Simon Riley is the type of man to go to your mean bosses house in the middle of the night to “scare him straight” after he hurt your feelings.
He canceled your office birthday party. Purely budgetary was what he said, but, Simon didn’t give a fuck. That bastard hurt your feelings and as your husband, it’s his job to fix it and make you happy.
He waited until you were asleep to track the man down. He drove with the headlights off, wanting to be completely undetected. The house was nice. Too nice. Just another thing that pissed him off. This muppet didn’t deserve a house this nice.
His large fist pounds the door hard, ready to kick this prick's ass straight into the ground. Your boss answers the door in his robe, looking tired and annoyed.
His face changes quickly when he sees your gigantic, furious husband on his doorstep, masked and all in black. “Who- who are you? I don’t have any money.” Your boss stammers in terror, lips trembling.
Simon huffs and pushes the door open fully. “I don’t want your fuckin’ money, prick. I’m here for my wife.”
“I don't have her! I swear, Sir! I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The pathetic wanker was nearly in tears already just at the sight of Simon. To his credit, Simon was a sight to behold, especially when he showed up ready to throw fists and ask questions later
“Shut up!” Simon bellows, “You hurt 'er feelings today, canceled 'er party. She’s been excited about tha', been talking all month about it.” It was true, you really had been excited for that stupid party. It was nothing but a small office party with a cake and maybe some streamers, but Simon knew it meant the world to you.
“What? That… that was budgetary. I had no choice.” Your boss faltered, pulling fluffy robe tighter around himself like it would save him from the soldier in front of him ready to strike.
“I don’t give a fuck.” Simon growled, standing taller and grabbing the man by his collar. “I’ve killed men for less than this.”
“Please, Sir.” Your boss whimpered, trying to pull away.
“Be quiet, you pathetic shrew.” Simon rolls his eyes and shoves the man inside, towering over him. “You’re gonna do exactly what I say, or we're gonna have problems.”
Your boss scampered away quickly, trembling now. He pressed himself into a corner like a frightened animal. “Okay okay I swear I’ll do whatever you want.”
Simon sneered at him, satisfied with the pathetic display. “You’re gonna give ‘er the party. You’re gonna make it the best damn party she’s ever been to. There will be gifts, an apology, and whatever cake my wife wants. Got it?”
“Y-yes yes I understand.” Your boss nodded rapidly, eyes wide and pleading.
Simon couldn’t help but smirk. He deserved this. Deserved this for making you sad, taking something special from you. Your boss was not going to get away with it. “Throw a bonus check in there too.”
“I can’t just-“ Your boss sputtered pitifully. It was bullshit. Simon knew it. The company was doing better than ever, especially considering the lavish state of this man's house. He would find the money for your party whether he liked it or not.
Simon was having none of it. He wouldn’t actually kill him. You would never allow that. But that didn’t stop Simon from crouching for effect, needing to really give this little shit a good scare. “Do it. Or I’ll be back, yeah?”
Your boss looked down, nodding in surrender. “Y-yeah… okay.”
Simon slipped back into your house without a word that night. He tells you nothing when you come home with that bright, beautiful smile, saying that your boss gave you the party and you got a raise to go with it. Seeing that look on your face would always be worth terrifying a man in the middle of the night.
johnny and simon both eat like dogs. like you could actually feed their meals to a dog. sweet potato, ground beef, and whatever veg was about to turn rotten. and no seasoning. time can’t be wasted on seasoning in their household.
dinner is a fleeting affair. both of them hunched over their bowls and inhaling. you’re staring at them in shock as they devour their flavorless, meaningless slop.
then to the couch for tv time. you feel a bit like a zookeeper that’s just thrown a limb of mean into a lions enclosure. the beasts fed, and now they lick their paws and relax.
they don’t even like the two teams playing on the television right now.
“why don’t you two come to my place tomorrow for a change?”
“wot? something wrong with our flat, dove?”
“no, no! of course not!”
they may look like lions but they frighten easily. the last thing you mean to do is scare them off.
“course not, just thought a change of pace might be nice?”
they share a weary look. change isn’t their favorite thing, not after years of strict military routine. they agree nonetheless. and they show up right on time, no surprise there.
they share another weary look when you ask them to take off their shoes before coming in.
“i made dinner. just something light,” you smile despite knowing dinner was far more effort than you care to let on.
johnny barrels towards the kitchen. “what’s the occasion, lass? you did all this for us?” and you shrug.
“just thought i’d thank the two of you, y’know. you’re always around to lend a hand.”
they just gape at you like there’s no brain activity happening within their thick skulls.
“well, have a seat then.” you gesture towards the set table with proper cutlery and a vase of flowers in the center.
you bring them both their plates of food, no ground beef, or sweet potatoes, or cottage cheese. and they hunch themselves over, ready to inhale as per usual.
“hasn’t anyone taught you how two to take your time?”
they stare at you again. just as stupidly as they did moments ago. this time they’ve gone silent because both of them are half hard beneath the table.
“going slowly makes it better, you know. not everything is a race.”
and that’s how you end up with simon between your thighs and your back pressed against johnny’s chest as he rubs your shoulders.
“slow, right? that makes it all better?”
simon is rolling his hips agonizingly slowly, dragging his cock against your warm walls.
“simon, faster please,” you beg him. he’s been going at this for the better part of an hour.
he tuts at you. “none of that. you wanted slow, you’re getting slow.
“that’s not—not what i meant,” you pant. you roll your head back to look at johnny, hoping he might help you out. he just brushes your hair from your sticky face instead.
“dinner was nice, sweetheart. now enjoy your dessert.”
simon riley who quits smoking for you without a second thought
it was a nasty habit he's had since his teens, his way of dying a little bit with each lit cigarette. he never expected to last this long, with all the packs he goes through, bullets dodged, and the battles he's barely survived. he never thought to quit, always itching for a stick between his fingers to ease his anxiety and shaky hands.
before he met you, he never had a reason to. now that he has you, tucked into his side and leeching off his warmth, he knew he had to change. the little looks of disappointment every time he went for a smoke gutted him, or when you'd grimace every time you had to swallow his cum made him grit his teeth. or simply the idea that his smoking could kill your pretty lungs.
he quit cold turkey, like an idiot. it was the hardest thing he's been through, even if he wouldn't admit it, and he's been shot, stabbed and many other questionable things.
but it'd be easy in comparison if it meant keeping you healthy, giving you the live you deserved with him.
sure, he was as grumpy as ever and itched to put his lighter to good use, his hands shaking at his sides with restraint. he needed something to do, something to take his mind off the bad thing he craves.
and there's nothing more he craves than you. lips wrapped around your clit as he feasts on your puddy. tongue laving over the swollen flesh with half lidded eyes, murmuring excuses of, "jus' need m'lips 'n 'ands busy, luv." plunging thick fingers into your plushy cunt, slick and soaked with arousal as you let him. you're so proud of him for quitting, letting him overstimulate your pussy if it meant he never picked up another pack.
so instead of smoking ten a day, he'd eat you out ten times more instead.
developing the hots for ryan gosling because of project hail mary is so fucking embarrassing I swear to god. that is a conventionally attractive man. a noted hollywood heartthrob. he's even blond, are you kidding me? did he win people magazine's sexiest man alive? I don't know. I'm not going to check but it wouldn't surprise me at this point. it's such a mainstream taste. such a clichéd celebrity crush. like oh I fancy ryan gosling and my favourite drink is coca-cola and my favourite snack is ready salted crisps. jesus christ. 'b-b-but i only like him when he's in a science pun tshirt and playing a dorky-awkward loner type!' doesn't matter. he's still ryan 'ken from barbie' gosling. it's so trite. I feel like the weird nerd girl in a teen coming-of-age romcom falling for the super popular jock. don't I know that I have a reputation to uphold here? cringe.
