multifandom sideblog

G 26 COD + actors mostly ,Jake Sully + other smut?

[machveil]

Johnny announcing to the 141 that he’s trying for a baby with the missus. like, the eyebrow raising type of announcement, “Aye, tryin’ every night, bound to happen soon.”. Kyle did not need to know that, but he politely keeps his mouth shut. of course, with no complaints, Johnny keeps yapping about how the missus basically hasn’t left their bed, the bonnie lass is probably sore and tuckered out - Price’s ears burning red as he listens

what Johnny didn’t tell them is that he’s sterile, Simon’s the one he entrusted his wife to. holding your shaking body as Simon bullies your poor cunt for the fifth night in a row, swallowing down your whines and moans with sloppy kisses like a good husband. Simon’s not complaining, and he doesn’t plan on stopping once that test turns positive

[sarahsghosts]

“ May God have mercy on my enemies, ‘cause I won’t. ”

John Soap MacTavish

more here

[yumethefrostypanda]

John

so veiny

[persephone-has-fallen]

Simon x Pregnant!Reader

"Stop moving, dovie." Your husband murmers. "Don't wanna cut you."

"I'm sorry, I'm just trying to see how it looks."

You feel an amused puff of air against your upper thigh. "Looks the same as it does any time you do it. Now hold still."

You huff but obey his command. It's not that you don't trust Simon to do it right. In fact, the man has the keenest eye for detail you've ever seen. What's bothering you is quite how large your belly has swollen as you enter your final trimester. It's one thing to know your belly will eclipse the sight of your lower extremities, and another to experience it.

As he carefully drags the razor over the fuzz of your bush, Simon senses the discomfort swirling within you. He presses a brief kiss to the swell of your belly before cracking a joke to distract you "If Johnny knew I was doing this, he'd be scratching and howling at our bloody door. Worse'n a dog."

"Good thing I'm not Johnny's, then." You say with a coy giggle.

Simon pauses, wiping your skin with a damp cloth as he finishes shaving for you. He groans as he stands, callused hands trailing against your legs. Finally, he fixes you with a dangerous smirk.

"Don't mean he's not drooling at the thought of you when he thinks I'm not looking."

You flush. "Simon, I-"

Your behemoth of a husband leans forward, his lips brushing against your ear as the small of bar soap and shaving cream wash over you soothingly. "Especially since I put this baby in you. Poor bastard can't handle the jealousy."

You squirm, but say silent. It's no secret that your husband's friend is desperate for a taste of you. Simon's made it clear he's open to sharing, but you still don't know what to think. You've never done anything outside of the strict bounds of monogamy. And yet, there's no denying that Johnny is attractive.

Simon breaks through your thoughts. "Maybe you throw a dog a bone, let him put the next one in you."

"Simon." Your tone is scandalized as your face turns scarlet. Simon gives you a sly grin, dodging your attempt to swat at him. "Let's get you to bed, dove."

[rawme-price]

Ghost who's infatuated with you meanwhile you genuinely think he's trying to kill you.

Ghost who corners you against a wall, the width of him caging you in, arm above your head. He looks a bit crazed, a bit too animal and a bit too blood hungry when he grunts "i saw a deer on the side of the road, once."

"Legs twisted up in a bloody mess, gravel red underneath. It kept on twitchin', starin' at me." He leans in close, breath hot on your ear. You can feel the body heat radiating off of him when ghosts hand hovers over your bicep, "i killed it. Didn't have a gun, had to use my knife. Quick. Merciful."

Ghost leans back far enough to stare you in the eyes.

"You remind me of that deer," ghosts hand retreats, but he stays caging you in. "Staring at me all the time. Beggin' for that knife."

Now, whenever ghost talks about you, he calls you "sweet doe" and people snicker about his sweet little crush. It makes your stomach churn.

[barrysbae]

[cruxhing]

Simon likes to joke about the age difference between you two. And by joke, we’re talking about jokes that are too real to be jokes.

He knows that the age difference makes people side eye or do a double take. He’s aware that he receives strange looks when he tells people that his partner is twenty years younger than him.

It wasn’t intentional; it wasn’t like he was specifically scoping out someone younger than him. He wasn’t a goddamn creep, cut him some slack.

The two of you connected over something entirely so dumb. He had caught you staring at a cereal box at a grocery store with the most disgusted look on your face. “Can you believe they changed the design on the box?” you had asked him.

And all he could do was stare down at you with the flattest expression imaginable. Here you were, a stranger, speaking to him like you came in the store with him. But he played along, “Wouldn’t be the first. You’re too young to know what the first design looked like.”

Since that one singular conversation, his life has changed; a complete switch. Instead of his usual “Leave-Me-Alone-It’s-Bourbon-Saturday,” his weekends now consist of date nights with you.

Or “Taco-Mondays” (because Taco Tuesday was so overused in his mind), had now become “Simon gets to spend Mondays trying out new restaurants with his new partner.”

He felt young again; remembering that life was more than gunshots and gun wounds. Or that summer wasn’t just a long mission in the middle of a country he’s never been to but rather, a long weekend getaway while the sun burns the fuck out of his back.

“You got daddy issues,” Simon randomly said as he laid ontop of your beach towel. His sunglasses covered his eyes, a blob of sunscreen was on his nose, and his arms rested by his sides like he was ready for the summer heat to wash him away.

The beach was full of people; all setting up their little spots and kids running away from the gentle waves. You stared down at Simon, whom looked too comfortable tanning. Since when the fuck do men like him tan? Apparently, since he started dating you. “That came out of nowhere,” you replied, glaring down at him.

“Just saying, love. Not everyone wants to date a man who looks like he could be your father’s friend,” Simon replies without a second thought. He didn’t move— you barely noticed his lips move. That’s how serious he took his tanning.

A quiet scoff escaped your lips as you glanced over at the water, the small waves bringing in sand before throwing it back. “Yeah, it’s really not my fault you’re like… fifty and past your prime,” you joked back. “You probably have to pop a viagra to get it up before we fuck,” you added with a shit-faced eating grin.

It’s become a running joke of who could make who feel more uncomfortable at this point.

“Hey,” Simon began and finally shifted. “First of all, I’m not fifty. And second of all—“ he propped himself up with his elbows before turning around to lay on his stomach, “my dick’s twenty years older than you and you take it well, so.”

He won this round.

Simon 10 - you 0.

[gothghostiie]

hiiiii omg i saw ur writing for jeff and i went feral, if i may request....👉👈

him finding out his pretty, perky gf is a squirter at some point and it makes him go absolutely pussy drunk just making out with her slick hole (only if thats ok im so sorry if this is too graphic omgggg i have brainrot apologies)

sweetheart, have you been on my blog??? /lh /nm

cw: fem!reader, squirting, oral, overstimulation, tiny bit of manhandling if you squint, praise

he didn't expect.. that to happen. you were sprawled out underneath him, one leg hooked over his shoulder as he quickly worked his fingers against your gspot, you heard his soft encouragement as he felt you get closer to the edge. he wanted to see you fall apart for him, deciding you needed one last push. his lips wrapped around your swollen, sensitive clit, it was over for you. within mere seconds you felt everything hit you - a loud gasp by a string of apologies as you squirted all over his fingers and arm, even his face.

