Ghost who starts dating you and almost immediately stops showing up to pub nights- a sacred ritual for the 141, and causes raised eyebrows by the third time he grunts “can’t” over the phone.
Soap corners him after the fifth time he cancelled, all crooked grin and too bright eyes, leaning into Ghost’s space. “Ye’re skippin’ again, LT. What’s the matter? Bird got ye on a curfew?”
Ghost doesn’t answer at first. Just shoulders his bag higher and keeps walking. But Soap follows, wheedling in that relentless way of his. “C’mon, Simon. Ye’ve not bought a round in weeks. Ye skint? Need a loan? Or is it her? Ye spendin’ all yer money on that pretty thing ye’ve been seein’?”
Ghost stops, turns just enough for Soap to see the flat line of his mouth beneath the mask. “Money’s tight.”
“Tight?” Soap barks a laugh, but it dies quick when he clocks the look in Ghost’s eyes. “You? The fuck’re ye spendin’ it on, then?”
Ghost doesn’t elaborate, just walks away. Soap watches him go, brow furrowed, and later- when it’s just the three of them and a half empty bottle- he tells the others what little he got.
“She’s drainin’ him,” Soap says. “He’s cuttin’ back on everythin’ else. Won’t even split a pizza. Says he’s savin’.”
Price swirls what’s left in his glass. “Seen it before. Good men go soft for the right pair of legs and a sweet smile. Ghost’s got discipline, aye, but he’s still a man. And men like that… they’ve got bank. No one to spend it on before. Makes ‘em easy marks.”
“Gold digger,” Gaz mutters, not quite under his breath, shaking his head at another brother lost. “Better men’ve fallen for less.”
They keep this to themselves, where Ghost can’t hear them. Wouldn’t matter if they did. He’s already gone- head, heart, and wallet- in a way none of them have ever seen. They think he’s blind to it. That he’s being played.
What they don’t see is the way Ghost’s cock twitches, thickening in the grey confines of his pants, every time he pushes his tongue past the sticky-sweet barrier of your sixty dollar lipstick until it smears, thumb dragging across your lower lip, deliberate, spreading the color onto your chin.
Doesn’t see how hard he gets until he’s dizzy with it, one fist buried tight in your blown out hair, gripping at the roots and ruining the careful- expensive- work the stylist did until damp strands stick to your skin.
Blunt head already drooling a thick pool of pre, balls aching as he watches the mascara run down your flushed cheeks, lashes clumping, while he feeds his cock into your perfect warm mouth until the flared head gags the back of your throat.
And maybe he is just a man- a weak, greedy, obsessed man- as he swipes his card on yet another several-hundred-dollar clothing purchase despite your soft protests, already half hard at the thought of how he’s going to rip those pretty new things off your body the second the door closes behind you both, bullying his cock into your cunt around the remains of yet another tattered pair of fifty dollar lacy panties.
You always say something about the cost, about how he can’t keep doing this, but Ghost just shakes his head once, sharp and final. “Can. Will. Shut up an’ let me see what I bought.”
The lads can think what they want. Let them whisper about gold diggers and better men falling. They don’t see how turned on Ghost gets spoiling you rotten, just so he can see you all soft and wrecked, expensive clothes twisted and stained, hair a mess, face streaked with him after he fucks you stupid.
It happened only one time and now here you are. Having gotten tired of your sweet, yet very nosy and persistent neighbor that kept trying to pair you up with one of her sons, trying to stage "accidental" meetings and always inviting you for dinner, one day you just had enough. So when she stops you again outside, gushing about her lawyer son and how cute the two of you would look together, you politely tell her you have a boyfriend. At first she doesn't believe it and asks to see a picture of him so you pull out the photo you secretly took of a slightly drunk Ghost, head slumped over your shoulder and his mask halfway off.
The picture has the desired effect, the image of that behemoth of a man whose biceps don't even fit into frame and mean look on his face are enough to make anyone back off. The problem is that news travel fast in small towns and now somehow everybody and their mother knows about your military boyfriend and can't wait to see him around.
Because fate has a twisted kind of humour, your lieutenant ends up temporarily living in your home after his apartment gets flooded. You only made the offer because he saved your ass during the last mission, not expecting him to actually accept it. And it's just your luck that the same neighbor happens to see him was spying through the blinds and decides to say hello and how good is to finally meet him.
It's just your luck that Ghost's taciturn demeanour cuts the conversation short, but the look he gives you is not encouraging. You try explaining the situation to him, apologizing every three seconds until he finally stops you and tells you that he's willing to pretend to be your boyfriend until his apartment gets fixed. You're so happy and thankful that don't even notice when he steps out on the balcony to make a call and break the lease for his old apartment, already planning to move the rest of his meager possessions here.
Ghost that gets very comfortable into his role as your fake boyfriend and maybe leans a bit too much into it under the pretense of "having to sell the picture". Suddenly he calls you "luvie", getting a special kind of satisfaction from seeing your embarassed expression when he does it that around other people. He pulls you into his lap while on a picnic, a hand on the small of your back when walking down the stree, even stealing a kiss or two after asking for permission of course.
You're not safe even inside your own home, finding Ghost only in a pair of boxers with a beer in his hand while watching a game on TV. The little patting motion he does on the spot next to him having your body moving on its own. It's him getting out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around him, watching that one drop of water falling down his neck, over his Adam's apple and then down his chest. He watches you back with a smirk curling on his lips. He sits too close behind you while looking for something in the upper cupboard, his body pressing flatly against yours, staying there for a moment too long to be accidental. It's only when the contact is over that you finally remember how to breath properly.
Ghost that enjoys teasing you so much, had his eyes on you for a while now and couldn't believe his luck when the opportunity to insert himself into your life came from you. He wonders just how much he can get away with and how much longer will it be until you'll let him be your boyfriend for real.
A one night stand with Nanami Kento was supposed to be simple.
A stranger in a bar. A handsome man with honeyed words. A guy who could make you cum and cry and still clean you up afterwards.
Forgetting his hands, his mouth, the marks he left on your skin and the memory of his body moving on top of yours, that was more difficult. To watch him walk out the morning after and know you'd never see him again? You thought it would be the hardest part.
But no, that came when you bumped into him four months later and he asked what your name was. When you brought him back home anyway two drinks later and you discovered he really didn't remember you at all.
The best night of your life was barely a blip on his.
And still, every few months, you'd find him waiting at the last stool at the same bar, drinking a whiskey and waiting for something you tried to convince yourself could be you.
He always acted like you were a stranger. Smiled politely until you slid into the seat next to him, offered his name and a small nod. Told you he wasn't exactly in the position for a real relationship and still climbed into the cab after you when last call came.
Sure, you had your theories. Halfway convinced it was some stupid game or kink he came up with. That it was fun to play along. A game for two. Although, you supposed it might've been memory problems, or a drinking one.
It didn't matter much to you.
His body knew. Reacted on reflexes, kissed you a little harder, stayed a little longer each night you spent together. Held you like you weren't just a hopeless idiot pining over a man that slipped away from you after the sun rose, like you meant something to him.
Until one morning he didn't just disappear.
Rolled over in bed and traced over your shoulder, pressed a small kiss there and said something completely foreign. "I have the weekend off. We could spend it together."
He stayed. And for a second, you got to hold him in your hand. Each moment was another grain of sand down the hourglass. You knew it was temporary. That this, whatever fucked-up thing the two of you were doing, it couldn't last.
But he felt right. Made you breakfast. Took you out to a quiet spot in the park, held your hand and went window shopping. Showed you his place, putting on movies and making popcorn. Treated you like his girlfriend instead of the fuck buddy you were starting to feel like. And it was there, on his couch and under a blanket, that he confessed.
"I had fun," he murmured, running his fingers through your hair. "I hate that I won't remember this."
"What?" You blinked. It had been unspoken. Something you never said outright. Although, the past few times you'd started to tease, to hint that this game was getting old.
"My job, it's, ah, confidential," he explained, low and soft and leaving a sick fucking feeling in your stomach. He was about to continue, but the panic kept rising in your chest, sitting up as you turned to glance back at him.
"Ken," you started, bile building in the back of your throat.
"I do projects for them and they wipe my memory afterwards," he shrugged, like all that time, all those experiences were just disposable. Like you were. "It pays well, but-"
"So, if we met before this, you really wouldn't have remembered?" You asked, even though you knew the answer.
He squinted at you, brows scrunched together as his fingers instinctively tightened around your waist.
"Have we?"
Forgetting Nanami Kento was a hell of a lot harder when you knew remembering you had never been an option for him.
a/n: just watched paycheck lol and had to write a little drabble :p divider by @/strangergraphics
It was a well-documented fact within the 141 that Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley was a terrifying enigma. He was a giant of a man, draped in tactical gear and a skull-patterned balaclava that made him look like a harbinger of doom.
Simon Riley had a voice that sounded like gravel being stirred into expensive honey. It was deep, resonant, and possessed a rhythmic Manchester cadence that made your brain short-
circuit every time he spoke. And the worst part? He knew. He absolutely, undeniably knew.
The training grounds were loud, dusty, and smelled of spent brass, but for you, the world usually narrowed down to the frequency of a single radio channel.
You were a recruit with a particular cross to bear: you were a "voice person." And unfortunately, your superior officer, Lieutenant Ghost, possessed a baritone that sounded like gravel pouring over velvet. It was unfair. It was a safety hazard.
"Recruit," the comms crackled in your ear.
You jumped, nearly dropping your training rifle. "S-sir?"
"Your posture is stiff. Relax your shoulders," Simon’s voice drifted through the earpiece, low and conspiratorial. He wasn't even standing near you; he was watching from the observation deck, yet the vibration of his voice felt like a physical touch against your neck.
"Yes, Lieutenant. Sorry, sir."
"Don't be sorry," he hummed. It was a slow, resonant sound—a purposeful rumble that made your toes curl in your combat boots. "Just be better. Or don’t. I don't mind watching you try again."
He knew. He absolutely knew.
The teasing didn't stop at the range. It followed you to the mess hall, the barracks, and the briefing room. Simon Riley was a man of few words, but he had realized very early on that if he directed those few words specifically at you, he could turn you into a stammering mess of a human being.
