[ghouljams]

The Church of the Broken God, Chapter 3

Words: 4k Tags: Eventual John Price x Reader, cult au, brainwashing, double speak, indoctrination, passively suicidal ideation, f!reader, self destructive habits, isolation, cheating, public embarrassment, insomnia, sleep deprivation, depressed!reader, cult leader!price, cult leader!Gaz Summary: Your life has been on a downward spiral for months. It's hard to find a real reason to keep going when everything you do seems to backfire. That is, until you get a flier for a meditation seminar that promises to fix all your problems

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Kyle's class is definitely popular. You stand in the doorway for a good few minutes before you spot an empty chair and rush to grab it. Kyle himself sits against the edge of the desk at the front chatting with a few women. You recognize Claire, the quiet girl from the bar. That’s how you’re choosing to remember her, not as Claire the public masturbator but as the quiet one.

You don’t think you can handle thinking about that other one too long.

Certainly can't look her in they eye when she smiles at you.

The room feels, oddly, like a classroom. There are desks and plastic chairs, a white board at the front, if you didn’t know any better you’d think you were back in school. 

It’s more like a night class you suppose.

Everyone here is an adult, most of them seem to have taken the class before too. You see people working on things, scrolling their phone casually, chatting with other people in the class. Again you're the clear outsider. Shuffling to the back of the class and keeping your head down. You're too glad there was an open seat near the back where no one can see you.

Specifically where Nina can't see you.

You don’t really want to be asked about John walking you in, and she's apparently a front row kind of girl.

Walking in with John was sort of nice, you suppose. He held the door for you, talked in a low tone like he only wanted you to hear it as you walked past. You’d seen a couple people glance your way, and more than a few people stick their eyes to John.

He must be pretty well liked around here.

What the hell is he doing talking to you?

Doesn't matter. You don’t want to give your new friend the wrong idea, so best to avoid her and put some distance between yourself and John. 

Because isolating yourself has literally never backfired for you before. You mentally roll your eyes at yourself.

Maybe you do need a life coach.

Kyle claps his hands and you see the people he was talking to scurrying back to their seats. His smile positively lights up the room, all teeth and a sparkle in his eyes. You close your own phone to pay attention. You paid for this class, you may as well learn something.

Nina was right about one thing, this guy is hot.

Are all the instructors here hot?

“I see we have a new face today,” He says with a cheery voice, his eyes landing on you like an 18-wheeler.

Every eye in the class turns to look at you.

The twist of bodies is a sickening crack of bones and creak of plastic, placid smiles that don’t touch a single eye in the room as they all settle on you.

You force a smile.

“Introduce yourself,” Kyle presses.

“Sure,” You try to keep your voice from wavering, “I’m, uh-”

“Would you stand up please?” Kyle presses again.

“Sure.” You push back from your desk to stand and you’re thrust back into secondary school, you barely get your name out before the entire group is repeating it back to you, “Ni-Nina said I should take this class, said it changed her life and I guess I need a change too?” You laugh a little at the self deprecating comment, not sure why you feel the need to explain yourself so clearly. You’re on the spot with no idea what to say.

“That’s good,” Kyle tells you, “That’s why we’re all here, to try and improve ourselves.” When you go to sit down he stops you, his smile wide as he holds up his hand. “Why do you think you need a change?”

“What?” The question throws you, just at the edge of too personal. 

“You need a change, why?” Kyle presses again.

“I guess I just-” you search for a reason, “-feel stuck?”

“Stuck?” Kyle prompts.

“Like I’m just sort of treading water, y’know?” You explain, you see a few heads nod around the classroom. “Stuck.”

“In what way?” Kyle tips his head, “Personally? At work? With friendships?”

You let out a breath and vaguely toss your hands in front of you, giving him a silent “I don’t know” before you ever open your mouth.

“Just in general.” Kyle makes a face, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “Like- Ok, like my partner fucking left me and my work sucks, and all of my friends think I’m depressing, and I’m just-” you spend a moment making aborted gestures of frustration before Kyle cuts in.

“Stuck?”

“Yes!” you relent. 

“Good.” Kyle nods.

“Good?”

“Good,” He repeats, “the first step to solving a problem is realizing there is one, so: good. Good job.”

The acknowledgement settles over you in the ensuing silence. You skin feels hot, embarrassed, uneasy. Kyle stares at you, his smile almost sincere as the room waits. You don't know if you're allowed to sit down yet, so you keep standing.

