. you bury your face in your hands.
hearing that name from you, he swears he’s going to be sick.
“no, sweetheart, please—please look at me,” he pleads.
you wipe stubbornly at your eyes. “stop.”
“please. just look at me.”
he opens his hand across the table, not touching you, just open, waiting for you to bridge the gap and come to him the same way you had thousands of times before today.
you sit just out of his reach, a tear escaping despite your best efforts.
then, you stand, nudging the paper closer to him, ignoring his open hand. you hesitate just a moment, willing yourself not to look at him.
“i’m going out,” you choke. you don’t say where. you don’t say with who, or even when you’ll be back. “call me when you’re done.”
he watches every movement as you go. you fish your keys from your pocket and pick up your full bag by the door.
his gut twists again as the realization settles in. you packed. you planned for this.
a moment later, the front door slams shut. he doesn’t chase you, even though every instinct in him is screaming to.
the engine of your car starts. it feels like the wind has been punched out of his lungs.
simon sees your headlights disappear down the road, and only then does he realize his hand is still outstretched, reaching for you, waiting.
loving never did me no good (so why am i lying now?) | simon x reader | +18
He calls, and you can't help but answer.
tldr: you and Simon have been separated for months by now, yet he refuses to take you off his emergency contact list. [ao3]
tags: explicit sexual content, fem!reader, depictions of physical injuries, emotional manipulation, forced caretaking, (dubious) consensual impregnation, not exactly breeding definitely babytrapping, simon calls himself "old man" meaning husband not in a fauxcest way
[Mar 12, 2.14 PM] (linked Google Calendar reminder)
[Mar 12, 2.14 PM] Please come sign
[Mar 12, 2.16 PM] Simon I'm so serious
[Mar 12, 4.43 PM] Stop having your shit sent here
[Mar 12, 4.44 PM] I've had to reschedule with the lawyer twice. Stop fucking bailing!!! And stop! Fucking! Having! Your shit sent here!!!
[Mar 13, 7.20 AM] I told the lawyer to send it to your email. Check it.
[Mar 13, 7.21 AM] Password $TWAT!5 i think
[Mar 15, 8.06 AM] simon for fucks sake i know you use your email check it
Divorce leaves you with an embarrassing amount of free time. Like many women on the other side of a relationship, you find yourself in desperate need of a hobby.
Call it perhaps naïve optimism, but decades of movie-induced psychosis had you somewhat convinced that after ending a marriage your life would fall into that frazzled chase towards the proverbial moving on. Your Bridget Jones-esque era, so to speak.
You're certain you've done all the steps. Bought a tape dispenser to pack your shared life into tidy cardboard boxes, called the notary, fixed the doorbell tag, endured the pity comments, drank the gifted celebration wine bottles (expensive), had the obligatory celebratory one-night stand (bad), and decided the backsplash had to go as it's only there because Simon liked it (he didn't. He positively did not care.)
You hate the backsplash tiles.
They'd been clearance stock from a hardware store, and when you'd seen the price, you had squealed so hard your husband had pretended to plug his good ear. His lips had thinned into that long-suffering line as your fingers curled around his elbow, tugging him towards the pallet. 'S ceramic crap, Simon had objected, tapping a nail against the PEI sticker. You'd rolled your eyes and had wanted to ask him exactly what he would know about tiling, but his hands had been already pulling the wallet out of his back pocket.
It took him two attempts and several YouTube tutorials he kept rewinding every ten seconds, but he got them up in the end. You sucked him off as repayment with your knees to the kitchen floor, tracing lazy circles across the white of his knuckles where they gripped the countertop.
They get stripped off in a manic yet satisfying fit of hysteria, and now instead of ignoring them, you ignore a sticky note over bare plaster reminding you to call the remodel company.
Hot pilates seems as good as any distraction, and your therapist's office sits between the studio and your house. It's convenient: you can waste an hour on some very pricey lies and then go shed the guilt along calories and sweat. You squirm on the love seat and nod along her words when it seems appropriate.
"I think it would help if it were a more... A cleaner cut," you stammer. Your tongue is dry but you've achieved what you think is the perfect interested-but-nonchalant posture and you don't want to risk it for the glass of water. "I still get all his stuff, you know. His medical records and his phone bills, it's... Confusing."
Your friends occupy every Thursday and Saturday night since last October. They sit criss-cross applesauce on the wood of your living room for movie night, swing by the day after potluck for their washed casserole bowl. You get passed from one hand to the other in the most absurd game of "who has it", a watchful eye forever on you and your spine of jello.
Around them, it's easy to forget you've lost the flock. You fall into step without thinking, borrowing their direction for a few hours. Let yourself be carried on the same current, trusting they know where they're going.
But when night comes, they rise up and rub their knees and the small of their backs and swipe open their phones. One texts her fiancé— leaving now, home in 15. The other traps the device between shoulder and cheek as she buttons her coat. Did you wash your teeth? Jaime, I'm going to check before your goodnight kiss.
Instagram fills your head with christenings and birthdays while you stack the dishes in the sink. The washer-dryer gets stuck on heavy duty. You take a shot in the dark.
[Mar 23, 11.06 P.M] [Attached image] ?
It makes you feel a little less pathetic that he answers immediately.
[Mar 23, 11.06 P.M] control lock on have to turn it off
[Mar 23, 11.15 P.M] nite pet
It should feel nice, that two can play the same game. You don't respond anyway.
The next morning, you check the mail before heading out for work. Wedged between letters and advertising flyers, you find another health record. This time there's a full STI panel in the summary.
[Mar 24, 7.03 AM] youre not funny
The call comes at 3 A.M.
Your car is on and out of the driveway before you've even fully realised what Price's voice is saying, streaming out of the speaker. They got the short end of the stick on the outskirts of northern Paris, and then had to get EVAC'd out of there because Simon almost bled out in a helo.
The team at Queen Elizabeth's Centre for Defence Medicine extracts two bullets from your ex-husband's side, nestled between his spleen and his pancreatic artery. A couple millimetres in a different direction, and you'd be getting a death notification instead of a call from the ICU.
You sit on the plastic benches just outside the OR block and stare at the linoleum until a woman timidly scooches over. She's waiting for her daughter, a ruptured appendix she tells you, and she cuts the biggest orange you've ever seen in slices to coax into your hands.
"Who are you waiting for?" She asks, and your eyes decide they no longer have the strength to contain the neurotic tears you've been holding in.
She pats your back awkwardly, a little maternal, and makes soft cooing sounds as you sob into your palms, pressing your nose and your mouth into your fingers.
You picture him lying there, on a steel anatomical table, the surgeon suctioning his blood into numbered plastic bags. You wonder if they've given him something for his head. His neck hurts, if he uses a pillow that's too thick. You hope they've found him a flat one.
For a moment, you imagine that he does die, and that you're relieved. You rub against the front of your throat when that makes your stomach turn until you feel sick.
The tears slip into your mouth, iodine and sweet juice.
"There, dear," the woman tuts, smoothing over your hair. "I'm sure everything will find its place."
You're not sure how to feel about it, that you couldn't answer her question.
The zipper of your bag leaves a red imprint like a scar across your cheek. You attempt to rub it away as the nurse leads you through the frigid corridor of the unit, shoes squeaking and cleaning agents stinging the lining of your nostrils. She makes you wear funny green covers for your shoes and hook a mask over your ears, showing you how to work the gel disinfectant into your hands.
Your bag slips off your shoulder as you peek through the gap, pushing the heavy door of the room open.
A wet laugh surges from you, completely involuntary, because Simon truly looks ridiculous. Sprawled out on a mattress somehow too small for him, cast leg propped on a metal sling, oxygen cannulas skewed over his top lip, away from where they're supposed to rest against his nose. They must've had trouble dressing him, because his gown is sagging down his arm, loosely tied behind his neck.
Half of it must be his own making given that he's leaning over the edge of the bed to smash his clunky fingers onto the screen of a beeping machine. He turns his head to look at you and you take a step back to rest against the doorpost. Your hands itch with the need to touch him, to check...
His chest heaves into a great sigh when he flops back against the pillows. "Sweetheart," he burrs, nodding his chin towards the equipment. "Giv'us a hand, yeah?"
You think about hitting him, but you're sure they'd throw you out.
He watches as you drag your feet towards the bed, letting your bag drop to the floor so you can inspect the monitor. His chin dips again with encouragement when your hand hovers on the side buttons, and the half-moons under his eyes have your heart give a pained squeeze.
"Simon," you start, hating how your voice turns wet. "Oh my God. Are you okay?"
Your ex-husband cocks his head to the side, like he's taking your measurements, and the line of his mouth softens. "None o'that," he tells you, patting the seat of the chair next to his head, "c'mon, you're breakin' my heart."
He lets you sniffle a little, stretching to the nightstand to offer you a tissue box as you start rubbing your eyes. You take one out of politeness, but there's really no need: they are so puffy and dry you'd be surprised if they'd manage to produce something. Still, you jam one end into your inner corner and hope at least to clear some crust from sleep.
"How long you been 'ere."
"Since four, maybe. What happened?"
Simon scans the room and you're sure he's fishing for a clock, but he winces when his eyelids flutter in the harsh lights and he covers one with a knuckle. "Ah, nothin'."
Some part of you must still have enough hope because you wait for him to offer up more. It never comes, predictably, and you wind your arms around yourself and drop your gaze as old resentment floods your mouth.
It makes him sigh again, a heavy noise that bleeds into a groan somewhere in the middle. "Not keepin' secrets, you wouldn't understand half o'it. Who called ya?"
"Price," you admit reluctantly, twisting the point of your shoe against the ground. You find the action immediately childish, so you stop by shifting in your chair and knocking your knees together. "I told you to take me off it."
The hand he had to his eye falls down over his barrel chest as it wavers up and down with his shallow breaths. There are scrapes there you didn't notice before, at the start of his wrists and up his forearms where the tactical jacket must've rolled up. He's more gauze than skin there, between the plasters and the IV dressings.
"Been busy."
"I've called the office. Says you didn't authorise it."
"Right," you scoff, primming your lips. Perhaps you don't make the best decisions in a panic. His team would've taken care of him, so there's no need for you to be here. What a clean cut you'll get if your hands keep trembling around the handle.
Your bag is halfway from the floor when his hand dangles off the bed, right in front of your face. His index hooks into the strings of the mask, nail scraping lightly against your temple, and then he's pulling it down until it rests on your chin. Your eyebrows knit together as you look up at him and his thumb smoothes over one of them, hair catching on the callouses.
He's staring at you with that complete impassivity that can only mean he's thinking very hard.
"You look nice."
Sometimes, it's easy to forget that out of the two of you he's the better butcher.
Taking him home isn't a planned thing, nor a welcomed one. He spends eleven days in the hospital and you manage to limit yourself to one other visit only, just to really assure your brain that he's out of death's grip so you can leave this whole thing behind and go back to dismantle what's left of your marriage.
It's sprung up on you. You ask him what's the prognosis and he clucks his tongue and rubs his nape until he feels like he's made you work enough for it.