Jeff was mesmerised to say the least. he had never made any of his partners squirt before; not like that anyway. but God, he knew he needed more. and who are you to deny him? poor you, now lying pinned underneath him, thighs resting on his broad shoulders as his big hands wrapped around your hips, holding them down onto the soaking wet spot on the sheets, tongue tracing around your vulva, pressing into your cunt occasionally.

his face was sticky, you were shaking in his grip, but he didn't let off. "just one more time.. please darling.." he murmured against you, immediately suckling on your clit. you lost count at how many orgasms he had ripped from your body by now, how many times you he made you squirt. yet he couldn't help himself, wanting to see you do it once again. "for me.. you can do it, c'mon.." he pleaded, almost begging you at this point. tears were building in your eyes as you tried to buck your hips, sobbing softly from the overstimulation, but he refused to let go. not until he got what he wanted. his thumbs soothingly rubbed your skin, calming and grounding you a bit.

"shh.. it's okay... you can do it; come on.." he dipped his face into your pussy again, words slurring slightly as he already latched onto you again, making out with your poor, sopping hole until you squited again, the liquid hitting hid shoulder slightly as he leaned up, skilled fingers rubbing your clit all through it. "just like that.. that's a good girl.."

[lxvvie]

Phillip would be outright OFFENDED if you tried to hide all those pretty noises you make when he's fucking you. What do you mean you're biting into his shoulder or screaming into the pillow? Absolutely not, no room for being bashful here. He won't give you what you want until you're loud enough to his liking

Offended is putting it nicely.

Graves would find it downright blasphemous that you're not screamin' the whole damn house down, darlin'.

He'd see it as such an affront that he's willing to shoulder the burdens that come with having blue balls because how dare you not make the neighbors want to complain about the noise. The fuck is he doing, then?

"I'm sorry," is what you'd say, meekly. Graves gives you a once-over, sniffs all condescendingly like the bastard he is, and goes, "Oh, I don't think you are, darlin'." Cue him fucking you into the mattress, and you're sorry, you're so fuckin' sorry that you're screaming it now, screaming his name, too caught up in the pleasure and the sounds of your bodies coming together to notice his smug grin.

There we go, gorgeous.

[jimmythecookiemonster]

Lady Chatterley's Lover (2022)

[rawme-price]

Post-tbi!soap who, after the the months of recovery, never fully got his sense of location back. Oftentimes wandering off in the middle of a task, forgetting where he is and needing to be reminded. He used to end up in the middle of the road at night, knowing he was doing...something.

Vs

Clingy!reader who constantly has a hand on him to stop him wandering in the shops. You love listening to soap talk about his interests, you stay engaged and ask questions and in turn soap doesn't get lost. He doesn't end up lost in the dark at night because you're whining "johnny? Where are you going?" If he even gets up to piss, following behind sleepily.

Just...someone made for johnny. Johnny never finding your clingyness anything other than useful, you never finding his constantly wandering annoying.

[rawme-price]

No thoughts just johnny reconnecting with art by making origami figures for you...

Sure, he draws in his notebook, doodles about the witty mechanic he spends too much time around. But he hasn't made anything physical, something that can really be held in the palm of his hands for years now.

It started after you mentioned your love of animals. Soap had pulled off one of the sticky notes you kept on your desk and, with a proud "i think I still know how," soap made a simple origami frog.

The cutest thing you've ever seen, he even drew a face on it.

After that, it was tradition. A little zoo accumulating on your desk. Animals made from notebook paper, origami paper, the printer paper that keeps disappearing from the office. Swans, dinosaurs, foxes and cats.

You'd make some too, insisting soap shows you how it's done. His rough hands over yours, guiding them to be delicate along the crease of paper. You insisted on giving the swan to him.

Then he left.

Price was kind enough to include you in clearing out his room, though you seldom spoke to the other men. You had no idea why until ghost told you "johnny was yours since the beginning. Just...never had the guts to tell you."

You spent days staring at the animals lined up in rows. Thinking.

Surgical precision, the kind taught to you by johnny. You unfold the a swan, and find scribbled on the inside "i think about you all the time." Another, "you're the kindest person i know." After that, "I think I love you."

Each animal a confession handed right to you. Held in your hands and loved.

The swan you made for him joins the animals now moved to your nightstand.

[07x1x4x1]

SHAVING.

— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!Reader

— cw: established relationship; smut and fluff; domesticity; wc: 5.5 k

you might also want to read ⤷ PUSSY JOB

— S. RILEY:

Simon loves handling knives. It’s one of his specialities after all. And he’s caught you watching him multiple times; whether it was him cutting vegetables for supper, cleaning his combat knives, or shaving with a razor blade. 

So, when you pad into the kitchen in nothing but his shirt and ask him to help you shave, he doesn't even blink. 

“Where?” 

You tug at the hem. He follows the gesture, and his expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes does. 

“Right.” The chair scrapes over the tiles as he rises to his full height, rolling his shoulders. “Bathroom. Now.” 

He has you up on the counter with your legs spread before you can overthink it. Clinical and efficient, like he’s done this a thousand times. 

“Hold still,” he commands, lathering soap between his mammoth hands. “Squirm and I'll nick ya.” 

You snort, “Reassuring." 

“Wasn’t meant t’be.” 

His hands are rough but warm and deliberate as he works the lather over you, one palm flat against your lower belly to keep you pinned. He tilts his head, surveying you like a problem he is solving. 

He clucks his tongue, “Not takin’ it all off.” 

And you blink owlishly, “Why not?” 

“Because I like it.” He drags his thumb through the dark curls at the apex of your cunt, appraising. “Leavin’ a clean strip. You'll thank me later.” 

The razor comes up before you can argue. First stroke—slow, precise, the blade gliding through lather and coarse hair with a control that makes your stomach flip. His jaw is set, focused, and there is something unbearable about how steady his hands are when yours are gripping the counter edge so hard your knuckles ache. 

He rinses the blade. Goes again. His knuckles brush bare skin this time and your thigh jerks involuntarily. 

“What’d I say?” His voice is low, flat; his eyes almost bored as they flick up to meet yours. 

“Sorry—” 

“Don’t apologise. Stop squirmin’.” He resettles his grip on your thigh, firm enough to bruise. “Almost done.” 

But you’re not making it easy on him and he knows it. He can see it—the flush creeping down your chest, the way your breathing has gone shallow, the slick gathering where his hands keep almost-but-not-quite touching. 

“You’re wet,” he remarks, the same way he’d say It’s raining. 

“Can you blame me?” you squeak. 

“No.” Simon finishes the last stroke, rinses the blade, sets it aside. Then he runs his thumb along the neat strip of hair he’s left, then lower, over smooth sensitive skin, checking his work. “Did a bloody good job, if I say so myself.” 

His thumb drags lower. Slides through the slick with zero hesitation, and you gasp loud enough to echo off the tiles. 