You were sitting in the corner of the common room, hiding behind a technical manual, when a shadow fell over the pages. You didn't even have to look up; the scent of woodsmoke and bourbon gave him away.
"Riveting read?" Simon asked.
He leaned down, his face masked but his eyes crinkling in a way that suggested a smirk. He pressed his lips dangerously close to your ear—not to whisper a secret, but simply because he knew the proximity would finish you off.
"I... it’s the manual for the M240, sir," you squeaked, your face reaching temperatures previously unknown to science.
"Mm. Tell me about the gas regulator," he murmured. He drew out the 's' in gas, his voice dropping an octave into a register that felt like a warm blanket. "Slowly."
"I—it has three positions?"
"Does it now?" He chuckled, a deep, chesty vibration. "Show me later. In the armory. Just the two of us."
He patted your shoulder and walked away, leaving you staring blankly at a diagram of a firing pin. Soap, sitting across the room, sighed loudly. "You're pathetic, LT! Stop bullying the lass."
"Not bullying, Johnny," Simon called back, his voice light and annoyingly cheerful. "Instructional coaching."
The breaking point came during a late-night inventory check. The armory was silent, save for the hum of the ventilation. You were perched on a ladder, reaching for a crate of optics, when Simon appeared out of the gloom like a very large, very cheeky ghost.
"Need a hand, Recruit?"
"I've got it, sir," you said, your voice cracking.
"You sound tense," he said, stepping right up to the base of the ladder. He didn't reach for the crate. Instead, he rested a hand on the side of the ladder, looking up at you. "Maybe you need a distraction. Want me to read the inventory list to you? I could do it... alphabetically."
You looked down, trapped. "Sir, please. I’m trying to be a professional soldier."
Simon pulled his mask up just past his chin, exposing a sharp jawline and a mouth currently pulled into a bratty, triumphant grin. He leaned in, his breath warm against your knee.
"Then stop listening to me with your eyes wide like a startled rabbit," he vibrated, his voice reaching that specific, honeyed depth that made your brain short-circuit. "It makes me want to keep talking."
"You're a menace," you whispered, finally finding a spark of courage.
"I'm your Lieutenant," he corrected, his voice dropping to a dizzying, soft rasp. "And I think you missed a crate. Why don't you come down here and I'll... explain... where it is."
You climbed down, tripping on the last rung. He caught you, his hands steady on your waist, his chest rumbling with a laugh that felt like home.
"Careful," he whispered right into your ear, the vibration sending a final, fatal shiver down your spine. "Wouldn't want you to lose your footing before I've even started the briefing."
The concept of price being so damn proud to be dating you, a pretty young thing he's got wrapped around his finger.
He talks about you constantly, his sweet angel that soon enough he'll have safe in his home. Price has always been one to fall too hard too fast, but even gaz can agree that something feels special about this time.
So, the team agrees to meet you.
Only for all of them to nearly choke or die when you come walking up to their table, practically hanging off price's arm.
Because each if them has slept with you.
Gaz has seen you spread out on his bedsheets, legs wrapped around his waist while you begged for just one more round. Soap has seen you in the back of his car, his knees aching from so long spent with his tongue between thighs. Ghost knows what you sound like choking on dick in the alleyway behind the local bar.
And now you sit next to their captain, and he's made it clear he wants to marry you.
When price steps away to get you a drink, you look them dead in the eyes and say "he fucks better than you and he's mature."
Yikes...
Still. It'll be hard keeping a neutral face at the wedding when they've all seen your expression mid-orgasm.
𐔌 cw: cheating, mild domestic violence, manipulations, can come off as dubcon .ᐟ
simon had already known daniel for years, a simple lad around his own age, a former sas operative just as he was, though they had completely different reasons for leaving the military behind their broad, overburned backs. for once, simon felt washed up and old before his time, struggling to find any escape between the countless scars marring his sinewy body and the endless sleepless nights, the one's he spent scrubbing his hands under the old tap until the skin turned a raw, weeping pink.
so he found his refuge here, tucked away in a quiet pocket neighborhood that stretched for barely fifteen houses. daniel, however, had found a beautiful dove to marry, a woman he couldn't bear to spend a single second away from. taking pride in parading you around on his arm, inviting friends from every corner of the country just to share the happy news and show off the pretty, twinkling ring on your finger.
you knew exactly how you wanted the house to look, meticulously picking out the couch color, the wallpaper, the rugs, and the kitchen design, building it all from scratch in a way that would make any interior designer green with envy. the way you cooked was a subject simon kept strictly behind a curt nod and food muffled gratitude, never admitting how the sweetness of the chocolate chips from your cookies lingered on his canines for days afterward.
nor did he ever confess how your roasted dinners somehow managed to make him even more famished than he already was since moment he stepped past the threshold, the mouthwatering aromas drifting from the open concept kitchen. he had never met a lovelier woman, you’d always fuss over him, asking if he’d had a bite to eat before arriving, patting his tatted forearm with a fond smile and fluttering around to find some leftovers.
even though simon knew there were none, just your excuse so you could set to work cooking him a proper meal, refusing to let him settle for the instant noodles his own cupboards were usually stocked with. pouring him a glass of bourbon, you would chat about how he was doing, twirling around in your flowery apron while rambling sweetly.
up until you'll bent over to the oven, the loose cotton trousers you wore tightened just enough around the pert curve of your ass to make his fingers claw restlessly into the washed denim at his knee. the only real problem was that simon’s brutal childhood had molded him into a deeply covetous man, someone who had learned early on to seize exactly what he wanted by any means necessary.
his grip on the door handle relaxed when a meek knock rattled the wood, nearly drowned out by the mindless drone of a late night tv show reflecting off the empty beer bottles cluttered on the table. hesitant footsteps padding across his scuffed porch, fading the exact moment he unlatched the door and threw it open.
there you stood, trembling hands clasped tightly against your chest, bloodshot eyes swimming with tears beneath clumped, rapidly quivering eyelashes that spilled salty beads down your cheeks. your lower lip was split, crimson smeared down to your wobbling chin, and the flesh of your cheek already hot and puffy from a heavy blow.
if you were here, on his porch, instead of at home chirping honeyed nothings to your husband, then simon knew precisely who had left you this way, abused and abandoned to weep. simon’s dense eyebrows pinched inward as he pulled you inside, broad palm resting warm against your spine and sliding lower in a soothing, grounding caress. his massive, bunching shoulders bending to catch the broken, sob choked words slipping past your teeth “h—he. . he accused me of c—cheating. . out of n—nowhere” you whimpered, rubbing your shiny, tear rimmed eyes.
simon disappeared to locate a long forgotten ice pack and a battered med kit from the clutter beneath the bathroom sink before returning to the living room. stepping out the gloomy hallway, he returned to where you sat huddled on his worn out couch, shivering as you sipped a cup of tea that tasted too bitter, salt bitten against your torn lip.
the springs groaned as his heavy frame sank onto the sagging cushions right beside you, his muscular thigh pressing firmly into yours. you set the mug down, breath hitching when his calloused fingers hooked beneath your jaw, gently tilting your face into the light. umber eyes tightening into viper slits, scruffy jawline tense from gritted teeth as he examined the damage.
“easy, dov', it's alright'” he soothed when you winced, a gravelly coo as your nose scrunched from the sharp sting of peroxide soaked gauze on your wounded lip. a helpless, involuntary hiccup slipped past your teeth as you tried to turn your head away. he tutted softly, calloused fingers tightening their hold on your jaw, his thumb arching to trace a soothing caress across your skin.
you leaned into his touch, blinking up at him with wide, painfully beautiful eyes, captivating even in your ruined state. not uttering a single syllable when he brushed his chapped lips against your forehead in a fleeting peck, but you nervously licked your own upper lip, breath stuttering as his heavy lidded yet unwavering gaze, partially obscured by wispy blonde eyelashes, flitted down to your mouth with unabashed hunger.
this was his opportunity, the only one, to finally seize what had caused that persistent ache in his gut, to close his jaws around the nape of your neck and tug until you went pliable, nuzzling deeply into his palm. your nails bit into his shoulders, crumpling the fabric of his shirt as you gasped right into his mouth, feeling his tongue licking incessantly over your split lip, tasting iron and a coaty, malty sweetness until your glossy eyes fluttered shut.
“ther' she is, poor thing” he crooned against your skin, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs by then, forcing them wide to accommodate his frame as he pressed a lingering kiss to the feverish skin of your inner thigh. fingers tangled into cropped hair, digging and scratching into his scalp with a force that should have hurt, but he only let out a deep, animalistic purr, his crooked nose nudging greedily into your pelvis as he took a sharp, starved inhale of your scent.
“i—it’s. . w—we shouldn’t” you tried to protest, the words pitched weakly from your heaving lungs, shifting restlessly against the cushions, one he hadn't moved you from, but had cornered you into instead, stretching his massive frame over a couch he could barely fit on alone. words always meant less than actions, especially to a man like him, dog trained to show what he can do.
simon didn't miss the treacherous way your hips bucked upward in response, bruised lips parting around a ragged whine that called his name into the stilled room, peering down with heady glazed eyes. pulse hammering against your shuddering ribcage, two thick fingers hold your pussy lips apart, glittering dewy before his smoldering gaze, the wells of his eyes gone opaque, watching your leaking hole pulse, drooling slick on his palm.
stubble grating against your tender skin, pillowy thighs trying to snap shut, and he doesn't minds the way you squish his cheekbones, letting out a pathetic little keen as his tongue drags over your puffy clit, mouth sealing around the twitching nub. head lolling back, propped against a pillow he had carefully ensured would be within your reach, you finally stopped resisting. twitching fingers finding their resting place against the hot, crimson dusted scruff of his nape, the chill of your wedding band starkly cooling his burning skin.
toes curling as he feasts on you, loud and messy, slobbering all over as tv's light makes his patchy stubble gleam, the wet sounds of your cunt louder than still ongoing show, simon's tongue licking a sweet circle over your clit. he starved to touch so much more of you, yet kept his hands pinned flat at his sides, restraining himself so as not to scare you away.
hips rolling and shifting to hump into the couch, cock harder than it had ever been in his life, fully gorged and almost bursting at the seams. mouth dragging down, lapping up and swirling his flattening tongue at your hole just to feel you clench around it, sniffling and whimpering, numb arms starting to scramble at his shoulderblades when your spine strains, so close to burst and let him swallow on your sticky slick.