Simon kinda has a crush on you. The only time he sees you is on field, you two work on a different task force that occasionally teams up with the 141, but every time he sees you it reminds him of his crush on you. Most of the time he just ignores it, he only sees you during missions so there’s no point in dwelling on it. That is until on a mission your captain gets injured and so your whole team goes back to the 141’s base because it was closer. Shouldn't be a big deal, Simon just needs to ignore you for a few days, then he’ll eventually forget about you again like he always does.
Until he walks into the locker room and he realizes, other than your face he's never really seen your skin. He’s only ever seen you on the field, when you are fully covered. And now Simon is learning you are absolutely covered in tattoos, much like him. He just stands there in the doorway staring at you, he can't stop himself. “Need something lieutenant?” Simon ran a hand over his face, fuck you were hot. He shook his head and just walked out. It was weird but you brushed it off.
Simon couldn't sleep that night, couldn't stop thinking about you and those tattoos and how hot it would be to fuck you senseless. Simon got out of bed earlier, hoping a long run would get you out of his head but of course you were also up and getting ready to run. He couldn't even think of anything to say while he looked over your body, you had tattoos all over your arms and legs, the top of your chest and your stomach, it seemed like you had tattoos everywhere except your face. “Lieutenant?” Simon's eyes snapped up from your tattooed thighs, you were smirking at him “like what you see?” Simon's face went bright red and he attempted to walk away but you stopped him “I like your tattoos too Simon” if he didn't have a hard on from staring at you he definitely had one after you said his name.
Simon absolutely couldn't get you out of his head no matter what he did to distract himself, he spent days avoiding you, and even still he got hard just at the thought of you. It got so obvious Simon was avoiding you that Price even asked if something had happened between you two. You were so fed up you went straight to his room. Simon didn't argue as you came in “what's your problem Simon?” he didn't look you in the eyes, he was just looking over your body “do you have a problem with my tattoos or something” Simon shook his head finally looking you in the eyes. He pushed you back against the wall “I want ya to tell me about each tattoos while I fuck you senseless”
cw: mdni, smut, piv, many liberties taken and likely inaccuracies about the female praying mantis (1.7k)
Simon first saw you at a handover briefing, half the base packed into a room that smelled like instant coffee and damp boots, and you were three seats down with your chin propped on one hand, listening. That was all. But he’s spent his entire adult life reading rooms for the thing that's wrong, and his eye snagged on you and would not come loose, and he couldn't for the life of him say why. Big eyes. Too big, maybe, though he didn't let himself ruminate on it. Arms a touch too long where they folded on the table, the line of them not adding up quite right against the rest of you.
He did not look away like he should’ve. A normal man sees a pretty stranger and has the decency to glance off; Simon’s known for quite some time he was not a normal man – and he fixed on you through the whole briefing… and out into the corridor… and across the next nine days, with the forbearing, unblinking attention of a lion in tall grass. He learned your shift pattern before he learned your name. He could have told you, by the end of that first week, the exact rhythm of your walk from sound alone. He knew which mug was yours, and what the base note of your perfume was: myrrh.
He didn’t find any of this strange – Simon's baseline is strange. The wanting came in effortless and stupid, the way it does for everyone else in the world — he simply routed it through the only instincts he's got, which are a predator's.
It was Soap who ruined him.
Soap caught him at it in the mess — Simon parked against the far wall with a coffee going cold in his fist, focused on watching you eat. Soap followed the line of his stare, found you at the end of it, and grinned like the cheshire cat. "Oh, her," he said, delighted. "Aye, she's one of the hybrids. Mantis." He said it the way you'd mention someone supported the wrong football team. Then, because Soap cannot leave fuck-all alone, he leaned in and cheerfully added, "You'll want to be careful there, big man. Mantis females, ehh— they eat the fella after. During, sometimes. Bite the head clean off and finish the job. Read it somewhere once." He clapped Simon on the shoulder. "Best of luck."
And then he left. Wandered off to find some grub, whistling.
Simon stood very still against the wall, then. Felt the information go into him like a splinter you can't find to pull.
Bite the head clean off?
He looked back at you across the room — you'd tilted your head to listen to the person beside you, smooth and too far round, big dark eyes catching the strip-lights — and the want did not go anywhere, that was the horror of it, the want stayed exactly where it was and the new knowledge simply moved in alongside it and started rearranging some things.
He wanted you.
And being Simon, he did not do the sensible thing and walk away. He did the research.
The thing about dating Simon, you would learn, is that you have never in your life been so well fed.
You understood it maybe six weeks in, when you opened his fridge expecting the usual bachelor wasteland and found it stocked like he was provisioning for a siege. Yogurt. Three kinds of cheese. A bowl of cut fruit under cling film. A tin labeled ‘FROG LEGS’.
It was risk management dressed up as romance, which in fairness is mostly what romance is… Isn’t it?
He'd taken Soap's splinter and built a guideline out of it. He knows — he has read, in studies he will deny owning — that the trouble starts when you're hungry. Or stressed. Or both, which is the cocktail that turns a nice evening into something a coroner writes up.
He has constructed an entire relationship on the single principle of never ever letting you get to that point.
You'll be reaching for him on the sofa, hand sliding up under his shirt, mouth at the hot pulse in his throat, and he'll go rigid and say, in that flat rumble of his, "When d’you last eat?"
"Simon," you sigh,
"Tha’ s’not an answer, love."
"I'm not hungry–,"
"I saw you skipped lunch."
He watches a lot. He watches you eat with open, naked satisfaction, the way other men watch football, and the first time you caught him at it you'd put your fork down and said ‘did you want some?’ and he'd said ‘no, you have it,’ and meant it with his whole strange heart.
The man can produce a plate of food out of thin air, and there's no point arguing, because he'll simply outlast you, planted there immovable as a boulder until you've eaten enough that his shoulders come down from around his ears.
He's never once said the word out loud. Cannibalism. He skirts it like a tripwire. Early on you'd tilted your head at him a degree too sharp while he was shaving — honestly just affection — and caught his eye in the mirror, and he'd nicked his own jaw and not flinched at the blood at all, only at you. Razor frozen halfway up his neck. The muscle in his cheek jumped and his pupils shrank to pinpricks and you'd thought: Oh. He's frightened. Big, terrible Ghost, who garrotes men in their sleep, scared witless by the tilt of your head.
You felt bad for almost a full minute.
You have, in fairness, never confirmed or denied a thing. When he goes still and careful you let him. It's the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for you, this grim devout terror, and you're not about to spoil it with reassurance.
Soap, for the record, has really no idea what he started. He'll see the two of you in the canteen, Simon angling the better-fed plate toward you and think, good lad, taking my advice.
Simon had you down — the eyes that hold on him no matter where he moves, that dark point in each one that stays, tracking, while the rest of your face goes soft and human; the too-far head-turn; the way your hands fold up against your chest when you go truly still, wrists tucked, prayer-shaped.
He did not account for the wings.
You hadn't told him because you genuinely forget they're there — folded flat along your spine, a faint seam under the skin, a sheen across your shoulder blades he'd assumed was an old scar. You can't really fly. You never thought to mention them. Plus, it seemed like he knew plenty.
But now he's got you under him with your shirt long gone and his mouth working at the junction of your neck and collar, and there's none of the careful bracing tonight — he fed you an hour ago, he made sure, he watched you finish — and now there's just his weight and his hands and the husky sounds he makes against your skin. One big palm splays flat on your stomach and slides lower, fingers finding you already slick, stroking slow over your clit until your hips chase it on their own. "So soft, love," he murmurs, like he's not shaking. He gets two fingers inside you, curls them, and your whole spine bows off the mattress.
That's when they snap open.