"Anything else?" He asks, in a tone that betrays you've waited too long and now you're holding up the rest of the class. You shake your head and drop down into your seat, bringing your shoulders closer to your ears to hide the shame that creeps over you. "Great, then let's jump in."

Kyle turns towards the board at the front and uncaps a red marker, in tight neat script he writes out "problem" in the middle of the board and circles it.

"All of you are here because you have something in your life" — he turns back, his eyes touching you as he smiles — "that has you feeling stuck. I'd like us all to take a moment to identify what that problem is." He glances at his watch, pauses, and then nods. "We'll give it a minute, whatever first comes to mind."

The class falls into quiet, the hum of human noise silent as the group thinks. There is no tap of fingers, no yawn, no sound that might betray there were even people in the room. It grips you like a vice, holds you in place, scared to make a move and shatter the atmosphere with the scrape of your chair or a breath too loud. Even turning your head seems too much, the twist of your skin liable to make some horrid noise, unheard over the roar of blood in your ears as you struggle with silence.

Kyle checks his watch again and claps his hand. You do your best not to startle at the sudden noise.

"Let's start here, then go across and back." You follow the point of his finger to find the first victim of this game. They struggle to smile at him, apparently just as reluctant as you at being chosen.

You hadn't thought of anything in the time given. You'd been so focused on not coughing or sneezing that you hadn't picked one of your many problems to focus on.

And even with so many problems it all feels too personal. You hate yourself for constantly capitulating to everyone else, for never saying what you want, for being unable to make even the simplest decisions. You must have some sort of personality or facial defect because your ex cheated on you and then left you when you worked up the nerve to confront them about it, not even mentioning that you're still holding onto their favorite sweatshirt in a desperate attempt to maybe see them again and get an explanation. (Although you know that will only hurt you further, adding to your long list of personal defects that cause problems in your life.) You can't sleep, a medical problem that your doctor had blamed on anxiety and stress but refused to give you medication for because you "wanted it too badly."

You settle on something vague, something relateable, something that won't get you committed. Your boss is an asshole and is working you into the ground.

"I'm selfish," Nina says bright and clear from the front of the room, "I want too much from life, from the people in my life, and I end up hurt when they can't live up to my expectations."

Your eyes widen as you stare at your desk, discomfort taking control of the twitch in your lips. It's a thoughtful answer and far too personal, as if you were sitting in on a therapy session. Your mouth screws to one side, nose wrinkling, you squeeze your hands into fists under the desk.

Kyle says your name, shattered crystal cutting into your uncomfortable fidgeting. You jerk your head up and he smiles at you, pleased in a way that turns your stomach.

"You look uncomfortable," his lips form the words but you only feel the impact of them, "why is that?"

Your mind blanks, mental gears grinding to a terrified halt under his watchful umber gaze.

"Um," an elegant start to your own personal train crash, "it's just, really personal?"

"Sorry love, I didn't quite catch that last bit," his teeth are as white as a viper's, "could you speak up?"

"It's really personal," you shout, ripping your voice back to a quiver in embarrassment afterwards, "I didn't expect it to be so personal."

"And that makes you uncomfortable, knowing Nina more personally?"

You hesitate, fists balling tighter until your nails dig painfully into your palms. You look at Nina and she gives you a small smile, her eyes almost hurt. Almost.

You like Nina. You want to be close to Nina. Nina has been nothing but kind and welcoming to you, and you wanted- want to be her friend. To know her more personally, the way the rest of the women in her friend group did.

"It's ok," Kyle's voice is softer, "it's perfectly normal."

Nina nods, and the vice in your chest loosens a little.

"I'm sorry for picking on you," your gaze moves to Kyle, some unwelcome emotion bubbling hot in your throat, "but this is exactly what I wanted to talk about today."

He turns back to the board and writes out "human connection" before drawing an arrow connecting it back to "problem." He taps the board with his marker.

"Depression, anxiety, loneliness, most of our problems come from the same root." He crosses out 'human connection' and turns back to the group, "a lack of proper connection."

Anthropologists consider the first true sign of human civilization to be a healed femur. Not fire, not weapons, not writing, a healed bone. Proof that we weren't leaving our fellow man to die, that we cared for each other. Human civilization is built by human connection."

Not just being around other people but by helping and caring for other people."