They won't let him go back to his flat. The stitches on his side are still precarious and his broken leg hobbles him even with crutches, so for once in his life, it seems Simon isn't trusted to take care of himself. The medical team is still too concerned about the risk of infection and hemorrhage to leave him be without observation.
"I thought you said your spleen was fine." Your eyes squint while you help him arrange his lunch tray precariously on his knees. The dedicated support attached to the bed doesn't fit over the width of his thighs.
He sucks his teeth before using them to tear open the oil packet. "It is. Just nicked it."
The rest of his unit has been sent on action already, gone a day or two after his injury. It's protocol, but you stare at the way he tightens when he shifts wrong and think that he looks a bit like a toy someone has gotten tired of playing with.
He eats around his words, hunched over the food like a big animal of prey. He's not one to complain, but you catch the way his crooked nose twists when he gives the spare bed in the room a sideways glance. He tells you that some kid blew his fingers off like it's to spite him personally.
"Thought I'd get some R&R, at least," he grumbles, licking meat glaze off the knife. "Have to share wit' a wanker who can't keep the spoon still."
You know you shouldn't say it, but it comes out anyway.
"Do you, uhm..." Your brain tells you to backtrack, twisting your voice until it's all strangled. "Do you want to come stay at the house? I work, so it's not like we'd see eachother much and I can... Yeah, I can help you out."
It wins you a taste of the laser focus he's capable of. "Oh, pet," he croons, making your toes curl inside your shoes. "S'not a good idea, innit?"
You shrug your shoulders, prickly with vulnerability you've grown unused to. It feels a bit like rejection, and can't figure out why it hurts. The plastic covers of the meal gather into your palms, and you cringe when condensation dampens your skin.
Simon reaches for you when you try to move to the bin. His thumb and forefinger close around your wrist, feeling for your heartbeat.
"Don't want to take advantage," he adds, and you know him too well to ignore what swims in his eyes. You pretend not to see it.
"You'd do it for me."
He licks his lips, and the hesitant press around your wrist turns full, hand circling it completely. "Yeah," he agrees, "of course I would."
The fact that the divorce was your idea goes without saying.
It's unclear exactly which cog had stopped turning, but one day you'd woken up to the uncanny feeling that no time had passed since the day before. Simon had been somewhere in the other hemisphere, and you'd stumbled through the twenty-four-hour cycle of your life with an inexplicable anxiety.
You'd felt like one of those birds that smash again and again on a window they can't see, desperate for something beyond the glass.
Then Simon had come home, and time had resumed moving. It had scared you terribly.
You try to keep it from heading there, now. In the morning you leave for work and attempt to think of anything else other than where Simon will be once you return. At times you find him wandering the back garden, checking the tree roots' stability with the end of one crutch. Others he's at the kitchen table, typing clumsily on a laptop with Tesco-bought plastic glasses precariously perched on the tip of his nose. Most of the time he doesn't even bother putting them on correctly, with one arm going over the ear and not behind.
Taking care of something gives a direction to your life that's been missing. You like that he has to listen to you, now.
He doesn't object when you nag him about taking his meds and makes such deep, growling noises of appreciation for your cooking they go right down to your stomach.
His thank-yous come in service, always, so he fixes the wardrobe door that's been giving you trouble and checks all the lightbulbs of the house. You're reminded of how many things he sees that you don't: your car oil too low, loose window latch in the bathroom. The fact that your neighbour's garage has been broken into twice since Christmas.
He spends a Saturday afternoon replacing locks and tinkering with the security system. You're only informed when a new set of keys is delivered into your hand.
"You can't change stuff in my house without telling me," you try to admonish him, pretending to not be distracted by the rolled-up sleeves of his sweated t-shirt. "You know normal people just call someone for this, yeah?"
"Aye," he says around the cigarette dangling from his lower lip, "get ya a three-weeks wait and a half-arsed job. You need this done now."
This is what you've been missing: to not have to explain yourself. The few (try two) dates that you've been on since you and Simon split have failed for the same reason. You can't expect someone to know you when there's no history, but it's a hard adjustment coming from a long-term relationship.
There's no need to faff around with Simon. You don't have to explain why it's a grand thing, when you're late at the end of the work day and enter the house and tell him that your sister is pregnant. Due in September, after a third cycle of IUI.
He turns the toy you've picked up from the store on the way home in his hands. "You think 'bout it?" He asks, waits for the moment it takes for it to click in your head.
"What, about kids?"
Sometimes, you want to say, but it seems unfair to say it to him. Parenthood was always off the table, to your agreement as well. How does one raise a child when their father is across the globe half a year. The idea was shelved and replaced with something else, and for a while it had worked.
"Don't know," you're hesitant to respond, torturing the inside of your cheek. "Depends on who comes along, I guess."
He hums, stare never leaving your face. "Sounds about right."
Simon knows just when he has to push with you, and where. You're aware he lets you ramble so you're distracted when he tugs your feet into his lap, press his thumb into your socked arches. Because he knows you, you let him.
Your former uni roommate glowers at you over clementine martinis when you go out drinking. Your ex-husband has been stashed in your house for two whole weeks and you've yet to tell a single soul. It would've gone on longer, but after you'd called a rain check on your Thursday-Saturday meetups twice in a row, your friends were nearly committed to an intervention. You managed to de-escalate it down to drinks, hoping the alcohol would help, but perhaps a tête-à-tête hadn't been your brightest idea.
"It's just until the end of the month," you reiterate, sounding too much like you're justifying yourself.
There's no particular amount of affection that your inner circle holds for Simon, and you're quite sure it has decreased significantly since your separation. No need to fake appearances once a friend's insufferable partner is out of their life.
"I don't know, babe," she grimaces, stirring her drink with a straw. "It's kind of fresh, you don't even have the papers signed. I don't think it's the healthiest thing."
"It's practical. And, c'mon, what was I supposed to do? Leave him there? It's temporary and it's... It's fine, it's nothing."
"All I'm saying is, you don't make the smartest decisions around him," she points out. Not like you can get mad at her if she's right.
You swirl the words on your tongue while you drive back.
The lights are all off and you wander into the kitchen, pulling open the medicine cabinet to rummage around for a paracetamol. The weather is not quite hot enough for summer yet, but you feel stifled under your dress, fanning your face with your free hand to dampen the alcohol-fed licks of heat travelling up your spine.
A shadow shifts in the corner of your sight and you scramble, whirling around and pressing against the counter so fast you almost land on top of it.
Simon turns his head away to curl his lips in that nasty manner that means he's amused, standing a few feet away as if not entirely sure you won't bolt. Your palm slides away from your heart, and you award him a blank look.
"Fuckhead," you chastise him, low because the anger has already bled out of you. Quiet is not something he decides on anymore.
He gives you a canine smile and saunters closer, holding his arm out for you to see. "Patch's comin' off," he explains, picking the corner of the dressing with his nails to show you how loose it is, nodding his head towards the cabinet.
The help isn't offered nor does it need to be, because he angles towards you and waits until you reach behind your back for the disinfectant and the box of plasters. You murmur that you're sorry when the glue pulls at the straw hairs on his forearm, and he hums softly like he's conversing with an animal he thinks a bit dumb.
"I like the dress," he tells you after a while, and when you look up briefly, he's sizing the length of your body approvingly. Your hips shift in response, correcting your slouch as you clean the skin around the wound. "When 'ave you worn this?"
"I haven't," you swallow, hissing when your fingers fumble opening up the new dressing. "Got it after you."
The massive curve of his shoulders hunch, closing in, and you don't think he liked that so much, that there's an after you. You stick the plaster in place and prepare to bite the bullet.
"You smell good," he interrupts eagerly, and it almost makes you give in.
"Simon, can you sign the papers?"
His eyes are so weird. They shift like earth, at times, one moment the light, rich brown of soil, warmed by the sunlight. Now they deepen, the ground opening in layers, pulling you further by a magnetic core, bubbling in their tar pits.
"What papers, love?" He asks it along a deep breath, lips pulling at one corner, like you're revising some old shared joke and he's helping you set up the punchline.
"The divorce papers. I have them in the office, we can..."
Your mouth opens, and you curl your lips to wet them, squeeze some moisture out of your dry mouth. Your hand lets go of his arm, but he moves his behind you to rest on the counter so he can bend you in a more comfortable position for himself, shifting you until you face him directly. You have to tuck your shoulders inwards or you brush against the cupboard.
"You know wha' I think," he mumbles, swiping his nose over the crown of your head. "I think tha' yer a little drunk, pet, and you're not talkin' straight."
In a broader sense, you already knew this was going to happen, so it's not exactly shock that twists in your gut when his fingers hike the skirt of your dress up your thighs. They pinch the softness there as they go, mean enough that you squeak, and he chuckles with his mouth fitted to your ear.
You fear for his stitches when he hoists you up on the countertop, trying to swat his hands away, but he's clever and he hooks the gusset of your underwear in the crease of your pelvis. You've been wet since you noticed he was in the kitchen, and the groan that rumbles up his throat when he discovers it punches you in the solar plexus.
"Fuckin' knew it, I knew she missed me."
It seems like memory doesn't fail him, because his thumb traces the folds at the top before he caresses the length of your labia, finding the pool of slick at your opening and smearing it back up.
You can't help but clutch at his shoulders, digging into the muscle. The heel on your left foot bangs against the wood behind it and threatens to slip away, but when you try to spread your toes to keep it on, Simon gives your clit a good jiggle that has you doing the opposite.
"Speakin' a load of nonsense with a cunt leakin' for me," he huffs annoyedly, muffled against the spot on your neck he's lavishing. He doesn't warn you, just presses hard against your clit and plunges two thick fingers into you, bullying the rim apart until it stretches over the thick of his knuckles.
"Simon-!"
The gasp is out of you before you can reel it back, and he uses the opportunity of your open lips and cram his tongue into your mouth, with such an insistence you'd think there isn't enough space. You try to duck your head away a little, keep this from turning tender, but he palpates the hinges of your jaw and strokes quick little jabs against your front wall that make your lips slack.
You cum dizzyingly fast, moaning when you suck instinctively on his tongue the way you know he wants you to.
Simon grins like the cat who got the cream when he decides to let you breathe again, rubbing your cheek in a rough back-and-forth with his thumb. No more sounds seem willing to leave your body, so you're silent as he tugs your panties back in place, smoothing the dress over your legs.
Unsure of what else to say, you palm his side with a delicate touch. "Are you hurt?"
"No, darlin'," he's quick to respond, lowering his head so he can plant an insistent kiss over your mouth. "Feel fuckin' fantastic."
The following week, you celebrate your birthday. It falls on a Saturday, so you'll go out to that nice rooftop bar you've been meaning to try with your friends and you'll pretend it's all a surprise. But on Friday, Simon orders your favourite Indian and almost gets offended when you try to pay him back. It makes you so awkward that you let him stamp a peck to the side of your head before settling on the couch to watch a film.
When 9 PM comes, he taps your biceps with his fingers. "Pill," he clicks his tongue, and you're somehow shocked that he remembered.
The truth gets wedged in your throat on its way out. Admitting to it seems like dangling intimacy in front of his eyes that you're not ready to depart from.