In the dark it's monstrous; a sudden unfolding of something unknown and far too wide for the room, fanning from your back in a wash of color he can't quite name in the half-light. A deep iridescent purple shot through with flares of red, eyespots blooming towards the tips. One instant flat girl, the next a thing twice your size.
Simon goes to stone, shuts down, every system offline. This is it, he thinks — this is the bit where she takes the head. His fingers still inside you. He holds his breath, bracing.
You make a small strangled noise and pull them back down.
They fold away almost as fast as they came, gone into brackets around your spine, and you throw an arm over your face and refuse to look at him. Your ears are hot. He can feel it where his jaw rests on your cheek.
"Sorry," you whisper. "That just— happens sometimes. It– it doesn't mean anything bad, I swear… just… you… just feels good, is all.”
The single most dangerous woman he's ever shared a bed with has flashed her startle display because he got two fingers knuckle deep inside of her, and now she's mortified, hiding her face like a kid. Four months of Soap's splinter works its way loose, pushing out of his muscle, and falls out somewhere in the dark, and Simon — who has never in his life felt safe and certainly never expected to find it here, of all the deranged places — starts to come softly apart with relief. He pulls himself back to look at you.
"Le’me see you," he says, and peels your arm off your face, and when you do his eyes are doing something you've never seen on him: wet at the edges, wide open, not afraid of you at all.
Worse than not afraid. Pleased with himself.
He leans back down and kisses you hard, pushing his fingers deeper and says it against your mouth because he’s got nothing left to lose: "Do it again. Want to watch."
So you do.
And Simon fucks you slow and then not slow at all, and every time he tips you over they snap wide behind you and fill the room with color, and by the third time he's stopped flinching and started hunting it, smug, learning the exact angle that does it. When he finally comes it's with his forehead pressed to yours and your wings open around the both of you like something out of a church window, and he's saying something into your jaw, rough and ruined, that takes you a second to parse as all mine, there she is, there's my good girl.
Afterward you bite him. Just a little on the shoulder, just to be a menace, licking the taste of iron from your canine.
He doesn't even twitch. "Knew it," he says into your hair, wrecked and grinning where you can't see. "Tellin’ Soap he was right."
pairing: husband!simon “ghost” riley x wife!reader
summary: your husband is obsessed with getting tattoos inspired by you
masterlist!
your husband felt so fucking lucky to have a wife like you, a precious bonnie who took care of him in every aspect of his life. you always made sure he had a fresh, home-cooked meal to come home to, stirring up his favorites during his most draining days at work, greeting him with kisses at the front door, adorable, “hi, si!” leaving your mouth. tiny hands neatly folding up his laundry on sundays, the declared, “laundry day” in your household, placing them on his side of the bed so he could put the fabric away. taking the time to organize his size 13 shoes, scrubbing both pairs of his muddy work boots he rotated wearing. he absolutely adored you, would do anything for you.
the first tattoo was something small, your initials, inked in tiny cursive on his ring finger, small enough for his wedding band to conceal it. “always wan’ ya with m’, sweetheart,” his accent’s thick as he shows you the green inscribe. clutching his knuckles into your hand, you kissed the new tattoo, doe eyes peering into his gaze, “i love you so much, simon.” your husband’s heart melted at the sight, intoxicated on the feeling of you kissing his wounded flesh, kissing your marking on him.
simon knew he had to get more tattoos inspired by you, desperately searching for opportunity anywhere. then it clicked. the little notes you always wrote for him! the ones you threw into his lunchbox when you packed his midday meal for work. have a great day, si xo, or i’m so proud of my precious husband, i love you, and always taking care of me! have a surprise for you at home ;), some of the things you’d scribble. he always kept them, fingering one from his collection, bringing it to the tattoo shop. you recognized his new tattoo immediately, the man nearly ripping his shirt off to show you. he was eager to see your reaction! your fingertips traced the outline, all your attention on his sensitive skin. your husband got your lips tattooed across his v line, using one of your hundreds of lipstick kisses you left on his notes. guess all the lipsticks you went through was worth it! “needed more of m’ sweet wife,” he smirks, satisfied with your speechless face.
“gotta’ notha’ tattoo appointment, hon’, s’ later today,” your husbands starts, coming up behind you, “need ya to come with m’,” he places his hand on the small of your back. you face him, confused expression littered across your features, “why do you need me to go, si?” your head tilts. he kisses your forehead, palm sliding to grab your ass, “wan’ it to be a surprise for m’ pretty baby.”
your tiny hand was wrapped around your husband’s bicep as he led you both to the tattoo parlor, “i can’t wait to see your surprise,” you say, simon opening the door for you. “m’ hope ya like it, fawn.”
“what’re yer gettin’, ghost?” the tattooist questions. you eye your husband’s massive frame sitting on top of the bench, he straightens his back, “c’mere luvie’,” he motions to you. standing from your chair, you walk over to your husband. “need ya to hold onto m’. ya know how, on m’ bicep jus’ like ya always do.” promptly obeying your husband, fingers encircling his muscle, knowing exactly what he wanted you to do. “wan’ stars where her fingertips lay on m’ bicep,” he says to the artist, keeping his eyes on you. a knowing look on the tattooist face, putting two and two together, “so, this the lass you’ve been obsessed with gettin’ tattoos of? goin’ through all m’ ink!”
Simon hovers above you, his soft eyes burning against your skin, scanning your face to watch for signs of discomfort as his fingers work your pussy. You moan softly when his digits curl inside you, hitting a spot you didn’t even know was there, his thumb circling your clit at the same pace his thick fingers slide in and out of you.
You cover your mouth, embarrassed by the fact that he can feel how wet you are for him despite how inexperienced you are, but he quickly pulls against your wrist, softly placing your hand on his chest instead. Your fingers curl against his skin, nails digging in ever so slightly, all while your body reacts by lifting your hips, squirming around underneath him, begging him for something you’ve never even had.
“Don’t hide from me lovie,” he whispers, voice low and rough around the edges, desire evident regardless of how slow he has to be with you.
You nod, gazing up at him, allowing yourself to feel the way he pleasures you. His calloused fingers slide through your walls, rubbing you inside and outside with his thumb on your sensitive bundle of nerves. All of it is new to you, every single last feeling he is pulling out of you is something you have never experienced.
When he pulls his fingers out, you whimper from the loss of friction, but he quickly takes your mind off of that by sliding his cock through your folds. His head leaks precum against your pussy, and he smears it against your clit before slapping it against you gently. Your body jerks from the feeling, a whine ripping from your throat from the harsh contact somewhere so sensitive, but you wish he will do it again.
Once Simon feels as though you are ready, he notches his tip at your entrance, and your eyes begin to water just from the slight burn. He rests his elbows on either side of your head, digging into the mattress where his arms cage your head in, and he places a feather light kiss to your soft, swollen lips.
He pushes in slowly, and when you cry out, he kisses you harder, swallowing the sounds of pain that have yet to turn into pleasure as if he can’t bear to hear you like this. Pulling away, he stills inside you with only the tip in, rocking ever so slightly without pushing anymore in. Your walls stretch around him, tightly wrapped around his length, slick coating him to make it easier.
“It’s okay. You’re okay… you’re doing so good,” he praises, waiting for your body to adjust, for you to tell him you’re ready for more.
When you nod your head, he pushes in some more, but your body is so tense he can barely sink another inch into you. His thumb quickly finds your clit, and he rubs slow, tight circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves to ease your body into relaxation. You moan louder for him, your body giving in to the pleasure racing through every last inch of you, and your walls relax around him, allowing him to sink the rest of the way in.