Kyle closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. If ever there was a perfect demonstration of a natural human system it was this, a precise singular in and out as if to center himself before speaking again.

"Nina wants more from the people in her life, because she's been neglected by those she loves, am I right?" Nina nods.

"Todd you started drinking after your divorce, right?" A nod from the man in the corner.

Kyle looks at you.

"What were you going to share?"

"My, um, my boss" — you can barely get the words out, your face feels hot, your heart racing — "he's an asshole, I feel like I can never do anything right with him, like he's undermining my career just because he hates me."

You cringe at how childish it is, how personal.

Kyle nods, sympathetic in his smile but not his eyes, before his attention goes to the group, "There's a term I like to use: the web of suffering. It's the idea that when one of our core connections breaks, it splinters into different parts of our life and makes it harder to maintain the rest of our connections. You stop seeing the people around you as part of you, part of your web, and start seeing just the hurt that, that loss inflicted."

You said your partner recently left you," —Nina gasps, it takes you a moment to register Kyle's attention is on you again, that everyone's attention has turned to you— "that must have been hard, does it make your boss hit harder?"

The attention makes tears prick at your lash line.

Everyone needs to look away from you right fucking now.

You swallow hard and give a jerking nod. It does. When he was still around even your bad days at the office were manageable. You knew you had something good to come home to, that at the end of the day there was someone who loved you, who wanted you.

You sniffle and feel an arm wrap around your shoulders, your eyes flit to where Nina is pressed to your side, her lip quivering and her gaze sincere. She must see something in your face because she gives your shoulder a squeeze and smiles as soft as down.

"Hey," she whispers, "us dump-ees gotta stick together, right?"

She's warm, a solid presence grounding you in the moment. You nod and she squeezes you again.

-

Nina stays behind after class to talk to Kyle, and though you offer to wait for her she shoos you off.

You feel raw.

Nina had held onto you for the rest of the hour long class, occasionally giving you a reassuring squeeze as you both listened to Kyle talk. Kyle, to his credit, didn't point you out for the rest of class, but he had grabbed your arm as you were walking out to apologize.

"You did really great work today," He told you with an apologetic smile, "untangling ourselves from what's holding us back is hard, but you took it like a champ."

You really wanted to be mad at him.

You probably should have been mad at him.

But somehow, even scraped to the bone, you felt better.

Like a weight you'd been carrying had lifted just a fraction.

You'd given him a smile and he'd released you, holding up a finger to keep you in place as he grabbed something from his desk.

He held out a pamphlet to you. Sleep restriction therapy. There's a boyish excitement in his eyes as you take it.

"You said you have insomnia, this really helped my mate sleep after we got out of the army, thought it might help you too." You'd flipped open the pamphlet and were greeted by a timetable.

"I wanted to give you some homework too," He said.

"I don't know if I'm coming back," you hadn't looked up from the pamphlet and cringed when you said it, embarrassed not to give this man a resounding yes, but Kyle didn't seem offended when you peaked up at him. He laughed, and your skin was hot with the sound of it. God dammit. He was hot.

"Even if you never come back," he relented, "let someone do something nice for you without trying to deny it. Just see how it feels."

You'd mumbled a vague agreement to that and scurried out since Nina had been so eager to talk to him. Although now you were standing in the hall with your tail still tucked between your legs and no idea where to go from here. Nina said not to wait up, but you wanted to wait, you wanted to thank her for comforting you. She didn't have to, but she had, and it had been nice.

You unfold the pamphlet again and start at the top.

"Sleep restriction therapy is a multi-step, multi-week process that initially restricts the amount of time a person spends in bed overnight and then gradually increases that time. The goals of SRT are to increase sleep efficiency—"

"How was class?" A rough voice beside you asks. You startle at the sound, and crumple the paper in your hands as your fists clench.

Disappointment lances through you at the damage as you loosen your grip and try to straighten out the page. You glance up at John Price and his smiles, a tight thing that creases the corners of his eyes.

"Didn' mean to scare you, sweet'eart."

"You didn't," you lie. His smile splits to show his teeth and you hurry to refold your pamphlet.

"Class was good," you tell him, circling back to the question which had not scared you, "I don't know if it's for me, but it was good."

"Gaz not pretty enough to bring you back?"

"What? No, I-"

He chuckles, deep and indulgent, and you realize he was joking. You press your lips together in a thin line as your face heats. John takes the opportunity to deliver a dangerous blow.

