i’m sure this opinion will get me killed for some reason but it’s wild how almond milk seems to be the dominant alternative milk when it tastes like nut based cerebrospinal fluid meanwhile Oat Milk is right there being sexy and thick and delicious
Ghost is not what the captain would call a gentle man. Everything about him carries weight. His presence, his stare, his skills, his callsign, his reputation. But most of all, his voice. Price has heard Ghost in all sorts of situations, from enemy interrogations to dropping some of the most driest sarcasm to ever grace his comms.
Ghost's voice, like the rest of him, is rough. Like the sound comes from mortar-blasted boulders grinding against each other in his chest and not vocal chords. When Ghost speaks, everything sounds like an ultimatum.
But that's what happens in the military. Show him a man surrounded by other soldiers that doesn't develop some obnoxiously loud, deep vocal affect and Price will eat his hat.
Which is why, when you, the new medic transfer on base, are tasked with administering this year's flu jabs he notices it almost immediately.
"Sleeve up, please, Lieutenant," you tell him. Ghost is sat in the little plastic chair in front of you with his arm fully exposed before you finish.
"Busy day, yeah?" Price nearly chokes when Ghost asks you that.
It wasn't just the fact that he was making conversation, but it was the sound of him. If Price wasn't looking directly at him when he said it, he would have thought there was someone hidden behind his Lt.
But no. It was him, speaking without prompt to you in a tone of voice that Price didn't even think the man was physically capable of.
The boulders in his chest are silent. His voice having moved from them up to some higher register. Like the years of chain smoking and yelling over weapons fire is an inconvenience for once. Ghost even clears his throat when you turn away from him for a moment. Subdued. Soft.
Ghost. Soft. Hell has frozen over.
"It always is," you reply oblivious to the anomaly in front of you, a little smile on your face as you swipe Ghost's bicep with a little disinfectant wipe.
Price watches how Ghost never takes his eyes off of you as you do your work with the same fascination as watching a dog wearing pants walk on its hind legs.
It quickly becomes apparent that this is not an isolated case.
One morning some time later has Ghost walking with him to his office going over upcoming itineraries. Both of them have their minds on the looming, still unconfirmed, deployment. When you turn the corner into the hallway with a stack of files in your hand, Price swears he sees the lights brighten a little bit just from how Ghost perks up.
"Mornin', ma'am." And all of the sudden his hardened veteran, skull mask wearing, second in command is gone and replaced by two meters of tender puppy-dog eyes and velvety voice. He's pretty sure if Ghost had a tail it'd be wagging.
"Good morning, Lieutenant. How many times do I have to tell you you don't have to call me that?"
"At least one more," Ghost all but purrs.
Price feels like he's witnessing something that should be behind an age verification.
You roll your eyes and pat his shoulder as you pass, disappearing down the hallway without a glance behind you. If you did, you would've seen how Ghost's head turned to watch you go.
The other time occurred when you weren't even around to hear it.
It was classified as a training incident only because of its proximity to the grounds. Very little surprises Price anymore, so he didn't bat an eye when he saw a soldier drive up in a humvee, get out, and then just dumbly watch the vehicle creep backwards, gaining speed until it crashed into a nearby prefab.
The car was fine, of course, but those inside the prefab when it made contact weren't so lucky, especially anyone in the falling radius of the shelves and full crates held inside. It was nothing short of a miracle that no one got flattened.
The soldier responsible was getting torn a new one while someone else called for medical support, just to make sure no one was dying or anything. The worst Price could see from here was some bumps and bruises, someone holding a hand to their bleeding head.
"What is it now?" Price asked as he stepped up beside Ghost who lingered from a distance.
"Bloody idiot kept it in neutral, not park," Ghost tells him, arms crossed. "Didn't use the—" The moment you pop into view, medic bag in tow, Ghost's voice shifts like a switch had been flipped and all of the sudden that rolling thunder tone is gone like it was never there to begin with, "—parking brake. Hopefully it won't be a mistake made twice."
Price registers the words in his subconscious, but most of his attention is still on the fact that you had Ghost switching up mid sentence. And you weren't even within earshot. Just the fact that you were in his eyesight had Ghost lowering his voice, lightening his pitch.
He watches you flit around, grabbing the bleeding person and setting them down to start cleaning them up. All of his attention on you. Price is pretty sure that an ant wouldn't be able to crawl within 50 feet of you without Ghost knowing.
Part of Price wants to nip this in the bud, take Ghost aside and tell him to drop it. All of them know what being in this task force means. Having a distraction like this has a higher chance of being a hindrance than a benefit. If there ever comes a time where any of the 141 are in a situation where his sacrifice is non-negotiable, there cannot be hesitation. All of them know this.
But when the captain looks over at Ghost, he doesn't think about sacrifice. He doesn't see a muzzled war dog whose leash is held in Price's firm grip.
For the first time in a long time, Price recalls a young man with dark brown eyes that had seen too much too young, hair so blond it’s almost white, and the strongest sense of loyalty he's ever seen in a fellow soldier.
Price would never describe Ghost as a gentle man. Never a sweet man. But he starts to think that maybe Simon is.
kitchen manager simon riley / female server reader
he sees you back in the window the following wednesday, fingers tapping against the metal of it as you bite at your lip.
you’re peeking over the plates, eyeing each order and falling frustrated when they’re inevitably not yours.
you mutter under your breath, flick your eyes up every now and then to him on the line but never build enough courage to say what’s on your mind.
it’s been this way since he first offered you a hand just a week ago. you act like a doe, too afraid to stand on sturdy legs, averting at every sign of danger.
he’d find it cute if it weren’t so damn annoying.
nobody has time to coddle you, especially him. he barely has enough minutes in the day to breathe, nonetheless rub his hands along your back and whisper everything will be okay.
so instead he tries to toughen you up, give you a voice even when it’s quiet. it’s the only way he knows how.
another plate goes up in the window that’s certainly not yours, just to piss you off. “runner,”
you straighten out the ticket that’s crunched beneath the ceramic, squinting in an effort to make out smudged letters. when the table number comes back as someone else’s, it makes you close your eyes, air huffing out of your nose like a little angry bull. “fuck,” you spin around, hands on your hips.
that’s the third time you’ve done that, and he’s tired of it frankly. last straw.
he leans between the openings in the window, ignoring the way the metal burns his flesh. “‘ave we got a problem?”
you immediately turn back with wide eyes, looking at him like a deer in headlights, afraid. “oh um-no, everything’s fine.” you swallow so thickly your throat bobs and something alights in his stomach.
he tamps it down anyway.
“find that ‘ard ta believe, ya keep lookin’ through ma window like ya know somethin’ i don’t.” he turns to plate a piece of trout, your body still in his peripheral despite the towel on his shoulder.
you worry your lip in response, sighing out dejectedly. “my table, they’re missing their app.”
the grill starts yelling at the line, the dishwasher begins a new cycle, and he’s hard of hearing in his left ear. “speak up.”
you huff as he throws another entree up and shouts for a runner once more, right in your face, nicotine breath hot and heavy at your nose.
it’s only as the other server approaches that you pierce your way through, something stirring in your eyes. “i put my app in fifteen minutes ago, they’re my only table and it was fried pickles. there’s no reason it shouldn’t be finished.”
“and ya want me ta what?”
“i want my food in the window.”
you meet his gaze and don’t deter. for once. he nods, taps his knuckles on the metal. “‘eard.”
you don’t quite smile, but your shoulders drop, your eyelashes flutter, and you sniffle, turning your head in victory.
he throws your pickles in the fryer immediately, trying and failing to get your face out of his mind.
you close that night.
he sees you in your element he thinks, practically waltzing across the linoleum. the mop freezes in his hand, neck twitching at the odd angle he’s stopped it at.
you wipe down the bartop for jenni, laugh softly as she shuts down the drawer. you weave in and out of booths and tables, grabbing plates and stacking them as though they’re merely paperweights.
without all the people, all the lights and the noise, you look like a person. like your brain has shut off, voices tamped down.
he knows exactly what that feels like, to his very core.
it’s about an hour later when you bring the tea urns back to dish. they’re hefty, but you manage, one in each arm tucked into the crook of your elbow.
he almost runs into you, pans in his hands and blocking his view.
“‘scuse me,” you sneak by, hips brushing his thighs in a way that has him frozen. he shouldn’t be thinking this way. shouldn’t feel fire blazing his nerve endings from the mere friction of denim against denim.
“‘s oll good,” liar.
you nod, flicking your fingertips under the faucet as you wait for the water to warm up. these sinks take forever, old pipes overused and overdue for a clean.
so when it inevitably starts spitting, making you mumble under your breath in frustration, he takes it as a sign to pause on his way back to the kitchen. shoulder to doorframe. “earlier,”
you stiffen, immediately. back to his face he can see every muscle clench, tightly. shoulders pulled so far up toward your ears he knows it’s got to hurt.
he clears his throat, tries and fails to soften his tone. “just, don’t be afraid ta communicate. shit gets lost back there, orders stuck together, hell, tickets fall on the fuckin’ floor most times,” you’re blinking, viciously, chest puffing out unsteadily. “ya ‘ave ta tell me when y’r missin’ somethin’.” his concern portrays itself as anger. “not a fuckin’ mind reader.”
he goes to turn back to the kitchen once more when you speak up, quietly all be it. “i’m sorry, i just-“ you rub at your forehead, water running down your neck and losing his focus. “i’m new to this, new to here. i don’t want to step on anybody’s toes.”
“steppin’ on toes is the only way ta get by.”
you huff, wiping your hands against your apron before heading for the sponge. “yeah well the last time i-“ you pause out of mere instinct, eyes going wide, deer in fucking headlights look, again.
he points before he realizes what’s happening, ignoring the shrill ringing of your words ricocheting between his temples and the voice buried within them that screams stop. “tha’, why d’ya do that?”
your eyebrows begin furrowing, cheeks caving in as you tug the meat between your teeth. “what?” one word is all it takes for something in him far out of his control to stretch taut until it snaps.
“ya keep walkin’ around like that, doe look in y’r eyes, someone ‘round ‘ere will put a bullet between y’r pretty lil head,” he makes the motion under his neck, fingers twitching. “won’t think twice ta make sure tha’s what ya really are.”
you pause in the hot water, picking at the frayed edges of the too old sponge. he notices the way your eyelashes flutter so sweetly, and maybe something close to tears build on your waterline.
it doesn’t hurt him, instead it fuels something deep, makes his breath stutter before it can even exhale.