“Responsive,” he murmurs, smug. He does it again—slower, more deliberate, watching your face like he’s taking briefing notes. “All this from a shave, love?” 

You nod, voice thick, “From you.” 

Something shifts in his expression; shifts to something darker, hungrier. His free hand grips the inside of your thigh and pushes it wider, and he drops to his knees on the bathroom floor like a man settling into a foxhole. 

“Si—” 

“Shut up,” he growls against your skin. “Let me admire my work.” 

His mouth finds you—hot and wet, and completely unhurried. He licks a long, flat stripe over the freshly shaved skin and groans low in his throat like he’s tasting honey on a warm, buttered toast. Your hand flies to his head, fingers digging into the short hair, and he lets you. 

Then he pulls back, and you almost whine, but he’s not going anywhere. He brings both hands up instead, spreads you open with his thumbs, rough callused pads pressing into soft skin, holding you apart so he can see everything. 

“Look at that,” he murmurs, low and self-satisfied. “All swollen already.”

Your hips buck, but his sheer strength keep you pinned to the counter. “Simon, please—” 

“I heard ya.” 

But then Simin leans back in and his tongue finds your clit—not a broad stroke this time but a quick, focused flicker, right over the swollen nerve. Your hips buck harder and his grip tightens, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your pussy lips, keeping you spread wide and pinned open. 

“Stay. Still.” Spoken directly against you, the vibration making your thighs shake. 

He does it again—that precise, maddening flicker—and you make a sound that’s closer to a sob than anything dignified. He rewards it with a low hum, adjusting the angle, working the tip of his tongue in tight little circles that make your vision blur. 

“Knew you’d be like this,” he groans, pulling back just enough to watch your clit twitch under his breath. His thumbs spread you wider, obscenely so. “All wound up from a fuckin’ razor and a steady hand.” 

Your cheeks are burning while your hole clenches around nothing. “You’re so full of—oh—” 

“Myself? Yeah.” His tongue flattens against you, then flickers again, fast and relentless. “And you love it.” 

You can’t argue. You can’t do anything except grip his hair and hold on. 

He doesn’t let up. That maddening flicker becomes a rhythm—tight, relentless circles over your clit with the tip of his tongue while his thumbs keep you spread open and pinned like a butterfly under glass. You’e shaking, thighs trembling against his hands, and every sound you make earns you another low hum of approval that vibrates straight through your whole body. 

“Simon—Si—I’m going to—” 

“Then fuckin’ do it.” His tone is flat as ever, impatient, like you’re wasting his time by holding back. 

His tongue presses harder, faster, and you come with a choked cry that bounces off the bathroom tiles. He works you through it—slower now, lapping at you in long, lazy strokes while your legs twitch and your fingers go slack in his hair. 

And then you hear it before you see it—the sound of his joggers being shoved down, the slick rhythm of his fist. You lift your head, still dazed, and look down to find him on his knees with his fat cock in his hand, jerking himself in hard, fast strokes while his mouth stays pressed against your inner thigh. 

“Simon—?” 

“Shut up.” His voice is wrecked now. Rough. Nothing clinical about it anymore. “Needed this since I fuckin’ started.” 

He’s close already. You can tell from the way his breathing fractures, the way his free hand grips your thigh hard enough to leave fingerptints. Simon pulls back, angles himself forward, fist working fast and tight, and his eyes are fixed on the mess he’s made of you, all puffy and slick. The neat landing strip dark and matted with your wetness against flushed skin. 

“Fuck,” he grits out, low and broken. “Look at you.” 

He comes across your cunt in hot, thick stripes—groaning through his teeth, forehead dropping against your thigh as his hips jerk into his own fist, massive shoulders shaking against the onslaught of pleasure. You feel it land on smooth skin, on the strip of hair he insisted on keeping, dripping down between your folds, and the sound he makes is almost pained. 

He stays there for a moment. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your leg. 

Then he straightens up, tucks himself away methodically, and surveys the damage with the composure of a man reviewing a mission report. 

“There,” he says, dragging his thumb through the mess on your skin. His and yours, mixed so prettily. “Payment for services rendered.” 

Your eyes roll with fond exasperation as your head tips back to rest on the counter.  

“You’re disgusting.” 

“And you’re welcome, love.” He leans in, presses a single kiss to the landing strip, and stands. “Clean yerself up. Dinner’s in twenty.” 

— K. GARRICK

Kyle notices things. It’s what makes him terrific at his job—reading a room in mere seconds, clocking the miniscule details everyone else always misses. So, when you come home looking like the week has chewed you up and spat you out, he’s already running the bath before you’ve kicked off your shoes and put down your bag. 

“Self-care day!” he announces. “You. Me. Bathroom. Now.” 

“Kyle, I’m fine—” 

“Didn’t ask.” He’s already steering you by the shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you, yeah? Let me do this for you, baby.” 

And that’s the thing about Kyle. He doesn’t ask permission to take care of you—he just does it, like breathing, like it’s the most natural and obvious thing in the world. 

He starts with your arms. 

You’re sitting on the edge of the ceramic tub, warm water lapping at your calves, while Kyle kneels beside you with a fresh razor and a bottle of fancy shaving oil he warmed between his palms. He lifts your arm above your head, long and gentle fingers circling your wrist, and works the oil into the hollow of your underarm with slow, thorough strokes. 

“When’s the last time someone took care of you properly?” he asks casually, like small talk. 

“You did. Last week,” you deadpan, brows furrowed. 

He grins brilliantly. “Doesn’t count. That was just sex.” 

You snort softly, “Just sex, he says—” 

“Hush now.” He draws the razor up in a smooth, careful line. Rinses. Again. His touch is absurdly gentle for hands that can strip a rifle in seconds. “This is different. This is maintenance.”

“You make me sound like a bloody car.” 

“Nah.” Kyle kisses his teeth, then switches to the other arm, lifting it with the same easy confidence. “More like a classic bike. High-performance. Needs the right hands.” 

You snort again, but your skin is already tingling where he’s touched—warm oil sinking in, the faint sting of freshly shaved skin, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your wrist while he works. 

Your legs take longer. He’s thorough about it—kneeling on the tile floor, one of your calves propped on his shoulder, dragging the razor from ankle to knee in long, unhurried strokes. He takes his time with the oil after, working it into your skin with both hands, thumbs pressing into the muscle of your calf until you groan. 

“Good?” he asks, gauging your reaction, and there is something darker in his voice now. Something paying attention. 

“So good,” you breathe, eyes closed in bliss. 

He slides higher—past your knee, along your inner thigh. Still massaging, still working the oil in, but his fingers are brushing territory that has nothing to do with shaving. He watches your face the whole time, reading every micro-expression, cataloguing what makes your breath hitch, what makes your muscles relax. 

“One more spot,” he murmurs, hands settling on your inner thighs. “Yeah?” 

You nod. Your mouth has gone dry. 

“Need words, love.” 

And you nod more enthusiastically, “Yes. Please.”

His smile is warm, but his gaze is filthy. 