"Friday meditation has a space open, would love to have you if I still meet your standards."

You flex and curl your toes in your shoes.

You'd almost completely forgotten that you'd called him handsome on Monday. Apparently you were the only one trying to forget.

"I, uh, don't know if I have the funds for two classes this week."

"I'll tell Cassie to wave the fee."

You are going to set yourself on fire.

When Kyle said to let someone do something nice for you, you knew it would be hard but you didn't know it would be 'slowly pulling teeth' hard.

"Oh," you grit your teeth, trying to force the words past the dentition barrier, "that's nice of you. Thank you."

So much for feeling better.

John's smile doesn't falter, if anything it grows, showing more teeth as you fidget with the corner of your pamphlet.

"You must be itchin' to get home." There's a lingering note at the end, a tail that slithers quietly to a point.

A trap you tumble perfectly into.

"No! That's not-" You're too quick, too determined not to come off as rude, to be likeable.

"No?" John's voice is saccharin as it drips from his lips, patronizing in a way that makes your thighs press a little closer together.

Oh God you have to find different porn to watch if this is how you talk to people.

"I was waiting for Nina." You feel suddenly sheepish. You don't want to tell him anything, to stumble into another verbal trap that reveals some new horror to you.

"Nina," her name sticks in John's smile, caught in his teeth, "she's a good one, we're all big fans."

You swallow the jealousy that threatens to clog your throat.

You get it, Nina is great. You like Nina a lot, so why wouldn't other people?

Your head turns just slightly to glance back at the classroom for her and John's hand raises, turning you back towards him with two fingers against you jaw.

"Should focus on the people you're talkin' to, sweet'eart."

It drops heavy into your stomach beside his cloying 'no.'

Oh no.

You get a sudden flashbulb memory or John's ass in yoga pants as your brain desperately attempts to remember if you'd peaked at his dick too.

You may not need to set yourself on fire, because you're going to spontaneously combust instead.

"Feelin' alright?" John hums, switching to cupping your cheek then resting his knuckles against your forehead, "Got warm all've'a sudden."

"I have to go." You're crumpling your pamphlet again. "I have to leave right now."

"Oh," John's hand drops and whatever spell he'd cast over you breaks, "alright."

You turn and power walk towards the rec center entrance. Nina is a big girl, she doesn't need you to wait for her.

"See you Friday," John calls behind you when you barely manage to get the front door open.

"Yep!" You will not live that long.

-

Nina texts you while you're on the train home.

"John says you were waiting for me :( Didn't realize I took so long with Kyle, get home safe <3"

You try not to feel guilty for leaving. She did tell you that you could go, but you shouldn't have run out of there so fast.

God you are such a fucking idiot.

You knock the back of your head against the train window a few times, closing your eyes against the wave of exhaustion that hits you.

Maybe there's something wrong with you.

You do your best to uncrumple the sleep therapy pamphlet against your thigh, smoothing your hand over the edges with care until it feels a little more presentable.

You curl over yourself to read it, your trunk unable to bear the weight of the day as you slouch in your seat.

It's an easy enough idea. You just don't go to bed until you normally fall asleep. You try to think of what time you fell asleep last night. Maybe three or four in the morning? That sounds really fucking bad.

You check your phone and work up the nerve to type out a reply to Nina, but not enough to send one. So you delete the reply and switch to instagram.

Halfway down your front page you get an ad for the rec center. Your fingers hover over it like some sort of divine sign before you remember your phone is probably loaded with spyware. You give the ad page a tap and are brought to the 'Whole Body' instagram page.

It's exactly what you suspected it would be: smiling groups of people doing yoga, an attentive class, kids at summer camp, typical rec center stuff. You open one of the videos to watch a group of children tumbling around in a bounce house, the caption tells you it's from community day, whatever that is. You scroll and are greeted by John opening what you recognize as the meditation room door, it opens to a green screen boasting membership passes are now on sale. It's cringe as fuck, and screams "botched attempt to be hip with the young people."

"Hey fam," John says, his tone genuine if a little confused, "check out these dope deals."

You smile despite yourself and like the video. You open the caption to see the usual 'letting the boss try out social media for the day' message. You suppose even meditation seminars aren't immune to viral marketing gimmicks.

You close out of their reels and scroll up to follow the page. There's a youtube link in their bio boasting pre-recorded meditations. Again you hover over the link, torn.