“and if ya keep lookin’ at me like that,” he pauses, tongue suddenly too dry, throat tightening with this foreign feeling he hasn’t experienced in a very long time. “ya keep lookin’ at me like that i’ll make sure it’s ma gun, and i can tell ya now,”
he’s behind you now, feet moving of their own accord. “i know the difference between you and one ‘a those fawn sittin’ still on the side ‘a the road.” he turns off the faucet, prying the soap out of your hand just so he can bend down behind your ear. “‘n unlike some, i wont miss. not again.”
he leaves you breathing heavy, fingers trembling, overflowing sink water splashing on ratty shoes.
he’ll pretend as you avoid him the rest of the night that it doesn’t bother him, that you have him unfazed, angry.
but it’s quite the opposite. he’s instead intrigued, body yearning, mind zeroed in on making you more than what you are.
his gut burns, his bones ache, and his brain picks apart every move you make, filing it away to a locked cabinet.
you have him count your drawer while you grab your things and when he hands you your money, you make it a point not to touch his hands on the way out.
you come in for your next shift as he’s heading out for the day. it’s easy to notice that your face is a little sterner, eyes downcast and out of his reach.
when you pass by this time you don’t say hi, rather, you simply nod and make sure your shoulder brushes his on the way out.
a buck growing antlers. pretty spiraled rack poking out of sensitive skin.
and simon, he’s got his scope aimed right between those big eyes. the only thing left is to turn off the safety.
for those of you who don’t know, this is what the window inside a restaurant kitchen is like
kitchen manager simon riley / server female reader (kansas)
it’s a nasty thursday the first time he sees you.
the fog is thick in greenhorn, wet and alive. the smoke from simon’s fag mingles with the lingering rain, sitting heavy in his throat.
he doesn’t notice you at first, too occupied searching for a buzz he rarely gets anymore.
he should quit, really he should, but your voice pierces the veil first. “hi,” it’s unsure, oddly shrill, and grates across the back of his brain in a way that tightens his shoulders.
it’s then it should register immediately.
clean Mason’s shirt, tidy new apron. the way you approach him, down to the bag in your hand, screams you’re obviously the new hire, but for some reason simon finds himself stuck. watching.
the smoke thickens, his stomach turns, and when you step forward through some of the fog a flash of realization strikes him before he bats it away. you’re pretty.
you try to speak again, mouth moving in what feels like slow motion. all simon can manage to do is flicker his eyes across your body. across the muddy shoes on your feet, the ratty jacket over your shoulders, and a look in your eyes that feels so familiar.
kansas.
“um excuse me can you-“ your voice comes in like a tidal wave, and simon thinks he might just shiver a bit, fighting through a haze inside his mind just to understand the words coming from your mouth. “you’re just right in front of the door?” you point awkwardly, shuffling a little bit closer to make your point.
he doesn’t have it in him to speak, not that he has anything to say anyway. he merely shifts, just enough for you to slide by.
you whisper a quiet thanks, spine pulled taut as you brush past his broad frame.
there’s a different worm tickling inside his brain now, one a little bit less familiar, a lot less friendly, but he simply inhales until his lungs burn and the nicotine dulls all of his senses.
he stands in the cold with the fag between his fingers until he’s frustrated again. until the reality of a new hire falls upon him. you have to learn the kitchen, learn the people. there’s obvious screw-ups, dozens of questions, too many areas for shit that simon doesn’t have time for.
nothing ever changes here for a reason, because no one here has time to deal with the package it carries.
yet, he smashes a half-smoked fag beneath his boot and follows you inside anyway.
“you smell like smoke,” joe’s here again. he missed his annual tuesday morning, spent the day trapped at the clinic due to reasons he won’t tell simon.
jenni filled him in before you showed up earlier today, and it makes everyone nervous. not joe. never joe.
“been on the grill, bound ta happen.”
“liar.” he’s sipping on a harsh drink, bourbon maybe, the most bottom shelf it gets. joe hasn’t drank in a long time.
“you promised ta quit drinkin’.” simon crosses his arms, pretends he doesn’t see you behind the bar in his peripheral.
“and you promised to quit smokin’ riley. plus, this, someone, makes a helluva ol’ fashioned.”
this is why new people don’t fucking come here.
jenni would’ve argued, won, and handed joe a glass of tea with a kiss to the cheek. you just went and broke twelve years of sobriety without even knowing.
neither of them say anything when you walk away, tail tucked between your legs as you follow jen back into the kitchen.
“she the new hire?”
simon leans against the bar beside joe. he’s wearing the same button down he had on last tuesday. which is odd, because joe never wears tuesdays shirts on thursdays.
“yup.”
“hm,” he sips down the last bit, twirling whatever drops remain until simon clears his throat.
“ya olright?”
he really looks at the older man for the first time today. notices a few extra lines he didn’t see before. worry nags in places it shouldn’t.
“yeah son, ‘m okay.” he throws down some cash, eyes flicking up when you appear back at the bar top carrying plates up your arm. “have you talked to her?” joe nods his head toward you, turning back to find simon staring daggers into your throat.
“she talked ta me.”
“hm,” he’s smiling, one he hides by rubbing at his nose. “like her?”
“no.”
“and whys that?”
all simon does is pick up joe’s empty glass, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger.
“oh c’mon, i’m a grown man riley. besides, jenni gave her the go ahead, it’s alright.”
“y’r defendin’ ‘er?” you smile sweetly at the table, and they smile back. surprisingly.
“yeah why not,”
simon follows him toward the door, elbow out to get him down the stairs which for once he takes. the worry roars louder. “ya were the one detestin’ new faces joe, her drinks that good?”
it’s misting when they get outside, joes truck crooked in the only handicapped spot. the red paint is rusting, and the tires look bald.
“riley,”
simon ignores him, opens the driver side door.
“ya need new tires.”
he goes to shut it when joe climbs in but he stops him, hat tilted up so simon can truly see him. “she has that look in her eyes, just like you did.”
“‘m startin’ ta think that’s y’r excuse for likin’ people.”
he goes to shut the door again, but once more, joe kicks at it. “i don’t joke about this son, i can see it.” the pickup starts with a rumble, one that ricochets through the metal and vibrates simon’s insides. “you look past your own ways hard enough you just might see it too.”
he pulls out with a screech and simon sulks inside to find you staring at the window in the kitchen, squinting at the tickets as they flow out of the reader.
“ey,” you jerk, just barely, when he closes the distance, but it’s covered up so quickly simon wonders if he even saw it in the first place.
“hi,”
it takes strength to meet your gaze, sheer willpower that almost drags him down, but when he does, he understands.
joe’s said the look quite a few times, and it always felt like a figure of speech, but now that simon has you up close, he finds that there is no ounce of exaggeration in the older man’s words.
you don’t just see it, you feel it, and it burns.
“ya ever worked at the window before?”
you shrug, flicking the reader that’s over flowing. “i um, i’ve done it once or twice but always in my own way. not quite sure how to do it properly.”
“i’ll show ya,”
he starts ripping off tickets and separating them, not so much teaching you in words but in the hopes that you gather the concept by reading orders.
which you do, because you catch him on an app that’s an entree.
“nice.” he throws out orders to line, made up of a teenager on coke and the older man who sells it to him. they can make a damn good fried chicken though.
you turn over your shoulder as you reach up to place another ticket, blinking slowly, methodically. “‘m kansas by the way,”
he nods, raps his knuckles on the metal counter. “‘m simon.” you smile, softly, and simon swears it’s hollow. nothing but fog settling a mist over your eyes the way it lays solemnly outside.
“thank you, for helping me.”
his nose itches, nerves alight and making him fritz. he should answer you, but once more he just watches. stares at your features until they blur into nothing.
and then he walks away.
your eyes seared into the back of his brain. the look alive, fracturing.
he forces himself to crawl back to square one at that, the one where he hates your guts for nothing other than inconvenience. if he didn’t, if he doesn’t, he’s fucking screwed.
like i said it’s fairly slow in the beginning, but i’ve got a fairly good idea of where we’re going and i hope you’ll stick with me to get there :)
like before, tell me your thoughts! send me your asks!
kitchen manager simon riley / server female reader (kansas)
the sign is yellowing.
Mason’s is hiring.
philip knew when he put it up some six months ago that the odds of finding another set of hands was a long shot. a bullet wedged in a gun with a barrel centimeters too small.
greenhorn, oregon is built of nothing but hunters, catholics, and the occasional tourist just passing through on their way further north.
it’s pine trees, bears, and year round deer season.
nobody comes, most people leave, and the ones that don’t fight to stay.
the city barely makes enough money to keep jobs afloat. the clinic is a log cabin, the motel’s got roaches, and yet somehow the roadhouse manages to exceed its capacity every month. by far.
mason’s is the only constant, and that’s because nothing changes.
ever.
it’s been the same ragged backwood society since simon found it after he left the military, and it’s the only reason it hasn’t completely fallen off the map.
it’s structured, safe, familiar.
the thought of asking for more than that makes his stomach turn.
“take it down.”
he argues with philip at least once a week, watching him run raggedy cash through tobacco-stained fingertips.
“we could use a change simon, hell, same crew’s been here for some twenty years, a pretty face in a picture can’t hurt the frame.”
the regulars talk. they have assumptions, opinions.
they think simon’s bigger than he is and argue with him to rip the paper off the crackling tint.
he tries to lie. maybe it’s not so bad, maybe it’d be a good thing.
“place has been around since my great-grandfather first moved here, same families working under the same damn roof, don’t see no reason to change tradition.”
simon’s somehow made himself fit in the shaky booth, broad shoulders smashed against crackling vinyl and a decade old cotton button down joe wears every tuesday. “changed it when i came ‘round.”
the coffee in the older man’s hand is decaf. a cup simon keeps full even as his tickets stay stacked in the window. “that’s different son,”
joe used to only drink black, sometimes a red eye jenni could somehow whip up. but he’s been having heart troubles recently, heard through no more than the city grapevine, and now simon lies and pours it lacking.
if it wasn’t for a spike of sugar, simon’s sure joe would have his skull cap and the head beneath buried in the linoleum by now.