“that''ss it, go on, show me” he hisses, pulling from you with a wet pop, soaked face nuzzling into your thigh, teasingly close to your spread presented, aching cunt. licking his lips as if from cream, nicked fingertips rubbing you up and down, reaching to tap against your drenched hole, clenching in needy pulls until he dips one digit in. you don't need more than that, so sensitive, creaming his pruney finger with a watery sob and heat unspooling in your belly, slumping down to gaze at him in a hazy stare, swollen lips slack.
simon handled you with the utmost care, crawling out from between your legs and stretching to his knees, he let your limbs relax onto the cushions as he stood up to fetch a towel, gently dabbing your skin clean. gathering you right into his massive lap, cradling your weight against his brawny chest, rugged face buried into the crown of your head. his fingertips sweeping in a soothing rhythm up and down your spine, before curving around your ribs.
grunting low, quiet endearments, calling you his pretty dove, his darling girl, the more your consciousness faded into the exhaustion, the less your split lip stung. he waited until you had fully dozed off, face tucked against his collarbones, breathing turning slow and content, before he reached for his cracked phone. unlocking the screen, he peeked into his chat with daniel, the picture he had covertly snapped flaring brightly in the dim room.
a photograph of you and some man, a friend, a colleague, it didn't matter, sitting close to you at a café in town. beneath the image sat the message he had written, feigning brotherly concern “lass seimed pretty clos' to him, thaught' i’d show yau” because simon knew daniel struggled with his patience, a lingering military affliction, and he had long since noticed how erratically he behaved when it came to you.
trying to control himself, but simon knew precisely which buttons to press, where to push, though not expecting the lad to actually physically harm you, anticipating a screaming match, perhaps a broken vase, the one you had purchased just recently. never intending for daniel to lift a brutal hand against a treasure like you, simon would talk to him about that later, his own hand was far, far heavier after all.
𐔌 cw: age gap with reader mentioned to be student, casual sex to not so casual sex, panty stealing .ᐟ
simon didn't care about keeping his flat clean, not in the slightest. gis neglect boiled down to two typical reasons, he either had no time due to being deployed, or when he finally did have it, he was far too exhausted to even lift a finger.
his sinewy muscles would go leaden with bone deep fatigue, a consequence of the constant, relentless lack of sleep that left bruised, lilac shadows carved beneath his eyes. the laundry basket was always piling high with unwashed sheets and sweat soaked gear, while the kitchen sink held a graveyard of dishes encrusted with dried ketchup and grease.
fridge remaining mostly empty, stocked with nothing but beer bootles and the protein yogurts he choked down to maintain his heavy muscle mass. a bottle of bourbon sat hidden in the wooden cupboard, his freezer hadn't seen a decent steak in years.
his routine was always the same, order some greasy takeout, wolf it down standing up, and call it breakfast, even if it was midnight, which was usually the exact hour his internal clock woke him closest to. afterward, he would opt for a quick, scalding shower and a few minutes of mindless masturbation, bony knuckles locked tight as his fist squeezed the heavy, blood flushed base of his cock.
if kyle hadn't told him that hiring a housekeeper was an option, having wrinkled his nose in disgust at the sheer chaos during a previous visit, simon probably would have never known such a service even existed, let alone that the internet was teeming with websites dedicated to it.
your profile had been remarkably simple, a straightforward list of what you could do, cleaning, laundry, shopping, and meal preparation. you had listed no demanding requirements, and for some inexplicable reason, your requested salary was incredibly low. it was an absolute dream, though he had been fully prepared to pay an inflated price just to have his squalor managed.
following a characteristically brief, dry exchange of messages on his part, he scheduled an evening meeting with you. not making the slightest effort to clean up before your arrival. when he threw the door open, his hair was a shaggy mess, a week's worth of patchy stubble shadowed his square jawline, and a pair of stained gray sweatpants hung low on his wide hips beneath a crumpled shirt that was entirely too tight for his massive form.
yet, you didn't even blink at the sight of the jagged scars marring his face, nor did you falter at his unkempt clothes. instead, you fixed your gaze strictly on the surrounding mess, doing so without a single grimace or frown, an unbothered composure that pulled a rare grin from his lips behind your back.
“what', no scream?” simon grunted, clearly amused now. he took a slow step closer, tracking the way your eyes flitted about, systematically scanning the wreckage of his living room and kitchen with the callous efficiency of a trained robot, only looking back at him when you let out a fickle, noncommittal hum.
“seen worse” you answered shortly, offering a small, indifferent shrug, craning your neck at an angle to look directly into his face, holding a steady, unblinking gaze with his honey speckled irises. the blackout curtains were parted just enough to let in the fading light, the amber sunbeams catching the edges of simon’s messy hair and bleeding into his eyes.
“yau look a bit' too yaung to hav' sein much” he remarked, and it was the truth, you looked far younger than him, and certainly younger than the hardened faces he was used to surrounding himself with. your expression didn't even flicker, holding his stare, maintaining a heavy, awkward silence that nearly made his skin crawl.
“i’m a witch” you finally grumbled, tone blunt and clipped in a lazy drawl as you quirked a single eyebrow upward. simon went dead silent, mirroring your stillness for a heartbeat, before he suddenly barked a loud, booming laugh, baring his crooked teeth in genuine entertainment, and the tension dissolved there.
you moved on to discuss the payment, admitting that he was right about your age, a student simply looking to earn what she could when your schedule permitted. when he offered a significantly higher rate than you had asked for, you declined politely, fixing him with a scowling glare that openly labeled him a creep. leaving your number in his phone, you agreed to return tomorrow, once again in the evening.
what simon had expected would take no less than a month to clean had been thoroughly tidied up in less than a week, every single corner scrubbed bare and dust cleared from places he hadn't even known existed. for the first few days, he had slept through most your shifts, knowing you were there and setting his alarm strictly for the hour you were about to leave.
every night he’d wake to a new miracle, finding you’d somehow hauled the heavy sofa across the floorboards to clean the dust bunnies beneath it, and had dusted behind the television without breaking a wrist or even a sweat. amused, he changed your contact name in his cracked phone to witch.
when you accidentally caught a glimpse of the screen one evening, you flashed him a smile so unexpectedly sweet that it nearly gave him a stroke, accustomed as he was to seeing you either plain faced or frowning in deep concentration over chores.
your cooking was something he would actively brag about to johnny and kyle, never in his life had he wanted to lick a plate clean, yet whatever you prepared whether roasted, baked, meat, fish, or soup he devoured it like a starved stray dog, licking his lips and declaring aloud “shit', nevuh tasted anything bettuh than this”
crucially, you never commented on the cum stains on the boxers he frequently dropped into the laundry basket when sorting out the clothes. nor did you find it strange when he abruptly altered his sleep schedule just to stay awake while you were cleaning.
watching you patiently from the couch, his long legs spread wide and his head cocked, while the television hummed with the very show you had earlier dismissed as utter shit out in the background.
“stay for dinnuh next' tim', my treat', i’ll do the cooking” simon offered one evening. it had been nearly a month since you started working for him, and because you stubbornly refused all his attempts to raise your salary, this was the only compromise his mind could conjure, at least a dinner, a chance to treat you to something fancy.
“since when do you cook?” you had asked, your voice far more amused than curious, openly teasing him considering you’d been the one fixing every bite he ate, down to the chalky protein shakes he needed for his workouts, possessing far too much culinary expertise for your age.
“i can handl' a stov'” he let out a gravelly huff, rolling his shoulders as he watched you tie your shoelaces, bent over with your pert ass curved beautifully in his direct line of sight. your clothes weren't revealing, just simple jeans pulled taut against the swell and stretchy shirt, yet his cock stirred in response, chubbing behind the sweats and boxers.
simon knew damn well you caught the outline the moment you spun around to accept the dinner invitation. actually lingering behind the following evening for a flawlessly seared steak draped in a rich bourbon garlic cream sauce, paired with crispy roasted potatoes.
you finished the plate, warmed up and satisfied with your belly full, and ended up straddling his fuzzy thighs right there on the sagging couch. hips rolled down onto his brawny lap, and his swelled girth thrust in brutal and deep, plunging itself within your tight, sappy cunt. walls convulsing around his bottoming base as he pistoned in, your jiggly ass smacking against his heavy balls.
“christ', even yauh cunt' the best'” his humid breath hit your face in a thoroughly ragged rasp, hooded eyes wandering, darting from your eyes, which had gone completely glassy, veiled in a thick fog of pleasure, to the way slick rolls in tacky rivulets in response to how he rams in. scarred hips angled to hit deeper, battering the lumpy spot that makes your thighs cramp and shake.
you were uninhibited and deliciously loud, answering his heavy rhythm with nothing but breathless, sharp moans and high pitched whines as you rode him completely dry, tight walls contracting in a vice like grip around his veined girth, spilling an abundant, glossy slick that churned into froth.
this wasn't his first lay in weeks, but you were driving him entirely out of his mind, leaving him so dazed and overwhelmed that his vision blurred and his umber eyes nearly crossed. broad paw clamped flat against your hip, dimpling the supple skin as he kept your weight down, his fingers toying idly with the waistband of the panties you hadn't even bothered to take off.
he didn't tighten his grip to hurt, but his blunt fingernails still bit hard into your curves, branding your flesh with stinging raw indents. he slams in, and you leak out, strings of arousal stretching in glimmery strings, matting coarse pubes that rub across your pulsing clit, making your body seize taut, squealing “a—ahn, s—simon!”
heavy lidded eyes grew long since glassy with desire, even further as he nuzzled in to press his mouth hungrily against your sternum. peppering a path of biting kisses outward until his mouth was filled with the lush, bouncing swell of your breast, tongue swirling in demanding, drooling circles around your pebbled nipple.
simon cums quick, you don't know about that, but he acknowledges that his peak comes much more earlier than he's used to, heat pooling within his bulging veins and spreading mercilessly, rapture hot pressure gathering at the rise of his spine and traveling, your own tummy threatening to snap with feverish coil.