Tears well up in your eyes when he stops, fully buried inside of you with his tip leaking precum against your cervix, and he kisses you with the utmost passion. He takes away the pain of your first time, rocking into you slowly, barely pulling out before pushing in again. Your walls mold to him, the burn and stretch from his impossibly large length turning into the most blissful feeling the longer he works your muscles.
"So good for me… you feel so good for me," he praises, resting his forehead against yours, letting your warm breath mingle with his from the proximity.
He pulls out further now, the delicious feeling of his length inside of you consuming everything you know. He takes you slowly, the veins and ridges of his cock sliding through your walls, filling you up to the brim, leaving no space inside of you empty for long.
You moan out from the sensations running through you. Your nipples drag against his chest, your cheeks are wet from tears due to the previous pain, your mouth hangs open from the overwhelming feeling of being so close to the man you love. You whimper and whine, you cry and beg for more, for so much more.
"Goddamit- you're so tight lovie," he curses, your walls wrapped so tightly around him, and he tries his hardest to hold back his release from happening too early.
Arching your back from the mattress, your chest presses against his, and the warmth of his skin floods your body. Your hips meet his every thrust, your body begs for more without you having to say a word, and he meets you there in every way. His fingers find your clit, and he rubs the sensitive bundle of nerves with tight, quick circles. His pace picks up as he begins to pound into you, pulling out until only the tip remains before sinking back in and knocking against your cervix.
It isn't until he slides a pillow under your hips that you truly feel the pleasure he can give you. He thrusts in hard, hitting your sweet spot with precision, and stars burst in your eyes when your lids shut tight.
"F-fuck Si," you cry out, your hands curling around his biceps where your nails dig into his rough skin and you listen to him grunt out from the pleasurable pain of you.
He keeps hitting that same spot, over and over again, devouring the way your body writhes beneath him, knowing he is the first person to ever make you feel this way. Heat pools in your lower belly, unfamiliar and scary, and as it sits there like a coiled spring ready to snap at any given moment, you try to warn him.
"Simon… p-please it feels weird," you whisper, pulling his body closer to yours, unable to control the feeling building inside of you as he continues to please your body.
His thrusts slow, his fingers on your clit matching the same pace, and he moves his mouth to suck in a nipple. It peaks between his teeth, and he sucks, bites, licks against the sensitive bud until you're writhing again despite the slow pace. He builds up your orgasm, knowing what it is even if you don't, and he reassures you the best way he can.
"Just let it happen lovie," he says, slowly picking up his pace again, angling his hips to hit that sweet spot buried so deep inside of you.
The feeling builds again, undeniable and intense, and before you can protest, his lips find yours and he swallows the words right out of your mouth. He thrusts into you fast, deep, hard, anything to push you over the edge that your body so desperately craves. Your walls tighten around him, pulsing and clenching with need, your body becomes rigid and your muscles draw taut.
Cum gushes from your entrance, soaking his length in your pleasure, leaving rings of cream around his base as he continues to fuck you through your peak. You squirm beneath him, the feeling so foreign and addicting, and you give your body to him, knowing he can take care of you in every single way it demands.
"That's it… you did so good for me," he whispers, placing kisses along your jaw, moving down the length of your neck where he finds the spot on your soft, salty skin that makes you weak.
His hips roll against yours, his release inevitable as he chases it, and with a guttural groan and a few more thrusts, he's burying himself to the hilt. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out with each pulse of his cock, coating your walls in everything he has to give. He pumps himself in and out, slow with unsteady movements and jerky hips, until your pussy drains every last drop of his seed.
Simon collapses on top of you, his body warm and sweaty against your own, and you wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist to pull him even closer. He stays inside you until his cock softens and your body grows exhausted, and then he pulls out and cleans up the mess with his tongue, promising you that he will have you squirming on his face as soon as he can catch his breath.
│Masterlist│
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This is a part of my Mangkwan! Jake AU! You can read their origin story here.
Jealousy in June Prompts:
7. “Touch her and you die”
Word count: 1.7k
Pairing: Ash Na'vi!Jake Sully x wife!reader
Description: A visitor comes to ask the Omatikaya for an alliance, but Jake Sully would never honor an agreement with the fool that dares to touch what is his.
Content Warnings: AU where the Omatikaya turn into Ash Na'vi as well. Talk of killing, Neteyam and Lo'ak are little heathens, reader is pregnant with Tuk, probably OOC Wukula bc I've never played the game before.
Author's note: Based on this request by @yukiyuribot!
“Touch her and you die,” a gravelly voice came from behind Wukula.
Your lips rolled up into an excited smile at the sound of your mate. The Mangkwan warrior’s brow jumped, his hand freezing in the air over the spot where you had just suggested he feel for a kick from your unborn child. He cocked his head to the side, looking at you in the realization he had been set up for the sake of your own twisted fantasy.
“I promise a slow death, Mangkwan,” Jake growled low and quiet.
Wukula dragged his eyes from you and looked over his shoulder, gaze alight with mischief, even though he had been played. It looked like he enjoyed the game just like you did. “I meant no offense, Olo’eyktan.” Wukula lowered his hand to his side and stepped back from you.
You watched in fascination as the fire cast a red glow over one side of Jake’s face, covering the opposite side in darkness. “Don’t touch what isn’t yours.”
Wukula nodded, his hands held out to his sides in a sort of surrender as he backed away even more. “Of course not, Jake Suli. My apologies.” You circled around Wukula, letting your hips sway as you slid past Jake to stand on his other side.
“What would you do if someone touched your Tsahik while she was swollen with child?” Jake asked, the tilt to his head a clear indicator of his agitation. You peered over his shoulder, letting your hands travel over the tense expanse of his back in silent support and delighting in the way he reacted to your touch.
“I would cut them from ear to ear,” Wukula answered honestly.
“Then imagine what I would do to you if you had touched her,” Jake threatened.
“Far worse from what I’m told,” Wukula smiled wickedly. “That is why Varang sent me to you. She wishes to forge a friendship against our mutual enemies.”
Jake’s eyebrows lowered. “Which enemies? The uniting bands to the south? The Eastern tribes that you pissed off with all your raiding? Or our true enemy, the skypeople that still ravage our lands and take from our ground? The Omatikaya have only one true enemy,” Jake asked critically, head tilted as he evaluated Wukula’s answer.
Wukula narrowed his eyes, “The Mangkwan have no quarrels with the skypeople, it is the other Na’vi clans that pose our problems.”
Jake shook his head, “There will come a day when the skypeople will come for you too,” he promised.
“Even so, that day has not yet come and our enemies rally against us now. They are angry that we do not worship their goddess. They oppress us for living the way of life that our tribes share,” Wukula corrected, his tone betraying his discontentment at having to argue and being questioned. Something told you that he was not used to that.
“No, they oppress you because you burn their villages and rape their women. Just as you have no quarrel with the skypeople, we have no quarrel with the other Na’vi clans. We have no mutual enemies,” Jake corrected.
Wukula was not discouraged by this, he pressed on. “Then that just means that one day, you will need us, and we will need you, Olo’eyktan. A friend to call on in times of trouble.”
“And you planned to start that friendship by touching my mate?” Jake sneered, shifting his weight to one side and slightly bending his knee in a casual show of dominance that made your own knees weak. He was not worried, he did not fear Wukula or the Mangkwan. He would burn the world for you. It was undoubtable. That was power.
“I did not mean-” Wukula was cut off by Jake scoffing.
A set of two footsteps outside the tent made both you and Jake’s ears perk up at the sound. You exchanged a look and Jake grinned and called, “Neteyam, Lo’ak!” From just outside, two young boys of the ages of 8 and 7 came through the tent opening. Your heart softened at seeing their little faces, looking so much like both of their parents, and you smiled encouragingly when they glanced over at you.