“and ‘ow is that joe?”
“just is.” he shrugs, knocking crumbling bones against simon’s side. somehow it makes him feel old, rigid, wrinkled to his core as he rubs at days-old scruff and feels the lines as they crinkle around the missing chunk of his cheek.
“y’r tellin’ me when i first walked through these doors ya boys just turned the other cheek.”
“right,”
“don’t believe that for a second,”
joe laughs quietly, slicing through his pancake that’s lathered with sugar-free syrup and low-fat butter.
“‘s not funny joe, y’r lyin to ma face.”
he points his fork at the mug. “and that coffee’s decaf.” simon’s face feels warm when joe winks, and all he can do is shove his face in his hands with a shake of his head.
“oh c’mon sarge, ‘ow could ya ‘ave known that?”
“tastes like ass riley,” he pushes his plate away, the mug too, and simply folds his hands together. “and we could see it in your eyes boy.”
simon merely grunts, takes a sip of joe’s coffee as a rebuttal. it slides down a little too sharply, and he grimaces. “see what?” it really does taste awful. “was still wearin’ ma mask, coverin’ up this shit.” simon taps his jaw beneath the puffy scar, ignoring the same pinch in his gums that happens even though it’s been years.
“mm,” joe sniffs, blinks heavily for a moment as he adjusts his cap. it’s got pins, fish hooks, ironed on patches from third world countries. years worth of medals that twinkle beneath neon signs. it’s got life and death, time. “you know war when you see it,” joe slaps his shoulder, thumb making circles even though they’re both grown, weathered. “don’t have to look at the fruits of its labor riley to know it’s made its mark.”
the coffee sits bitter in simon’s throat and suddenly the sausage is smelling a little too much like burning flesh.
the sign stays up for another couple of weeks, taunting the roadhouse like a bad omen. until, finally, bad weather hits like it does every winter and just maybe philip’s realized reality is a nasty bitch.
it’s not until he’s scrubbing the grill one night, charcoal up to his elbows, does the truth air out with a putrid smell.
“see ya got wise,”
philip’s counting down drawers again, a job that should be alternated between the two of them but more times than not ends up in the hands of greed.
“you could say that.”
simon snickers, soap trickling over his boots in funny shapes that make him swallow back bile. “joe finally get to ya?”
“no.”
“hm. the weather?”
“no.”
“then what, county revelation?”
the water swooshes, the breaker clicks off for the bar, and tim just kicks suds beneath the counter. “found what i was looking for is all.”
all simon can do is snort. “right, like someone wanted ta work ‘ere.”
the silence stretches a fraction too long, until the spindly man clears his throat. “she did,” she. “came right up to me yesterday morning as i was walkin’ in.”
simon’s world stops, freezes, trembles on its axis until the pain in his back stiffens. he can feel his eyelids twitching when philip smiles, and a nasty little worm begins to tickle his brain. “bullshit.”
“nope.” he closes the drawer, shakes his keys until simon’s ears ring. “calls herself kansas. she’s got a killer smile, good work ethic, starts training with jenni on sunday.”
is he trying to kill this she right off the fucking bat?
“rush ‘our? got a score ta settle ya ain’t told me about?”
philip shakes with laughter, simon’s throat hurts, and something is wrong.
“just you wait, i gotta feelin’ she’ll be alright.”
the brush gets thrown to the floor as simon simply throws his hands on his hips and sucks on his teeth in frustration. “are ya talkin’ from y’r dick again?”
philip merely ignores him.
“goodnight simon”.
simon looks around at the tiny ass kitchen, and even though the floor is spotless, he somehow notices scuff marks and crumbs that weren’t there before.
he cleans for three more hours before his head clears enough to drive.
the trees taunt him through tinted windows, the glaring eyes of stray deer luring him toward the forests edge. it’s all he can think about as he passes the empty. how?
a new hire here. in greenhorn. in the dead of winter.
odd.
nobody stays here even when the city is at its finest, but in the state it’s in now? unnatural is what it is.
it sends tingles up his spine each time he thinks about it.
the last new person who came to stay in greenhorn was simon himself, and he was running from something.
as most people do.
war is alive when the cigarette hits his tongue. she. kansas.
what a funny name.
this first chapter is slow, but just hang with me guys. i have a very specific view for this story i promise.
cw: blood, gore, sexy simon muhahaha i dunno this is random
He almost didn’t hear it the first time.
The bar was overly crowded and hot, the bitter taste of beer blocking out all the sounds until they were melding together into one. He was fixated on boisterous laughter and cigarette smoke, until the incessant voice kept repeating itself.
Irritation took place quickly and he didn’t even give himself a chance to scan who was talking before he spun around and answered. “wot?” he sounded angry, gravelly tone piercing through the small space.
it was your shaky breathing that sobered him up however, and suddenly he was tense, draft beer flat on the table as he white-knuckled the glass.
you were seemingly a stranger, a lost bird with tears in her eyes, shaky hands.
“h-hi.” he heard too-shallow breaths making an appearance and you were fighting this almost hiccuping thing, it had his heart clenching in his chest.
“i’m not trying to bother you, i just-i’ve seen you in here a few times and i can’t get my car to start and there’s this guy up at the bar who was watching me and now he’s waiting outside and i’m-”
before you even finish talking, he’s throwing money on the table, fingers reaching for truck keys. he says nothing, just grabs your wrist and pulls you with him.
you’re sniffling as he shuffles past groups of people, trying to fiddle through the maze and get out the door.
his grip is tight, making you tense. this was a mistake. “i’m so sorry, im not trying to bo-bother you.” he doesn’t answer though, just tugs you along until you reach the door.
there’s the man right there, just a few feet from your car. he’s trying to look occupied, hands in his pockets as he shuffles around by your driver side door.
you can’t help but break out into tears, scooting ever so closer to the big brute in front of you. “that’s him, he’s got a buddy across the lot, in the brown truck.”
birdie did her research.
there’s a thundering in his veins as you cry and though he’s seen you just the few times he’s been here, something inside of him aches.
“it’s olright, ‘m gonna take care ‘a it.” his touch is softer now, thumb moving absentmindedly against your wrist. he walks with a lighter purpose, making his footsteps heavy and known. you’re tucked up just behind his arm, free hand grasping onto thick muscles like a lifeline.
“oi!” he sounds like thunder, rumbled baritone sending the shady man stiff.
the truck starts in the distance, and suddenly there’s curiosity poking at your mind. “i’d stop whatever you think you’re doin’” it’s then the man tries to take a run, but your hero is faster.
with one hand still holding yours, he uses his other to grasp the side of his jacket, throwing the creep into the hood of your car. “i said, stop.”
the hand moves from cloth to skin, and now there’s fingers wrapped around a jawline, squeezing so tight there’s sure to be bruises- if not broken bones. “you got ‘a reason for botherin’ this ‘ere bird? nah, i reckon you don’t do ya. just tryin’ to get a good hard on to help you sleep tonight. tha’ right?” the man shakes his head no, frantically, but the hand on his jaw forces it up and down and squeezes harder.“ohhh come on, don’t be shy now. i’ll give you one more chance t’ tell the truth, now, were you tryin’ t’ take my bird?”
this time, he doesn’t even move, just stares with these wide, erratic eyes, hands wrapped around a rippling forearm. so, the hero answers for him. another slight nod is forced with his fingers, and he tsks in return.
“that’s what i thought.”
it’s like lightning the way he reacts and you watch with crippling fascination as he jerks the man up straight, then slams the side of his head onto the metal hood, sending blood splatters across your windshield.
again and again and again.
you think there’s teeth on the ground, his nose is crooked, and there’s blood coming from his ears, but your hero keeps going.
“we don’t take what doesn’t belong to us now do we?” so he shakes his head no. “and we don’t borrow sweet birdies without asking. isn’t tha’ right?” by this point the man has pissed himself, and he’s in shambles. there’s nothing coming out of his mouth but incoherent bloody mumbles, and you think you make out an “i’m sorry.” apparently that’s what your hero was looking for this entire time because you watch his hand relax, watch the jaw as it retracts, and suddenly you find yourself dripping.
“there we go, that’s better.” he tosses him a few feet away from your car, and turns around, facing your overly calm face. the bloody hand pushes hair behind your ear, rubbing a calloused thumb along your cheekbone. you think you feel blood smearing your skin, but it does nothing other than fuel the fire.
“you olright?”
you nod, squeezing his bicep. “better.”
“good.” he makes this huffing sound, large chest deflating as he flexes his hand on your cheek. “the name’s simon, bird, ‘n let’s see if we can fix this problem with your car hm?.”
pregnant reader pregnant reader pregnant NEIGHBOUR reader and a lil more pregnant reader
141 when you…..
a random lieutenant reader vs. lieutenant simon enemies to lovers pipeline series that will never get posted
best friend/roomates simon riley and reader who is an overworked server just trying to make rent
secretary reader/captain riley dubcon a lil bit and smut
sit on ma face smut
sleep deprived nurse reader and lieutenant riley whose got rules
grump lieutenant riley/not so grump sergeant reader hurt/comfort, falling through ice trope muahaha
sick simon riley -> sick reader
john price’s neighbour whose a florist that lives down the street/ riley who lives with john when he’s on leave kind of dubcon but also you want this stalker man so bad
johnny can’t make you cum part 3
sick reader
some more roommate anthology
if anything happens, you call johnny -> well something happens and you call johnny lol
another if anything happens, you call johnny -> nothing happens but you’re lonely so you call johnny
another what if tf141…..
a random shy bartender reader/scary simon riley thing that’s lowkey done i just haven’t edited
RELEASE ME FROM THESE CHAINS PLEASE (having a thousand drafts and only adding onto them bits and pieces at a time and never able to fully completely one)
Part 2- Johnny can’t make you cum. (18+ nsfw, smut, simon riley x reader)
Part 1- not a necessary read but if you want a bit of a backstory.
johnny is sleeping when simon absolutely bashes the door open, the ferocity in his movements sending the wood slamming against the wall.
the sergeant jerks, fumbles beneath his pillow for a gun that isn’t there.
you feel kind of sorry for him, especially when he furrows his brows in utter confusion at your frame swallowed behind simon’s.
he grabbed your hand just before you walked in, soothed vibrating insides by a consistent brushing of your knuckles with his thumb. when you realized what he was planning to do, the anxiety grew faster than you could beg him to stop, and you ended up afraid of facing both him and johnny. there was no good way out, you were trapped.
but he helps, he soothes. in a way the handsome scot just was never able to do.