Kyle repositions you gently, guiding you back against the fluffy towels he’s already laid out on the bathroom floor like he planned this from the start. Probably did. Kyle Garrick is always three steps ahead. 

He settles between your thighs and takes his time with the oil, working it into the soft skin of your mound with his fingertips. Not rushing. Letting you feel every slow circle, every press of his thumb, until you’re breathing hard and your hips are shifting restlessly. 

“Easy, my love," he says softly, one hand flat on your belly. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.” 

The razor is careful. Feather-light strokes, angled perfectly, his free hand stretching the skin taut with a confidence that makes heat pool low in your stomach. He shaves you bare, all of it, pausing to rinse the blade and check his work with the pad of his thumb. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs thickly, and means it. 

Then the oil comes back. Warm from his hands, drizzled over freshly shaved skin, and he starts working it in with both thumbs in long, slow strokes down either side of your slit. 

Your thighs twitch. He notices. Of course he does. 

“Sensitive?” he asks teasingly, voice low. Eyes crinkling with mirth. 

“Kyle—” 

“That’s not an answer.” But he’s smiling, thumbs pressing a little firmer, gliding through the oil and spreading you open slowly. “Tell me how it feels.” 

You swallow hard, but your voice still comes out raspy, “Like you’re  trying to kill me, baby.” 

He laughs; warm, genuine, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Not yet.” His thumbs drag inward, slicking through the oil and your own syrupy wetness now, framing your clit without touching it. “We’re getting there, though.” 

Kyle starts massaging in earnest then, and it’s devastatingly precise. Both thumbs working slow circles over your outer lips, pressing and releasing, coaxing blood to the surface until everything is swollen and throbbing and so slick you can hear it. He watches your face the whole time, dark eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-back sound. 

“There she is,” he praises when your hips start rolling into his hands. “There you go. Just let it happen, baby.” 

And he slides one thumb between your folds—just one, dragging through the mess—and your whole body arches. 

“Fuck, Kyle—” you mewl, and Kyle mutters a curse under his breath, pupils blown.  

“Yeah, I know.” He does it again, slow and firm, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb while his other hand keeps you spread open. “You’re soaking my hand, love. That all from the shave, or you just like being taken care of by me?” 

“Both—God—both!” 

“Greedy.” He says it fondly, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. Then he sinks a finger into you—one, then two—curling them forward, and your back comes off the floor. 

“Oh—oh—fuck!” 

“Right there?” He crooks his fingers experimentally, finds the spot that makes your vision white out, and presses more firmly. “Yeah. Right there.” 

He starts working you open with slow, deliberate thrusts—two fingers buried deep, curling against that front wall, while his thumb keeps circling your clit in a rhythm that’s going to end you. His other hand is on your hip, holding you steady when you start to writhe. 

“Don't fight it,” he reminds you, and then his mouth replaces his thumb—hot and wet, tongue lapping at your clit in broad, flat strokes that make your thighs clamp around his head. 

He groans against you and his fingers pick up the pace, curling and pressing in a rhythm that builds something white-hot at the base of your spine. You can feel it coiling, tighter and tighter, different from a normal orgasm, deeper, more urgent. 

“Kyle—Kyle, I’m gonna—” 

“I know.” He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing your clit while your inner muscles clench and flutter around his pumping fingers, urging him deeper. “I can feel it. Let go.” 

“I can’t—” 

“Yes, you can.” His fingers press harder, faster, rubbing firmly against that swollen spot inside you. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Let go for me.” 

His mouth seals over your clit and he sucks, gentle and persistent, while his fingers thrust up hard until something inside you breaks. And you come with a sound you don’t recognise; your whole body locking up and then releasing in a hot, pulsing rush that soaks his hand, his chin, the towels underneath you. 

“That’s it. Fuck, baby, that’s it—” Kyle’s voice is wrecked, awed, his fingers still working you through it as you gush and squirt over his knuckles, soaking the towels. “Christ, look at you. So fucking beautiful.”

You’re shaking. Trembling all over, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it, and Kyle is already there to catch you; easing his fingers out gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip, the curve of your quivering belly. 

“I’ve got you,” he says again, gathering you up against his lean chest. “I’ve got you, love. You did so well.” 

You bury your face in his neck and he holds you. Always solid, warm, and steady. His hand strokes your back in slow, soothing circles while your breathing comes down. 

“Self-care day,” you mumble against his throat, chuckling softly.  

He laughs, quiet and fond. “Told you I’d take care of you.” 

— J. PRICE

John finds you standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fresh from the shower, towel discarded on the floor like an afterthought. You’re turning sideways, then forward again, fingers tugging at the dark curls between your thighs with a frown he recognises immediately. 

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watches you for a moment. 

“Don’t even think about it woman,” he says gruffly.

You jump, because of course you didn’t hear him coming. The man moves like smoke when he wants to. “Jesus, John—” 

“I know that look.” He nods toward your hand. “You’re thinking about shaving.” 

You tut. Caught again. “It’s gotten—” 

“No.” 

He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room, calm and unhurried, the way he does everything. Like the world operates on his schedule and it knows better than to argue. 

“You nicked yourself last time,” he reminds you, stopping behind your back. You can feel the warmth of him through his shirt, his breath against the top of your head. “Bled all over the damn bathroom. Looked like a crime scene.” 

You frown. “It wasn’t that bad—” 

“It was exactly that bad.” His steely eyes meet yours in the mirror. Steady and final. “You want to be smooth, I’ll do it. End of discussion.” 

That tone from your husband. The one that ends briefings and closes arguments. It mean Captain Price isn’t asking. 

He takes his time setting up, because John Price has never rushed anything important in his life and he’s not about to start with a blade near your precious skin. Warm water in a bowl. A fresh razor—not the one you butchered yourself with last time, but his, the good one he keeps in the leather case. A flannel. Shaving soap that smells like sandalwood and menthol. 

“On the bed,” he orders. “Edge. Legs apart.” 

“John,” you try to reason again.  

“Did I stutter?” And he gives you that look. The head tilt forward to look down at you. 

And you sit obediently. He pulls the ottoman over, settles onto it between your knees like he’s sitting down to a job that requires patience and precision. Which, in his mind, it does. He drapes the warm flannel over you first—pressing it gently against the curls, softening the hair—and the heat makes you exhale slowly through your nose. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, absent and fond. “Just relax.” 

He works the soap into a lather between his palms, and his hands are broad and rough and unhurried as he spreads it over you. Fingers moving through the hair with a kind of proprietary ease, like this is his to manage. His to maintain. You watch him from above—the focused set of his jaw, the silver threading through his full beard, the absolute steadiness of his hands. 

You exhale slowly, willing yourself to relax while heat starts pooling low in your belly. “You don’t have to—” 

“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupts calmly, picking up the razor. “I want to. Difference.” 

The first stroke silences you. Slow, precise, the blade drawing a clean line through lather and hair. His free hand pulls the skin taut, and his eyes never leave his work with the same concentration you’ve seen him give to maps and mission briefs in his office. 

He rinses the blade in warm water. Goes again. 