heat clenching sporadically around him, encouraging on, and he follows, jerking when your cunt wraps tight and spasms, creaming his length while his balls twitch. thick cum plugging you deep, the excess a creamy, frothing mess that coats your thighs in pearlescent dews alongside lacquering slick.
he let's out guttive groan, words ripping raw from his chest “that''s it — feiling so good, lovi', fucking best'” large hands had long since moved from the slope of your hips, roughened fingers now buried deep, kneading the round, plump curve of your ass, gripping to hold you flush to his pelvis while he floods your satiating hole, nicked lips pressed softly against your sweaty temple.
you shuddered on his lap, slumped heavily against sturdy chest, sore yet adorably content, huddling closer as hushed, exhausted whimpers slipped past your teeth. hiding your sweltering face beneath the rough scruff of his jawline, breath ghosting uneven against his blotchy skin, and he wished with all his horny heart that this could happen every damn day.
nothing changed outwardly when you left, just a polite goodbye and a brief, muttered “until sunday, yeah?” tossed between you in the hallway, a flat, unimpressed frown marring your face when you noticed your soiled panties stuffed casually into his pocket, despite his earlier claim that they had simply been ripped during the frenzy.
simon spent his weekends as usually, sleeping, eating the meals you had so lovingly prepared and packed for him, working out, and then fisting his leaky cock while single mindedly sniffing your stolen underwear, over and over again, until you finally returned on sunday.
both acting as usual, showing no avoidance and no lingering tension, but somehow you ended up with his weathered face buried right against your gooey cunt, bent over the kitchen counter while your fingers still gripped a microfiber cloth, now knuckling it. he knelt down behind you, calloused hands spreading your asscheeks to hold you open to his eager tongue.
by the time he let you up, you left his flat on wobbly legs, far later than you ever should have, the skin of your inner thighs raw and chafed from the relentless scrape of his rough stubble, making your muscles clench with ache. behind your back, simon had already pulled out his phone, display lit up and mirroring his toothy grin, thick thumb swiping to change your contact name once more, my witch.
Let me make you feel good: Reader is injured, and TF141 takes care of her, but they get more than they bargained for....
mdni +18 HEAVY SMUT!!
a/n: thank you, anon, for the request, hope you enjoy! this was a fun one to write
“Fuck, we need to hurry, lads! She’s not going to make it!” Gaz shouted, his tired eyes glued to your weak, pale form.
“She will, Sergeant!” Price retorted, his focus entirely on clearing the route to the safehouse so Simon and the rest of the team could get you safely inside.
The covert mission had gone sideways, devolving into a chaotic, open-fire assault. You had been caught in the crossfire—two AK-47 rounds tearing into your shoulder and lower abdomen.
“F-fuck... I’m not dead yet, guys,” you tried to joke. Your vision was blurring like hell, the massive blood loss rapidly catching up to you.
Before you could process anything else, you were lifted and delicately placed onto a large dining table that was now serving as a makeshift surgery station.
“Right, we need to act fast. Johnny, get the med kit! Gaz, prep her!” Ghost barked. The sheer ferocity in his voice was meant to command, but it couldn't entirely hide his panic.
Meanwhile, the Captain paced the perimeter of the room, desperately trying to establish comms with HQ. The situation was dire, and looking around the bare room, he wasn't entirely sure they had the resources needed to pull you through.
Gaz tore into the buckles of your tactical gear. Seconds stretched into agonizing eternities as he fought through the endless layers of ballistic nylon and heavy clothing. Seeing the struggle, Johnny sprinted back into the room with the medical kit and immediately pitched in; time was rapidly running out.
“Ah, fuck this!” Soap growled. Snatching a pair of trauma shears from the kit, he began hacking ruthlessly through your combat shirt and base layers to expose your upper body, slicing right through your sports bra to clear the area around your mangled shoulder.
The agony of being handled was too much. Gasping, you forced yourself up onto your elbows, but the sudden movement caused a fresh torrent of dark maroon liquid to pour from the wounds, pooling onto the table like a homicide scene.
You could only suck air through gritted teeth, a strangled groan catching in your throat as the pain spiked into something truly unbearable.
“Easy, soldier. Stay down, you’ve lost too much blood,” Ghost muttered, his heavy hands pressing firmly but carefully against your good shoulder to lay you back down.
All you could manage was a weak nod, biting your lip so hard it bled as a blur of hands moved frantically over your skin.
After what felt like a lifetime of agonizing pressure and burning needles, they finally retrieved the lodged bullets and stitched the ragged wounds closed.
Even with the bleeding stopped, you lacked the strength to move, choosing to remain flat on the makeshift operating table—utterly exhausted, but alive. The men refused to leave. They scattered to different corners of the room, their eyes locked on you with absolute vigilance, as if looking away for even a single second would mean losing you for good.
Against their best wishes, you forced yourself to sit up. You couldn't afford to lie there looking weak; you needed to get back on your feet as quickly as possible—not just for your own survival, but for the sake of the unit.
As you swung your legs over the edge of the table and pulled yourself upright, every man in the room perked up. But the look on their faces was strange, almost as if they were seeing something they shouldn't. In your haste, you hadn't realized—or frankly, cared—that you were still completely topless, save for the bloody bandages wrapped tightly around your torso.
The air in the room instantly shifted.
Ghost noticed first. He didn't say a word, his hidden gaze locking onto your chest, taking in your toned physique. He knew you were a woman, obviously, but seeing you stripped of all that bulky tactical gear was a stark reminder.
Soap was the next to notice. Following his Lieutenant's locked-in stare, his eyes landed on your exposed top half. A faint, involuntary smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was quickly replaced by the same awe-struck wonder.
Gaz and Price were stationed on the opposite side of the room. Even with your back facing them, the sight had a profound effect. To Price, you had always been like a daughter, much like the boys were his sons, albeit a bit of a tomboy. But seeing your bare back, the reality hit him; although your strength was undeniable, you were still so much smaller than any of them. Tiny. Fragile.
Gaz, meanwhile, could feel his face burning a deep crimson. He caught himself staring, frantically trying to look anywhere else in the room but at you—and failing miserably every single time.
You attempted to stand, your footing still terribly wobbly. But before you could even push yourself off the table, all four men moved in unison, jumping to your rescue. Large, heavy hands instantly anchored to your skin, handling you as if you were some sort of delicate ornament.
“Not so fast, soldier. You need to rest,” Price said, his hands gently but firmly forcing you back down.
“Captain, I’m fine,” you protested, though an involuntary wince escaped your lips at their slightest touch.
Price only shook his head, refusing to let you up. All four of them stood hovering over you, their expressions shifting into something they’d never dare admit out loud: pure, unadulterated desire.
You stared up at them from the table, your tired eyes darkening. There was something entirely unexplainable about the air in the room. Maybe it was the adrenaline of them saving your life, maybe it was the suffocating proximity between you and the unit, or maybe it was just the raw, animalistic shift in how they were looking at you.
They wanted to protect you, but you wanted to prove a point. You were not as fragile as they wanted you to be.
You locked eyes with Price as you reached down, unbuttoning your cargo pants and shifting to wiggle yourself free from them, your combat boots already discarded in the aftermath of the medical chaos. Price didn’t look away once. You lay there practically naked beneath their collective gaze, and the sudden, tense shift in the room was palpable as a familiar, heavy heat settled over all four of them. A familiar twitch in their boxers.
You pulled yourself upright once more, a sharp wince catching in your throat as the movement pulled at your fresh stitches.
“No,” you commanded, your voice low but unyielding as you pushed away the heavy hands attempting to force you back down.
As you sat up, you brought yourself level with their faces. Looking at them all, you reached out and grabbed Ghost’s hand. You stripped the heavy tactical glove from his fist and placed his bare palm directly over your breast, coaxing him to squeeze the soft tissue in his hand.
He obliged instantly. His gaze remained locked with yours, a low, gravelly groan escaping his throat as his fingers flexed, groping the soft flesh.
Soap and Gaz stood frozen, mouths slightly agape, looking between you and their Lieutenant as if trying to figure out if the sheer lack of sleep was causing them to hallucinate. You only smiled darkly in their direction.
Turning back to the Captain, you noted the tight, rigid set of his jaw as he stared into your eyes.
You took his hand next, guiding it to your other breast and coaxing him into the same heavy grip. Price didn’t hesitate; his fingers kneaded your skin, pinching your nipple ever so slightly and forcing a sharp, breathless moan from your lips.
“I’m not a little girl. I know what I’m doing, and I know what I want,” you said, your voice dripping with absolute certainty as you stared the Captain directly in the eye.
“And this is what I want.”
You motioned for Price to sit down, watching you. It was a silent agreement, an invitation for you to show him exactly what you meant.
Turning back to Ghost, you looked up at the hardened man, your eyes softening with genuine adoration.
“Simon, you saved my life. Let me make you feel good. It’s the least I can do,” you purred. Resting against him, you could feel his rigid erection pressing hard against your chest.
You noticed his initial hesitation, so you reached down and gripped his heavy bulge, palming him softly through his uniform. The contact elicited a low groan from deep in his chest as his head fell back in sheer pleasure.
“You don’t have to, dove. It’s okay,” he muttered, his protective instinct warring with his desire.
But you insisted, tightening your grip on his crotch as a slight pout formed on your lips. “Let me do this. Please,” you pleaded, looking up at him through your lashes. That single look was enough to completely break his resolve.
Without another word, Ghost carefully lifted you from the table, anchoring his large hands under you to situate you onto his lap. He was hyper-aware of your injuries, moving with a surprising gentleness to ensure he didn't cause you any pain.
Releasing his cock from his trousers, he kept his heavy hands steady on your hips. You shifted, pulling your soaked panties to the side to give him full access. As you slowly lowered yourself onto his length, you drew a sharp, sudden breath. So big.
“Are you okay?” he asked frantically, his dark eyes widening with instant concern.
“Y-yes... you’re just a l-little big, Si,” you breathed, letting out a weak laugh before forcing yourself down further. Your tight walls yielded to him, stretching until you sucked him in completely, bottoming out against him.