"Yeah, sure," you hum, feigning severe interest in the movie. "In a minute."
"No, not in a minute. Now."
You think about getting up and swallowing an ibuprofen, just to get him off your trail. But why should he have that control over you?
"I'm, uh, not on it anymore." Hand reaching for a curry chip, you sniff and stuff it between your lips, deciding to focus on the spice burning the roof of your mouth instead of the intense look he gives your cheekbone. "Didn't really seem useful. Thought I'd take a break."
The rest of the evening is spent convincing yourself that you don't care about his opinion rather than worrying whether he thinks it's a bad thing.
You make your wish over chicken korma and pray he hasn't yet figured out how to read your mind.
By the time the last week of the month rolls in, you've half-forgotten Simon is supposed to leave eventually. If it's slipping from your mind, then he's buried the thought so deep it may as well not exist. Every time he leaves for a health check-up, you wring your hands and wait for him to come back and tell you that the time is up, that he doesn't need you anymore. What is supposed to bring you solace now fills you with dread.
Spring is drawing to an end and you feel a part of your life goes with it.
Over dinner he tells you that his medical downgrade will be lifted when May comes, and you're grateful that he pretends to ignore your fork clattering against the plate. You twirl it around your fingers, tapping the tabletop with the flat end of it.
Steam curls from the pasta between you. Simon decided to cook for once, and you'd come home just in time to bear the results. "Clean across 1500 meters", you'd said, enjoying having to evade his grabby hands, "and defeated by a timer."
Now he eats like he's still in a mess hall, elbow planted wide across the table, barely looking at his plate. He's always had that about him. This is mine, his posture says sometimes, come and take it.
"That's good," is what comes when you manage to metabolize it as the prongs skewer a limp maccheroni, and he watches your mouth open for it.
You're not sure if it's irritation or embarrassment that twinges at your nape when he snorts, tilting his head away so you're only allowed one side of his face, watching the way the line of his mouth bleeds into the scarred divot on his cheek. It turns his whole face into one long, pitying grin.
You've seen the place he's supposed to return to. A stuffy cubicle crammed into the side of a duplex, so narrow you weren't sure it was fit for rent. He hadn't seemed interested in decorating, because it had been lacking any furniture aside from the basics, all dull popcorn ceilings and vinyl plank floors. You'd found a pack of condoms in the hardboard sidetable digging for the things he'd sent you to retrieve; shame somersaults in your guts at the memory of throwing them away.
Another noodle makes it into your mouth, and you swallow it along with the image of him noticing just as he's about to fuck another woman. "Will you go back?"
"Back where?" Simon says, stealing the last piece of bread for himself.
You go to answer honestly, but you lose your bravado. "Field. Your team left," you reply stupidly, as if he possibly couldn't know, "a few days after your surgery."
"Aye, probably. Kind o' need-to-know stuff."
The chair creaks under your shifting weight as you adjust, curling a foot towards your chest so it rests flat on the seat.
"Have you packed anything yet?"
"Plenty o'time."
He says it like time is something he can afford to waste, like leaving is an inconvenience to be dealt with only when necessary. He clears the plates without asking, carrying the stack to the sink while you rinse the cutlery. Silence grows thick, cut only by scraping metal and rushing water.
When you wander to check the back door, he looks up from where he's polishing a knife. "What're you doin'."
"Making sure it's shut," you reply with your hand still on the handle. The door gives a good rattle as you try the latch, putting some of your weight into it. The door gives a good rattle as you try the latch, putting some of your weight into it. The lock clicks, firm in its place even when tested under a second, harder shake. His mouth twitches and it earns him a mean glance in response.
"Checked it half an hour ago."
"So?"
"So you're starting to sound like me."
You laugh, but the sound catches somewhere in your chest when you try to make it real. He shifts away from the sink, setting the knife on the rack, sighing when you don't offer anything else.
"Someone had a go at Ms. Cooke's place. Police came sniffin' round."
"What?" You gape, abandoning the door to move back towards the kitchen island. Your stomach goes tight and unpleasantly hollow, and you can't stop your hand from pressing over it, as if that alone could help it settle. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Was tellin' ya now." His shoulder sways in disinterest, like he's swatting away a fly, watching you with that unnerving patience he gets when he's already decided on something. "S'fine. We've got the alarm."
When the tidying up is done, you go upstairs and stew in your anxiety. The night seems to have an in on your thoughts, because every little noise acquires intent. Your shoulders jump as you undress when the boiler settles with a knock in the walls, and later your eyes wander from your paperback towards the dark glass of the window, wind worrying at the fence panels.
A car door slamming is what sends you out of bed, resigned that you can't bear it anymore. You stick your fingers in your mouth, gnawing at the nails, and take laps around the first floor to inspect the dark corners of your home, the phone flashlight gripped in your palm as a weapon.
By the time you descend the stairs, you're embarrassed by yourself. You find Simon exactly where you've left him, sunk in the edge of the sofa with a Stella hanging lazily off his hand. Blue-white flashes from an old football match ripple across his face. He doesn't turn, but greets you before your feet have even landed from the flight.
"Oi."
There's no rush for an answer on his part, yet he still sighs heavily when it doesn't come. His eyes studies you, moving over your face with a quiet attentiveness you've never learnt to evade. "Still thinkin' bout Cooke?"
Your expression must answer for you, because he rubs a thumb over the condensation on the bottle before he's speaking again.
"If they're worth half o' their salt, they'll have scoped the place already." His chin dips towards the window without looking away from you. "Not stupid 'nuff to try while I'm in the house."
You know, of course you do. You've spent months alone in this very same building, and haven't spent a night turning in your bed about it. For some reason, it doesn't stop your stomach from churning tonight.
"Need me to come up?"
You're not strong enough to pretend that his weight on the mattress is not a relief. The sheets have been kicked to the end of the bed, room too stuffy for them to be useful, and you anchor a hand to the edge of the bed to keep yourself from rolling in his direction, gravity wanting to move you towards the alcove of his body.
Somehow, Simon feels bigger than you remembered. His breath rumbles when he stretches lavishly with one arm over his head, knee popping as he hangs his foot over the bed's end. The sound reverberates through the fabric, pulsing where your skin meets the topper. It turns physical when a hand touches between your scapulae.
Makes you jolt, eyes darting over your shoulder, finding the humped line of his nose bridge. His arm is still over his head, and he stares up at the ceiling while using the opposite to drag his knuckles up and down your spine. You don't have time to ask what he's doing before he answers.
"Stiff as a board," he chuffs. The fat joint of his middle finger digs into a sore spot dead centre on your back, and you tilt backwards in protest. " 'am makin' you nervous."
"Always," you reply, and he chuckles like he thinks it's a joke.
"And here I was hopin' it was the break-ins."
You give a sharp jiggle of your shoulders to knock his hand away, still too touched by the fact that he's sharing your bed to reassure you to bed truly mad. You keep tight to your pillow so there's no chance that he sees you smiling when he snorts, and fall asleep with his fingers tracing patterns over your back.
His tug wakes you. Your eyes flutter open mid-motion, rolling with the pull until your face plants against his chest. His breath wafts in your mouth before Simon tucks you under his chin, seemingly more content to take long huffs of your hair than facing you directly.
You're probably the only one conscious out of the two, which is why you don't move away. You take the precious opportunity, wallowing in the instinctive comfort it offers.
It's his smell you realise you've missed. Saliva drips liquid-hot on the back of your tongue as you press your nose to his throat. Dried sweat sticks to the crook of the arm beneath your head and in the hollow between his shoulder and neck, catching the back of your nostrils with acridness. It makes you press your thighs together, too embarrassed to consider rubbing them like you want to.
The pleasant floatiness of half-sleep is ripped away from you when his hand fists the fat of your calf to drag your leg over his hip.
"Wot 's it, baby," Simon slurs against the top of your head, and you gulp down your doe instinct with his voice under your ear.
You have to work the words through the tightness of your vocal cords and pull back a little from him so you can speak. "Sorry," you start, "just woke up. Think I rolled over."
The hand on your calf travels up, palming the length of your leg. When it reaches your ass, he sinks his fingers there like the pyjama trousers between you are a problem.
"Yeah." He ignores you when that makes you whimper, slapping his palm over your cheek a couple of times. It's not a smack, more of a pat, like he's testing the solidness of you. He grabs it again, this time a little bruising. "Need some touchin', do ya."
The familiarity of it confuses you. Your brain is not sure, as his palm moves to your front and up your shirt, if he should be allowed to do this. He's your husband and he's in your bed, but he's not. He's your ex and he's plucking your nipple between two fingers until he can catch your panting in his mouth, but you can't help it when it makes you rub your pussy on the muscle of his thigh.
"Please." You convince yourself you're begging him to stop, head spinning, but Simon must hear something else in your voice because the pad of his thumb flattens against the peak of your breast, and he flexes his leg to give you something harder to grind against.
"Bloody hell. Alrigh'," he groans, a punched moan, and the forearm behind your head curls so he can weave his fingers into your hair. Prickles bloom at your nape when he pulls, forcing your chin back so he can kiss you. His spit slips into your mouth, syrupy. Waxy sugar over candied apples, stuck behind your teeth out of your tongue's reach.
Whenever you get shy and try to inch backwards, he forces you again on his leg, pressing you so hard to himself that the rubbing verges between pleasure and burning. You know you're obscenely wet because he drags two fingers over the crotch of your pants repeatedly, trying to feel the moisture that seeps into the fabric.
"Goin' to be nice to me, uhm?" He croons, pressing his forehead to yours. He's gotten you desperate enough that your hips continue working even when his palm leaves them in favour of guiding you to the tent of his joggers. The hot, thick shape of his forces whines out of you, tip of your noses bumping. "So sweet for your old man, yeah."
The fabric moves and he's in your hand, weighty enough that it makes your cunt clench at the memory.
He has a cock that makes you want to touch it. He makes you want to touch him. You've known this since the first time you've slept together: there's a deliciousness in circling your fingers around the shaft, feeling the soft give of the veins gorging, swelling with his arousal. It has you hot in the stomach, eager when you find the tip angry and leaking already, slipping between your fingers until they're slick. You stroke him from the upside of his length, trapping yourself between him and his belly so you can feel the coarse hair on his pelvis tickle the back of your hand.
You imagine he made less noise when they shot him. He tries to muffle it by smashing your mouths together, cupping your cheeks to keep you still when you struggle to breathe.
"Fuck, tha's it," he hisses, bouncing his thigh when it makes you sigh pathetic little oh's. "Good girl, stroking my cock so good. Makes you wet as rain, uh? Ahhhh, fuck-"
Your head spins again, and this time it's because he's easing you on your back. It takes the pressure away from your achy pussy, and you claw at the dark where he's supposed to be only to come up empty-handed.
"Simon-" you call, until the bedside lamp switches on. He's already taking his shirt over his head. His back casts broad shadows across the wall, shifting with his wingspan, muscles flexing at the bottom of his sternum where they disappear into the soft fold of fat over his lower stomach. The ink on his bicep jumps when he fists his length, so tight you're sure it must hurt.