“You’re quiet,” he remarks eventually, a hint of amusement buried under the gravel. 

“Hard to be mouthy when your husband’s got a razor on your—” 

“Careful.” But he’s smiling, just barely, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Good time to practice some of that restraint I’m always bloody on about.” 

Stroke by stroke, he clears the hair away. Thorough. Methodical. He tilts your hips when he needs a better angle, adjusts your thigh with a tap of two fingers like he’s positioning you on instinct. There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing performative—just a man doing a job properly because it needs doing and he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right. 

When he’s finished, he sets the razor aside and wipes you clean with the warm flannel—slow and careful passes that make your freshly shaved skin prickle and sing. Then he sits back, hands on your knees, and surveys his work. 

“There,” he murmurs, thoroughly satisfied. “That’s how it’s done, woman.” 

“Thank you.” And when you try to close your legs to get up, his hands stop you. 

“I’m not finished.” 

Your breath catches. He hasn’t moved—still sitting on the ottoman, still between your thighs, still looking at you with that calm, unhurried authority. But something’s shifted in his expression. His gaze has darkened, and you very well know what that means. 

Your stomach swoops. “John?” 

“Lie back.” 

And you do obediently. Again. Not because he has ordered you to—though he has—but because when John Price uses that voice, your body just listens. Your back hits the duvet and you stare at the ceiling, heart hammering, while he pushes your thighs wider with both hands. 

“Smooth,” he murmurs absentmindedly, running his palm over you, feeling his own handiwork. His thumb traces the edge of your slit; barely there, maddeningly light. “Soft.” His eyes flit up to look at you, almost smugly. “See what happens when you let me handle things?” 

But you’re still staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’re insufferable.” 

“And you’re wet.” John mentions it plainly, like a field observation. “Have been since I started. Thought I wouldn’t notice?” He snorts. 

Your eyes close slowly, praying for patience. “Was hoping you wouldn’t.”

“I notice everything. Especially about my wife. You know that.” He leans forward, presses a kiss just above your mound. Utterly deliberate and proprietary. His beard scratches against the smooth skin and your hips jerk. His eyebrow raises. “Sensitive?” 

You exhale a breath. “Your beard—” 

“Mm.” He does it again—drags his jaw across the freshly shaved skin, rough against smooth, and the noise you make is mortifying. “That’s bloody new. Like that, do you?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just settles in, hands hooking under your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed and into his mouth like he’s sitting down to a meal he intends to take his time with. 

The first broad stroke of his tongue makes you arch clean off the mattress. He grunts, low and satisfied, and pins your hips down with one forearm. 

“Stay put,” he mutters against you. “I mean it.” 

And then he takes you apart. 

It’s not frantic. It’s not teasing. It’s thorough. The way John does everything. Long, slow drags of his tongue from entrance to clit, tasting every inch of smooth skin, learning the new terrain with the same patient focus he gave the razor. His beard scrapes against your inner thighs, your lips, the crease of your legs, and the contrast—soft warm tongue, rough stubble—has you writhing within minutes. 

“John—John—” 

He hums against your clit and the vibration shoots straight up your spine. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you closer, burying himself deeper. He sucks your clit between his lips firmly and flicks his tongue over it in a tight rhythm that makes your hands fist in the duvet. 

“Oh God—oh fuck—” 

He pulls back. Just enough. Lips still brushing you when he speaks. 

“Language, darling.” 

“You’re eating me out!” you whine helplessly. 

“And you’ll still mind your mouth in my house.” But there is a rumble underneath the words—amusement and bone-deep arousal, barely restrained—and his tongue is back on you before you can fire back, licking into you with a hunger that contradicts every ounce of composure in his voice. 

John brings a hand up and slides two thick fingers inside you without preamble, curling them forward, and the sound you make is broken and loud and not remotely dignified. He groans at the feel of you clenching around him, and you feel it everywhere. 

“That’s it,” he groans, low and rough. “That’s my gorgeous girl.” 

He fucks you with his fingers—steady and deep, curling against the spot that makes your thighs shake—while his mouth works your clit in slow, sucking pulls. He’s not rushing but savouring. Taking you apart piece by piece with the same relentless patience he applies to everything, and you couldn’t stop the orgasm building in you if you tried. 

“John—I’m close—” 

“I know you are.” He doesn’t change pace. Just keeps that maddening, steady rhythm. “Come when you’re ready. I’ll be here.” 

It hits you like a wave. Slow and devastating, rolling through you from the inside out. Your back arches, your legs lock around his wide shoulders, and you come on his tongue with his name in your mouth. John works you through every second of it, fingers still moving, tongue still pressing, until you’re shaking and pushing weakly at his head. 

When he finally pulls back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks up at you with dark, satisfied eyes and a beard that’s matted and glistening with your come. 

“See? That’s why you let me handle things.” 

You can’t even argue with that. Not right now at least. You’re boneless, spent, staring at the ceiling while he presses a kiss to your inner thigh and stands—unhurried as ever, straightening his shirt like he didn’t just ruin you for the rest of the day. 

“I’ll make us a tea,” he calls from the doorway, completely composed. “You’ll want a biscuit after that, because I’m going to fuck my wife later.” 

— J. MACTAVISH

“Nae, hen.” 

Like every time before, Johnny straight up refuses when you ask him to help you shave your bush. 

He takes one glance at it and his pupils blow up like an IED, swallowing the baby blue of his irises within milliseconds. 

“Why?” you whine, stomping your foot like a petulant bunny. “Johnny, pleeease! I can’t do it on my own! I cut myself last time!” 

And you cross your arms, frowning at him, and hoping it’s enough to make him cave. But, alas, it is not. 

“Good,” he retorts, turning back to the telly where some Premier League match is playing that he’s barely watching anymore. “Maybe tha’ll teach ye to leave her alone.” 

Her. 

“Johnny, it’s hair.” 

“Aye, it’s hair. Her hair. And I fuckin’ like it.” He slings his arm over the back of the couch, manspreading like he owns the entire living room, eyes fixed on the screen with a kind of stubbornness that makes you want to scream. “End of.” 

“You don’t get to decide what I do with my own—” 

“Never said I did,” he interrupts flatly, then glances at you sideways, grinning. “I said am no’ helpin’. Big fuckin’ difference, lass. Ye want to hack away at yerself in the bathroom again, be my guest. I’ll be here Mournin’.” 

You cross your arms, scoffing, “You’re mourning my pubic hair.” 

“Aye. She’s a right bonnie. Deserves better than some dull razor and yer shaky hands.” 

You gape at him. He takes a slow sip of his beer, utterly unbothered, eyes back on the match. The audacity of this man. The sheer, Scottish audacity. 

“Fine,” you snap, and yank your leggings down right there in the living room. “Look at it then. Look. It’s a mess, Johnny!” 

That gets his attention. 

He turns his head slowly, beer bottle halfway to his mouth, and his eyes drop between your thighs. The grin slides off his face and something else replaces it—something hotter, sharper. His jaw works. He shifts in his seat. 

“Come here,” he demands suddenly. 

“No. You said no.” 