You began to ride him, your core clenching tightly around his thickness as you bounced weakly up and down on his lap. Despite your exhaustion, you were determined to show your gratitude. Simon’s hands immediately secured your waist, carefully avoiding your fresh stitches, while his other hand cupped your ass.
His heavy, dark eyes were locked onto your face, tracking every scrunched expression of pleasure.
“F-fuck, y-yeah,” you gasped, eyes squeezed shut as you rode your Lieutenant with everything you had left. The quiet room was suddenly filled with the heavy, unhurried sound of wet friction and your breathless mewls as your climax began to build.
“Such a good girl,” Simon breathed out, his own apex rapidly approaching. Feeling your thrusts begin to slow from exhaustion, he took over the momentum. He shifted your weight securely against him, anchoring you to his shoulders while he began bucking his hips upward into you.
“S-shit, I’m c-close,” you squealed as the tension finally snapped, sending you over the peak.
Your release was followed closely by the heavy, guttural grunts of your Lieutenant, his harsh, deep thrusts shuddering to a slow, rhythmic halt as he filled you.
You rode out the lingering waves of your high, your hips slowly gyrating back and forth as you threw your head back, arching your spine. Watching you tremble, Ghost brought his hand up to your breast, giving the soft flesh a heavy, teasing slap that made you gasp against his neck
“Jesus C-christ,” Gaz let out, his voice shaking. Witnessing you and his superior officer like that had left him utterly reeled—and burning with a desperate, heavy jealousy.
“Captain, surely—”
“It’s alright, Gaz,” Price interrupted smoothly. He fished a cigar from his heavy tactical vest and struck a match, blowing a thick, fragrant cloud of rich tobacco smoke into the room.
You only looked back at Gaz, your expression thoroughly dazed and dark with lingering pleasure as you slid off Simon’s cock.
You sauntered over to where Gaz was standing, your movements slow and deliberate.
Reaching up, you pulled the band free from your hair, letting the locks tumble down your shoulders. In an instant, the tomboy Sergeant they all knew had completely vanished. Gaz could only stare, swallowing hard as he fought a desire he had never wanted to admit out loud.
“I just want to make you feel good, that’s all,” you purred. You reached out and took his massive hand in yours, lifting it to your mouth. You slipped his fingers past your lips, sucking on them deliberately while looking up into his eyes with a raw, hungry need.
Gaz couldn’t even conjure words. He was completely mesmerized by the wicked contrast of your tongue lapping at his fingers, even while your wide eyes pinned him with the look of an innocent little bird.
With a soft pop, you let his fingers slide free and sank slowly to your knees.
Your hands made quick work of his belt and the buckles of his pants, freeing his raging erection from his boxers. You ran your tongue along the underside, starting from the heavy base right up to the swollen, sensitive tip. You pressed a gentle, lingering kiss right against the head, causing him to shudder violently from the faint touch.
You let out a soft giggle, entirely satisfied with how responsive he was to your mouth. Your tongue swirled around the tip, catching the bead of pre-cum that had begun to leak out.
Kyle’s hands instinctively found your hair, his fingers firmly burying themselves into your roots. You took him into your mouth, your cheeks hollowing as your head began to bob rhythmically up and down, taking in as much of his cock as you could manage.
“Holy shit,” he choked out, his knuckles turning white in your hair.
Before long, your steady pace wasn’t enough to satisfy the desperate edge he was feeling. Taking matters into his own hands, he firmly guided your head up and down his cock with a coarser, heavier tempo, his hips beginning to buck aggressively into your mouth.
Watching him unravel and feeling the raw pleasure you were causing him only made you ache, a fresh wave of juices slicking down your thighs as you sucked him off.
You could tell he was close when his thrusts turned sloppy and frantic. You hollowed your cheeks harder, taking him as deep into your throat as you could manage and letting out a low, vibrating moan.
The deep resonance of your throat was the final trigger he needed to break.
His thrusts slowed down to a heavy, shuddering halt as he hit his climax. The thick, white substance began to leak from the corner of your mouth, but you swallowed every single drop whole.
“Fuck,” he breathed out, completely breathless as he watched you hungrily drink him dry. When you finally pulled away from him, it was with a loud, wet pop.
You didn’t stop there. Leaning back in, you gave the tip a few slow, lingering kitten-licks, ensuring every last drop was savoured.
Before you could even catch your breath, you felt two strong hands heft you up and place you roughly back onto the table on your back.
You couldn’t help but wince, though a breathless laugh escaped your lips, knowing exactly who it was.
“Easy, Soap!” Ghost scolded, nearly having a heart attack at how carelessly the Sergeant was manhandling your injured frame.
“Sorry, L.T. Cannae wait, that’s all,” Soap retorted, flashing you a wicked wink as he unbuckled his trousers. Patience had never been his strong suit.
“At least someone isn’t afraid to break me,” you teased, throwing a pointed look toward both Simon and Gaz. They both rolled their eyes in response, but their attention remained entirely locked onto whatever you and Johnny were about to do next.
Sitting up, you met Johnny’s lips, making out with him messily. His hand wrapped firmly around your throat in a soft, possessive grip. Soap gently pushed you back down against the wood and began trailing a path of sloppy, wet kisses down your stomach, tracking lower and lower until he stopped right at your soaked heat.
“Been waiting to taste her, bonnie,” he purred, his hot breath tickling your already hyper-sensitive folds.
You could only whine in response. Without any further warning, Soap attacked your bud, sucking and slurping against you like a starving man who had never been fed. The intense friction brought loud, desperate mewls from your throat, and your hips instinctively bucked upward into his mouth, begging for more.
“Pretty girl, ain't she?” Soap teased the room, looking up for a split second before diving right back in. His tongue focused entirely on that sensitive bundle of nerves, and your hand flew up, burying your fingers into his mohawk to hold him close as he continued to eat you out.
“F-fuck, Soap... right there!”
Your praise only antagonised him further. His tongue licked the entire length of your cunt, unrelenting and heavy.
“I’m gonna c-cum!” you screeched, your hips bucking frantically. Anticipating the release, Soap slid two fingers deep inside, ruthlessly fucking your greedy hole while his tongue continued to attack your clit.
The room filled with heavy, wet sounds as you closed in on your climax. Soap hit that sweet spot over and over until you finally snapped, squirting heavily all over his mouth. He let out a muffled laugh, his mouth still firmly attached to you as he slurped up every last drop of your sweet release.
You lay there completely breathless, your mind entirely blank from the intensity of the orgasm.
“O-oh my God,” you weakly wheezed, your chest rising and falling heavily.
“That’s a good girl,” Soap muttered. He wasn't looking at your face, but rather down at your swollen, overstimulated cunt, thoroughly pleased with himself for the shatter you had just pulled from you.
Price had remained seated the entire time, thoroughly amused by your performance. Taking another deep drag of his cigar, his heavy eyes watched the absolute mess his Sergeant had become.
“Not bad.” A gravelly voice pulled you from your post-orgasmic bliss.
A dark, knowing smirk plastered itself across your face as you turned and made your way over to the Captain. Opting to crawl across the floor, you slid right between his legs, resting your cheek heavily against his massive bulge.
“What am I to do with you, hm?” he asked softly. His large, rough hand travelled to your cheek, stroking your skin with surprising endearment.
“Captain—”
“Shh.” You were quickly silenced as his thumb slipped past your lips, pressing into your mouth.
“Here I thought you were just one of the boys. How wrong I could have been,” he murmured, looking down into your eyes with a complex look—akin to a father who was both deeply rattled and intensely proud. “Come here.”
Price patted his lap. You didn’t even think twice before crawling upward, desperate and needy for your Captain’s validation.
“Such a good girl, hmm?”
You could only nod in response, feeling like absolute putty in his hands. This side of you truly did something to him. He was so used to seeing the battle-hardened soldier; seeing you this eager for his touch, this desperate for his approval, was utterly intoxicating.
Before you could process the heat, he spun you around until your back was flush against his chest. Freeing his rigid cock from his trousers, he lifted you by the hips and lowered you straight down onto him.
You winced again, the sudden movement tugging at your fresh stitches while the sheer size of him stretched your walls to their absolute limit. But you bit down hard on your lip, refusing to show a single shred of hesitation.
“That’s it, baby,” Price quietly praised against your ear.
He immediately began bucking upward from behind. With your back flush against his chest, every deep, heavy thrust buried him all the way to your cervix, sending white-hot waves of pleasure radiating throughout your entire body.
Price pressed soft, lingering kisses along the slope of your neck as you melted completely into his touch, his gravelly voice whispering absolute sweet nothings into your ear while he single-handedly ruined your tired cunt.
It didn’t take long for the others to get hard again. The sight of you completely fucked out, getting railed thoroughly by the Captain, sent their own cocks throbbing. Without a word, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz began to jerk themselves off right then and there, their eyes completely glued to the sight.
“C-captain,” you whined out, feeling a dangerous wave of overstimulation creep up on you.
“Shh, you’re doing so good, baby. So good,” he cooed. His hand snaked down between your thighs, finding your swollen, slick nub and rubbing agonizingly perfect circles against it to force you over the edge.
You instinctively tried to arch away from the overwhelming sensation, but his grip on your hips was ironclad. He held you firmly in place, forcing you to take every single ounce of the pleasure he was giving. His thrusts grew rougher, the tempo turning fast and relentless as his hips bucked into you. Both of you were right on the precipice.
“FUCK!” you screeched, the tight knot in your stomach coiling hard before completely releasing, your walls clamping down violently all over your Captain’s cock.
Price wasn’t far behind. With a final, deep surge and a rough, guttural moan, he released his own hot seed deep inside you.
As you finally came back down from your high, your heavy eyelids fluttered open. You watched as the other three members of the team finally came into their own hands, pushed over the edge by watching you reach your nth orgasm of the night. A twisted, deeply satisfied smile crossed your swollen lips.
The bond forged in that room from that night onward was something infinitely stronger—something neither you nor the men could ever begin to describe to outsiders. But it didn't matter. No one else needed to understand the unspoken rule of what you all shared.