You realise the light is less for you when his free hand yanks your shirt until it rests at your collarbone, baring your breasts. He sucks on his teeth and settles on his hunches between your spread thighs.
"Lemme see," he beckons with a nod, barrel chest heaving. You feel pinned by his gaze, like there's no place else for you to be, and the head of his cock bobs up and down when he resumes stroking it. "Play with yer tits."
You oblige, strumming your nipples until they perk and rosy, coaxing gentle ripples of pleasure that move your hips in jerky circles. Every attempt to close your legs is stopped by his free hand.
"Baby," you sob when you're at your wit's end. You must hit whatever nail he was laying right on the head, because the stoic line of his brow softens and he shuffles forward towards you.
"You poor thing." Simon lets go of himself, tip slapping against his belly right under the surgery scar, in favour of pulling down your bottoms and panties all in one. His thumbs hook under your knees, and you gape up open-mouthed as he guides them towards your chest. "Been a'bad husband, haven't I?"
Your sight blurs, and he notices and cooes. Precum beads and drips to land on your inner thigh. His fingers seem a bit apologetic as they nudge you apart, pushing inside your cunt to make you sigh.
You want to cum, and you tell him with your walls spasming around his knuckles, shivering from the warmth of the tears leaking from your eyes and the warmth of the wetness leaking from your pussy. He wipes the former away and gives you a third finger to stretch on.
"Gonna be good to you from now on," he promises as he rolls you on your front, detangling the clothes from your feet. Your arms attempt to push you back around but a rough palm on your spine holds you down against the mattress.
"I'm-"
The head of his cock slips over your entrance, too slick to gain enough friction, your skin pulsing when he uses his fingers to wipe some of your wetness away. Looking back, you choke on your spit as you watch him lick them clean.
Simon cages you in, a fence of muscles over you, settling his elbows around your head when he punches his length into you. It's a bit stilted at first because he's not at the right angle, and it burns, paper-cut sharp. He soothes you with a kiss on your nape and gives you the rest of it.
You feel yourself open up for him, a caving space that wants for his shape. Your cunt gulps around his shaft, suctioning, pulling him further while you struggle to catch up, pressing your mouth to your forearm. "Ah, Simon, please-"
"S'okay," he says through gritted teeth, like he's telling you more than he's reassuring you. A hand fists your hair to have more of the back of your neck so he can bite you there when his hips start pumping. "I've got ya."
The train of your thoughts gets woozy after that, brain too winded in keeping conscious. The buzz at the base of your skull grows with each sound smack of his thighs against yours, skin prickling. You'll be red there tomorrow, and at the end of your spine where his abdomen chafes. His cock pistons deep behind your mons, sending direct waves to your redden clit as it rubs on the bed.
"My wife," Simon growls when his maw leaves your neck, pushing your head down when it tries to lift up. Your field of vision is entirely occupied by his bicep, jaw slack. He presses his nose into your cheek when you thump your forehead against his arm. "My fuckin' wife... Comin' on my fuckin' cock. Mine, my-"
"Fuck, please. Right there, ah, make me come," you keen, fucking yourself back, lifting your ass to meet his thrusts. You think you could cry when he balances on one arm to sneak the other under you, stroking his fingers on your clit. "Yes, Simon, yeah-!"
It's a full body spasm, a rolling tide, growing and growing until your throat is tightening around your pants and you're near silent, mouth open in teary sobs. The ring of your pussy draws so strict that he inhales like it stings before he's rocking hard against you, making your teeth clack together.
Once you're sated, his pace changes from rolling plunges to short stabs that makes you search for his fisted hand, so hard they make it for your lungs to expand. It loosens just a second, only to snake around yours, constricting like a noose.
You feel his cock throb, pulse against your rim, and you swipe your thumb over his knuckles. "Pull out," you try, voice smothered by his weight, "pull out. Baby-"
The sound is harsh when he shushes you, lips pressed right over your temple. His arms lock like a manacle, elbows digging in the mattress, mouth parted over your ear when he huffs like a bull.
"Givin' it to you," he warns, and something scampers in your guts. Your shoulders try to shift, but you're rendered near immobile under him. "Ya need it, yeah? Somethin' to fuss over. Yours and mine, pet. Uhm?"
Objecting is a useless attempt, because the only things that come out when you open your mouth are feeble moans and wheezing breaths. He must take your silence as a yes, and his cock pulls back all the way, right down to the head, before it's slamming inside in a few desperate thrusts.
They're a repetitive drumming, laden, heavy shoves that have the entire power of the muscles of his back and thighs. Your second orgasm comes like a tumble, catching you underfoot as he spills against your cervix, making you shiver with the viscous warmth of it.
He stays there for a while, nudging the back of your head with his nose while you both catch your breath. You pant against the mattress and wince when your pussy doesn't want to let him go, seizing up when his spent sloshes out of you as he slips out.
Simon gathers you up in his arms, pulling you astride his hips, letting you rest your cheek against his tacky pectoral. He tilts your chin up with two knuckles and kisses you until you gasp for air, just to make himself laugh.
"I love you, sweetheart," he smiles when you frown at him, sealing the words with another press of his lips.
You feel like the price is already paid. Whether by you or him, it seems unimportant.
Pregnancy doesn't agree with you, but you're so content you can hardly pay it any mind.
The feeling is self-inflicted, though, because people smile at you in the grocery store, eyeing the gentle curve of your belly, and your friends twist their fingers in your hair every night out, checking the quality of the locks. God, so the pregnancy glow is real! Why didn't I look like this? You know Simon agrees because he seems physically incapable of sharing your twenty inches radius without cupping some part of your body.
The first two months you could barely roll out of bed, and when you would, you'd have to sway towards the bathroom before nausea had you bent in half. Now on the cusp of your second trimester, the stubborn thing growing under your ribs seems happier to grant you the occasional uninterrupted walk.
You take your breakfast by skirting the trowels, tile cutters and floats strewn across your kitchen floor, pinching your nose when the sharp smell of grout catches in the back of your throat.
"Out," your husband commands, swatting your ass with a loud smack. You'd think that having done this once already would be helping him somehow, but he seems to be struggling more than the first time. There's no rush: you know he'll get it how he wants it in the end. "Shouldn't be breathin' this in. Go somewhere else."
You retreat with your tea and the morning post, humming along to the weather forecast intro while you sort through envelopes. Bills. A wedding invitation. A card from your godparents congratulating you on the pregnancy. Can the baby hear you yet? Does it recognise the sound of your voice and Simon's?
When you're in bed at night, it seems that it can— it lands such kicks when its father presses his mouth to your abdomen to make silly noises for the pleasure of making you laugh.
A yolk-yellow paper clip slips from the stack and lands on the table. It takes a second to recognise it: the medical records from the night Simon was shot.
You push it aside to continue parsing through the remaining letters, but curiosity has you going back. The excerpt from the surgical record is nothing new. Two entry wounds to the abdomen (LUQ), no major arterial damage, minor damage to the splenic capsule. Patient underwent emergency exploratory laparotomy. Then there are the files from his hospital stay, the billing from the RXs and the reports of his blood work. The last page is his discharge notes.
Discharge destination: patient's residential address. Advice and caretaking: no heavy lifting 3mos, no contact exercise 3mos, see therapy section for pharmacy. No home care required.
The date stares back at you until Simon curses from the kitchen. You smooth the corner flat and slide it back beneath the paper clip.
"Simon?"
"Pet, c'mere. Come tell me how ya like it," he calls. You leave the documents in the foyer. You have so little time for things like this, nowadays.
He has to be treated like a feral cat. You learned that the hard way when you offered him a coffee on your second time meeting. He took it, grunted, but didn’t take a sip. He eyed it like it was poisoned, silently wondering what your ulterior motives were.
He was used to a life of neglect that came from family, and hyper surveillance from his job. Favors like this were unlikely for him, especially from someone he hardly knows.
So he stands awkwardly, holding the cup and thanking you with a nod before politely excusing himself and tossing it in the garbage in the break room. Better safe than sorry, in his mind.
You could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t used to little acts of kindness. He was blunt and confident, but he wasn’t used to intimacy—even platonically.
So you started small.
You’d bring in little treats for the team. First you would just bring a pack of gum, and offer it to everyone else before him. He took things much better when he wasn’t singled out, so he nodded quietly, watching you with deep brown eyes as he accepted the simple gift. After that you bought them a case of beer for a weekend at Kyle’s where you watched the game and stayed in. He slowly began to accept things from you while the others were around. They acted as a buffer for him.
So you took it a step further. Personalized gifts for each of them. You would make coffee runs and get him the drink of his choice. You would find little trinkets or snacks at the store and bring him back his favorite—the pub pretzels he enjoyed so much. Slowly, he accepted your gifts with less hesitation.
It took a few months before he would accept without hesitation. When you would text that you were at the store, he would bluntly reply ‘get me the usual?’ and offer to pay you back (which you never let him do). Soon he was accepting treats and homemade foods, squirreling them off to his bunker to keep safe so he could savor it in private.
The day that you knew you had finally gotten through to him was the day he started returning your gifts.
One day you walked into your office to find a wrapped cookie sitting on your desk. There was no note or label, and it looked suspiciously like one of the baked goods that was sold at the cafeteria. Your favorite flavor, of course.
When you brought it up later, you made sure not to sound accusatory. As you were cleaning your weapons alongside Simon, you simply said, “someone left a cookie on my desk. You know anything about that, LT?”
His eyes widened slightly but he shook his head silently.
“No.” He grunted, going back to his work.
But you knew better.
Soon he was bringing your lunch to your office, placing muffins on your desk while avoiding eye contact, and ordering lunch for you when you had a tough day. It took a long time for him to truly understand why this was so important to you, but the sparkle in your eyes each time you got one of his gifts made it all worth it.
One day as you were walking to the training field out back of the compound, he stopped, looking down at his boots on the gravel trail. There was a small buttercup poking up through the stones, and he paused. Debated. After a few seconds he bent over, picked it quietly, and held it out to you. He avoided your gaze again, clearing his throat.
“Here.” He said simply, as if that was explanation enough.
“A flower?” You asked, raising a brow even as your lips fought against a smile.
He swallowed thickly, broad shoulders shrugging.
“….don’t make it a big deal.” He said quietly, already walking ahead. His shoulders were tense, but it seemed like he was content with his decision.
You tucked the small flower carefully into a pocket on your vest, smiling the rest of the way to training.
Johnny who's going on and on about a cam girl he discovered and writes her user down for simon to see.. at first he doesnt but...needs of release come and he looks up her page and recognizes a few tattoos... fellow Sergent y/n
(She becomes one of his first and favorite cam girl)
Camgirl!Reader x Simon
Johnny recently found a camgirl on instagram and thought she was absolutely stunning, so he did the most sensible thing. He started rambling to Simon about this camgirl and how pretty she is.
Simon would just listen, nodding along and replying in grunts until Johnny showed him a picture of you. Pretty thing you are. Thong showing off your curvature nicely, bra pushing your tits together all while your nipples press against the bra, pebbled and begging to be pinched.