“I said come here.” He pats his thick right thigh. “Need a closer look, don’t I? Cannae make a proper assessment from across the room.” 

You know it’s a trap. You know it is. But he’s looking at you with those baby blue eyes and that crooked, shit-eating smile, and your feet are already moving. 

He pulls you onto his lap the second you’re within reach—hands on your hips, spinning you so your back is against his chest, your bare arse settled right over the growing bulge in his joggers. He spreads your thighs with his knees, hooking your legs over the outside of his, opening you up. 

Your eyes widen. “Johnny!” 

“Shh, hen. ‘M assessin’.” 

Johnny looks down over your shoulder, chin resting against your temple, and his hands slide down from your hips to your inner thighs. He spreads you open with both thumbs and makes a low, appreciative sound that vibrates through his chest and into your spine. 

“Aye, see?” he says, voice dropping rougher. “Look at her. She’s fuckin’ gorgeous. All soft an’ warm." He drags his fingers through the curls, tugging gently, and your hips twitch. “Why would ye want to get rid of this?” 

“Johnny, I just—” 

“Nah, hold on, ‘m talkin’ to her, no' you.” He dips his head lower, mouth against your ear, but he’s addressing your exposed cunt like it’s a separate entity. “Don’t listen to her, sweetheart. She doesnae know what she’s got. Ye’re perfect.” 

You sigh deeply, lips pursing. “You’re literally insane.” 

“Aye, she says thank ye,” he continues, ignoring you completely. His fingers stroke through the hair again, lower this time, brushing your outer lips. “She’s happy. See? Nice and warm in her wee fur coat. Ye want to take that away from her? In this economy? In this weather?” 

“It’s literally June, Johnny.” 

“Could get cold! Ye don’t know!” His thumb grazes your clit—barely, just enough—and you gasp. He grins against your ear. “Oh, an’ she’s  awake now. See that? She heard ye talkin’ aboot razors an’ she got scared. I’m just comfortin’ her.”

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever—hah—” 

His thumb presses down, firm, and circles slowly. “What was tha’?” 

“—ever met in my entire—fuck—” 

Johnny chuckles with dark satisfaction. “That’s more like it.” He circles again, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world, like the match is still the most important thing in the room. His other hand holds your thigh open, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Look at ye. All wet already and I’ve barely touched her. She likes the bush, babe. She’s tellin’ ye.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, trying not to make another sound. “That’s not—that’s not how that works—” 

“No?” He sinks a finger into you—just one for now, thick and rough—and you clench around him so hard your vision blurs. “Feels like it’s  workin’ to me.” 

He starts a rhythm—slow, dragging thrusts with his finger while his thumb circles your clit—and you’re melting into his chest, head falling back against his shoulder. The telly is still on, some commentator yelling about a foul, and Johnny’s watching the match over your shoulder like he’s not knuckle-deep inside your hairy cunt. 

“Johnny—fuck—pay attention to me—” 

“I am payin’ attention. Multitaskin’, lass. Top o’ ma fuckin’ class.” He crooks his thick finger, and you nearly come off his lap. “Ooh, there she is. Found the spot, aye?” 

“Please—” 

“Please what? Please shave ye?” He tsks, adding a second finger, stretching you. “Still nae. But I’ll make ye forget why ye wanted to in the first place. Deal?” 

You whimper. He takes that as a yes. 

Then he pulls his fingers out, and you do whine, loud and needy, and before you can protest, he’s lifting you off his lap and onto your feet. You sway, legs shaking, and he grins up at you as he slides down the couch, lying back with his head on the armrest. 

“Come here,” he demands again, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it. He folds his muscular arms behind his head, looking up at you like he’s ordered room service. “Sit on my face.” 

“You—what?” 

Johnny snickers at the dumbstruck expression on your face. “Ye heard me.” He licks his lips. Obscenely slow and deliberate. Like a wolf licking its chaps. The bastard. “Bring her up here. I want to have a proper conversation.” 

“A conversation,” you repeat, not amused. 

“Aye. With my tongue. Now get up here before I drag ye.” 

Your thighs are still trembling as you relent with a groan and climb over him, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his head. You hover, suddenly self-conscious, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, fer fuck’s sake—” His brawny hands grip your hips and yank you down onto his mouth. 

The first thing you feel is his groan—deep, guttural, vibrating against your cunt like he has just taken a bite of the best thing he’s ever tasted. His tongue drags through your furry pussy lips, broad and flat and filthy, and his fingers dig into the meat of your arse hard enough to leave bruises. 

“Johnny—oh my God!” 

He can’t answer with his mouth full of you, but he slaps your thigh once—hard—and you jolt. And the message is clear. 

You roll your hips against his face, tentative at first, then harder when his tongue licks your clit and flicks over it in rapid, relentless strokes He’s making sounds beneath you, groaning into your cunt like he’s getting off on it as much as you are. Perhaps more. His nose presses into the curls he refused to shave and he inhales deeply, moaning like he’s dying. 

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles against you, pulling back just long enough to breathe. His chin is soaked, his eyes are five shades darker, and he’s grinning like a maniac. “Ride my face, sweetheart. Fuckin’ use me.” 

His mouth seals over your clit again and he sucks hard, and your hand flies to the armrest for balance because your legs have stopped working entirely. He’s licking into you with his whole mouth now, tongue fucking you, slurping, then dragging back up to your clit, alternating between sucking and flicking in a rhythm designed to make you lose your mind. 

“I’m—Johnny, I’m going to—fuck—!” 

He pulls you tighter against his mouth, both hands gripping your arse and leaving finger-shaped marks, and his tongue works your clit in fast, tight circles while his nose presses against your mound and you come so hard your thighs clamp around his head and your whole body convulses. 

He doesn’t stop. He licks you through it—slower now, gentler, long lazy strokes through your slit while you twitch and shake above him. When you finally collapse sideways onto the couch, boneless and gasping, he wipes his face with the back of his hand and sits up looking thoroughly pleased with himself; face shiny and mohawk wild. 

“So,” he says, reaching for his beer on the side table like nothing happened. Like his grey joggers don’t have a large, damp patch on the front where his hard cock presses against it and reeks of his cum. “Still want to shave?” 

You throw a cushion at his head. 

He catches it, laughing—that big, stupid, full-body laugh that crinkles his whole face—and pulls you into his buff, hairy chest. 

“That’s what I thought.” He presses a kiss to your hair. “Now let me watch the fuckin’ match, ye silly lass.” 

[maryawrites]

Simon has a maddening domesticity kink.

“Stop teasin’ me.”

You look from your place in bed, glasses almost sliding off of your nose. You glance around the room once before pointing at yourself. Simon gives you a dead-serious nod of his head, drilling holes into you with his eyes.

“Huh, what’d I do, Si?”

“All that. I’m tellin’ you t’ stop bein’ a tease.”

You take yourself into account. You are sitting in bed in your ugly, mismatched pajamas, reading a book with everything about you totally undone. You were just nodding off when he walked in. What’s Simon on about?