𐔌 cw: improper workplace relationship, can come as dubcon .ᐟ
john was still coming to terms with retirement. he had needed it, a fully conscious choice made the moment his burly shoulders began to feel heavier than ever before, and when a peppery cigar after a particularly grueling day stopped thawing his anger issues, his scarred knuckles crushing the rolled tobacco bundle into ruin instead.
still, this part time desk gig thrown his way because he’d grown too restive pacing the floors of his empty house and lounging at backyard doing nothing, felt oddly strange. there was no ringing chaos in the corridors, no steady stream of soldiers pounding on his door, always desperate for orders.
here, in this spacious room with its long, polished bureau and a resting corner furnished with a leather couch and a ceiling high bookshelf, there was only paperwork. it was dropped off in absolute quiet, looking like something a newborn could handle, and he’d have it cleared in an hour, left with nothing to do but sit in the quiet and claw restlessly at his silver flecked beard.
they'd even thrown in a secretary assigned to him, despite that your official title was far more complicated, and for what exactly they were paying you, he couldn't fathom.
crow's feet at his eye corners deepening whenever his gaze narrowed, azureish blue irises tracking the subtle sway of your hips as you entered the room, documents clutched to your chest with nervously drumming fingers as you mumbled a timid “here's your work, sir”
you served him coffee, more than twice a day, always heavy on the sugar, way sweeter than he liked, as if you were fixing the mug for yourself instead to an old captain. he never called you out on it, though, content to just slide a tongue over his sweetened teeth.
perhaps you received a salary simply for being a darling, checking in on his day and fretting over his rest whenever you noticed the lilac circles bruising under his eye sockets. you'd always shyly flutter those wispy eyelashes away from his unwavering gaze whenever his voice dropped into a gravelly rumble to croon teasing “thank yau, luv” while you gathered empty cups from his desk.
either way, he didn't mind the intrusion, just felt a bit unnerved by having so much dedicated attention lavished upon him, especially when he had two perfectly good, scarred hands to do all those trivial things himself.
it wasn't such a bad fate, he certainly didn't think it was, because who could possibly complain about having a pretty doll by his side and at his command? yet, john only realized just how extraordinarily lucky he had truly gotten the moment he sank back into the leather couch. head tilted back just a fraction, darkened gaze entirely betraying his usual strict discipline.
heavy stare raking over you as you sat spread across his muscular lap, skirt hiked up to tempting hips his hands kneaded in with leisure pleasure, pinching the curve. your cotton panties already a sodden mess, tucked sideways from the glossy heat of your puffy folds, one of his broad, heavy palms pawing over your bra clad tit.
squeezing and massaging the supple flesh, as he relished the perfect way you fit into his calloused touch, forcing a stuttering, breathless gasp of his name from your bruised lips. his own hips grinding up into your sopping pussy, stretched and leaking around the swelled crown, pulsing walls dragging over webby veins, pulsing when he curves deeper, bumping your spongy spot.
“heck, yau truly are sweit', ain't' ya?” he muses, words rolling lazily from his tongue as he let out a lopsided grin, splitting into a heavy rumble that made your hole flutter and ache with gushing heat at the mere sound of his voice. the deep lines around his mouth creaked with affection, heavy lidded gaze pinned unblinkingly to your glittering eyes.
massive hand clamping over your nape, blunt nails digging in just enough to pin you in place without hurting, leaving you completely lax and mellowed out. your fingers crooked and clawed into his broad shoulders for balance, eyes rolling back as his hips humped ruthlessly, thighs jolting you right into the sensation while he easily coaxed his eager tongue past your parting, slacking lips to taste your mouth.
pussy drooling down his wiry pubes and soaking through his unbuckled trousers, making a weak attempt at pulling away as the rough scruff of his beard chafed your face, but he merely pressed a calloused thumb against your jaw hinge, holding you in place as if scolding a defiant pet.
so you stayed, letting him smile widely as his mind drifted on where it's probably shouldn't, imagining just how beautiful you would look on his backyard lawn. even going so far as to ponder building a pool back there just for you, imagining you in a skimpy bikini and all. truly, what more could an old man possibly wish for?
reader with ex-husband!simon riley and fourth of july w/ the kids
idk i'm a day late but that photo in the middle is singing to me - [MDNI. cw: piv.]
"You're looking good, little yankee." Your ex-husband says to you in a horrible yet somehow sexy country accent, hopping out of his pickup truck. He tips his cowboy hat at your red, white, and blue outfit for the day. You eye him up and down. Even in a casual outfit of a white t-shirt and jeans that are too tight around his thighs, he still manages to look hot.
Stupid hot Brit.
You'd be lying to yourself if you said that the way you're dressed right now was not to spite him. You chose a matching set with a push-up bra just so your tits looked better in your top. You put a little more time in styling your hair today and makeup, just so he could get a tease of what he couldn't have anymore.
You shrug your shoulders, "I mean it's the Fourth. What else would I wear?" You fidget with the handle of your outdoor wagon, heavy with all the things the girls wanted in there along with bug spray, a picnic blanket, and portable fans.
Simon opens the door of his truck and your two little girls hop out, twinning in red and white gingham tops with jeans shorts and white shoes. You coo at their pigtails, clearly done by Simon but perfect for their hair type. He watches you greet them with sweet kisses to their cheeks. He notices the heavy outdoor wagon you're holding with one hand trying to greet them, and he silently takes it from you.
"Look it. All of my girls are red, white, and blue today." You squint at the way he puts you into his statement and not the twins alone. He smirks and walks closer to you, "behave today, for our girls and America, yeah?" You couldn't help but roll your eyes. Simon drags the wagon while taking the hand of one of your girls, Ayla, while you take the tiny hand of Kyra.
Finding some grass on the field for you all to sit on, Simon sets the picnic blanket onto the ground and gestures to you to make yourself comfortable first. By instinct, he sits next to you, placing a gentle hand on your back. You spot your twin girls playing with their bubble guns, giving you a chance to smack his hand away. "Don't even think that me being here means I want you. I'm here for our girls and to look at pretty fireworks, not to suck you off after."
He chuckles and takes off his cowboy hat, rubbing it against his chest in mock-hurt, "So mean to me, lovie." He frowns, "cause I'm British, huh?"
You roll your eyes. You know he's just teasing but this constant banter has continued even after your divorce. "It's too hot for this." You turn around and look in the wagon for a portable fan.
Luckily for Simon, he was given a perfect view of you on all fours looking for this portable fan. Your back arched slightly, your tits spilled a little out of your top, and your butt was perked perfectly to him. If it weren't for all these people here, he'd make use of your positioning here on this picnic blanket. All he needed was for you to stretch your torso a little further until...perfect.
Your bottoms lower slightly down your back but enough to let the red lace of your panties peek out and Simon feels himself grow harder by the second. Thankfully, his hat is more than big enough to cover his growing bulge. You're his ex-wife on paper, sure, but how can he forget all of the restless nights you shared while you're being an unintentional tease. You turn back around and start waving the fan around yourself, clueless about Simon's conflict.
To beat the awkward silence that you're both experiencing, you decide to stroke his ego a little, "their hair looks really good," you nod your head to the twin girls.
Simon's eyes light up at your compliment. He reclines himself a little, sitting now with his arms behind his back. "I'm glad you think so. They kept telling me 'only mommy does it good' until I was finished." He laughs recalling the scene of the girls sitting on his bathroom sink. Simon maneuvered their hair and the gel with tactical precision for the perfect pigtails and topped them off with American flag pigtail bows. He sighs before letting out a low, "I've mis--"
"Daddy!" The twin girls run in unison towards the both of you, bubble guns still in hand.
Ayla, a spitting image of you, speaks up, "when are the fireworks starting?"
Simon whips out his phone to check the time, "any minute, angel."
Kyra, who looks exactly like Simon, settles into your side and whispers a low, "I want Daddy to come with us after the fireworks."
You sighed because you hated that you wanted the same thing and all you could say was, "we'll see."
The fireworks finally started, making it Simon's cue to stand up and carry the girls in each arm so they could get the perfect view. You videoed them with the fireworks in the background.
After plenty of fireworks, the girls were finally tired and you walked back to Simon's truck, parked right next to your car. You stuck to Kyra's word and decided to ask Simon, "The girls want you to come back to my place." You pause, looking for any excuse for him to decline, "But you're probably on duty so I--"
"No." Simon shakes his head, cowboy hat on. "I'm a reservist right now. Don't worry." He crosses his arms and his forearms pump just a little but enough to make your legs clench. He walks closer to you and nudges you with his bicep, "Besides, don't think me saying yes means I want you. I'm coming for the girls, not to get sucked off after." He winks, slyly aware of his own remark.
It's going to be a long night.
Now in your house, which used to be the primary residence before the divorce, Simon changes out of his jeans into gym shorts. He spots you bent over the damned wagon again, but now in loungewear. He can't tell whether this wagon you bought was a blessing or curse.
Without any cowboy hat to hide his bulge now, he sucks it up and notifies you that he'll put the girls to bed. Not only because he's a good dad, but one more minute with you and he'll use that wagon to keep you situated as he bends you over in doggy. Bloody tease, he thinks to himself.
After putting the girls to bed, he passed the master bedroom that you two used to share. He walked in and thought it was missing something:
The both of you.
Before you could comprehend what was going on, your red lace panties were pulled to the side and your stomach was lying on that room's bed, abandoned for years until this moment.
You could feel Simon's torso sweat on your back as he pressed against you to slide in deeper. He settles his mouth by your ear, just where you like it. "You feel so good, mama." He finishes his statement off with a kiss to your temple. "Teasing me the whole day." He groans in pleasure and annoyance.
"Pretty red bra."
Thrust.
"Pretty red panties."
Thrust.
"My pretty woman." Thrust.
Your left hand clutches the mattress, while you triy whipping your right arm back towards Simon in an effort to push him off because it felt too good.
"Si," you mewled into the bed. "We're not using protec--"
He speaks roughly into your ear, now sensually sliding in and out. "You want a third one?" He lifts his torso off of your back, now using his hands to massage your lower back and hips as he keeps his tempo. "I'll come in this pretty little pussy right now. Get you pregnant. Say the word baby."
Two weeks later, an on-duty Simon in his office wasn't surprised when he got a text from you. A pregnancy test on a bathroom sink with a clean and clear "Pregnant" is attached, along with your text, I better not be popping out two babies this time.