On the one hand, the meditation class you took on Monday was the most relaxed you've felt in ages, and there's a good chance the dulcet tones of John Price can put you to sleep. On the other hand it's a quick fix, and you're not sure how long it'll work for. You look at the sleep therapy pamphlet on your knee.

Kyle's trying to help you, the least you can do it try it.

You close your phone as the speaker chimes for your stop and stand to start get off. You'll think about it on the walk home.

-

You get another text from Nina as soon as you stick your key in your front door.

"Hope you got home safe!"

You type out a quick reply as you scoot inside and hip-check your door closed.

"home safe, it was great to see you!"

That feels too impersonal. You delete it.

"finally home, great class tonight!"

That's not right either. You don't know if you'd call class great after crying in front of a dozen people.

"i'm home"

What are you a guy who isn't interested in her?

"home safe, thanks for today!"

Quick, clean, neutral. You stare at your phone screen and dare yourself to send it. You tap the button ignoring the creep of anxiety that comes with the 'sent' notification.

You lock your phone and putter about your apartment making pot noodle before settling on the couch to find something to watch. You spend a few hours watching netflix previews trying to figure out what looks good before your phone goes off.

Ten o'clock. You swipe away the alarm reminding you to call your ex.

Whatever mood you'd been festering in, the reminder of him makes it worse. You click out of netflix and look up an episode of Snapped, something light where a cheater gets what's coming to them.

You switch to a comedy when they start showing crime scene photos, squeamish at all the blood.

It's easier to tune that out, to settle into doomscrolling and ignore the raising and lowering numbers on your phone's clock. Your eyes get heavy and your phone screen dims as the battery percentage dips too low.

Three AM comes too easily to you.

But, for the first time in a long time, so does sleep.

When you haul yourself off the couch you all but collapse onto your bed, phone tossed onto your nightstand and work clothes still pressing their buttons into your skin. Darkness takes you like, well, like falling asleep.

Easily.

[ghostofhiim]

[lostagoodcigar]

As far as I’m concerned the 141 have taken up improv and John is forcing them to do the whole “yes and-“ game

[lostagoodcigar]

Listen I know we’re all irritated as fuck over the new trailer but the edits that are coming out of the trailer are heart wrenching and y’all are upsetting me

(Keep making them please god don’t stop)

[e-00x]

MEOWR

[yeyinde]

i don't care what happens anymore. no amount of insanity those moniyawak at Activision throw at me will ever take away from the fact that i'm currently in my mind palace, picturing sitting on merc Price's lap and kissing the thatch of grey on his beard while he smokes a cigar and gives cringe "i used to be a good man (not true), but the bad guys taught me the only way to win is to get on their level (also not true)" monologues and makes you hold his whiskey for him as he sighs forlornly at the loss of the man he was (literally the same, but his kills are unsanctioned and he has a new haircut) and does the "bad" old man thing where he talks about how he should push you away because you're too good for him (true) but won't because this new version of him is selfish and hungry and he needs a little bit of good in his life to remind of him the guy he (still is) was.

[solsticelosthermind]

I know this is a deeply American thing to say but I am begging everyone to stay the fuck away from military recruiters. Especially high school kids. You are going to be seeing an unholy amount of them in schools or around schools or literally anywhere kids are known to congregate. THIS INCLUDES ALL FORMS OF ROTC. Stay the fuck away from military recruiters. As someone who’s familiar with entirely too many branches through entirely too many friends and family, including my partner, recruiters are authorized to say literally any fucking thing they think will make you sign on that line. They cannot and will not deliver on those promises. They need bodies for the war they’re pretending is only now starting up again. That’s all you are. A body. Stay the FUCK away from the military.

[asteroidtroglodyte]

RECRUITERS LIE

[graywrenhart]

Three guard dogs might’ve been overkill. 

Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller. 

He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—

Laughter stops him in his tracks. 

Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it. 

And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears. 

“Cute pups,” you say. 

Cute...what? 

You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile. 

“You military?” 

He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip. 

“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”

You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.

Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs. 

And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet. 

You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl. 

Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.

“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”

As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.

And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all. 

He might just have to become one himself. 