“I’m-… Are we playing around? Joking? I don’t get it.” You’re about as un-sexy as you can be.

He huffs and walks up to the edge of the bed, reaching under the covers to wrap a large hand around your ankle and pull you to the edge, locked under his gaze as blankets crowd around you. “Look at ya, love. Quit playing games.”

You finally find it in you to laugh at his ambiguity, watching the corners of his mouth quirk. He shifts on his feet uncomfortably, tightening his grip around your ankle. “I don’t understand. I’m very unattractive right now. Startlingly so.”

“Don’t say tha’.” He mutters, leaning over to shove his face into the crook of your neck, humming in relief as he presses into you. You wrestle your arms free to throw around him, curling into his heavy body. The moment goes on sweetly until his hips roll lazily against you, exhaling shakily.

“Simon!”

[maryawrites]

Simon doesn’t have the heart to tell you that, no, you two would not have been friends in school.

Not for a lack of trying on your part, he’s sure. You would’ve shared your lunch with him and smiled at him in private and attempted to turn in his library books if he wanted to neglect it. You have all the makings of a polite, lonely child grown into a resilient young woman. So he tries to keep his mouth shut about it.

But when he sees well-loved and tattered novels and folded up uniforms for different extracurriculars while visiting your family home, he comes to the firm understanding that you were more likely to end up pinched and prodded by him than invited to play.

You offer the concept to him one night, in a weepy mood, leaning into him as you both prepared for bed- even if he likely won’t sleep for hours, he still likes the routine. You get a distant look in your eyes and promise him that things might’ve been different had you both been there. He’s always one to silently entertain these thoughts, unfortunately. So he bites his tongue and kisses your temple and leads you to bed regardless.

But sometimes, seeing a much smaller you alone in pictures or hearing a some half-hearted story about being socially isolated, he wishes he could go back and nudge himself into your waiting hands.

But his rumination ends about as quickly as it begins when you curl up next to him that same night.

[anneofgreengabagool]

gristle | simon riley x reader au | 2.2k words

cw/tags: 18+ (eventually). food truck owner simon x reader, eventual sexual content. cis-female reader. unedited.

part 1

Cheapest food truck around. Stuck haphazardly in the middle of a dirty industrial park, tucked between HVAC and roofing buildings. Shit signage — hand-scribbled nonsense that you have to squint at to decipher.

All it — he — serves are burgers and fries ("chips").

His line's long, but you watch him whittle it down with sharp teeth, big fast hands, and a loud barking voice. Thank god, it's so fucking hot out, standing out in the scalding sun with no relief of clouds is your worst idea in awhile. Rumour has it, if you don't answer his first call to grab your order, he gives it to the next customer in line and tells you to fuck off. If you're busy on your phone while trying to order, he shunts you to the back of the line.

You had flipped open the app to check his reviews while you stood in line behind a bunch of workers from the nearby businesses.

buddy needs an attitude check. good food though.

told me to fuck off then gave me the best burger i've ever had. will be back!

absolutely horrible service!!! he's lucky he only charges $5 or else he'd be OUT OF BUSINESS!!

You think there's no way a man like him cares about reviews in the first place. You internally practice your order — literally just 'burger with cheese and extra pickles with fries, please' — as you get closer. Tap at your phone nervously, watching how his looming body fills the order window. He leans over the window frame to hear properly, tilts his right ear down to the customer; his left ear doesn't seem to work as well. When he leans like that, his big tattooed arms press against the counter behind. He bites on his lower lip in concentration when he's listening, eyebrows drawn down tight. He can somehow ignore everyone else around him to focus just on the single person ahead of him at a time.

The two workers in front of you are next up to order and yapping about a job when a third, then fourth buddy call over to them, then melt themselves into the line like they were there all along. You were already on a tight lunch, adding two more orders ahead of yours is going to eat up your time.

It's petty, but you sigh loudly and pointedly.

One of them turns around, uses his height to look down at you disgustedly, and says, "Fuckin' relax."

"Excuse me?" You scoff, heat itching across your face and chest instantly. You glance behind you, but everyone's either glancing down into their phones or chatting with buddies.

"You fuckin' heard me."

"Oi." The voice is like a sudden clap of thunder over your house in the night, startling your whole body awake in a single crack. Your head snaps up, eyes wide, to see the man's arms punched fist-down on the countertop like a silverback, dark flat eyes fixed on the men ahead of you. "Get the fuck outta here."

"C'mon, man," one of them pleads. "S'just a joke."

You have only ever seen the look on the man's face on television before. A predator baring its teeth, dead-still like a stone dropped flat into a stagnant pond. A shudder runs through you as you stare at the men, who're all squawking complaints and fussing like babies.

He whistles so sharply, you press your hands to your ears and wince.

"Don't make me come out there."

You start to drift away, the heat washing over you too intensely to withstand. You don't want to order or be here. You just want to slink back to your car, drive to work around the corner, and grab something from the vending machine to tide you over until the day's done. You're not cut out for confrontation like this, a soft thing that can't take the heat.

"You. C'mere."

Everyone left in line is staring at you, open-mouthed. You want to disappear into the steam of today's heat, evaporate until you're a puff of something that melts away without notice.

His eyes on you. You couldn't possibly prepare yourself for it. Worse than the sun. He chucks his chin to the side, his eyes sliding slowly to tell you to walk around back. You move with shaky, locked-up knees, avoiding everyone's stares, head down. It feels like being sent to the principal's office. Shame and hot frying nerves soak your skin as you slink around the side of the fixed truck, eyes frantically assessing the environment. Dumpster. Broken-down boxes. The typical detritus, you imagine.

And a short set of stairs leading up to the back of the food truck, a door hanging wide open.

"All out f' the day. Fuck off til tomorrow." You hear the man bark, then there's a loud metallic shuttling sound, and when you glance behind you, the tail-end of the line are all throwing their hands up or groaning in frustration, starting to walk off.

Then, the man appears in the doorway and you suddenly think of Leatherface in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre: the bulk of him, the dirty apron knotted at his thick waist, his stomach fat plumped over it, and the eyes that don't move when they land on you.

You hesitate at the bottom of the steps, looking up at him.

"Up y'get." Like a child attempting stairs for the first time.

There's no railing to trail a hand over. You knot your hands on the cross-body bag strap in front of you, wringing it as you step up one by one. The heat is foggy in here, thick and weighty.

"They givin' you trouble?" He walks over to the far end of the truck interior where you can see fryer baskets and crooked stacks of take-out containers. No order notes at all. Must be all in that big head. It's so much darker in here with the order window shuttered closed.

"No…why'd you close up?"

There's a shrug across his hefty, rounded shoulders. His white t-shirt is filthy, the collar ringed with yellowed sweat stains, dried and fresh, long scoops of sweat darkening from his armpits to where his pecs must rest, a unique pattern set-in. The lack of light doesn't give you much of his face, but it's scarred and heavyset, a strong set of mouth and brows.

"How d'ya take it?"

"Pardon?"

"Pardon," he smirks down at the fryer, his body moving smoothly through the motions of pressing a fresh meat patty on the flat-top griddle. The meat steams up toward his serious face.