Simon knows his girl struggles to get there sometimes. It has nothing to do with her state of mind, the stimulation, her arousal—or even his, for that matter. It has everything to do with position.
The first time they fucked and she didn’t cum, Simon was adamant to know why. For nearly twenty minutes afterwards, he’d pestered her (none too kindly) to just fess up what he’d done wrong and get it over with. After a hissy, nude fight between the two of them, he’d finally crossed his arms and laid his hand bare.
“Show me, then,” he’d grunted, “If you’re too scared to tell me.”
She’d stared at him with her best approximation of a ruthless (adorable) glare, before finally conceding. She was able to bring herself off in less than ten minutes, writhing amongst his bed sheets, voice edging with desperation from the need he hadn’t been able to satisfy.
It’s only when she goes stock still, legs clenched together with all her might, that she manages to cum.
And thus, the problem is presented. No matter how hard he fucks, how tenderly he strokes her clit, or how badly she begs him for it, she can’t cum—at least not without squeezing her legs together so hard a single finger (let alone the width of his hips) could fit between her thighs.
After some much more mature (and eloquent) conversations than that first time together, Simon finally helps you gather the courage to try and solve the problem once and for all. Naturally, you’re quite nervous. You’ve tried a hundred times before and never managed it.
But Simon? Well, he’s not backing down without a fight.
He helps you into his bed, settles you down amongst the pillows, before arming himself with your very extensive (and very pricey) collection of vibrators.
“Bend your legs ‘n let ‘em fall to the bed, love,” he watches, “Keep your feet together—Good girl.”
You flush as his fingers pet over your thigh, eyes fully focused on the task at hand. Already, there’s a proud tent in his sweatpants, but he doesn’t make to touch himself.
“Simon, just—just don’t get your hopes up,” you plead.
“My hopes are just fine right where they are, love,” he tuts as he flips the fibrator on, “But thanks for the concern.”
Before you can say another word, he pins the vibrator against your pussy with his palm, swallowing you in a wash of vibration. You yelp at the sensation and slap a hand to your mouth to muffle the noise.
“Nuh-uh, pretty girl. None o’ that,” he yanks your hand away and pins it at your side, “We’re gonna be here quite awhile. Might as well get comfortable.”
You look up at his steely blue eyes, already panting, struggling against his ruthless hold on your wrists. It takes every ounce of concentration not to close your legs around the vibrator.
For what feels like nearly an hour, Simon kneels over you, fully clothed, watching you moan and tear up while he holds the vibrator to your cunt.
He massages your tits, bites hickeys into your neck, and keeps your hands resolutely pinned to the mattress no matter how wildly you buck and writhe in his hold.
After nearly forty-five minutes of torture, something pulls in your stomach.
“Simon—Simon, I—“ you absolutely mewl, “I think that—something’s gonna come out—“
You don’t manage to finish the sentence. By now, you’re drenched in sweat, frustrated beyond all belief, with a pussy so wet Simon’s got black slick stains all over the front of his grey sweatpants.
The fear in your voice is palpable, and Simon releases a hand to grab onto your chin, forcing you look him in the eye.
“That’s it, baby, c’mon,” he whispers, adding more pressure, “S’just you ‘n me here. You can do it. You’ll be fine.”
“Si—Simon…” you moan, tears cascading down your cheeks when the threatening sensation creeps up once again.
Your legs jump on the mattress, threatening to close, but Simon pins your thigh to the bed using his knee before you can get there.
“Thaaat’s it, that’s a good girl,” he croons, watching as you careen over the edge, “C’mon, pretty girl. Come for me.”
You fall over the edge with a loud, adrenaline-fueled moan, legs jumping beneath Simon’s weight as you struggle through the aftershocks.
All the while, Simon kisses down the front of your body, cooing over how cute you look with tears running down your face. It’s only after the sheer pleasure falls away that you can finally think clearly.
Needless to say, you’ll be doing it again soon. And, if you make enough progress…well, Simon’s already got extravagant plans for just how, exactly, he’ll go about rewarding you.
Bucky was trying-really trying-to hold it together.
You were already moaning beneath him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, your body slick with sweat and your cunt squeezing him like a fist with every thrust. He’d been taking his time, keeping it controlled, steady, even though he was right on the edge. Even though every part of him wanted to ruin you.
He was close. So close.
And then your hand slid down between your bodies.
At first, he thought you were going to touch yourself, chase your orgasm with him still deep inside you--and fuck, the idea made his hips jerk.
But then he felt it. The shift. The drag of your fingers at the base of his cock.
And suddenly--
Your hand pushed his hips to still and the condom was gone.
Bucky’s eyes snapped open, he ripped away from the crook of your neck, where he planted himself to stay grounded, his rhythm faltering, heart slamming into his ribs as you tossed it aside like it didn’t matter. He stared down at you, stunned, panting. “What the hell are you doing babydoll?”
Your voice was soft, breathless, a little ruined. “I want you.”
“I’m already inside you,” his brows pinched as he growls, but it came out shaky, unsure.
You pulled your legs up higher around his hips and looked him in the eyes. “I want all of you,” you whispered. “I want you to come inside me.”
That was it. That was the moment he fucking lost it.
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t give himself time to think. He slammed back into you--bare, raw, thick and hot--and the sound he let out wasn’t human.
“Christ, baby, fucking--I--” he groaned, the stretch hotter now, slicker, real. “You feel--God, you-- you--this has to be heaven.”
Your mouth fell open in a moan, hands digging into his back, pulling him down until he's practically laying on you. Your cunt clamped down around him like your body was begging to be filled, and Bucky fucking snapped.
His head was spinning, ears ringing as he started moving again, but there was no control left. No rhythm. Just need. “You want this?” he growled, breath hot against your jaw. “Want me to fuck you like this? Fill you up ‘til it’s leaking out of you?”
You couldn’t even form words. Just nodded, already trembling underneath him. “You’re mine,” he snarled. “My good girl, taking it raw. You don’t wanna stop me, do you? Don’t wanna go back?”
You whimpered, “Never.”
That's what did it.
His thrusts turned frantic--deep, punishing, desperate. You were crying out, clinging to him like your life depended on it, and Bucky was unraveling above you. Every time you clenched around him, it pulled him deeper, wrecked him harder. He was ready to start sobbing at the sensation "Baby fuck you're milking this cock I---" his head falls forward resting against your forehead.
You whine and whisper against him, "You're gonna make me cum Jamie"
His eyes glossed over completely, “Cum for me princess, cover my cock with your cum before You make me cum” he panted. “You want that? You want my come inside you?”
Your legs tighten around his waist as you moan louder from his words your breathing gets caught in your chest as your tremble against him, “Yes, Bucky--I James...James please.”
He slammed in one last time and came hard, buried to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled inside you--thick, hot, so much you could already feel it dripping out around him.
He stayed there, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking with the aftershocks.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment.
Then your fingers brushed his cheek. “You okay?” He blinked. Let out a breathless, wrecked little laugh. “You just broke me,” he whispered. “Fuck completely broke me baby.”
And when you kissed him-soft, slow, full of everything you couldn’t say-he realized you’d meant to.
You wanted him wrecked. And you’d get that side of him. Every. Night after this.
♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎
If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3
In celebration of HOTD S3 finally airing, here's a piece I've been cooking up for a couple of weeks. Yes this episode pissed me off, but yes I will be watching next week. Please leave a like/comment/reblog if you enjoy! <3
CW- 18+, non-con/dub-con, arranged marriage, toxic relationship, loss of virginity, fingering, PIV, rough sex, High Valyrian translator used, blood, references to death/murder
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word count- 2,362
It was the hour of the owl when you heard Vhagar’s roar. You recognized the vocalization of the dragon, so unlike that of Sunfyre or Dreamfyre’s. Aemond had been gone for a fortnight now, and the thought of his return made your stomach drop. But the deep grumble of the formidable beast flying past the Keep was a welcome warning, giving you time to prepare yourself for what was to come.
You rose from the bed quickly, pacing about the room and searching for a garment to cover yourself. You did not wish to face your husband in only a thin nightgown, yet nothing in your wardrobe would allow for you to dress without the help of a maid. Sheets of rain smacked against your window as lightning danced in the sky, a wicked storm that chilled your bones.
After a considerable struggle, you were able to shimmy your way into a red gown that had needed to be taken in. Unable to lace the back of it on your own, you resorted to tucking in the strands and wishing that it would go unnoticed. You sat down in front of the fireplace, grabbed a book from the shelf, and pretended to read as you waited.
It felt like an hour passed before you heard the knock against the door. Your spine stiffened immediately and your breath caught in your throat.
“Enter,” you spoke as sternly as you could manage. You kept your gaze on the book in your lap as the door creaked open. The smell of dragon filled the room, strong and sulfuric with a hint of fresh blood. Your husband stood in the doorway, soaked from the storm.
“Wife. What possible reason do you have for being awake at such an hour?” His tone was immediately accusatory, his voice scratchy. Aemond was dressed in his flying leathers, a deep grey with dragonscales woven into the breastplate. His left boot was partially unlaced, the hilt of a long dagger peaking out from where it was nestled against his shin.
“I was feeling restless and could not sleep,” you tell him plainly. “What reason do you possibly have for returning at such an hour? We were not expecting you for another three days.” This was partially true, as he had given that date upon his departure to the Riverlands. But everyone in the Red Keep knew that the Prince Regent was wildly unpredictable, and the wedding had proved that.
No one had expected him to truly marry you, especially not after the Dowager Queen had advised him against it. Your father, Lord Staunton served on Rhaenyra’s council, which branded you a traitor in the eyes of the Greens. Captured during the Battle of Rook’s Rest, you had been imprisoned in King’s Landing for several months. They would not behead a lady of your station, and many had expected that you would simply be wed to a lesser lord that had sworn allegiance to Aegon.
But upon being named Prince Regent, Aemond decided that he would wed you himself. After all, he had been the victor of Rook’s Rest, and it was only fair that he kept you as a prize. The wedding was arranged hastily, and the two of you stood together in the sept mere hours after he had declared his intentions.
But he was swept away later that evening, after a message had been delivered during the wedding feast. To your great relief, Aemond mounted Vhagar that night rather than you. If the marriage remained unconsummated, then there was a glimmer of hope that perhaps your father would still send men to rescue you. But that glimmer began to fade now that your husband was in front of you once again.