“Come ’ere, boys,” Jake commanded and both of your sons diligently came to stand in front of him. Black, gray, and red paint slathered over nearly every inch of their skin. It protected them from the harsh sun, but it also created a fearsome image, especially with the added accessories made from small animal bones, feathers, and even a piercing in Neteyam's case. He had been begging for one for months so he could match you and Jake, and Jake had finally relented to one on each of his ear lobes.
Wukula’s brow raised and he looked confused.
Jake brought his hands to each of their shoulders, “This man is from the Mangkwan. What do we know of them?”
Neteyam eyed Wukula analytically. “They are raiders that attack villages and the wind traders. They take resources and leave little else,” your oldest answered.
“Good, ‘teyam. Lo’ak, what else?” you asked from Jake’s side.
Your youngest looked up to you. “They enslave or kill Na’vi. They are led by a Tsahik called Varang.”
“Exactly, but do they attack tawtutes (humans)?” Jake asked.
“No, only Na’vi,” Lo’ak answered. “We are the only ones to defend Pandora against the demons.”
“This man thinks the Omatikaya should come to the aid of the Mangkwan whenever they need us to. What does that tell you?” Jake pushed more. Wukula’s jaw was clenched so tightly, that it looked as if his teeth might break.
“If they rely on others to come save them, then they are weak,” Lo’ak answered.
“And what do we do with the weak?” Jake asked, eyes sparkling as he looked at Wukula, evidently amused.
“We kill them. A diseased limb must be cut off the body to prevent it from polluting the rest. The weakness of one is the weakness of all,” Neteyam surmised.
“Very good,” Jake nodded, pleased with his well trained boys. Neteyam and Lo’ak both stood taller at their father’s praise, grinning smugly to themselves.
“Can I please help you kill him, Sempul (father)? I did all my chores and I have been very good this week,” Neteyam begged and Wukula reared his head back in shock at the question,
“I can help too!” Lo’ak added, perking up at the prospect. “Please, Sempul!”
Jake patted their shoulders, “I’m afraid not, boys. This man needs to go back to his village so he can tell his Tsahik our answer.”
“Aw,” both of your sons sighed.
“I know you are disappointed,” you cooed, opening your arms wide for them to step into. “Come here,” you beckoned. Jake’s hands slid off of their shoulders as they diligently followed instructions and came to join you.
“See, even a child knows what a foolish errand this was, Wukula,” Jake said.
Wukula growled, hand flying to the blade at his side. Jake jolted forward, quickly putting you and the boys directly behind him. Your hand held your pregnant belly protectively as Neteyam let out a hiss at the threat to his family. You were proud of its clarity of sound. He would make a fearsome warrior someday.
“You have insulted the Mangkwan one too many times, Jake Suli,” Wukula said through his teeth.
“And do you know why I can do that?” Jake asked, a mischievous glint to his eye that made you feel safe, even as Lo’ak and Neteyam watched wide eyed behind you. “Because before you could even draw your blade, my mate would call in the thirty some warriors around camp right now. You wouldn't be able to kill me in the time it takes for them to come. In fact, I could probably kill you in that time. You’re good, Wukula, you’re very good, but you don't have two young children and a pregnant wife to protect, and that makes me much more dangerous than you.”
Wukula snarled, knowing Jake was right. “Go back to your Tsahik and tell her what was said today. Don’t look for help here, Mangkwan,” Jake demanded, stepping away from the door and directly shielding you and the boys from Wukula.
From around Jake’s broad back, you could see Wukula grimace and say, “This is not over, Jake Suli.” Jake’s posture grew rigid before Wukula stalked through the tent flaps and outside to his ikran.
Jake's shoulders relax slightly now that his opponent was gone from his sight. “You did so good, baby. So brave,” you muttered, snaking your hands up his arms and resting your chin on his shoulder.
Jake glanced back at you. “He didn't hurt you?” he asked.
“He did not lay a finger on me, ma Jake. I am yours only,” you assured him.
Jake nodded, “Good. I’m yours, baby.”
“Sempul! You reminded him who was Olo’eyktan!” Lo’ak grinned, interrupting you and Jake, but you could never be mad at your baby boy for long.
Jake smiled back, kneeling down to be at eye level with his boys.
“Yeah! He was so scared of us!” Neteyam agreed.
“You boys did a good job protecting your mama today,” Jake complimented them.
“Thanks dad! Just like you taught me,” Neteyam smiled, letting out another little hiss.
Jake laughed softly at the cute sound. “Mighty Neteyam, warrior prince of the Omatikaya. Wukula stands no chance against you,” he said.
Neteyam smiled smugly as Lo’ak asked, “What about me?”
“Not you, you’re too little!” Neteyam rejected.
“Lo’ak may be younger than you, but that makes him no less terrifying,” you corrected.
“That’s right. Let’s see your hiss, little man,” Jake encouraged his youngest.
“Okay,” Lo’ak let out a long and flat hiss that sounded only slightly weaker than Neteyam’s, but even cuter.
“Very scary. The fearsome Lo’ak, Son of Toruk Makto and slayer of demons,” Jake came up with a title of Lo’ak’s very own and he beamed at the name.
“I will kill many demons too,” Neteyam added, not happy with the shifting of attention.
“Together, you two will kill them all. They will shake at hearing your names,” you nodded with a wide smile. “It’s what you were born to do.”
Simon Riley who's so enraptured when fucking you that he completely blocks out anything else. It's an entire ordeal, a hyper fixation on both your pleasure and his. Doesn't matter if it's fingers, mouth or cock, his focus is honed in, even if you call his name.
"S-Si–" "–Busy, luv."
Vs
Johnny MacTavish who's got his cock stuffed so deep in your throat that you're struggling to not gag - but he doesn't notice. His attention was drawn elsewhere when he noticed the necklace you wore and he rambled about the significance of specific types of metals in jewelry until you finally slap his thigh, bringing his focus back to you.
Jealousy in June prompts:
1. Glaring down anyone who looks at their partner
4. Fighting over reader/their honor
12. Reader has no clue someone likes them
17. Mine
Word count: 2.9k
Pairing: Na'vi!Jake Sully x fem!reader
Description: Role Reversal AU - Tsyeyk is willing to put everything on the line when another declares their interest in his mate.
Content Warnings: Reader is Toruk Makto, fighting, takes place a few months after the Battle of Ayram Alusing, Leytan has a scene in part 1, so he has had beef with Tsyeyk for a minute.
Author's note: Based on this request from @vaao2445! Thank you Finnie for giving me lots of ideas for this, especially the end! She's my idea fairy for real!!!
Total silence from Tsyeyk at dinner was something so peculiar that you thought for a moment that you must have done something to make him mad. You glanced concerned at your mate, only to see his attention entirely elsewhere and glaring dead on at something across the fire.
“Are you okay?” you asked your husband, growing more concerned when he merely nodded, but showed no other form of response. He kept his gaze locked on the same subject.
You visually searched for what could have possibly drawn his attention. There were hundreds of Na’vi gathered for the evening meal, but none of them were looking in your direction. You were about to turn back to Tsyeyk and ask him flat out what was going on, when you spotted what it was. Leytan.
Leytan was a brash warrior who had delighted in poking fun at you when you first arrived and still enjoyed making comments about your body and fighting skills when Tsyeyk wasn't around. He was skilled and he was rude, but most importantly, he liked paying attention to you. Neytiri said it was just his way of gaining your notice, but you didn't think it was anything deeper than jealousy and competition.
There were several Na’vi who still kept their distance from you because of your past as a human. Distrust was still something you were battling here and you couldn't blame them. But, distrust wasn't the problem with Leytan, not anymore. You occasionally caught him watching you while you trained and the look in his eyes usually made your nerves rattle.
Tsyeyk subtly leaned in towards you. “Do you see?” he asked quietly.
“I see,” you affirmed.