So when he gets home, he does some digging, finding your only fans link and subscribing, looking through the pictures before he stumbles across a video. You're his neighbour. His neighbour is a camgirl? No wonder there is always noise going on in that apartment.
He decides to send a 5£ tip with a message, his cock chubbing up in his slacks. He's not even out of uniform yet. He hasn't showered, and he smells like gunpowder.
When you see the blank profile picture and jumbled up username, you think nothing of it and send a picture of you with your tits out as a thank you, but you didn't expect what happened next. The username said your full name. Your heart drops. You didn't put your full name on your only fans? How does he know it!? Is he secretly a hacker who stole your info!? But when you think it couldn't have gotten any worse, he sends a pic of himself. It's dark and grainy, but you can make out the shape of a man. A big man in uniform. The name tag is too grainy to see.
You quickly type out a message to him, asking him who he is and how he knows your full name. He replies with 4 words. "I'm your neighbour, sweetheart." Your heart drops even further. You want the ground to open and swallow you up.
You quickly shut your laptop and continue on with your day, embarrassed and slightly relieved it's not some hacker with your personal information.
A few days later, when you finished recording another video, you heard a knock on your door, and when you opened it, there was nobody there... just a gift box. You grab it and go inside, wondering what's inside, but you don't open it yet.
You clean up your station and put your toys away before staring at the box in curiosity.. what could be inside, you wondered. You decided to open it and found a dildo mold and some liquid silicone? (Yknow the type to shape your lover's cock or whatever)
There was a note inside. "Can't wait for your next video, bonnie."
gifted to @indefenseofkara for their donation to Anishinabek Nation 7th Generation Charity
prompt: sfw, fluff, simon scaring off drunk guys who hang around your apartment building. wc: 1k
this a part of this initiative, where we're raising money to help Indigenous communities in Canada affected by wildfires.
if you're interested in donating and participating for a fic, go here!
right now we have 20 spots open
-
You should’ve listened to your friends when they told you not to take a first floor unit.
You’d had the thought before, but tonight, it was louder than usual. From your spot at the bus stop across the street, you could see your apartment. The brick facade, the ivy you thought gave it a sense of charm, and the men.
They weren’t there every night, and usually, they weren’t so close to the front door. But tonight they’d migrated from the side alley to the entrance, bathed in a flickering yellow haze, courtesy of the singular light bulb above the door. And you had the gall to have dinner plans, which meant the sun had long set and the street had emptied.
You gripped the strap of your bag tighter, so much that you could feel it digging into your skin. One of the men guffawed and you flinched without thinking. The aluminum crunching sound of a beer can being thrown followed not a few seconds later, and the group laughed again.
“You admiring the view?”
You jumped nearly a foot in the air, whirling around with your bag swinging behind you.
It was him.
The neighbor you barely saw, who lived in the unit above yours. You knew this because of the second week you’d moved in, the quite terrible metal music he’d been blasting enough to bleed anyone’s ears dry. When you’d banged on his door, he’d opened on the second knock, catching your fist with one hand the size of a cooking pan. Had grunted when you complained about the music, his grip still tight long after you’d made your point. Even though you’d doubted it, by the time you’d returned downstairs, the music volume had halved.
Thus, your obsession with your not-that-cute neighbor had started. You’d seen his S. Riley on mailbox 204, but hadn’t know what the S stood for until he received a visitor. Another Brit, this one with a burly build and massive beard, who called him Simon. So what, you happened to have your window cracked open to hear their conversation? It was the only way to find out.
His smile barely counted as one. He’d more scars than you knew humanly possible, and half the time he wore a black medical mask with what looked like smudged eyeliner. He was a mountain of a man, and he was leaning against the bus stop with a slight crinkle to his eyes.
Your heart fluttered, and you smiled back, despite the jump scare, But then another drunken laugh sounded behind you, and you couldn’t help the flinch that shook through you.
Impossibly, his eyes darkened more than their usual midnight color. Your mouth opened, in what felt almost like an apology, but then closed when you realized you had nothing to apologize for.
“Stay ‘ere,” Simon grunted, pushing off the bus shelter before you could even process his words. Your neighbor lumbered across the street, footsteps surprisingly silent despite the weight to them.
The group of five men, brown paper bags in hand, had seemed intimidating before. But now with your neighbor in front of them, approaching like a phantom, you hadn’t a clue what you’d been so afraid of. You were close enough to hear them, but whatever tone he used, it wasn’t meant for your ears.
Several things happened at once. The two men closest to Simon backed away suddenly, stumbling over their feet in their drunken haze. The ones behind them who’d been sitting on the steps shot up with a speed you hadn’t expected, and before you could blink, bolted down the street.
Simon didn’t touch them, nor did he brandish any sort of weapon. But when you inched closer, hands wrapped around your bag like a shield, you swore you could see the men’s jeans turning darker and darker. As if they’d…
Simon reappeared suddenly and without warning, as if he’d simply been out for a stroll instead scaring five grown men with merely his voice. “C’mon, love,” he murmured, “‘s late and time for you to go home.”
You nodded immediately, fear dissipating so quickly you wondered if it was ever there at all. He didn’t guide you to the entrance like a gentleman, but simply stood at your side while you crossed the street. With his shoulders broader than a mountain and scars illuminated by the weak street lights, Simon looked more guard dog than human.
By the time you got to the entrance, the memory of the drunken men had been swept away. Their cans littering the sidewalk were gone, and suddenly it was just an ordinary entrance to an ordinary apartment. He stood at your side as you unlocked the door, then waited until you’d both walked through and it clicked close to guide you to your apartment number.
It was there, outside the raggedy door with a crooked 104 that you stood, bag lifeless at your side while Simon hulked, his shadow covering half of the hallway. You regarded it almost fondly.
“Thank you for,” you gestured at the air, too embarrassed to even name the deed he’d committed. He grunted, hands in his pockets, and if you had studied him less, you’d think him nonchalant. But Simon’s head was cocked down, one shoulder dropped slightly, and you imagined under the mask, he was smirking.
“Don’t mention it,” he murmured, followed by one more word.
Your name.
The one you never gave him, because when you’d been yelling at him for the loud music, you hadn’t thought to introduce yourself. Which meant he’d studied your mail or asked the landlord or used some kind of magic to find it out. Simon didn’t seem the type to be flustered, which meant he wanted you to know.
You leaned up on your tippy toes and kissed his cheek, right over the mask. When you lowered yourself back down, there was a dusting of blush, only half-concealed by the black fabric. “Goodnight, Simon,” you murmured, unlocking your unit behind you without even looking backwards. When you slipped behind the door and closed it shut, he was still standing there.
Guarding.
-
thank you to the person who donated for this cause!! reminder you can submit a prompt HERE along with proof that you donated
Most of the people at the base are not from latam but one time let's say she finds out one of the nurses is and they end up singing together no me se rajar
I'm from Latam and i keep imagining him with a latinoamerican reader doing latinoamerican things👀
A/N: Hi Bestie! We love Ghost with a Latinx Reader. I'll do my best and I hope you like it. The song is so good, I love it! Since you mentioned the reader finding a nurse who's Latinx, I'm going to make the reader a nurse - I hope that's ok! Also, I don't speak Spanish that well, so please bear with me lol
Turquesa
Lt. Simon "Ghost" Riley x Latinx AFAB/F! Nurse Reader (COD MW2)
Song: No Me Sé Rajar - Vicente Fernández
Warnings: None? Fluffy and cute. Awkward Ghost. Minimal use of Y/N. Killing of a cockroach.
Master List (tag list at the bottom)
Work was work. Fun was fun. There was nearly never a time and a place for fun in work or work in fun. Simon knew that - with the occasional dry to the bone joke he'd tell to Johnny.
Then there was you. Always a smile on your face, always walking with a certain rhythm, and somehow always has music playing at some capacity. Working as a military nurse gave you the opportunity to travel far and all over the world, but sometimes you just missed home. And you couldn't just hop on a plane and go home, so you try and keep as much of home as you possibly can - music was one of them.
Being one of the few nurses from Latin America, it was kind of hard to connect with the other nurses, but you managed. Simon sometimes felt a little guilty when you felt lonely. But firmly enjoyed when you talked about your culture.
Every time he came in to see you, whether he was bleeding or not, he firmly enjoyed hearing you curse in Spanish. He thinks his favorite word is chancla. The only reason he knows what it means is when he caught you throwing every other one at a cockroach in order to kill it, while kneeled on top of one of the counters of the nurse's station, shrieking in Spanish.
He heard screaming and incoherent Spanish curses, and then things being thrown across the nurse's office. Quickly walking over there, slightly worried, he placed a hand on one of his guns and stood by the wall, peaking his head from the doorway. Sighing in relief and in amusement as he saw you perched on a counter with no shoes on and a tissue box in hand, hair sticking to your face, looking around frantically.
He revealed himself in the doorway and took a few steps inside, looking around slightly, then up to you, "Ye alright?"
Almost jumping at the sound of his voice, you looked up at the dark clad soldier, "Simón! Please! I saw one of those - whatever the fuck they're called, the cucaracha."
Smiling under his mask, he looked around the floor and wall, "I think you mean cockroach, Y/N." Simón. How it made his heart flutter every time his name rolled out of your mouth. There were very few occasions where he'd heard his name in other accents, but yours was his favorite.
Too focused on the floor to respond, "There! Over th-"
Simon looked down to the floor towards where you were pointing, seeing the brown little critter try to make a run for it. Simon quickly stepped on it with his boot, you yelping and covering your mouth at the crunching sound. Chuckling dryly, he lifted his boot to look at the damage done.
"Wait there, let me clean it." You hopped down from the counter and put your shoes on, then pulled out a few disinfectant wipes. You walked over to Simon, smiling slightly nervously, then crouched down in front of him, beckoning him to lift his foot so you could clean the floor and
You being scared of a cockroach and not all the blood and other injuries you've seen amused him. Once you were done cleaning the floor and the bottom of his boot, you stood up and quickly threw away the wipes with the remnants of the bug. While looking back at Simon, you looked back at him, "Thank you, Simón, I'm glad you were here."
Chuckling, Simon crossed his arms, "The things you've seen and the blood you have to deal with on a daily basis, and a cockroach scared ya?"
"Cállate," You chuckled and started picking up the things you'd thrown on the floor. Simon started to help her out, placing them on one of the counters for you to put away. Not sure how to tell you, he simply blurts, "I'm going away on a mission."
"Oh." You look up at him. He's standing in the middle of the nurse's station, holding a box of gloves. You weren't sure what kind of relationship you had with him, but all you knew is that he liked you. At least more than most people.
He'd let you sing to him in Spanish every time he came in - even for something minor. He'd even let you scold him. He was curious about her.
"Where are you going?"
"South America."
Knowing that he couldn't tell you much more than that, and that he couldn't take you with him - you were needed at the base.
"I'll bring you something back when I come back."
And that he did.
He came across a little shop at the end of his mission, little blue turquoises laid out on a table outside the shop. A little nervous, the shop keeper answered him in Spanish as to how much each stone was when Simon pointed to him. He nodded and paid the shop keeper and picked out a few of them to bring back to you, thankful that you'd spoken enough Spanish for him to figure out how much to pay. He kept the stones in his breast pocket the whole way back to the base, occasionally placing his hand over it to feel them, hoping you'll like them.