“steamin’ jesus L.t., go on and help yerself why don’t ya,”
simon huffs, unamused. “gladly.”
all it results in is the flailing of johnny flopping back down onto his back, hand scrubbing dejectedly down his face. “bloody hell, what do ye want?”
“i want you to stand up,”
this results in overly boisterous laughter from johnny as he looks back at simon, eyes piercing through the mass of man to look at you.
you can’t really make it out, but it sets unease throughout your bones, quickly followed by regret.
“simon this-it’s fine. please can we just-” you’ve got your grip on his bicep, rippled shreds of pure muscle thrumming beneath your fingertips. he’s so big. so so big. every piece of argument you had queued up dies immediately and is all replaced with saliva, drool ready to fall down your lips.
simon scoffs. “look at tha’, you see tha’ johnny. got ‘er so worked up she can’t even talk.”
his words bring you back, make your entire body go hot. this is embarrassing, really really embarrassing.
“oh, i’m-i’m fine i-simon can we please-”
he spins around, the simple narrowing of his eyes making you go compliant and utterly quiet. “y’r gonna hush y’r mouth and let me ‘andle this. yes sir?”
only your breath is heard, the rapid rising and falling of your chest making your throat tighten, eyes lighting up and fizzing out all at once. he notices, pries your hand off of him and puts it at your side, tucking two knuckles beneath your chin. “hm?”
you swallow, thickly, finding softness in his features, in the way he caresses your cheek. you nod, licking your lips. “yes sir.”
“good. now,” he turns, facing the sergeant, tone changing into this commanding force you know as your lieutenant. it’s the one nobody challenges, the one that means one wrong move and there is punishment ahead. “johnny. get. up.”
he doesn’t, he just waits. his eyes have questions, thousands of them, confusion swirling in a baby blue sea. you think he might be hurt. guilt slams into your chest, makes you lose all air. you cant help but put a hand on your sternum, heel of your palm trying to draw you back.
this is wrong. this is bad this is wrong. fix it fix it fi-
“why should i listen to a thing ye have to say?”
he’s standing toe to toe yet they’re ten feet apart.
“ye come barreling in my room, have my girl on yer arm, telling me i dinnae know how to please a woman.” he sits up, spinning around in his bed so that big, bare feet slam frustrated on the ground. “tell me why not even an hour ago i had the lass crying in my bed,” he runs a hand through an unruly mohawk, and its only then you notice the flush to his cheeks. he’s flustered. “don’t tell me i don’t know how to fuck sir, because every woman that comes through this building has a different say so.”
simon’s back goes tight, taut, and you can see the way his shoulders rise and fall with each calculated breath. he’s not hiding his anger, but he’s not making a show of it either, he’s just listening.
“she’s not every woman.”
you’re still rubbing your chest, hiding away and trying to breathe. there’s too much tension in the air, enough to make your skin uncomfortably hot, and usually johnny’s room is like a tundra.
this is your fault. they’re going to fight and hate each other and you’ll be in the middle of it, all because you couldn’t get over cumming, or rather the lack of.
how childish are you? how stupid?
you hear your name and it feels like a smack to the side of your head. it’s disorienting, and it makes everything ache when it comes from the lips it does. “tell him bonnie, get whatever fantasy is in his head out of it so i can get my arse in bed.”
you can’t read him again. can’t tell if he’s being true or if it’s begging you see in his eyes. don’t embarrass him, don’t make him feel like a fool.
he huffs, scratches his neck, yawns. his mannerisms are too calm, and you realize it wasn’t begging but frustration. he thinks he’s right.
you can feel tears, and the emptiness between your thighs throbs.
simon looks at you, softly, expectantly, and all you can do is flicker between the two faces. two familiar yet strange features. do you tell the truth? fix it?
or let it go? you’ve always been decent at taking care of yourself, why make this bigger than it is?
just fix it. fix it fix it fi-
the words come before you can stop them. “it’s not, i’m not trying to be um, to be mean, but i-” the thing that stops you is the way johnny pauses, for a mere second you see a teenage boy in him. soemthing yearning to pleasure, to please. something new and confused. he just needs guidance, to be taught. to learn and figure it out on his own.
yet you’re calling him out, plastering his name on flyers and forcing peoples heads where the pages are stapled onto a tree.
look at this man. he doesn’t know, he’s stupid. look at him. laugh.
simon analyzes, ushers you forward with a flicker of his fingers. “c’mon,”
you have no confidence, nothing to make you continue, but he’ll force it out of you.
and you want to cum. you really really do.
“i-”
johnny looks up, and you think you see the moment his stomach drops. it makes the tears noticeable on your face, makes you pick at your nails, rub your chest, mess with your hair, anything to keep from hurting him, anything to-
“everytime we’ve um, that we’ve done this, i can’t-i’ve never finished.”
“what?”
“but it’s not, it’s not just with you! i mean every guy i’ve been with i’ve had this problem so it’s probably me so don’t feel um weird or bad or, like, anything.”
you try to smile, to make him feel like less of the problem, but he’s got his mouth open, teeth poking out, tongue dry.
your belly hurts again, and you look at simon, sniffling, trying not to absolutely lose it.
he just shakes his head, wipes away all tears with his thumb. “we don’t make excuses for the foolish baby, isn’t that right mactavish?”
when simon moves out of your eyesight to look at his sergeant, you notice johnny is on his feet, pants on, eyes stone cold and unreadable. like a soldier.
he’s following his orders.
it makes you sick, makes your insides twist, but simon only hums, the sound reaching nerves you didn’t know you had and lighting them on fire. he’s satisfied, happy even. “good boy johnny,”
he nods, eyes looking right at you and yet he’s nowhere to be found in them. it’s like simon flipped a switch in johnny’s head, turned off the lights and lost him somewhere in the dark.
“simon-”
“let’s go, my room ‘s warmer.” he puts a large hand on your hip, forces your body to turn and applies pressure to make you move forward.
like a horse with a bit in its mouth, thick thighs guiding you each and every way you need to go.
simon’s room is down the hall on the right, numbers pried off and leaving behind a lighter and more faded section of the wood. your heart thunders like hooves on asphalt when he reaches around you to grab the door handle.
his neck is directly under your chin, breath hot on your jawline. the mask is still lifted, revealing wet, pink lips. they kiss your skin softly as he opens the door, whispering encouragement like a prayer to make your body cooperate.
“first lesson johnny, you ‘ave to make ‘em want.” his voice is in your ear, making you shiver. “shut the door,”
you hear a click, some shuffling of feet, and simon is in front of you, hand cupping your cheek. lips press underneath your ear, kissing a slow trail down your neck and to your chest, then back up to the other side.
“there are a lot ‘a women that might like to jump in with both feet sergeant, but some of ‘em like you to take your time. you ‘ave to learn to read ‘em.”
you think you feel him smile, and suddenly your hands are on his chest, fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer until his body is as close as your skin can be in this position.
“i um-i like the build up,” the words feel sinful. you’re not supposed to give suggestions, you just shut up and take what you’re given. but simon likes this, in fact, you feel teeth graze across your jaw.
“i know ya do baby, but johnny ‘s used to the ones who open their legs for a bit of fun yeah, but you, you like the way it feels. don’t ya?” you’re looking up at the ceiling, breath caught in your throat. every touch of his hands, of his skin, sends liquid lava through your veins. it’s an odd feeling.
there’s warmth in your belly akin to butterflies, and there’s an aching coming from your cunt. it screams at you, begging to be filled.
he grabs your face, forces it back down from where it was focused on the ceiling. his pupils are blown wide, tongue peeking between his teeth.
you hesitantly grab at his cheeks, slipping fingers beneath the mask to feel his features. he’s sturdy there too, stubble poking at your skin and tickling the creases beneath your knuckles.
“you gotta kiss ‘er, make ‘er feel wanted.” he does so. soft at first, like he’s asking for something. you give it to him by having your knees buckle, his strong arms squeezing the plushness of your thighs and lifting you around him. “there’s a time and a place t’ feel like a toy, but when you’re tryin’ to please ‘er, you gotta let that fantasy go johnny.”
he lays you back softly, says every word against your lips so he’s never apart from you. the tension in your shoulders eases for some reason, even when he tugs off your shirt, undoes your bra.
normally you’re afraid, goosebumps littering your skin, but it’s so warm in here. not the prickly kind, but the kind that makes you sigh, makes your eyes flutter shut with content.
he kisses down to your chest, and you arch your back in a way that’s never happened before when he starts sucking on your tits. he’s experienced, in his own simon riley way. the tongue does a lot of the work, teeth stimulating your nipple when he grazes oh so slightly before moving to the other.
you can feel little mewls coming from your lips, sounds you’ve never considered making before.
there was always too much to think about, too much to dwell on. now your brain is shut down, you move in tandem with him, body following his instructions like it’s the most natural thing in the world. an instinct to let him lead.
his hands begin to wander as he kisses your neck, dipping in your waistline and coming back out to rub your sides.
it’s sensual, you guess is the word.
a feeling you can’t place but recognize so well.
you turn your head so he can kiss your neck, but when blurry eyes flutter open, something happens inside your chest.
johnny looks sad.
he’s posted up in a chair, stiff and lonely. you feel the guilt again, and suddenly there’s no excitement anymore, no pleasure. just pain.
“simon st-” you find yourself cut off by the barbed wire around your vocal cords. the tears come fast. the frustration comes faster.
he obeys, immediately, backs off a little bit to look at your face. you think you see johnny lean forward, like he wants to do something, anything.
“‘ey it’s olright, you’re olright.”
you’re hiccuping, choking on emotions and feelings that haven’t come to the surface in a long time. it’s overwhelming.
your face is wet, eyes bloodshot, and simon is trying. he’s gently kissing your cheeks, pushing baby hairs behind your ears and away from your forehead.
“everything is fine, i promise. johnny,” you choke on a sob, clenching your eyes shut.
you’re afraid to hear his voice, to hear the disappointment and betrayal that’ll come with it. you’re not dating, there’s been no commitment or conversation of such, but you’re nothing if not a loyal woman and this feels wrong.
you feel dirty. bad. even as your cunt turns its back on you, as it clenches from each and every touch of simon’s fingers.