“What do you think of him?” Tsyeyk asked, nodding in the offender's direction.
You sighed, gathering your thoughts. “Not much. He’s annoying, sometimes he’s rude to me, but I don't think he’s dangerous,” you surmised.
Tsyeyk’s head cocked to the side, even as his eyes stayed on Leytan. “Why did you not tell me?”
You hadn't asked Tsyeyk his opinion, opting to not burden him with silly things, not when you could handle yourself just fine. The two had never gotten along and had already gotten into several disagreements since you had come here, one of them even over you. You wouldn’t sow discord if you didn't need to.
But Leytan wasn't staring at Tsyeyk tonight. He was looking straight at you. The slight smirk of his upturned mouth told you he was not glaring at all, he was admiring. Your spine grew rigid, not appreciating the way your skin crawled at the realization.
“I can handle a few comments here and there. It’s not a big deal,” you replied.
“I feel he is about to make it a big deal,” Tsyeyk grimaced. “I do not like the way he looks at you.” He wasn't the only one.
Leytan stood suddenly, causing you and Tsyeyk’s ears to both perk up and point in his direction. The movement caught Neytiri’s notice as well and she glanced up from your other side.
Leytan approached the Olo’eyktan’s council, not deterred by being surrounded by Tsyeyk’s closest friends and family. As he walked, people glanced up, curious at why he would be heading in the opposite direction from the food or drink.
Tsyseyk stood as Leytan got close enough to throw a stone at. “Olo’eyktan,” Leytan announced, making the area quiet down and gaining the attention from the rest of the Omatikaya gathered there. The customary Na’vi gesture of ‘I see you,” was noticeably missing from his greeting.
“Leytan,” Tsyeyk replied, warily watching as the too-confident warrior crossed his arms over his chest.
“It has been many moons since the skypeople were pushed back and defeated. In that time, I have watched you rebuild and seen our strength grow again from your choices,” Leytan started, but you were cautious of his flattery, and so was Tsyeyk.
Tsyeyk stood rigidly straight, emanating power and authority. “We have all worked hard to rebuild,” he corrected, and Leytan did not disagree.
“Yes, but none so much as your mate,” he smiled, gesturing to where you sat. From your vantage point, you could easily see Tsyeyk’s fist ball up. “I have watched her closely, it is known, ” Leytan admitted, and you felt your stomach roll in revulsion.
“I hope not too closely. I would have to take at least one eye for that offence,” Tsyeyk responded, his voice flat and deep. It reminded you of a rock’s surface, rough and hard.
“Close enough,” Leytan said, “You are a good leader, but you can not love her as I would if she were mine.”
You stilled, eyes wide and unblinking at the absolute gall of this man. You had no idea before today that he was even intent on you. “Leytan, I have no interest in you. I am happily mated already,” you clarified, but Leytan only shrugged.
“Things change. I could treat you better than he does. You would come to learn that,” he responded, sounding sure of himself.
Around the room, young Na’vi snickered at the challenge, many watching with wide eyes that drank in the rare drama that wasn't over food or difference in opinion. The older Na’vi simply sighed at the headstrong warriors who did stupid things for a lover’s attention.
Tsyeyk glared down at Leytan, his breaths becoming short and shallow. “She is not yours. She will never be yours,” he ground out of clenched teeth.
Leytan only continued, undeterred by the Olo’eykatan’s anger. “What a shame that she is not. Her beauty is wasted on one so ugly as yourself. And she is Toruk Makto, that cannot be forgotten. She has many skilled and unique qualities.” Leytan’s eyes roved over you and your lip curled in disgust.
Tsyeyk lifted his brow and grinned sardonically. “I am ugly in comparison to her, that I cannot argue with, but yet it was me she chose. I am the one who attends to her happiness, and you could not make her happy.” He barked out a bitter laugh. “You are jealous, Leytan, that is clear. It is not a good look on you.”
Leytan looked up at Tsyeyk under his brow. You could see the anger on his face and in the tension of his shoulders. Still, his next words shocked you.
“I challenge you, Tsyeyk to Suli Ta’may’itan, for both your title and your woman.”
The words sounded hollow to you, yet filled you with anger. Who did Leytan think he was, acting like you were something to be bargained for?
You started to stand up, ready to give him a piece of your mind, but Neytiri caught you. Her hands wrapped around your wrist and she tugged you back down. “Kehe (no)!” she urged. “He has to accept the challenge. It has been asked before the people. He would be a coward not to now,” she explained, nodding to where Tsyeyk gravely nodded.
“You have insulted my mate one too many times. Leytan, son of Ketun. I accept your challenge, if only to remind you of your place.”
You shook Neytiri off and stood again, taking a step closer to Tsyeyk until you were right by his side. “Tsyeyk, don't rush into anything over me. You could lose everything,” you pleaded in a hushed tone, your hand finding a place on his back. He had been selected for this position because of a lifetime of diligence and honing of his skills. He did not deserve to have it thrown away all because one overconfident warrior decided he liked the look of you.
Tsyeyk finally tore his eyes from Leytan and looked to you imploringly. The intensity in his eyes nearly made you step back. “Do you remember what I told you? You are mine. No one can take you from me, and damn anyone that tries,” he spoke low under his breath so only you could hear and then he was stepping forward. “Stay with Neytiri,” he ordered.
You winced at his stubbornness, but backed up to stand beside Neytiri who was also standing now.
Mo’at stepped forward from her place of importance near Tsyeyk’s abandoned seat. “A hand to hand challenge has been asked and accepted. First to draw blood is the winner, the victor will assume the role of Olo’eyktan,” she said somberly. “Do you both accept these conditions?”
Tsyeyk and Leytan both nodded. Your stomach squeezed at the thought of Tsyeyk losing. You knew he wouldn't. You had seen both men fight, and there was no question on who was more skilled, but there was always a chance of the underdog winning. Your own story was a testament to that.
“Then the challenge will commence,” she ordered. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as both men handed their weapons off to others, Mo’at taking Tsyeyk’s knife.
Tsyeyk stepped closer to Leytan, and the two men began to slowly circle each other as people abandoned their dinner to move out of the way. A circle was created of cleared ground to be the fighting arena.
“I had hoped the first who challenged me for Olo’eyktan would be a formidable opponent. I will have to wait for the next challenger,” Tsyeyk shot across the way to Leytan who hissed at the insult.
Tsyeyk was quick to strike after that, attacking Leytan with a balled fist to his jaw, but Leytan was expecting it and dodged just in time. They went back and forth, Tsyeyk nailing Leytan’s side a couple times, and Leytan hitting Tsyeyk so hard on the face that a purple bruise was already blooming across his cheekbone.
You held your breath, wishing desperately either for Tsyeyk to finish this quickly or to be able to jump in and do it yourself. Neytiri gripped your wrist to comfort you, or possibly herself, as Leytan wiped his lips after Tsyeyk popped him in the mouth. His hand came back free of blood and you groaned in disappointment.
Leytan took a wary step back, but a dark chuckle escaped his lips. “Nga rä'ä rutxe ngeyä Unilnyu. Oe kame tsal sìn po sevin key (You do not please your dreamer. I see it on her pretty face).”
Tsyeyk did not stoop to exchanging petty words again, none would truly penetrate Leytan’s cocky armor anyway. Instead, he let out a hair raising hiss that was clean and sharp. If this was any other circumstance, you would have congratulated him on its precision and demanded he teach you to do yours the same way.
Leytan hissed back, a hollower sound in comparison, and Tsyeyk lunged at him. The two men fell to the ground as Leytan was unable to stave off the sheer force of the angry Olo’eyktan.
Tsyeyk brought his fists down on Leytan again and again, blood quickly blooming on his skin where Tsyeyk’s fists made contact.