As he walked down the hallway to the nurse's station, music and sound software trumpets echoed into the hallway. Smiling slightly under his mask, he hid behind the doorway, craning his neck so that he could see you- dancing?
You had your arm hooked and looked in with another nurse's arm, both of you singing in Spanish.
dicen que si vuelvo encontrare la muerte (they say if I come back I'll find death)
que por ti la vida me van a quitar. (that for you my life will be taken away.)
Piensan asustarme para que te deje (They think they're gonna scare me into leaving you.)
pero nunca nadie lo podra lograr (but no one can ever achieve it)
Not wanting to disturb you, he was happy you'd found a friend.
"Simón?"
Shit. Simon stepped into the doorway, filling it up with his size, then took a step inside.
"Simón! You're back!" You nearly ran up to him, smiling brightly as he wrapped a large arm around your neck, his eyes smiling at you. He looked back at the other nurse, slightly taken aback by his appearance. You looked back at her and smiled, beckoning her to come closer, "¡Ven aquí! No muerde, este es el Fantasma - Ghost." (Come here! He won't bite, this is Ghost)
The other nurse smiled slightly and walked up to them, and introduced herself. Before Simon could begin speaking again, you and the other nurse started speaking Spanish.
"English, please," Simon interrupted, getting ahead of himself and wanting to give you your gift.
The other nurse chuckled and took it as her cue to leave.
"Sorry," Y/N smiled, "I'm glad you're back. When did you come back?"
"A few hours ago."
Remaining in his embrace, you watched as he dug into his breast pocket with his free hand and pulled out two quarter sized turquoises, holding them out in his palm to her.
"Aye, where did you get these?" You looked into his hand and touched them gently, then looked up at him.
"Little shop in South America. I told you I'd bring you something."
You giggled as you wrapped your arms around his neck, "Simón! Thank you!" He moved his arm from your shoulders to your waist, holding you close as he rested his chin on your head. His cheeks felt warm and slightly sore from all the smiling he did under the mask.
aka you're the first pussy ghost eats
tags: fem!reader, oral sex, smut, 18+
Caramel eyes flicker over you. Nonchalant, a little dazed. As if he doesn't care about the admission he has just let slip. His fingertips are digging into the soft pad of your breast; reddened skin where he'd just been sucking lazily.
"…Never?"
Though, maybe it's not such a surprise. This man, often coming to you dripped in the scent of residual gunpowder, seems to crave touch as much as he leans away from it. Kissed you for the first time only after flinching away. Preferred taking you from behind. Kept his clothes on each time you fucked so that only his cock, hands, and the crescent of his hips gave away any skin.
Despite this, he was a giving lover so far. He'd learned after just a few times that you liked his mouth to your nipples. Squirmed, even more, when he bared his teeth to them. You liked his fingers to your clit at the same time as his cock to your cervix. He paid attention, studied you. You'd noticed in the past month of these heated exchanges that he would glance at your cunt and marvel at it. A silent gospel. But never, not yet, has he placed his mouth there.
"I'm not going to repeat myself."
His hand is dipped in the plush of your cunt. It's been lingering there for some time, fingering you slowly, inviting a slickness. This is a rare moment where he's truly taking his time with you. Not so rough, a little more curious. He'd collected some of your arousal and brought it to his lips. Furrowed brows as he tasted them; went back for some more. Until finally, you touched the back of his mask and murmured: You can eat me out if you want.
To which he cleared his throat and offered a gruff truth.
He’d never done that before.
Now—
"Well, do you want to try it?"
Ghost studies your eyes. Looks for any signs of jest.
Then, his hand slips from your cunt and leaves it pitifully unattended for a moment. He grips your legs, and parts them purposefully. Takes his time situating himself between them. You almost get impatient but you realize: this is a first for him. You owe him patience.
He inches his mask a little higher, the fabric bunched at the end of his nose.
Ghost gives a firm kiss to your inner thigh, a little bite, before drifting his gaze up at you.
You touch his shoulder. "This is just practice, don't worry."
"M'not worried."
With a grunt, he locks his arms around your thighs and drags you a bit closer to his exposed chin, roughly now, earning him a little squeak from you. It's the heat of his breath that you feel first, your mouth normally the victim of its assault. If there's one word to label Ghost, it's warm. His lips: they just barely brush over your clit. Already, a pleasurable fever ensues. The blood rushes straight there until you're puffy for him.
Rough: his other norm. But right now he's curiously gentle. This is the first time he’s doing this because you are the first person to earn such intrigue from him, the deep inhale as he nudges his nose against your cunt evidence of that. He licks a slow, molten stripe over the entirety of your cunt, hole to your bud, and hums at the taste. Better from the source.
And then again.
"That's..." you swallow and try not to buck your hips, looking for something more. "Good. Just- maybe not so slow?"
"Greedy."
But he takes your request and adjusts, firmly placing his whole mouth over you. This time, curiosity replaced with concentration. A hymnal of licks and grazes and dripping saliva. He's not sure what to do, but he's mastered a mental block on all uncertainty: just does what his gut tells him. Usually his approach. He kisses you there like he kisses your lips, except pays a little more attention to that swollen, sensitive part of you.
"That feels good," you breathe some encouragement. "Can you just—“
You swallow thickly and prop yourself up on shaky elbows. Ghost lifts his head up and gives you a hazy look, lips plush and wet, before ticking up a brow.
"Jus' what?"
The sight of him like this, a new view, makes you lose your words. You search for them, panting, "Don't forget... lower, too. You can put your tongue inside."
He listens. Your head soon lulls back when you feel his tongue firmly press into you. One of his hands leaves your thigh to bring a thumb to your newly abandoned clit, giving skilled circles to the slick flesh. His tongue inside you figures it should mimic his cock, pumping in and out of you at a steady rhythm. He’s a quick learner; you’ll give him that.
Unsteady elbows give out beneath you and soon your head is back to the pillow. Your hole quivers around his tongue— he doesn’t relent. Just concentrates on both actions at the same time, reveling in the soft cage of your thighs against his exposed stubble. You moan and mewl. An arch of your back is the signal he earns to keep doing what he’s doing. Heels digging into his back, Ghost feels his shirt bunch up because you’re applying that much pressure.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he can’t stop himself from groaning into you. Voice raspy and muffled. If he knew you’d make these kind of sounds, he’d have given you his tongue sooner.
It’s messy and hot. Saliva mixed with your leaking; a concoction that’s not possible to separate.
Writhing, you grip some of his balaclava and whine out an order, “Simon… gimme your fingers!”
“Don’t fuckin’ whine,” he admonishes, digging his fingers into your thigh. “Ask right.”
A whimper. “Simon… can you give me your fingers, too?”
Abiding, he moves his tongue and replaces it with two fingers, an unforgiving shove that gets him all the way down to the knuckles. Your cervix pounded by blunt fingertips. Your warm, sopping walls are like velvet around his digits. Groaning softly, it’s just… so much. Ghost can feel your pussy begin to throb, wishing he could just take a second to sit back and watch you.
But he’s seen you cum a few times now. All your little expressions. He knows what it looks like when your lips curl inward to relieve some of the ecstasy; your eyes clamp shut. He simply imagines it while continuing his ‘practice’. Content to keep licking and nipping and fingering you.
“Atta girl,” he growls against your clit.
Any uncertainty has been doused by the clear approach of your orgasm. His roughness is here— a blistering smack to your thigh. A firm grip of your breast. Slaps it at the same time he curls his fingers and fucks into that soft pad of you.
Your moans have no end, no beginning.
They’re an endless string that fills the room as you buck your hips. Your walls clench, then flutter. Belly frothing with a white-hot release.
Ghost licks it up. Keeps his fingers moving to push you through it.
His novice tongue is still hungry, even though you’re stuffed. Breathlessly, your heels release the pressure on his back and your legs shake.
His eyes flicker up with a newfound obsession. Reeling from your orgasm, the continued onslaught teeters towards overstimulation. Your hand is lazily pushing at his head.
Warnings: Smut. Cursing, fingering (vaginal), oral sex (M & F receiving), p-in-v sex, safe/protected sex.
Simon had a knack for making you uncomfortable; not in a way that made your skin crawl, instead, he made you warm. Inside and out. Feverish with desire, lust growing like a weed in your gut, strangling and taking everything in its path hostage. You had a difficult time pretending he had no effect, no impact on your feelings, but you were easily given away by the pulse in your throat, the heat emanating off your cheeks.
He found it entertaining. Nothing more than a bit of banter between friends- unless you suggested otherwise, of course. He wasn't lying when he'd say your arse looked nice, or that your shirt was pretty much useless with the amount of cleavage showing. He liked watching your lips part in shock, the doe-eyes you'd look up at him with. He couldn't help himself, and though you'd take everything he said with a grain of salt, he meant it.
You had an unintentional habit of making Simon uncomfortable too; licking your lips, letting your hand rest on his arm or shoulder, falling in closer to him to hear what he'd said. He knew you didn't know what you were doing, he could tell by the innocent expression of ignorance on your face when he'd mention it to you. It was why he liked teasing you so much, you'd always react in a way that aroused him.
He'd tried to keep his distance for a while, knowing if he kept at it he'd be in deeper than he was used to, but everything about you was impossible to ignore. He had a difficult time outright admitting to his feelings, finding the sexual innuendos and allusions to sex much easier to navigate. At a certain point, however, he realized he'd dug himself into a hole, unable to climb out no matter the circumstances.
You'd known each other for a couple years, finding friendship through the people you knew. But it wasn't viable anymore, not when Simon couldn't be in the same room as you without feeling suffocated by you. You were blinded by innocence, unaccustomed to men searching you out, showing blatant interest.
It wasn't until you were on his couch, your mutual friends having taken off already, that he realized he liked having you around- more than anyone else, instead of anyone else. He couldn't help but stare at the curves of your lips, your eyes, your bare thighs in the shorts he'd teased you for for being too short. You ignored him, though not without flushing and biting the inside of your cheek.
There was undeniable tension in the room. A stalemate between you as you stared at the movie playing on the TV screen. It was oddly domestic, sitting side by side, your knees knocking into each other, his arm around the couch, barely ghosting your shoulders. It was comfortable- enjoyable.
His head turned, and from your periphery you could see him staring you down. He waited for a few moments, until you turned to meet his gaze. He leaned in and kissed you. Soft, fleeting- then you chased after his mouth and found yourself straddling his waist.
Then, it was messy. Harsh and fevered. Your hands sliding around his neck, his finding your waist with a firm hold. Your hips moved slowly against his, unintentionally rocking over his groin as you dove further into his lips.
Your tongues slid together, finding each other between the opening of your lips. Your quiet moans were muffled against his face, exhales of relief fighting the growing urge to move a step further.
His hands lifted the hem of your shirt, tugging it up off your body. His attention fell to your breasts, his hands gliding up your sides to cup them with his hands, gentle squeezes coaxing a shiver from your core.
You searched his eyes for any hint of regret, but he only stared at you- a glassy veil of lust in his expression.