“listen t’ me, breathe yeah? shh, just- ‘ey, look at me for a moment.” he kisses your lips, big palms running down each cheek to rid the remnants of tears. you open your eyes, blink some more away to clear your blurry gaze. he’s looking at you softly, maybe even sadly. you think it might be pity? empathy? he gets it, and that’s enough to have you sniffling, swallowing away the thick lump in your throat.
“‘m sorry,” the apology makes you cry again.
“no, this isn’t you. it’s never been you. we should’ve-listen-i should’ve talked to you some more. johnny should’ve told you it’s olright.” he’s nodding, caressing your sides. “isn’t that right? she’s okay, yeah?”
there’s silence, eerily so. you feel pain trickle in, emotions kickstarting all over again. you look at simon, bottom lip beginning to tremble, when johnny finally speaks, voice stern. “yer fine pretty girl,”
it doesn’t feel fine, none of this feels fine.
the way he says it isn’t soothing you, isn’t making you feel better. no, his eyes still seem distant, and you immediately slam your own shut.
you don’t think you can do this, you’re undeserving, a burden, bad, bad, ba-
“sometimes johnny,” simon’s voice is muffled by something, and you think you feel lips working down your stomach. “sometimes pretty little ladies get in their ‘eads, start questionin’ things.” lips above your waistline, leaving featherlight kisses. you feel your breath hitch, legs squirming all on their own in anxious anticipation. “you gotta turn that off, make it oll go quiet.”
it’s a tongue now, running up your side. thick, calloused fingers dipping in the hem of your pants and tugging them down. he does it slowly, a bit of permission being asked in the way they hesitantly slide down your hips.
you don’t fight it, just nod, lifting up your ass so he can finish tugging the leggings down.
your brain still whirs, images of the man just feet from your naked body passing through in clips, making you inhale sharply through your nose, fighting off more tears.
“hush it now,” you startle, eyes flying open to find simon right above you. one hand is on your cheek, thumb ghosting over your jawline. it draws your attention, makes you look at him and him only. “good.” that other hand wanders. it runs over the cotton of your panties, feels the way they’re a bit wet with slick.
“better, but if they’re not soakin’, well then, you’re just not doin’ it right.” he dips his thumb in the crease of your folds, over the fabric, running it up and finding an oddly perky clit. “mm, gettin’ somewhere.” you watch him smile, watch a scar twitch in satisfaction. his cheekbone seems to flutter too. you focus on that for a moment, focus on the way it ticks.
he’s fascinating, oddly enough. he’s complex and emotional, but there’s a wall, a mask if you will. something in his eyes, crowded by thread. it says this is him tearing it apart for you, says that he’s trying.
a moan breaks out before you can stop it when he pushes aside the crotch of your panties, testing the waters with a finger in your cunt and a thumb on your clit.
it shuts your brain off completely, makes your hands fly to his shoulders. “you ‘ear that? means she’s feelin’ better.” he smiles, all teeth and gums, before moving down your body yet again, taking your underwear with it and tossing them to johnny when they’re off.
they hit him on the neck, making you slap a hand over your lips before they let out a ferocious giggle. simon likes it though, he’s loosening up each limb little by little, making you human again. “smell that, feel ‘em. let it be your souvenir from tonight’s lesson. cause once i bury my face in this pussy, it’s mine.” he bites the inside of your thigh for emphasis, making you yelp, fingertips curling in unruly sheets.
“now, tell me one thing sweet’art, can you do that for me?” he’s placing open mouth kisses against the top of your pelvis, circling your cunt, making you clench with want.
“wh-what?”
“what’s so wrong about the way johnny boy over ‘ere eats y’r pussy, and be honest, we don’t mind, do we?” you look over, try to ignore the lips on the crease where your thigh meets your pussy, but fail with a mewl, even as johnny nods yes.
“i dunno it’s just,” there’s a warmth gliding up your slit now, making you still. “um, he just, he’s really rough, and he-fuck,” simon moves up, circles your clit with a flattened tongue. “he never does that.”
when he perks his head up, his eyebrows are raised beneath the balaclava, your arousal glistening on his chin and the black fabric. you think it might turn you on a bit.
“you mean he’s never touched y’r clit.”
you feel bashful again, meekly shaking your head as warmth floods your cheeks.
“ohhhhhh johnny, fuckin’ rule number one mate. that’s where a lot of it comes from yeah, the way ya feel?” it’s rhetorical, he knows. of course he does.
he looks at johnny though with a down right death stare, adjusting his grip on your thighs so his forearms are over the tops of them, shoulders keeping them pushed forward while his hands massage your tummy. every touch of his fingers keeps you here, present. it’s a bit harder to float away with the feeling of hands on your tits.
“looks like i’ve got some makin’ up to do then. right on, let’s get to it.”
then it begins, like a man starved of his meal. you feel simon open his mouth against your cunt, tongue seeking its way through your entrance before pulling out again. it’s all warm and wet, a tingly feeling shooting up your spine each time he moves up, lips wrapping around that little bud and sucking with the lightest of motions.
that has you singing a bit, hand now tugging the sheets up. “fuck, oh my go- simon,”
you think he chuckles, not because you hear it but because you feel it. it sends fire through your cunt and pooling in your stomach, tightening this odd coil resting in your gut.
he tilts his head, tries to find an angle to go in deeper, you don’t think that’s even possible. the man isn’t breathing, isn’t asking to stop, he’s fully willing to drown in your pussy. and for once you don’t think there’s enough coherent thoughts in your mind to care.
you think his mouth is making noises now, light sounds from how sloppily he’s going down. he’s taking his time, unlike johnny, building up this delicious flame that, once completely ignited, will set your whole body alight.
you arch when he takes your clit again, and there’s an unfamiliar sound coming from your lips when he decides he can add his fingers as well.
“oh simon, right the-” he found your sweet spot within seconds. you wait for him to lose it, even grind your hips down to beg him to continue, but it was unnecessary, because he’s hitting it over and over and over again.
somehow, on instinct, your free hand flies to the back of his head, pushing him down further into your cunt. you need more. more, more, more.
he reads it and begins to move in tandem. his mouth solely focuses on your clit while his fingers work your insides. it’s takes two more strokes of his fingertips and you’re a goner, that coil he’d been winding snapping full-force.
you call out his name, moan it breathlessly. you whimper and writhe, feeling arousal literally leaking onto your thighs.
it’s messy and hot, and simon takes in every last drop.
he works you, slows down his pace to very carefully take you down from your high. it’s only when you start spasming does he stop, fingers pulling out and going in his mouth.
“taste like honey sweet’art, just like i knew y’ would.” he crawls back over your body, places lips wet with cum over your closed eyelids in gentle kisses. “might just ‘ave to bottle y’ up, put it in my tea.” he grins against your jaw, laughs when you giggle. “what do ya think a’ tha’?”
“that’s,” you’re heaving in deep breaths, struggling to crawl out of the syrupy sweetness coating your mind. “that’s yucky simon,”
his chest shakes, belly vibrating against yours, and suddenly you hear a sound like thunder right up against your ear as he collapses onto you, squeezing your hip with ferocity as he fights off laughter. “i wouldn’t-fuck-i wouldn’t call it, in y’r own words, yucky baby. might just be the best sweetener a man could ‘ave. a delicacy.”
“no.”
he’s still laughing, now combining it with kisses on your cheek. “oh yeah, could sell it to the boys. make a fortune. bet they’d like tha’.”
you swat at his chest, but it doesn’t beat the smile you manage when you finally open your eyes to see his own staring back at you in something that could be described as nothing other than awe.
they swirl like a storm, heading straight toward you. ready to rip apart your life and set it anew onto its own path. destruction with willpower. and you accept it. even as a foot taps, even as you remember there’s another man watching, analyzing.
because he’s never looked at you like this before. and now that you’re really paying attention, you think simon always has. just a duller version in the past.
either way, this isn’t something you want to let go of. ever.
simon comes back when you kiss him, slowly, reverently. “right, well,” his tongue searches for answers among your teeth, finding his answer and coming back with a sigh. “let’s finish this lesson up, send mactavish ‘ere on ‘is way. and then we’ll ’ave a bit of fun. hm?”
sounds like pure bliss.
“i accept your offer.”
he kisses you, as loosely as he’s made your limbs. this is what it should be like. you should feel this comfortable, this at home.
maybe you never had before because johnny was just a vacation.
“now, sergeant, when ya fuck a woman. ‘old on, ‘ere baby, lemme-there we go,” he grunts, adjusting himself properly between your thighs. he’d put his hands under your knees and pushed them against your stomach as far as they’d go, splitting your pussy open for him. leaving it warm, leaking, and inviting. “where was i? yeah, when ya fuck a lady, sure y’ might like it tight, and it might be, but if she’s not drippin’, not a fuckin’ fountain for ya dick, y’ might ‘ave an unhappy woman. and well, that just won’t do will it?”
simon shakes his head no for emphasis, and you follow, like an obedient little puppy. a kitten who whines when he runs the tip of his dick up and down, gathering your slick.
“i know ya think this is all about the way ya feel johnny, and it is sometimes, but if you’re feelin’ good when y’r missus isn’t and ya just keep goin’ to get a decent wank, then you can fuck right off. not under my roof, not under my rank. is that understood?”
johnny is silent and simon is beginning to press inside you, sending a stinging stretch that makes your nails dig into his biceps.
“yes sir, johnny?”
a little more and he pulls back out, making you whimper before pushing back in again, further.
“yes sir.”
simon kisses your neck, whispers in your ear. “doin’ good for me. i know it stings a bit but just give it a moment and it’ll feel better.”
you nod, trying to focus on the way his tongue feels in your mouth instead of the intrusion in your pussy.
johnny isn’t small, not by any means, but it’s never really gone that far if you’re being honest, and you’re not sure right now if it’d matter anyway because well, simon is very true to his size.
you agree a bit loudly, trying to convince yourself. “okay okay,”
he tries to go further but it almost feels like you’ve hit a wall. he widens your thighs, makes them burn, and keeps inching in, trying to coerce your body into loosening for him.
it makes you hiss. makes him pause. “it’ll stop, just relax for me.”
“promise?” you whisper this one, focus your eyes on his own when they come up to look at you.
he doesn’t hesitate to show you the intensity in them, doesn’t hesitate to guide you to safety.