“Tsal lu hasey (It is finished)!” Mo’at called, and you breathed a sigh of relief. You slipped out of Neytiri’s grasp and hurried to where you thought Tsyeyk would be getting off his opponent, but with horror, you realized Tsyeyk wasn't letting up.
“Tsyeyk,” you exclaimed, drawing closer and stopping just out of reach. “Stop it! It is over!” His ears twitched at the sound of your voice and he slowed to a stop, looking up at you over his shoulder as he heaved in heavy breaths.
Your twisted, hair-covered brow was low as Tsyeyk rose to his feet, stepping over Leytan’s groaning body. He wet his lips, a steely set to his gaze and turned back around to face the majority of the crowd.
“Anyone else?” He called out, shoulders set back in challenge and arms raised horizontally as if welcoming his next challenge.
You noticed most avoided eye contact with you and Tyseyk, while others glanced around the area for anyone brave enough to take on the Olo’eyktan. Many looked to Leytan flat on his back and said nothing.
After letting the silence sit for a moment, Tsyeyk nodded in satisfaction. “Toruk Makto is mine. None else may claim her. Any who try to come between us again, will suffer the safe fate.” Tsyeyk nodded down to Leytan.
“Tsahìk, attend him please,” Tsyeyk motioned to Mo’at and she hurried to Leytan’s side. You approached Tsyeyk as he watched the Tsahìk work.
“You okay?” you asked quietly, taking his hands in yours to observe his split knuckles that had started bleeding. Good thing Mo’at had called the fight when she did, or Tsyeyk would have also spilt his own blood.
“I am fine now that the skxawng (idiot) has been silenced,” Tsyeyk assured you. “Are you okay, Unilnyu?”
“I’m good, just surprised by all this,” you promised. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as Neytiri and Mo’at checked on Leytan. With equal parts relief and anxiety, you saw him move his head from side to side in pain and heard the whimper he released.
Tsyeyk followed your line of sight and grimaced at the blood seeping onto the ground. “Take him out of my sight,” he ordered levelly to two warriors nearby and both hurried to assist the Tsahìk in transporting Leytan to the healer's hut.
“You need healing of your own,” you noticed, tracing a finger over the purple welts on his face where Leytan had hit him.
“I am fine,” he insisted, but you had noticed the way he flinched away from your touch for a split second.
You sighed at his stubbornness. “Come on,” you sighed, tugging him back to your shared home. “You could have killed him,” you muttered behind you once you had made it away from the crowds and your home was in sight.
“Would that have been such a tragedy?” he asked. The two of you began your short climb up to the woven floor.
“What happened to the balance of life and not wasting a life without necessity? You taught me that,” you pointed out as you pulled yourself up and walked to where Tsyeyk kept a collection of dried herbs and plants.
Tsyeyk shrugged as he came over the side. “If he had died today, that would have been Eywa’s plan, but he did not, so he can thank her for it in his prayers tonight.” Tsyeyk smirked at his humor, but paused as he thought, “Why are you so concerned over him?”
“That’s ridiculous, I’m not,” you scoffed as you found Yalna bark and pulled out materials.
Tsyeyk stood by the entrance and stared at you in horror as he mulled over a new possibility. “Do you return his interest?” he asked slowly.
Your head whipped around to look at him. “Tsyeyk! No! How could you think that?”
“I just fought a man over you just now and you are angry with me. What am I supposed to think?” he argued, a hand pointed at the floor to accentuate his point.
You sighed, “Sit down,” you gently ordered. Your husband pursed his lips, but heavily sat down on the floor near the small roasting pit in the center of your home.
You dropped the Yalna bark into a pestle and began grinding it into a paste as you went to sit beside him. “I do not even remotely like Leytan, I can hardly stand him,” you corrected him. “I’m only concerned because you put a lot on the line tonight, and only over me.”
Tsyeyk began shaking his head before you even finished speaking, all suspicions of your interest in Leytan forgotten. “No, do not speak as if you are not important and a leader in your own right. You are everything. You bonded with Toruk and fought alongside him in battle, you united the clans and drove the skypeople back. And besides all of that, you are my mate. I would go to the ends of existence for you. He should never have even spoken of you. He could not deserve the dirt Toruk Makto treads over,” Tsyeyk said, a glimmer of pride in his eyes as he recited your accomplishments.
You rolled your eyes, but couldn't contain your smile. “And Toruk Makto does not deserve you,” you added. “You are too good to me, Tsyeyk. I couldn't have done any of it without you.”
“That is untrue,” Tsyeyk couldn't stop his grin either, yet it faltered as he narrowed his eyes and asked earnestly, “But… you are happy here, with me?”
You nodded with a sincere smile, setting down the pestle and scooping the Yalna bark paste into your fingers. “I am happy wherever you are, yawnetu (loved one). You are my home. This forest is my home. I would fight for you just as you have me,” you assured him, spreading the mixture over his cheekbone.
Gooseflesh appeared on Tsyeyk’s arms as you applied the cool paste and Tsyeyk nodded. “I will always fight for you, Unilnyu,” he promised. “I would die for you.”
Your breath hitched as you hastily rose to your knees to connect your lips to his. You were too overcome by his admission to communicate your thoughts with only simple words.
Tsyeyk was ready for you, eagerly accepting your advance and pulling you closer. Your fingers accidentally prodded the sensitive mark on Tsyeyk’s face, making him tense and you could sense that he was in pain. You recoiled, quick to react and fix what you could, but Tsyeyk didn't let you retreat, only pulled you closer despite the discomfort and kept kissing you like his life depended on it.
He knew whatever physical pain he faced would be quickly soothed over by your love.
The first thing price does when he gets back home is carry you to bed and take you right there.
He takes his time enjoying you. Kisses into your mouth and runs his tongue along your teeth, hands smoothing along your skin like he's learning every bump and crease for the first time. You're practically sitting in a puddle of your own arousal when he finally hooks your knees over his shoulder and—
"John...did you...did you just fucking sniff me!?!?" You prop up on your hands, face burning and trying to shuffle away in embarrassment "what the hell!"
"Fuckin' hold still, christ kid—" price grunts, hooking a forearm around your thighs and hauling you right back into position. He glares up at you, already dipping back down "what? I can't enjoy you anymore? Fuckin' missed the smell of your cunt—"
"John! That's gross!" You gasp, only to freeze and moan when he licks a fat strip across you. He rumbles in delight, going back in for another lick, nose pressed right against your clit and inhaling your scent.
"Don't care." He has the care to at least rub a soothing palm up your side, "been' surrounded by stench for the past month. Needed this, christ love—"
He spends hours down there, refusing to move even while you catch a break between rounds. It's only when you threaten to wear the perfume he hates that he actually fucks you. Still, his nose is tucked into the crook of your neck the whole time, all to pleased you still use the body wash he likes.
Your husband is gross, obsessed with your smell, but at the end of the day...it's nice to know he loves you so much.
Your head was heavy against his shoulder, eyes puffy and red from the tears that have stained your cheeks. Your hands lay palm up on your lap, the strain of feeling exhausted you to your core. Simon had kept quiet, eyes ahead at the wall for the past hour, letting you cry since he told you he was leaving the next month. He'd mentioned the military before, but you thought he'd never be serious enough to commit to it. He'd never been serious enough to commit to you.
"Fuck, Simon." Your voice croaked, your head lifting enough to meet his eyes. He swallowed, blinking slowly at you. He didn't have the words for you, he never had the words. He didn't think you'd.. Be like this.
"I.. I just.. I thought I'd tell you. You, uh, you took it harder than I expected." He mumbled, eyes squinting softly. The words twisted your gut, as you pushed off him. You managed to shakily stand, sniffling as you wiped your nose with the back of your hand.