“You should mind your tongue when you speak to me, wife. I am not in a patient mood at present,” he warns you as he finally enters the room, allowing the door to slam behind him. He peels the gloves off of his hands as he approaches, and you notice a splattering of blood has stained the leather.
Aemond circles the room, examining every little that could have possibly changed since his departure. He had insisted that the two of you share chambers, and you had been moved on the night of the wedding. You had almost no belongings, save for a few dresses that had been allowed to be sent to you by your sisters and mother.
Your eyes trace his every movement, until he turns his head and catches you staring. Embarrassed, you engross yourself in the book once again and try your very best to keep your head down. His footsteps approach slowly, until his boots are at your feet.
“I see you have kept yourself rather busy in my absence,” he declares. You look up to face his gaze, swallowing hard as his violet eye stares you down.
“What do you refer to, my prince?” Your voice is softer than it had been before, not wanting to provoke him to the anger that he had grown a reputation for.
“Reading the histories of Valyria, in High Valyrian,” Aemond reaches down and taps the cover of the book, which you now realize is not written in the Common Tongue. “Nyke gaomagon daor māzigon ao syt zaldrīzes āeksio” I did not take you for a dragon lord.
Heat rises to your face, angry at yourself for making such a careless error. Aemond’s lips have curled smugly, relishing in your shame. More than anything, you wish you could reach out and strike him.
Instead, you slam the book shut and rise from your chair. The sudden movement causes the unlaced dress to snag against the furnishing, and you hear a rip as the fabric splits further down your back. Aemond’s eye widens, apparent that he has also heard the noise.
“Turn around,” he commands you, peering over your shoulder. You make no effort to do so, but keep your eyes fixed on his face. “That wasn’t a suggestion, wife,” he says as he reaches for your waist. You plant your feet firmly to the ground, but he still spins you around with ease.
“Let go of me,” you yelp, the sudden feeling of Aemond’s cold hands against your bare back startling you. But his grip on your waist remains firm.
“Your gown has ripped. A rather flimsy garment, to be so easily torn,” he tuts, fingers tugging at the fraying edges of the fabric. He shifts his posture forward, closing the gap between your bodies. He is still wet from the rain, water dripping from his body and spilling onto the rug beneath your feet. Likely, the whole room will stink of wet dragon come morning time.
“You should be thanking me, you know.” His voice softens as he reaches for the strap of the dress, threading his fingers through it and sliding it off and down your shoulders. “You ought to be grateful that I have returned. Traitor’s daughter and then a widow would be quite the sorrowful fate.” The fabric slides off your back and pools at your waist, causing your heart to beat faster than you thought was possible.
“Why must you torment me so?” Your voice holds steady, although your legs have begun to shake. Aemond leans down, bringing his lips close to your ear as he tugs the dress off of you.
“Torment? I have simply come to do my duty to you. How can we be truly married if my wife remains a maiden?” His lips brush against the divet of your neck, the smell of smoke swirling through your nostrils.
And any hope you had of escaping from this place leaves you with a long breath, as his hands begin to trace up your thighs. The possibility of fleeing in the night is abandoned as he bites on your neck and slips two fingers in between your most intimate area.
Instinctively, you jerk away from his touch. But his other hand is flat against your stomach, keeping your body pressed against his. Shame fills you as his fingers caress your folds, rubbing against your bundle of nerves and eliciting jolts of pleasure. You let out a croaking noise, a mix between a whine and a moan.
“Shhh, don’t resist me now. I only wish to make it easier for you,” he whispers against your skin. You wish to speak something, a phrase both crass and hostile to this man that holds you hostage. But what good would come out of that?
The pads of his fingers prod against your entrance, giving you a moment of anticipation before he presses them inside of you. His sudden intrusion is certainly overwhelming, but not as painful as you had imagined such a thing would be. His thumb strokes your most sensitive area as two fingers begin to thrust in and out of you. You remain silent, but allow your shoulders to finally relax against the support of his broad chest.
“That’s a good girl,” Aemond tells you, tracing his lips down your neck with soft kisses. “I knew you would be an obedient little wife, despite what everyone had warned me.” He laughs suddenly, surely recollecting a conversation in which you had not been present. His fingers inside of you curl upwards, causing you to clench as a new sensation takes hold of your lower half.
“Aemond,” you plead as you attempt to shift your hips away from him. He wraps one of his legs around yours, threading you to him with his heavy boot.
“Keep still,” he warns, and you feel his teeth graze your neck. Your mind has become a puddle of emotions, your body sending you mixed signals just as well.
“I can’t,” you whimper as his prodding fingers cause you to jolt once again. To your surprise, he laughs coldly rather than chastising you again. His fingers pull away from your center, and you immediately regret the loss of pressure.
Aemond steps to your left, and then circles in front of you. His expression is hardened, but there is a glimmer of sympathy etched into his face.
“Get on the bed,” he commands, as he begins to unbutton his tunic. You remain still for a moment, watching as he undresses himself and reveals his bare skin to you. His chest is broad and toned, but littered with burns and scars that you could never have imagined.
When you finally oblige and lay down on the bed, Aemond is quick to follow you. He is naked, his bare form pushing through the green canopy and towering over you. His manhood is swollen and stiff, and you cannot help but to stare as he climbs on top of you.
‘You will learn to love me, wife. I will be your only escape from this cold and cruel place,” he murmurs as his hands pry open your legs, leaving you exposed and bare to him. Aemond grasps at your forearms, pinning them down to the bed as he lines his cock up to your entrance. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for what is to come.
When he enters you, the stretch causes you to gasp. The pain is the least of your worries. Aemond lowers his face to yours, meeting your lips in the first kiss since the night of your wedding. His lips swallow your cries and his tongue traces along the inside of your mouth as he bottoms out inside of you.
He sets a steady pace, his cock driving in and out of you repeatedly as he kisses you roughly. Your body has become enveloped by his heat, and you have no response other than to meet his kiss with equal fervor. The rain continues to splatter against the window, and Vhagar’s roar can be heard from the Dragonpit.
“You take me so well,” Aemond groans, as the head of his cock slams against a particularly sensitive spot inside of you. When you let out a moan, he shifts his hips so as to place more pressure against yours.
He has released your arms, choosing instead to place one hand around your neck as the other grips your left thigh tightly. The sound of his heavy breathing combined with the building pleasure within your gut elicits a rash decision.
You reach forward and tug against the strap of his leather eyepatch, pulling it over his head in one fluid movement. A sapphire rests in the socket of his eye, a contrast to the violet one that remains fixed on you. Aemond is taken aback, but he makes no retaliation.
“You are mine, gevie. No one will ever take you from me,” he mumbles, his pace quickening as his fingers thread between your legs and begin to stroke you once again. This sensation, combined with the feeling of his cock deep inside of you, causes your thighs to quiver as your stomach swirls.
The build-up of pleasure becomes overwhelming, and you bury your face in Aemond’s neck, unable to meet his gaze. When a wave of sensation crashes through you, you cry out and grip down on his shoulders.
Aemond continues fucking you, his pace growing quicker and his breath heavier. His fingers still work against your bundle of nerves, and you try to pull his hand away as your core clenches desperately around him.
“Take it all, my good little wife.” His thrusts become sloppy as one of his hands weave through his hair, and a roar of thunder crashes through the night as he spills his seed inside of you.
Aemond pulls out of you slowly, his spend leaking as he does so. The blood of your maidenhead is apparent, mixing with the sticky white substance. Even more apparent, is the blood streaked across his forearm and down the side of his neck, gone unnoticed by you prior to this moment.
“Pray to the Mother that you will be blessed with a child,” he tells you as he retreats. With his head turned to the side, shadows dance across the duvet. “It is only just that new Targaryen life should follow the death of a dragon.”
Obsessive!Aemond who won’t stop until he gets you, even when he’s ill.
“The tea, Your Grace.” Your voice came out quieter than intended as you carefully lowered the silver tray onto the carved table beside his bed. The porcelain cup rattled softly against its saucer. You felt it before you dared acknowledge it.
His gaze.
It clung to every movement you made, following the brush of your fingers as you straightened the tray, the rise and fall of your breathing, the nervous way you smoothed your skirts. Even bedridden with fever, Prince Aemond watched you like a starving creature denied its meal.
"Stay." The single word rooted you to the spot. "I'd like to see you beneath the candlelight."
Heat bloomed across your face. "Forgive me, Your Grace," you answered, forcing your voice to remain steady. "I must retrieve the rest of your medicine before you retire." You turned before your resolve could fail.
Two steps. Three. Then came the rustle of heavy blankets. Footsteps. Despite the fever that had confined him to bed for two days, they were predatory. The hairs along your neck rose. You barely had time to turn before he was upon you.
A chair scraped violently across the stone floor, sent skidding aside beneath the force of his foot. You startled with a sharp breath as his hand caught your wrist, guiding, then pinning you against the cold wall of his chambers. The candle above you flickered. A single bead of molten wax slid down its side. It landed against the bare skin near your collarbone and you hissed.
His visible eye darkened. Slowly, almost absentmindedly, his gaze followed the tiny droplet cooling against your skin, as though nothing else in the room existed. "Poor thing," he murmured.
His thumb tilted your chin upward, you had no choice but to meet his eye. Even sick, he was beautiful. Even sick, he was terrifying. His forehead glistened faintly with fever, loose strands of silver hair clinging to damp skin, yet none of it softened him. If anything, the illness only sharpened the hunger behind his gaze. It made him seem less like a prince and more like a dragon denied flight.
He stepped closer. Close enough that the warmth pouring from him swallowed the chill of the stone at your back. His breath ghosted against your ear, hot from fever. "You flee," he whispered, his voice rough and low. "Every day you flee."
His fingers loosened around your wrist only to brush lightly over the pulse there, where your heartbeat betrayed you. "And yet," his lips curved into the faintest smile, "you always come back."
His thumb traced beneath your jaw with unbearable slowness before he leaned closer still, until there was scarcely enough space to breathe between you. "Do you have any idea," he murmured, his voice dropping to little more than a rumble, "what you do to me, ñuha genesītos?"
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