“if it doesn’t, you just tell me and we’ll quit. not doin’ nothin’ you don’t wanna do.”
you nod, choke back some tears, and squeeze his biceps to let him know he can just do it.
“want a countdown?”
“no.”
before you know it his hips are flush with yours and you’re muffling a whimper in his neck, feeling his hand massage the back of your thigh. “easy,” he waits, lets you breathe, and then his thumb finds your clit again.
at first it doesn’t do anything, because there’s a stretch, a big ass fucking stretch. but then something hits the ends of your nerves, makes your eyebrows furrow in a different way.
now there’s a pressure but it’s nice, and you wiggle, testing the waters.
“move, please,”
you don’t have to ask twice.
he’s starting off slow, panting a bit, trying to speak but failing to find words.
“ya start off at an even pace, somethin’ she can count on.”
you find your ankles locking around the base of his spine, and now your neck feels less tense, there’s jelly in your bones.
“the main thing you’ve got ta-mmph-fuck,” he hangs his head, stifles a grown in your neck. “oh you’re killin’ me, feel so warm so-ah-tight.”
his reactions cause reactions of your own and you moan alongside him, letting your body guide you.
“every wo-woman ‘as got a sweet spot.” he grabs your hips, quickens his pace to a speed where you can feel every curve and vein that makes up his dick, where it slides deliciously in and out, where it builds up a tightness again, sitting low in your belly.
“you might ‘ave to try a few different angles, but you’ll know by the sounds she makes whenever you’ve found it.”
he adjusts so he’s hitting one side more than the other, it doesn’t do much, feels good but not life-changing.
“hm, not that one,”
your sounds are too breathy, weak.
he moves to the middle, pulls one thigh down and pushes it to the side. that feels better, really good actually. you moan a little louder, arch further into his chest. “almost got it, but not quite. you want ‘er singin’.”
again, he moves, angles his dick once more and slides out. “right,” it’s a skull-splitting movement when he slides back in and holy fuck what the-
“oh my god oh my god,”
“there. right there. that’s it. yeahhhhh,”
you let out a noise that never happens to you, something that would normally have you crawling with embarrassment, but simon just keeps hittting that spot, and hitting it, and hitting it.
“don’t stop fuck, simon please, please,” you’re begging him, tears in your eyes, praying he’ll just keep going.
you’re close, soemthing strong and yet so weightless beginning to take hold.
“shh baby, ‘m not, i got ya. you just let go, let me teach.”
you nod, frantically, let him set the tone. all you know is his tip is hitting a place that sets your nerve endings on fire, that makes your toes curl and fingers tingle, makes something in your brain begin to sparkle and tickle.
“johnny, we’re not sloppy when we’re pleasin’. if y’r tryin’ to get yourself off, sure, but women’s bodies are-fuck-” he lets out a deep whimper you think, folds into you a bit. all you did was clench down, pussy trying to suck him in and keep him forever.
“‘m sorry,” you think tears are pouring, but there’s too many feelings all at once that you can’t tell anything other than if he touches your clit you’re an absolute goner.
“don’t-baby, fuck you gotta-shit-don’t apologize.”
you hear how close he is in the way his voice pitches up. how his hands start caressing again, trying to ground himself.
“johnny, this’ll ’ave to wait i’ve got-fuck-i’ve got other matters of business.”
you don’t know what happens, but an explosion goes off inside your head. you throw it back, feel liquid lava creep throughout your veins.
and simon keeps going. again and again and again. he pushes your knees back, elbows holding him up, and something in him snaps because there’s a pace now so fast and so perfect that it has the feeling you thought was over building up in delicious overstimulation.
it crawls up your neck and wraps tendrils around your brain, squeezing until there’s no air in your lungs because you’re moaning it all out in the form of his name.
your arms were lazily thrown over his neck but now they’re on the bed, weak fingers trying to find solace in the blankets beneath you.
but you’re in space, floating, pleasure in every crevice of your body.
“baby fuck, you’re perfect. just-i’m so close, i’m almost finished fuck i know you can give me another. gonna give me another?” you don’t know if he hears you but you’re screaming yes inside, it only comes out as his name though just like everything else.
“yeah simon’s ‘ere, i’ve gotcha. just let it go, cmon, you can do it.”
he merely grazes your clit and you’re swallowed by a black hole, a place deep and dark that’s dragging you down into something disorienting.
warmth spills into you, tugs you further back into this vastness.
then there’s weight on you, muffled voices speaking and trying to yank on your tether.
you think you beg it to stop, to leave you alone and let you float away. but it doesn’t listen, it just keeps calling you back, tugging and pulling and now there’s light peeking through.
your rocket ship is landing. which is highly unfortunate because there is no way in hell you can step out of it without falling on your face.
you open your eyes, just mere slits, but simon is over you, saying your name, running a hand over your warm face.
“-ee’art? you okay?”
you think you nod, but by the way his voice keeps carrying you don’t know if that’s true.
“‘m fine.”
it’s slurred and weak, but he smiles, kisses your nose softly. “welcome back baby, thought we’d lost ya.”
“no,” you want to say more. to tell him about all the planets you visited on your trip around the universe. but there’s something throbbing inside of you, and you squirm, whimpering.
“yeah yeah, just breathe.” when the feeling inside of you begins to pull out, you hiss, trying to stop him as harshly as you can. it suddenly has reality flowing back through your veins.
“ow ow, fuck what did you do to me?”
he winces for you, hesitantly pulling out the rest of the way and kissing you when you cry out. “a bit sensitive are we?”
“yeah i-i dunno i feel like i blacked out or something,” you laugh but it hurts, so you settle for a smile, trying to coerce your legs into being less tense.
“somethin’ like that. feel good though?” he slides an arm behind your back, lifts you up so you’re closer. it gives you a touch of vertigo, makes you lean your head into his chest.
“don’t know if i’ll have better.”
you feel his laugh before you hear it and he kisses the top of your head. “think i can top it.”
“cocky much?”
“mm, just know what i’m capable of.”
you sigh, snuggling into him as exhaustion creeps in. you feel so empty yet so full. everything aches, there’s guilt in your chest, but he’s so warm. and can’t that be enough?
unfortunately he has to ruin it by being good.
“let’s get you cleaned up now. johnny, get out.” he keeps you calm with a warm palm on your back.
you hear footsteps, and he says nothing. all you know is there’s a small pause between when his feet stop and when the door opens.
you’ve hurt him. wounded his pride and his trust.
but he wounded yours first. badly.
and since when did anyone in this place not give a fuck about good ole revenge?
you hear him walk out, feel saliva pool on your throat along with a feeling very close to nausea. how do you patch this one up? and can you?
“you need ta take a piss love, then we’ll get ya in the bath, some warm clothes, maybe a bite.”
you whine, forget for a moment, and try to scooch further into him. “can’t i just take a nap?”
“i wish but, ya need to pee. just trust me.”
you grumble, groan, but he lifts you off the bed and to his chest so you guess it’s worth something.
simon sits you down on the toilet with the light off, kisses your head and claims he’ll be back when you’re finished. you think it’s all okay, that your sleepy daze will last. wrong, very fucking wrong.
this piss is like a second orgasm and you cling to the sink in horror when your body shudders, legs shaking, pussy absolutely pulsing with each moment that passes by.
it’s weird and uncomfortable yet oddly pleasuring at the same time. it sends anxiety through your chest, makes your brain ask for relief.
“simon,” you don’t know why you call his name, why moisture is pricking at your waterline, but he comes, clothes in hand.
he crouches down so he’s eye level, and suddenly this is all too intimate, too overwhelming. you’re still pissing, still trembling, and simon is rubbing your thigh, hushing your noises.
“‘m sorry this is weird i know it’s weird i-”
he shakes his head, runs his hands down to your calves to massage the tense muscles. “not weird baby, normal.”
you think you’re done, but there’s a sensation sitting in your vagina saying you’re not. and for some reason there’s no connection between the two of you to say you trust her at all. or really that she trusts you.
“i didn’t kn-know this was a thing.”
he’s working out a knot in your left leg, barely even looking up, like this is a casual tuesday.
“mmhm, learned it a while back. funny story really.”
round two comes fast and hard and you clench your eyes shut, waiting for the sting to pass and relief to flood.
“easy there, let it ‘appen.” and it does, faster than before, and finally your body is connecting its circuits back together again, making you feel like a whole instead of fragments of parts.
“done?”
you nod, eyes still closed, body lurched forward and dripping down further with exhaustion. “no, shower first, sleep later.”
you groan, obnoxiously, but he just flushes the toilet, turns on the shower and grabs your hands. “up and at em baby let’s go.”
“bossy.”
“mm, it’s my job.”
that makes you roll your eyes but you laugh nonetheless, liking the way he smiles. liking the way his nose crink-
his nose.
you can see the way his nose connects to his eyes. how it all wrinkles and crests and fuck he’s beautiful.
you stand there in something of amazement, because he took off his mask. for you.
your breath catches, eyes finding each freckle, every scar, and memorizing it, mapping out his skin. he’s perfect.
“in the shower, now.”
you grumble, stepping under the hot water and moaning. “thank you, thank you, thank you,”
he steps in behind you, hands sliding over your hips.
the silence that falls after is the most soothing part of the night. it’s two bodies moving like they’ve known each other for decades, reading cues and seeing signs that should take forever to learn, but they know.
they know when to step and when to turn, when to touch and when to back away. they sway and dance like strands of kelp side by side in ocean waves.
eternity together really.
simon has to drag you out, dries you off, puts the shirt on. he makes you sit on the counter while he takes care of himself. watches in amusement when your head tilts forward as your sleepy eyes close.
eventually you lay your forehead on his shoulder, waiting for him to stop brushing his teeth.
he carries you back, lays you down softly on what you’re recognizing as fresh sheets. ever the gentleman.
it’s cozy, a cocoon of safety.
you think you could fall asleep now, curled into his chest like this, but your eye catches the indent in his armchair, and suddenly it’s wide awake.
“y’r thinkin’, what about?”
you huff out a humorless laugh, tucking the thick comforter further beneath your chin. “how’d you even know?”
“felt the change in y’r breathin’, figured it was somethin’. but, ya know, just a hunch.”
he kisses the back of your head, follows your gaze to the place where it seems a little too stuck on.