"Took it harder? What does that means? We've—I've been—Haven't we been-?" You gestured between the two of you, confusion slowly creeping on his face.
"... Been what?" He softly glanced at the furrow between your brows.
You felt your chest tighten, a soft burn behind your eyes, "Well, I-I just thought.. Together?"
He blinked back a little shock, and to you it felt like a blow to your heart, the beginning of a shatter. You two have hooked up but, it wasn't ever specified.
You should've asked.
"Love, I.. This isn't—wasn't anything," he paused, standing when you took a couple hesitant steps closer to the door. "You knew that, right?" His voice came out unsure, waiting for the confirmation he knew he wouldn't get. You felt the tears boil under your vision, and you hiccupped, clutching your chest. You swore those nights meant something. They had to have.
In the back of your mind, it made sense then. How it was so easy to leave, then, for him. He had no strings to you, yet you'd knotted all of yours to him. You stood taller, swallowing the spit in your mouth.
"You knew it meant something." It came out sharper than you had intended. He furrowed his brows.
"You knew it didn't," He took a step forward, his own expression.. Angry, directed at something in the confinement of his mind.
"Simon, we talked about it. About agreeing to eye contact, to being less sexual and more snuggly, I-I gave you everything Simon. It's not funny, this is a joke, you're a joke, you—"
"I didn't ask for it!" He spat out, the crack in his own composure showing. He bit his tounge, squaring off his shoulders. "I didn't ask for it. For you to be like this, I-I agreed to a stress relief."
You stared at him, a small piece of hair falling in front of your nose. He didn't ask for all of you. He wasn't.. Wasn't wrong.
There was no regret in his face as he turned back to his couch. He started to fix the blanket you had messed up, fixing the cushions as you stared a hole into his back. Who ever really wanted all of you? Not when.. Not when your body had become enough?
You did it to yourself, really.
"You're mean." You hiccupped, angrily wiping a stray tear off yout cheek.
"And your obsessive! God, really, I-I can't do anything without pissing you off. It's why I don't date, a-and why I would've never even dated you!" He left in a hurry, over explaining himself of why he just could never be more for you because he didn't want more of you.
It had been a while since someone did, anyways.
- part two
hi I'm back 😘 sorry I feel no joy so nobody gets to feel joy. Unedited Bai love u
mistake number one. you really shouldve just gone and answered it yourself. wouldnt be stuck in the middle of whatever shitshow this was.
"ye just feckin' left me! like ah was... a shite pair of underwear!"
simon riley stood solid infront of you, blocking you from the tantrum of the other man. his mean mug uncovered by the lack of his familar mask. blonde curls completely askew as he squinted away sleep, trying to reel together johnnys hooten and hollerin'. blonde brows furrowed completely, blinking slow.
johnny continued to point and proclaim. accusations that he probably created when blackout drunk, then decided to simply run with. he paced around your living room, pitiful as he whined and—
holy hell was he crying?
"mate, wot the fuck are ye talkin' 'bout?" johnny stopped. whipping around to face the both of you. sniffling as he glared at simon. yeah he had definitely been crying.
"[+] dumped me fer ye! like— like ah—" you pinched the bridge of your nose, glancing at simon. grey sweats hung low on his hips. youd deal with that later.
"johnny! i did not dump you! you completely forgot we were dating," you hissed. popping out around your big boyfriend and stomping closer to johnny. "and for the record, i met simon months later!"
"ah did nae! ye stopped reachin' eut!"
"the phone goes both ways you fucking idiot." his pout worsened, blues watery with dramatic tears as he fell to his knees and grabbed at your legs. howling like a man lost.
"what the hell are you doing? get up!" you shove at his head, growling curses as attemps to peel him away go unnoticed.
"...you two dated?" simons low voice rings through the wails of johnny. air shifts as you suck in a sharp breath. johnny stops from shaking your legs and you take the moment to rip away before your eyes settle on simon. chest hurling, taking a breath to recollect yourself.
you werent overly thrilled to be talking about exes with him, especially under circumstances where said ex was clawing at you desperately. nontheless however. "..i— yes, simon. this is my ex johnn—"
"you didn' fuckin' tell me when i was sitting straight 'cross from you?"
what?
johnny pales, hold on your legs constricting on instinct. he stutters, weary of looking his best friend in the eye.
"what? simon, no we broke up seven months before i ever met you," your voice tinges as a desperate plea, silence in the room static as you think his anger is directed at you. telling him of your past relationships didnt seem like something hed want to know.
but alas, simon riley was a man of paranoia. "i didnt know youd want to know an—"
johnny unslinks his hold around you. moving his head away with your shoving hand. he sighs, falling back on his heels. "lad means me, hen."
brows furrow as you glance between them. stepping back when you feel the tension brewing inbetween. feeling as if you were in the middle of their breakup.
"ah din say, because ah didn' knen how," the air electricifies.
"johnny," simon barks. lieutenant voice booming in your ears. both you and the scott go ridgid, fear turning your stomachs. "get the fuck up."
warbled groans leave your ex as he stands back on his feet. frown still evident, a twist at a usually grinning face. he glances with guilt weighed eyes. huffing as he tears them away from simons.
"ah just.. shite. ah didn' know what tae say wi' the breakup," he grits out, words forced out of his throat and laid bare before you both.
"an' ah didn agree.." he hisses. you scowl in offense.
you stand quiet. watching as the scott flexes his left hand anxiously. always did when you were onto him for stealing your favorite body scrub.
simons breathing is quiet. staring at johnny in astonishment, never did he believe johnny would keep as big of a secret as he did. never with the likes of you involved.
simon confied in johnny the most after the big reveal. johnny was the first to know the true depths his heart went for you. heard it first; simons plans to first say 'i love you'.
not once did johnny say a word.
"si', ahm really serry."
you almost feel bad for johnny, you knew he was close with his teammates. probably kept your past relations a secret in hopes to not disrupt things between you and simon himself. ghost was a loyal thing. simon would understand his position.
"out johnny." or not.
eyes widen and stare at simon. johnny hiccups, looking ready to cry all over again. you want to speak up, tell them both to shut the fuck up and truly understand eachother.
johnnys out the door before you get the courage. it slams in his temper, leaving you with damage control.
Imagine reader being the only human in werewolf!141, or you are until you have to be turned on the field. A traumatic process you seem to handle...shockingly well.
The only problem? You have no clue what is and isn't socially acceptable for a werewolf to do.
The guys aren't exactly sure how to tell you that obsessively sniffing everyone's clothes is...weird. creepy. Because you being creepy is better than remembering the way you screamed during the transformation, right?
So they let you curl up in gazs hoodie, taking a sniff to mutter "woah, I like this. You smell so good, gaz."
It's worse when you decide to do it in public, still getting used to your new heightened senses. You don't hesitate to cuddle up to soap, astonished by how warm he feels, nose tucking into his neck. Cedar, cinnamon, gunpowder and his distinct musk all filling your nostrils.
Your instincts, too, are completely out of your control. You bark and whine and huff whenever they tell you to, even when it's considered...taboo to indulge in certain instincts publicly.
Like play-biting on ghosts arms whenever they are vaguely within range of your teeth, similar to how gaz sometimes acts, but you don't mind doing it in the middle of a meeting. Though you're wiggling happily with a phantom-tail common in most recent transformations, so ghost does nothing to stop you.
Truthfully, the team is glad you're so preoccupied in your new identity. Too distracted to notice the way they've been acting odd, sneaking off more often either alone or in pairs, coming back smelling odd which only makes you want to sniff them more. They've all agreed it's best to let you figure yourself out first, what with how disorienting a transformation can be, especially one as traumatic as yours.
Because really, who was going to be the one to tell you that by werewolf standards you've been violently flirting with the entire team?
Yeah...better to let that wait.
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