He could hardly stand it, having you in his lap, your body in his grasp. His heart was pounding against his rib cage, with such force he almost worried you could hear it. It nearly crawled up his throat, but instead, he choked out words that both aroused and shocked you.
"You torture me, y'know."
There was no derisiveness in his tone. Nothing to imply it was another instance of his teasing. It was simple, matter-of-fact; if you didn't know Simon the way you did, you would've believed it, wholeheartedly.
"Sorry?" You asked, an expression of amusement across your face.
"Y'heard me," He nodded.
"How so?" You grinned.
He wanted to move closer- to have you under him already, feeling every curve and dip of your body, but he held back.
"Been wantin' t'fuck you for a while," He stated, his eyes unwavering on yours. "Everythin' about you drives me fuckin' mad."
He had a hint of a smirk on his face- nearly camouflaged but you'd been watching closely. Your heart dropped to your stomach, still pounding harshly.
"You're an ass," You scoffed, turning away.
His hand reached out, gently hooking his fingers under your chin to guide you to his gaze again.
"I ain't bein' a prick," He said. "I mean it."
You swallowed the growing lump in your throat- another weed that managed to climb through you and take hold of your throat, your tongue. He was serious- and it made you freeze on his lap.
"Oh," You breathed out. "I didn't expect you to feel like that."
As if your pulse wasn't already high beyond the norm, it seemed to increase even more. You could feel the burning heat in your cheeks spread between your thighs, sparking an arousal that was familiar but had never been so strong.
He blinked slowly, his eyes falling to your lips before returning to your gawking eyes.
"You should," He said. "But I think you knew it already."
You shrugged softly, hardly noticeable.
"I guess, in a way."
"You gonna tell me you don't feel the same?"
Your brows lifted, quickly realizing you hadn't truly thought about having to reveal your feelings to him; that you wanted him so badly it ached- deep in your chest. You were apprehensive; your experience with love, relationships, men as a whole hadn't been entirely successful.
"I-I do," You paused, shutting your eyes as you deliberated within yourself. "Feel the same."
You wanted him. In every way. But explaining the circumstances of your hesitation was mortifying. He wouldn't understand, likely wouldn't want anything to do with you if he knew. He was far more experienced, and it made you grimace to imagine the number of women he'd slept with already. You couldn't compare, you'd drastically fall short in the way you wanted to please him the most.
"S'alright if you don't feel like doin' anythin'," He said, pulling your body closer.
"I want to," You started, your hands falling down his chest. "I just..." You trailed off, avoiding his gaze.
"What?" He asked, his eyes following you as you turned your head.
You cleared your throat.
Simon watched your face change, the reluctance in your expression. Your brows furrowing, your jugular pounding against your throat. He didn't let go, didn't let you wriggle out of his grip. His hands held tightly around your waist, his thumb gliding over the soft skin of your stomach.
"I haven't slept with anyone before." You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling even more vulnerable now that you'd admitted to your secret.
His jaw relaxed, shoulders falling as he digested your words.
"You're a virgin?" He asked, his lips parting with shock.
You wanted to bury your face in your hands. Your stomach must've been in your throat as nausea crept over you, and you couldn't swallow it down.
"Don't say it like that," You grumbled.
He gave a low chuckle, adjusting his hips as you slumped over on him.
"Nothin' wrong with that," He shrugged.
"I want to, I've just never been with anyone worthwhile."
"And I'm worthwhile to you?" He asked, watching your face soften.
"I think so," You said, tilting backwards to examine his face.
"Y'want me to take your virginity?" He asked, cocking his head ever so slightly. He had a small smile over his lips, still teasing you, even while you revealed your embarrassing truth to him.
"Don't say it like that," You repeated, scolding him again, embarrassed by the way he so brazenly announced it. "-And I've done other things." You met his eyes, watching his flicker to your lips.
He hummed, nodding. "Why don't y'tell me about it?" His hands tightened around you as he pulled you in.
His lips grazed your neck, eliciting a soft moan from your chest.
"What do you want to know?" You asked. There was hardly any strength behind your voice, between exhales and whimpers.
"You ever had anyone taste you?" His lips pressed firmly against your throat this time, languid kisses covering the expanse of your neck.
"Yes," You nodded.
"You like it?" He asked, his lips finding the soft spot behind your ear.
"Yes."
Your eyes shut, leaning into his touch as he devoured your neck, gentle kisses followed by teeth in your skin.
He moved you off his lap, letting you lie down beside him. He removed your feet from his thighs, shifting to kneel on one knee between your legs.
His fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, slowly pulling them off your legs, along with your panties.
He tugged his shirt over his head- already covered in a thin layer of perspiration from your bodies being pressed together. Your eyes dropped to his chest, firm pecs and muscles that lined his navel; it made your mouth salivate, the pool of arousal getting deeper with every passing moment.
He buried his face against your chest, lavishing your breasts with kisses, your bra offering a sliver of humility until he reached beneath you and unclasped it. He slid it off your body, now fully intent on pulling one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking softly while running his tongue over the hardened bud. His other hand cupped your neglected breast, rough fingers squeezing and massaging the flesh.
Your back arched into him, breaths of pleasure leaving your lips as he moved lower. His hands wrapped around your thighs, hooking them over his shoulders as he leaned down.
"You alright?" He looked up at you, your calves resting against his back, thighs squeezing his neck.
"Yeah," You nodded. "Keep going."
He flashed a brief grin, before he dove down, leaving kisses on the inside of your thighs. You flinched every time he'd sink his teeth into the sensitive flesh, a soothing lick afterward that eased your nerves until he'd strike again.
His lips made contact with the skin bordering your pussy; you awaited his tongue with trembling limbs, shaky breaths that caught in your throat. He didn't make you wait long, before his warm tongue slid between the furrow of your pussy. It made you lurch forward, the sudden infliction on your clit making your stomach tighten.
"So fuckin' good," He mumbled, sucking in a sharp breath.
You exhaled- a whimper leaving your lips at his words.
He kept your thighs pried apart, no matter how hard you tried to clamp them around his ears, or how much they shook over his shoulders. His fingers left impressions, digging into the doughy flesh as he too found himself invested in your taste.
The sounds his mouth produced while pressed against you were vulgar, loud slurping and sucking, lapping at your clit. He would move his head side to side, grunting against you as his tongue slid over your clit.
"You want my fingers?" He asked, pausing to look up at you.
You nodded, "Please," You breathed.
You felt a finger slide inside you, letting out a sigh as he curved it against your G-spot. His tongue reached your clit again, a bit faster now as he continued to hook his finger in your walls.
You gasped softly, your hips shifting with impatience as your orgasm teetered on the edge. He could feel your walls pulsating, short bursts of squeezes around his fingers. He watched you, your eyes shutting, your lips parting as you moaned into the open air.
Your body was enveloped with a searing heat, your heart racing in your chest, your pussy fluttering with pleasure as you closed in on your climax.
The last flick of his fingers and caress of his tongue pushed you over the edge, falling into the impending pleasure that awaited. Your hands reached his, grabbing and squeezing when your abdomen tightened. Your pussy clamped down around his finger, nearly stopping his beckoning motions as he continued through your climax.
"Yes," You choked out, low and uncharacteristically desperate.
Your hips writhed against his mouth, taking deep breaths as you recovered from the strenuous exertion.
He sat up from between your thighs, running his hands up your body, climbing over you simultaneously.
"You still sure?" He asked, his eyes scanning your face.
You were out of breath, tinged a shade of red with the flow of blood to your skin. Your hands fell to his arms, gliding up to meet his shoulders.
"I am," You nodded, your hands now clasping around the back of his neck.
He nodded, reached down to unbuckle his pants, dropping them low enough to let his cock spring free. He was already painfully erect- nearly throbbing with the blood rushing through him. You took note of how big he was, a bit intimidating for your first time, but you trusted him to be gentle, slow.
He was watching you the entire time, not paying any mind to how badly he wanted to feel you, to be inside you. It didn't matter how long he'd been practically buzzing with desire- he wanted to focus on you, to make it as pleasurable as possible for you.
"Done this more than a few times, huh?" You teased, having watched his expert fingers when he pulled his belt open with one hand.
He furrowed his brows, "You callin' me loose?" He asked, a small grin forming.
"Experienced?" You offered instead.
"You'd be surprised to hear it, sweetheart, but I ain't one for searchin' out pussy."
You nodded, a smirk on your lips.
"Virtuous man, are you?"
"Had a few," He tilted his head. "But you," He paused, leaning in to nuzzle his face into your neck. "I want you."
"You have me," You said, your hand cradling his head as he leaned into your neck.
"Not just tonight, sweetheart."
Your lips parted, searching for a response; something that would be equally as stunning to his ears, but you couldn't properly form a sentence. Not with the shocking revelation sitting in the air, taunting you.
"I need you," You whispered.
An invitation, a plea, a demand; a combination of all three. You didn't care how new it was, how intimidating it was to be experiencing something for the first time. You wanted him, needed him, much more than anyone else before him.
He shuddered against you, even more aroused to hear you beg for him. The sweet cadence of your voice in his ear, goosebumps covering his flesh; you did something to him he hadn't experienced in a long time.
He quickly opened the wrapper of a condom, one he'd tucked away in his back pocket in case you'd expressed interest in him the same way he did you; he was thankful he thought ahead. He usually did, it was ingrained in him now, imparted by his vigorous military training. He'd thank his drill sergeant one day.
"Might hurt," He said into your neck.
You could feel his hand guiding his cock to your entrance, the head of his cock barely intruding on the barrier of your pussy.
He used a bit more force, his hips moving forward to push past the plush muscles inside you. He watched your expression as you closed your eyes, bit down on your bottom lip.
"Look at me," He said. Not a harsh demand, a soft invitation for comfort.
You did, your eyes opening to find his.
It wasn't painful- not with the amount of effort Simon put into eating you out. It was strange, foreign sensation, to have something deep inside you, so much bigger than a finger or two.
"Y'alright?" He asked, clearly holding back, struggling through his question.
"Yeah," You exhaled. "Please don't stop," You said, your hands grasping at his hair.
"Fuckin' hell," He grunted. "You're fuckin' tight."
You could feel his hips retreat, gently sliding his cock back into you so not to hurt you.
He rounded his hips, his face inches from yours, an expression of disbelief on his face at just how well you were taking him, how wet your pussy had become after your orgasm. His lips were parted, face flushed as he rolled his hips into you.
Your head fell back, your toes curling as you brought your thighs to his sides, clamping them down around his waist. It felt right, comfortable, enjoyable. You hadn't expected it to be so easy.
You lifted your head to find his lips, pressing yours into his as he kept at his pace; slow strokes that stretched the entirety of your pussy, nearly meeting your cervix.
"Goddamn," He cursed, pulling back from your tongue to exhale sharply. "You're doin' so well," He praised. "So fuckin' well."
You smiled softly, your hands still clasped around his neck as his hips met yours. You removed one hand, knowing well enough that stimulating your clit was sure to help you orgasm a second time. You sucked on two fingers, before dropping them to the apex of your pussy, rolling them over the sensitive bud.