“ah,” he knows. “ don’t worry about oll that tonight baby, we’ll ‘andle it tomorrow.”
you shake your head. and whose surprise when you’re crying again? “how do i even approach him simon? i mean i just-fuck-i was a horrible friend.”
“no, you made no commitments, there was no strings.”
“yes but,”
“no. don’t want to ‘ear it.”
you try to spin around to face him but he pins you still, kisses your neck with dry lips. “it’s time for bed. tomorrow.”
he leaves no room for argument.
“fine,”
“good, now sleep.”
you do, for a while. and sure, there’s nothing to worry about tonight. no responsibilities, no worries.
but tomorrow has them, in tenfold really. it has an agenda, and you think it’s going to be a bad one.
I hope this was worth the wait. turns out i had it in me the whole time i was just procrastinating!!
Roommate!Simon Riley who just thinks better when he's in between your thighs.
Can't think about what to do during the mission? He's pulling you into his lap and stuffing his fingers in your wet pussy.
Wondering what to say to put someone down nicely? He's sitting you down at the nearest spot and eating your pussy like a man starved.
This man could eat you out 24/7 if youd let him. When you ask why he's always at your pussy, he simply just shrugs and says "helps me focus," as if that makes any sense to you.
Now if that man is deep in thought, your pussy would be absolutely destroyed. He would lap at your sensitive clit while he fingers you, then lay you down nicely just to fuck you rough and deep. He would leave you a shaking mess from how many times you cum around him. And of course he would clean that mess up with his tongue.
you’ve got this backache that won’t quit. (simon riley x reader, nsfw 18+, hurt/comfort??)
it started as a twinge, a little pulsing behind your hip that made your eyebrows furrow but nothing more.
training would stretch it, strain it, sometimes it felt nice and other times it was like someone was pulling the fibers of your muscles apart with a pair of metal tongs.
there was a hope inside that walking would eventually wane it out, but the more weight you put on those worn out boots, the worse it began to feel.
going on four weeks now.
everywhere you go your hand is pressing into that knot, and fuck if that’s not what it is, a deep, hard knot.
you swear if someone would just push really really hard that it would snap, and suddenly it would stop. but that’s impossible, and you’re not privy to chiropractors nor is the 141 privy to weenies.
so you persevere. hide it from simon.
simon.
the lieutenant with benefits if you may. the absolutely best bed mate of your life.
and oh he’s fucking you so good right now, deep and slow, hands on your hips, tugging them forward and shoving his cock just that much deeper.
it feels good, unbelievable, at first.
but that twinge is starting, and you know what happens if you don’t reposition it.
and soon.
the pain will multiply until it’s absolutely unbearable. until you can’t hide it behind sloppy jokes and a fake moan.
and it wouldn’t be so bad if you were alone. but you’re with simon, and simon can’t know.
because it’s just a stupid little ache. that’s it. if he were to find out he’d either laugh or bench you. from both the field and his dick. neither of which you need from a glorified fuck buddy who also happens to be your lieutenant.
so you’ll rearrange. be innovative. it’ll work. “g-ghost i-fuck,” he pulls on your hips again, sending a sharp twinge down your leg and along your lower back. you grit your teeth hard, fighting back a whimper. “i-i need to move,”
he grunts, annoyed.
you’re not supposed to talk, not unless you’re moaning his name or begging him for more. this is an unfortunate exception to the rule because it’s starting to hurt really really bad.
“not done.”
you whine, trying to shove him off. “please just-i need to move ok?” he’s still pounding, and the constant slam of his hips against yours has gone from pleasurable to agony. “seriously, simon, stop,”
you don’t mean to make the sound you do, but it comes of its own accord, a loud, uncomfortable whimper that is very obviously not from how good he’s fucking you.
his eyes fly open, hands freezing on your hips. “hurt ya?” he sounds like fucking thunder, that should make you feel a million different ways, but all you can do is strain your neck, waiting for that tension to ease. it normally fades within thirty seconds, just have to wait it out and lay on your stomach and all will be well.
“n-no it’s not you, i just, i need you to fuck me on my belly. please.”
you read something from his pupils, a look that’s impossible to decipher. but you know those gears are turning, rusty and covered in dust.
“‘avent done that one in a while,” he pulls out, flips you over with an ease that always makes you feel a little bit better about yourself.
the second the pressure escapes your spine the pain dulls a little, and hope persists in the back of your mind, but then his hand lands right on that spot, where the knot pulses, and you clench your teeth into the pillowcase to keep from letting out a nasty combination between a moan and a scream.
it hurts so good.
oblivious, he pushes in with a deep groan, balls slapping your ass. “ohhh, y’r fuckin’ tight like this.”
and he’s deeper, fuller. but you can’t focus on anything other than just how much pressure he’s putting on your hip, your back.
he picks up a nasty pace immediately, forehead between your shoulder blades, little grunts coming from his lips. they make you clench on instinct but it’s all you can do not to turn around and push him off of you.
just endure until he cums and then you can limp back to your room and down some tylenol.
that’s all.
then his elbow lands right. there. and you stuff the pillow between your lips, fingers tightening so tightly in the sheets your knuckles turn white.
on instinct your body pulls away from him, but he pulls you back, teeth on your jaw. “stop runnin’, not goin’ nowhere til i fuckin’ stuff this pussy, ya understand?”
he grabs your jaw, tugs your eyes to meet his. and suddenly it all stops. the roughness of his hands turn to gentle callouses, and those hazels soften at the speed of light.
“‘ey, y’r cryin’,”
no shit sher- he leans down, and that spot, fuck he hits it again. you choke, hands slapping at his arms and trying to push him off. “get off my back-fuck you gotta get off. get off,”
he’s sporadic, nervous. “okay, olright, just ‘old on,” he grunts when he pulls out, cum leaking onto your thighs. you’re not sure if it’s his or yours and frankly you don’t care. because this has gotten so much worse and it throbs along your lower back, down your hip.
the second his weight lifts you roll on your back, drool collecting on the corner of your lip from how much you tried to hide it. you try to work out the knot, but you can’t find it and everytime you put pressure on it all it does is hurt.
simon is lost. he’s hovering, awkwardly. confusion so evident it makes you sick. he’s not good with stuff like this, certainly not tears.
you half expect him to leave, to abandon you in his bed to take a shower or something. and you wouldn’t blame him. nor are you surprised when the weight lifts from the bed and footsteps begin to retreat.
when the door shuts you finally let yourself loose a bit. noises escape, miniature sobs buried deep in your chest. weeks of utter agony and frustration building up and exploding all at once.
it won’t go away. normally it fades but it won’t stop.
you can’t move your leg even without a huge stab running down the back of your pelvis.
you don’t know what to do, how to fix it. then something warm meets between your legs, cloth gently scrubbing your skin. it hits the sensitivity of your core but you barely flinch. you can’t.
“simon,”
his name comes out in a cry, like a fucking child, not a soldier. “yeah, ‘m ‘ere.”
suddenly he’s over you, hand brushing back your sweat slick hair. you’re embarrassed, humiliated, eyes clenched so tight it’s giving you a headache.
“‘ey, look at me.” his thumb is rubbing out the wrinkles of your forehead, other hand over the top of your fingers where they keep kneading your back. “got t’ tell me what’s goin’ on, not a fuckin’ mind reader.”
you nod, try to crack a smile. “it’s my ba-ack, ow,” he’s starting to massage over the top of your hand, nose nuzzling your temple.
“got that part, got t’ tell me where, ‘ow long, why?”
you sniffle, arching into his chest, seeking the warmth that literally wafts off his skin. “a few weeks, it was fine at first, just a little like twinge, but if i walk for more than an hour now it starts throbbing.” he nods, kissing your jaw. “and i can’t like carry anything cause it just shoots across my lower back.”
“carried tha’ backpack f’me last week.”
“thought i was gonna die.”
“mm,”
you nuzzle into him, skin littered in goosebumps and shivering. now you’re cold, sticky, and hurt. how wonderful.
“i’ve tried to rub it out but i can’t figure out where it’s actually hurting and everytime i do i just feel this huge k-knot-oh my go-simon,” you cry breathlessly, whimpering, because his knuckles push right against it, finding that deep-seated notch resting just on your lower back.
he pushes, hard, kneading like a cat. “there?”
“oh my go-oh my fuck,” the tears flow endlessly, relief blazing through your bones and setting them on fire.
he just kisses your neck, behind your ear, hitting that spot over and over again. this, right here, feels better than any orgasm he could’ve given you tonight.
your breath catches when his fingers move, to the spot that genuienly burns with pain. you try to push his hand away, but he shushes you, continuing to massage it.
“breathe baby, just let it ‘appen, it’ll feel better soon.”
you nod, nails raking down his biceps. “it just-simon it hurts so bad,”
“i know, it’s olright,”
he tries to distract you, meeting your lips, nose brushing so softly along your cheeks you could die right here you think.
you never thought he could be this tender. this, human.
“shoulda told me.”
“didn’t think you’d care.”
he grunts, meets another spot and has you moaning instead of sobbing. “course i do, y’r ma girl,” he’s easing you back onto your stomach, both hands now on either side of your back.
“you mean y-your fuck bu-uddy,” he pushes from the top of your ass and up with the heels of his palms, which has your eyes slamming shut, face buried in the mattress.
“think that’s oll ya are ta me?”
“mm-mmhm,” something presses against your ass, something thick, hard. it twitches when you moan, moving in tandem with the way his hands push against your spine.
“seems i’ve got some makin’ up ta do,”
“w-what?”
before you can turn your neck around his dick enters you to the fucking hilt, at the same time he finds that one spot.
you’ve never made a noise like that in your life and simon chuckles deep, sinister.
“just lay right there baby, ‘m gonna fix ya up proper. rearrange that spine juuuust fine,”
there goes another nasty moan, fingers squeezing the pillow, ass pushing back so far you feel the base of his stomach meet your ass cheeks.
“oh simon, please don’t stop.”
his thumb pushes, deep, then his cock, kissing your cervix.
“yeah, ‘s good innit?”
oh fuck, he might just break your back instead.