Why are you here?

"Just…whatever is fine."

You try to find the smallest corner you can occupy in here, unobtrusive. You don't know if he wants you to watch him, but you do anyway. His large arms, full sleeve tattoos curling up into his t-shirt, working diligently on flipping and pressing the patty. A little stack of onions on top, cooked together for a few seconds to melt them together a bit. Bun slathered with whatever he uses here. Melted cheese on top of the meat, over the fried onion. A dribble of liquid down the side of the bun as he delicately places each topping on top. Wrapped into burger paper. Fries pulled from the basket, shaken, salted and something else. Scooped hot and stiff into a take-out container.

He uses a steel-toed boot to pull out a stool that's pushed under the corner counter. Tips his chin up at you. "Sit. Eat."

You tell him your name as you stumble onto the tall, tippy stool, pulling your wide-legged dress pants up. He just grunts in response. "Simon."

Okayyy.

He turns his back and starts to put the little compact kitchen to rights, clanging around. With nothing left to do but eat your burger and fries, you dig in. Tentatively at first, self-conscious sitting here as some strange guest that somehow earned scary food truck guy's full attention and his preferential treatment. Sweat slides down from your neck to spine to ass under your thin office top. You take small bites until the relief of a good lunch melts over your taste buds. It's everything a burger should be: crispy, crunchy, melty, packed with flavour. Nothing fancy or stupid ingredients complicating it. You sigh a little, then jam a few of the hot fries in with a bite of meat. They're spiced with something you can't quite name, and when he finally looks back at you, there's a determinedly puzzled look on your face.

"Summat wrong." Should be a question mark at the end of his words, but no.

"No!" You realize you're hunched like crazy over your container, back molded in a c-shape, and spring back up. "It's so good. I was just wondering what you used on the fries, that's all."

A coarse grunt. Dishes slipped into hot soapy water.

"Turmeric." He mangles the word. "Lawry's." Better.

You savour a fry, trying to parse those out. "State secrets, eh."

"Not tellin' you everythin'. Nosy."

A laugh of surprise huffs out of you. "Oh, I wasn't ask—"

"Just fuckin' with you, bird." He might as well reach out an arm and shake the stool beneath you for how off-centre you makes you.

You let out a puff of nervous laughter. None of the reviews said he pulled me into his food truck and force fed me, so you were shit out of luck on what to do. How to act.

"Cute watchin' you eat all prim." He leans against a stainless steel countertop, some damp raggedy dishcloth folded into the fat of his crossed arms. "Makes me wonder what else you do proper."

Your mouth falls open, a round of tart pickle plopping squarely on your lap. Before you can gather up wits and senses not fizzled out by the heat in the truck and Simon's presence, he advances on you, pulling the shadows of the space with him. His huge arms prop up on either side of the corner counters, triangulating you right inside. Up close, you can see the beaded sweat at his hairline. Behind his ears. Where it's tracked down inside the t-shirt. You wonder what his armpits look like; if the hair there is pressed with moisture and a morning application of antiperspirant. His fingers strum on the stainless steel calmly. Deciding what to do.

Stupidly, you stare up into his eyes. Stupidly, you think of telling him that his eyes look like onions that have been caramelized on a stove for hours.

"You like my food?" Leaning on the muscles of his arms, playing with you, coming down a little to your height.

"Y-yeah," you laugh.

"Like watching you eat it."

The pickle round is soaking through the thigh of your pants. You're going to go back to work smelling like pickle juice and grease and fries. You shift on the stool anxiously.

"Gonna give me a kiss me then?" An old stitch near his lip pulls the corner of his mouth, but it widens further with a smirk. Dark tea-brown eyes flashing.

Your world shrunk down to a claustrophobic corner of a sweating food truck, wedged in by a man three times your size, feeling like you've just surfaced from a pool only to find yourself still underwater. "What?"

Closer, he smells like cigarettes. Coffee. Sweat has your top and pants plastered to your entire backside. It's breaking out on your upper lip. Your breath has shallowed out to thin short pants.

"I'll let you. For bein' so sweet an' cute."

Let you? Let you kiss him?! His audacity won't strike you until much later, unfortunately. Oxygen is low. Heat is swamping.

"Oh."

"C'mon then."

He lowers himself, arms still propped up and out on either side of you, until he's flush with your face. Lets you snap your mouth closed and hover forward on the stool precariously until your lips have pressed firmly over his.

"S'nice. Were I still in Year 6." You pull back and his eyes are nearly electric, how alive he looks, mouth tugged up.

In grade 6, you were a compulsive liar at your new school, desperate to make friends. You bragged that your dad was famous because he travelled all the time for work at a pop company and that was why you had to live with your cousins. You were bug-eyed and scrawny with a huge gap between your teeth. You certainly weren't being kissed like this, or at all. Simon seems like the kid who understood what all the bases meant and showed the other kids porno mags in the forest. Those boys frightened you.

Still do.

Suddenly, he cranks up to his full height. Arms down to his side. Boots wedging the stool in place, big pillar-like thighs covered by a nasty apron pressing into your kneecaps.

You are going to be late back to work.

His hands surprise you by drawing up your neck, setting loose a big shiver that you can't hide, and cupping you there. Large hands, damp with soapy water or grease or something else altogether. His thumbs make little circles on your jawline as he manipulates your face to tilt up toward him, and you realize then, with crystalline and unnerving certainty, you have never been kissed properly before this moment.

His fingertips curl around the tops of your ears, bumping over the flatbacks of your piercings, rounding out the cartilage and bone under his mapping.

Kisses that made you smile, kisses that melted into foreplay or sex, goodbye kisses with no eye contact. Lots in between.

But a kiss that demands nothing else of you except your eyes on the other person, watching them begin to dismantle you.

Devour you.

[beebymoonlight]

[tojisun]

the way john would be sooo obsessed with his pregnant wife. thinking about all the hovering, the manhandling, the spoiling. thinking about the way he won’t stop touching you, needing to always feel the soft pudge of your body under his roughened palms.

john needs to hold, to touch, to remind himself that this is real. that you are real. he’s always dreamt of this; doesn’t matter if he’s way past his prime, he’s always dreamt of settling down and building a family. so when you came into his life—a putrid mistake; you’d begged him to choose someone else—all he could think of is how you’d look so good cradled in the belly of his home and fat with his baby. the thought was an addictive fever so he made it real, forged it from bloodied hands, and look at you two now, huh? this is as real as it gets; as good as it goes.

thinking about the hunger; the way he cinches at his desires and smothers them so that he won’t bother you with them. thinking about you begging him to, anyway. thinking about the concession—john strips at his cock with fast strokes, his eyes heavy as they stare into your fluttering ones. “yer fat with my baby, peanut. christ above, look at y’—did y’really think that i could hold back?”

thinking about the way he makes you lick him clean, his body breaking out in goosebumps with every of your kittenish licks. thinking about the kiss, soon after, and how it’s so messy and needy and delicious.

thinking about the way john begs you to use him—“go on, baby. take what y’ need from me.”