You'd half expected sex to feel amazing, like nothing you'd ever experienced before. Truthfully, it was Simon- his body over yours, his hands searching your body- that made it pleasurable. His concern for your well-being, making sure you were comfortable, safe; it sent a surge of arousal through you. You felt connected to him, bearing your entire being to him, and he seemed to find you fucking irresistible.
"Simon," You whispered, the soft tone of your voice meeting his ear. "Feels so good, Simon."
He would've crumpled, fallen into you and let himself go- but he wanted to see you climax. Wanted to see you fall apart while he split you open on his cock. He took a bit of pride in being the man you chose to experience it with, and he wasn't keen on making you regret it.
His pace was even, your fingers matching the speed as he drove in and out of you. You could see the droplets of sweat on his skin, the way his abdomen glistened as he moved. His eyes poring into yours, watching for any hint of pleasure, pain or discomfort.
He liked watching you, feeling you, just breathing you in. Your smell, your touch, being inside you was intoxicating. He was lightheaded, near his own orgasm, when he felt the familiar flutter around his cock.
Your eyebrows were drawn tight, lips open in a gasp that was trapped in your throat. He could see your eyes begin to flutter shut, your body freezing in a rigid stance- then your pussy constricted around his cock. Your eyes fluttered shut as you let out a guttural moan, gripping his neck, your nails digging into the skin.
"Simon," You choked, raking your nails down his back as your climax descended. "Fuck," You whimpered.
"Fuckin' hell, sweetheart," He mumbled.
His muscles flexed as he finally reached his peak, releasing into the condom with a shiver and a deep groan.
The air was still as you stared at each other, quiet recollection of what just took place. You didn't feel different, but you felt good. Still enjoying the after effects of your orgasm, the pliability in your relaxed limbs.
He sat back, helping you up off the couch. He offered you his T-shirt, holding it out to you.
He cleared his throat, "Feel alright?"
You nodded, smiling softly at his awkward disposition. "Yes, thank you."
"Y'can stay the night," He said. "I'd like it if y'did."
Your brows lifted, "So you weren't just trying to get in my pants?" You bit your lip, hiding the giggle at the base of your throat.
"Don't need to lie my way into your cunt, sweetheart. The truth seemed to do it well enough." He was clearly hiding a smile.
You gently hit his shoulder, laughing. Your energy quickly dissipated, and he pulled you into his side. He focused his attention back on the TV screen with a hand wrapped around you, the other on your thigh. You let your head rest on his shoulder, releasing a deep sigh of contentment.
TAGS: smut, fwb!ghost, car sex, degradation, name calling, PIV
A/N: I said if I got sleep token tickets I'd write more smutty simon drabbles. This is a bit different than how I usually write him tbh but sometimes you don't need to be worshiped and adored you just need to get fucked in the back seat of a car and be called a slut *shrugs*
Simon Riley was all smoke and fury, wound tight beneath rippling muscle and an aloof demeanor. He was a bastard at best and cruel at his worst. He was an impossible to read man.
When he was gone, somewhere far over seas, you would tell yourself you didn't need him anymore. You had more self respect and deserved someone who wanted all of you, not just a quick, meaningless fuck.
But you were always the first person he called when he was home. Maybe that meant something or maybe it just meant he was a lonely man. Either way, he called and you answered every damn time.
He took what he needed from you with primal, untamed desire, and when it was over, he was gone until the next late night call. And you were left angry and frustrated at yourself, at him.
You hated recalling your pathetic mewls and broken moans. The warmth of his skin pressed against your, slick with sweat, as he fucked you, burying his cock deeper into your needy cunt.
With your legs around his waist, your knees burned against the leather of his backseat with every sharp thrust that seemed to knock the air out of your lungs.
Times like those were when you wished you could steady yourself in his hair, silence your moans on his lips, but he never took his mask off. You called him Simon, but you only ever saw Ghost.
So, your hands were forced to find security in the meat of his bare shoulders as he gave you no choice but to sit and let him bounce you on cock.
You hated his voice, always mocking and dripping with venom that made your cunt flutter and chest ache.
“Desperate slut,” he grunted. His harsh breaths fanned over the shell of your ear. “You always take me so good.”
Simon’s hands squeezeed the flesh of your ass. His nails left their cresent marks on you the same way yours did on his shoulders. It would be the closest thing to declaring your ownership over the other. He dragged your hips closer, forcing you to grind down on him.
The stir of his cock inside you pulled a moan from you. You worked yourself against him, almost rutting, feeling him deep inside you.
“Go on. Show me what you can do.”
He went hands off and you did your best to take over. He'd already given you two orgasms before stretching you around his cock. His fingers did well enough to leave you exhausted.
You rose slow with your knees and allowed gravity to take you back down. The slick noises of your bodies meeting seemed to echo in his car. The windows had fogged hours ago from your combined breaths. You were completely consumed by him all around. Nothing mattered, but him and you.
Your stamina was no match for his and you were slowing your movements when your breath struggled to catch up.
He scoffed. His lids lowered as cold eyes focused on your sluggish movements, the wetness glistening on his cock and your cunt wrapped around his tip. “Fuckin’ pathetic. Tired already?”
“Make me come, Simon,” you begged, clawing down his chest. Your hips came down to a slow grind against his, urging him to take over.
Simon never took kindly to your orders. You assumed he got enough as it was from being a soldier.
“Wanted you to work for it, slut.”
He bucked his hips, filling you to the brim once again, kissing your cervix with the head of his cock. Your head fell back as you moaned and clenched around him.
“But I'll make you come,” he promised with each word after followed by a heavy thrust. “Again and again and again.”
thank you to @/saradika-graphics for the dividers!
can't sleep, can't eat, i only ever think about sitting on ghost's face
NSFW below the cut
it's a Sunday afternoon in the summer, and it's hot and sticky and you're both sweating. but Ghost is undeterred, eating pussy like he needs it to survive, like he benefits from it much much more than you do, and he makes it so so good for you that your hands are in his hair, pushing sweat-soaked strands away from his eyes and grabbing it, using your grip as leverage to ride his face
and you know it's good for him too because he's jacking it, you can hear the wet, sloppy sounds of his hand moving on his cock and one of these days the man's going to give you a heart attack from the way he eats your pussy like he's a starved man and you're the last meal on the planet
Ghost teaches you to deep-throat him. 18 + only. (GN!Reader)
Ghost knows he's big. It's not an inflated sense of ego—not all of it anyway—but he knows he's big. He's used to seeing surprise and even shock on the faces that he undresses for. So when you tell him what you want to do for him, your eyes darting nervously between him and his hardening cock, he knows he's going to have to take charge. He knows he's going to have to teach you. And boy, does he teach you.
You're on your knees for him, but that's not all that's required of you. Simon wants you to submit to him, trust him to show you what he likes and trust him to take care of you. You find that you're more than happy to oblige. So you put a pillow underneath your knees, like he directs, make up for the difference in height. Gonna be here awhile, pet. Get comfortable.
One hand stays still in your hair. Not grabbing or fisting. If it's long hair, then he's just holding it away from your face. If it's short, he's got his hand in there anyway. Occasionally, you'll feel a finger twirl in a strand of your hair, and the motion is comforting, even distracting. But you’re nothing if not a dedicated student.
The other hand caresses your jaw, pinching your chin, and you drop your tongue out for him. The first lesson: Ghost likes it sloppy. He seems to love your mouth on him, relishes the unique indulgence every single time. But you can't deny that there's something about teasing him with licks all over his cock, hard and throbbing, the vein on the underside almost pulsing a staccato and sloppy wet with the evidence of your attention—and when you look up at him, his eyes are dilated and his brow furrowed.
You start teasing the head of his cock, run your tongue on the slit. You know you need to build up to taking all of him in your mouth, but so does he, and so he lets you. The man has the patience of a saint. But when you’ve taken him into your mouth almost halfway, fingernails gently grazing his balls, he lurches to attention, and you know it's time for the next lesson.
It's hard-going, but he is the perfect teacher. Encouraging. Patient. Breathe, sweetheart, he whispers, when you forget to. Your fingernails indent half moons along the back of his thighs where you grip them tight, but he doesn't even flinch. And when the thin sheen of wetness in your eyes spills over your cheeks, he wipes it quickly, undeterred. So good for me, love. Takin' me so well, he murmurs.
It's too much, the sensation of feeling like you're drowning, only to realise that you could have been breathing all along. But you aren't a quitter, and even when you pull away from him, your mouth doesn't leave him. At this point, you think to yourself, sloppy is a hideous understatement.
You find a rhythm, eventually. You're in awe of his self-control, how he seems to have frozen still to avoid the temptation of fucking your mouth. But his concern is misplaced—you want it. You'd like nothing more than for him to give up that carefully constructed facade. And you know exactly how to break it.
He doesn't see it, at first. Attention pre-occupied and gentle hands on you, more guiding than anything else. He doesn't leverage his hold on you to thrust into your mouth, but he does reward your efforts, caresses your face. And then you see his jaw drop slightly, his eyes widening, when he notices that one of your hands isn't on his thigh anymore.
'S'it good for you, pet? The words are hoarse, sounding pained. You like touching yourself when I fuck y'throat? The filthy words make your hand move faster on your skin, more desperate, and you know he can see it, he can hear what its doing to you. You look up at him through your lashes, the way you know he likes, and you hope to god he understands what you're telling him without telling him.
Seems he does because he finally starts to fuck your throat in earnest. You have to work hard to keep breathing deep, your hand moving faster on your own flesh, but he's finally giving you what you want. His hips move almost wildly, rhythm faltering, and you feel him hit the back of your throat. Ghost groans at how your throat feels on his cock—warm and dripping around him—and he knows this feeling's going to haunt him, hold him captive long after you’ve gone.
When he comes, it's long and drawn out, and you swallow every drop he gives you. He whines, and you swear, you swear, you see his knees buckle for a second. And even when he's done, even when he's starting to soften inside your mouth, you don't let him go. You're still licking him, peppering him with gentle kisses, your mouth warmer and wetter than before. He's overstimulated and oversensitive, but this time, it's his turn to stand there and take it.
i already had some more ghost gunplay cooked, so here you go ♡
gunplay w/ghost pt.2 👻 (🌽 link)
the first little gunplay adventure, if ghost's crazy missus ask for more, she's for sure getting it. ghost actually debated how else he could introduce a gun into your normal bedroom endeavours, until he realised that a gun is actually thinee than him, and that he could actually out one in you.
so there he is, kneeling between your spread legs eyes fixated on your pretty cunt - that's already pulsing with both excitement and arousal- and his most precious gun in his hand. he would start by slowly teasing the sensitive sking around your pussy, the cold metal of the gun contrasting against the hot skin of your lips.
and after a bit of that subtle temperature play, he starts using the tip to collect some of you leaking arousal and making the muzzle of his gun catch onto your clit. and then he slowly starts fucking it into you, while also rubbing your clit in slow and languid circles until you inevitably cum around the barrel of his pistol.
he's now not going to be able to use said gun without thinking about your walls being wrapped around it and your juices collecting on every crevice of it.