——————-
so basically this is def me projecting.
my back literally hurts so bad. i thought i was gonna die carrying my laundry today no joke. i need someone to snap it in half. and ofc there’s no one to break it for me! i wish simon was tho
anyway this was random and i should work on my other 20 wips
you’ve got this backache that won’t quit. (simon riley x reader, nsfw 18+, hurt/comfort??)
it started as a twinge, a little pulsing behind your hip that made your eyebrows furrow but nothing more.
training would stretch it, strain it, sometimes it felt nice and other times it was like someone was pulling the fibers of your muscles apart with a pair of metal tongs.
there was a hope inside that walking would eventually wane it out, but the more weight you put on those worn out boots, the worse it began to feel.
going on four weeks now.
everywhere you go your hand is pressing into that knot, and fuck if that’s not what it is, a deep, hard knot.
you swear if someone would just push really really hard that it would snap, and suddenly it would stop. but that’s impossible, and you’re not privy to chiropractors nor is the 141 privy to weenies.
so you persevere. hide it from simon.
simon.
the lieutenant with benefits if you may. the absolutely best bed mate of your life.
and oh he’s fucking you so good right now, deep and slow, hands on your hips, tugging them forward and shoving his cock just that much deeper.
it feels good, unbelievable, at first.
but that twinge is starting, and you know what happens if you don’t reposition it.
and soon.
the pain will multiply until it’s absolutely unbearable. until you can’t hide it behind sloppy jokes and a fake moan.
and it wouldn’t be so bad if you were alone. but you’re with simon, and simon can’t know.
because it’s just a stupid little ache. that’s it. if he were to find out he’d either laugh or bench you. from both the field and his dick. neither of which you need from a glorified fuck buddy who also happens to be your lieutenant.
so you’ll rearrange. be innovative. it’ll work. “g-ghost i-fuck,” he pulls on your hips again, sending a sharp twinge down your leg and along your lower back. you grit your teeth hard, fighting back a whimper. “i-i need to move,”
he grunts, annoyed.
you’re not supposed to talk, not unless you’re moaning his name or begging him for more. this is an unfortunate exception to the rule because it’s starting to hurt really really bad.
“not done.”
you whine, trying to shove him off. “please just-i need to move ok?” he’s still pounding, and the constant slam of his hips against yours has gone from pleasurable to agony. “seriously, simon, stop,”
you don’t mean to make the sound you do, but it comes of its own accord, a loud, uncomfortable whimper that is very obviously not from how good he’s fucking you.
his eyes fly open, hands freezing on your hips. “hurt ya?” he sounds like fucking thunder, that should make you feel a million different ways, but all you can do is strain your neck, waiting for that tension to ease. it normally fades within thirty seconds, just have to wait it out and lay on your stomach and all will be well.
“n-no it’s not you, i just, i need you to fuck me on my belly. please.”
you read something from his pupils, a look that’s impossible to decipher. but you know those gears are turning, rusty and covered in dust.
“‘avent done that one in a while,” he pulls out, flips you over with an ease that always makes you feel a little bit better about yourself.
the second the pressure escapes your spine the pain dulls a little, and hope persists in the back of your mind, but then his hand lands right on that spot, where the knot pulses, and you clench your teeth into the pillowcase to keep from letting out a nasty combination between a moan and a scream.
it hurts so good.
oblivious, he pushes in with a deep groan, balls slapping your ass. “ohhh, y’r fuckin’ tight like this.”
and he’s deeper, fuller. but you can’t focus on anything other than just how much pressure he’s putting on your hip, your back.
he picks up a nasty pace immediately, forehead between your shoulder blades, little grunts coming from his lips. they make you clench on instinct but it’s all you can do not to turn around and push him off of you.
just endure until he cums and then you can limp back to your room and down some tylenol.
that’s all.
then his elbow lands right. there. and you stuff the pillow between your lips, fingers tightening so tightly in the sheets your knuckles turn white.
on instinct your body pulls away from him, but he pulls you back, teeth on your jaw. “stop runnin’, not goin’ nowhere til i fuckin’ stuff this pussy, ya understand?”
he grabs your jaw, tugs your eyes to meet his. and suddenly it all stops. the roughness of his hands turn to gentle callouses, and those hazels soften at the speed of light.
“‘ey, y’r cryin’,”
no shit sher- he leans down, and that spot, fuck he hits it again. you choke, hands slapping at his arms and trying to push him off. “get off my back-fuck you gotta get off. get off,”
he’s sporadic, nervous. “okay, olright, just ‘old on,” he grunts when he pulls out, cum leaking onto your thighs. you’re not sure if it’s his or yours and frankly you don’t care. because this has gotten so much worse and it throbs along your lower back, down your hip.
the second his weight lifts you roll on your back, drool collecting on the corner of your lip from how much you tried to hide it. you try to work out the knot, but you can’t find it and everytime you put pressure on it all it does is hurt.
simon is lost. he’s hovering, awkwardly. confusion so evident it makes you sick. he’s not good with stuff like this, certainly not tears.
you half expect him to leave, to abandon you in his bed to take a shower or something. and you wouldn’t blame him. nor are you surprised when the weight lifts from the bed and footsteps begin to retreat.
when the door shuts you finally let yourself loose a bit. noises escape, miniature sobs buried deep in your chest. weeks of utter agony and frustration building up and exploding all at once.
it won’t go away. normally it fades but it won’t stop.
you can’t move your leg even without a huge stab running down the back of your pelvis.
you don’t know what to do, how to fix it. then something warm meets between your legs, cloth gently scrubbing your skin. it hits the sensitivity of your core but you barely flinch. you can’t.
“simon,”
his name comes out in a cry, like a fucking child, not a soldier. “yeah, ‘m ‘ere.”
suddenly he’s over you, hand brushing back your sweat slick hair. you’re embarrassed, humiliated, eyes clenched so tight it’s giving you a headache.
“‘ey, look at me.” his thumb is rubbing out the wrinkles of your forehead, other hand over the top of your fingers where they keep kneading your back. “got t’ tell me what’s goin’ on, not a fuckin’ mind reader.”
you nod, try to crack a smile. “it’s my ba-ack, ow,” he’s starting to massage over the top of your hand, nose nuzzling your temple.
“got that part, got t’ tell me where, ‘ow long, why?”
you sniffle, arching into his chest, seeking the warmth that literally wafts off his skin. “a few weeks, it was fine at first, just a little like twinge, but if i walk for more than an hour now it starts throbbing.” he nods, kissing your jaw. “and i can’t like carry anything cause it just shoots across my lower back.”
“carried tha’ backpack f’me last week.”
“thought i was gonna die.”
“mm,”
you nuzzle into him, skin littered in goosebumps and shivering. now you’re cold, sticky, and hurt. how wonderful.
“i’ve tried to rub it out but i can’t figure out where it’s actually hurting and everytime i do i just feel this huge k-knot-oh my go-simon,” you cry breathlessly, whimpering, because his knuckles push right against it, finding that deep-seated notch resting just on your lower back.
he pushes, hard, kneading like a cat. “there?”
“oh my go-oh my fuck,” the tears flow endlessly, relief blazing through your bones and setting them on fire.
he just kisses your neck, behind your ear, hitting that spot over and over again. this, right here, feels better than any orgasm he could’ve given you tonight.
your breath catches when his fingers move, to the spot that genuienly burns with pain. you try to push his hand away, but he shushes you, continuing to massage it.
“breathe baby, just let it ‘appen, it’ll feel better soon.”
you nod, nails raking down his biceps. “it just-simon it hurts so bad,”
“i know, it’s olright,”
he tries to distract you, meeting your lips, nose brushing so softly along your cheeks you could die right here you think.
you never thought he could be this tender. this, human.
“shoulda told me.”
“didn’t think you’d care.”
he grunts, meets another spot and has you moaning instead of sobbing. “course i do, y’r ma girl,” he’s easing you back onto your stomach, both hands now on either side of your back.
“you mean y-your fuck bu-uddy,” he pushes from the top of your ass and up with the heels of his palms, which has your eyes slamming shut, face buried in the mattress.
“think that’s oll ya are ta me?”
“mm-mmhm,” something presses against your ass, something thick, hard. it twitches when you moan, moving in tandem with the way his hands push against your spine.
“seems i’ve got some makin’ up ta do,”
“w-what?”
before you can turn your neck around his dick enters you to the fucking hilt, at the same time he finds that one spot.
you’ve never made a noise like that in your life and simon chuckles deep, sinister.
“just lay right there baby, ‘m gonna fix ya up proper. rearrange that spine juuuust fine,”
there goes another nasty moan, fingers squeezing the pillow, ass pushing back so far you feel the base of his stomach meet your ass cheeks.
“oh simon, please don’t stop.”
his thumb pushes, deep, then his cock, kissing your cervix.
“yeah, ‘s good innit?”
oh fuck, he might just break your back instead.
——————-
so basically this is def me projecting.
my back literally hurts so bad. i thought i was gonna die carrying my laundry today no joke. i need someone to snap it in half. and ofc there’s no one to break it for me! i wish simon was tho
anyway this was random and i should work on my other 20 wips
just fell asleep on my couch with my ipad in hand while studying for an exam tomorrow. i’d been studying for like 6hrs.
curious how simon would react in that situation.
(i also actively cried the other day after getting off a 14 hr shift bc i had to do hw and i just wanted to sleep. it’s rough out here!)
anyway, feel free to ignore this! i adore u and all your writing!!
It’s late, a long night on base for Simon, and he expects to come home to you curled up in bed like always. Except there you sit, iPad in lap, Apple Pencil hanging loosely in your hand, head rolled back onto the couch cushion. You’re fast asleep, knot between your brows, knot definitely forming at the curve of your neck, soft noises exhaled through your lips.
When he gets closer, Simon can’t help but smile, there’s drool on the corner of your lips, his sweater on your back. He takes the pencil out of your hand, places the iPad to the side before he scoops you in his arms bridal style, and carries you to the bedroom. You jostle when he places you on the bed, staring groggily at him.
“Hi, baby.” He cups your jaw, fingers brushing against your cheek.
You rub at your eyes, “Was I sleeping?”
He chuckles. “Came home to you on the couch, iPad in your lap still.”
You wince when you roll your neck, digging your fingers into the strained muscles. “I have to keep studying. I have an exam tomorrow.”
“Negative, you’ve been studying since I left.”Simon shakes his head, plopping himself flat on your body, laying his complete weight on top of yours, so you can’t move. “We sleep now.”