[wraithest]

inspired by this tweet 🥰 cheeky deer reader my beloved

deer hybrid!reader deliberately getting caught in hunter!simon's traps just so you can feel his big hands on you as he unties you for the nth time. hearing him grumble silly doe while he carries you to a safe spot in the grass has your little tail swishing excitedly, and when he hisses at you for nuzzling into his neck and licking at his skin, you only let out a soft bleat.

the bloodstained rifle that resides on his back does nothing to deter you from continuously getting yourself into trouble. he's never aimed it in your direction, but you can't help but fantasise about feeling the metal on your forehead when he huffs something along the lines of s'like you want me to kill ya.

you can't help it. he's just so big all over, so strong and capable. you can't help but imagine those hands on your body. you want him stroking your ears, your tail, you want his thick fingers slipping between your thighs... you've seen him in his element, and a sick little part of you wishes he was hunting you instead.

would he be gentle like he always is, or would he let his frustration take over and finally get back at you for being such a little tease? would he push you up against a tree and murmur sweet things in your ear? that voice always makes your skin tingle. no matter what you conjure up in your mind, you always find yourself down by the pond; you can only wash away the need that seems to permanently cling to your skin so many times. you should really stop getting yourself worked up like this.

it's when you actually fall victim to a foothold trap one evening that he finally cracks. being held in his arms while he trudges through the woods down to his truck helps calm you a little bit, but the pain is unbearable. it doesn't help that he's scolding you again, muttering something about just taking you home with him and keeping you there so you're not causing any more trouble.

[yeyinde]

i really love the idea of Simon's and Johnny's entire relationship being built on freak finding freak—or two hunters sussing each other out. but being very sly about it.

like Ghost knows Johnny's whole persona is a facade, and that the doe he keeps huffing about, the one that keeps wiggling away from him, isn't actually a deer or an animal, but a person. and when he makes these little remarks about needin' tae tame a doe or get a stronger rope, a bigger cage; or when he tells them that the scratches he has on his arms and neck are from finally bringin' his doe home, he isn't talking about improving his husbandry.

just like Soap is pretty sure that the lil birdie keepin' 'im up all night isn't a pidgeon or a sparrow, but is instead the tourist who went missing a few months ago.

[gimme1margarita]

Out of luck?

Johnny MacTavish x Reader

18+ MDNI! CW Smut ⚠️ Older, gross Johnny, boss's daughter, car sex, 141 office AU pt. 3

Part 1 (Simon x Reader beach fluff and miscommunication)

Part 2 (Price x bratty reader, situationship, smut)

Give a dog a bone. Or: Johnny's older, a little gross, and has all the time in the world tonight to give you the affection you didn't know you craved.

Read me on AO3 🫦

"I don’t understand this party-girl-thing you’ve been doing lately in college but know that tonight is a serious event. I want you on your best behaviour,” your mother, Susannah, was saying as she triple-checked the schedule for the evening was on time—that was the worst part, that she wasn’t even looking at you—her hair getting set into place by pedantic fingers, the hairstylist looking like he’d rather not be in the room for the diluted scolding you were receiving. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes ma’am.” You had to refrain from reminding her that you’d attended this very same event almost every year alongside her.

Her brow twitched at the formality but, just as quickly, she let it go, “go, finish getting ready. I’ll see you down for pictures.”

You nodded and slipped back through the door that connected your rooms in the booked-out hotel.

The building had been buzzing all day with preparations for the benefit your mother’s company was hosting tonight. Nonstop there had been people knocking on her door all day long. She had ducked into your room just to eat her lunch in peace and utter silence before stepping back into the fray.

You were split. One part of you love-love-loved the glitz and glam at no personal expense to yourself, but the rest of you was balanced on the knifes edge of your mother’s patience. Always had been since you started expressing your own opinions.

The two of you shared a tense relationship, to say the least. Not always was it so bad, just…more often than not.

But it was only the two of you tonight with your father called in to perform an emergency surgery, so you nodded and smiled and rolled over.

Like now, the both of you had an arm behind each other’s backs, smiling and leaning your heads towards one another. The picture of the perfect mother-daughter-duo. She’d post it to whatever social media she kept; you’d receive a printed copy to put in a frame forgotten on the windowsill of your breakfast nook of the apartment you didn’t pay for.  

Then after the mini-red carpet, you were roped into introductions.

It was like this every year; photos, introductions, speeches, mingling, mingling, mingling, home. It was rare you found someone you genuinely wanted to share your company with. The people closest in age were employees and they only wanted to kiss your feet at the chance of a promotion.

So, you usually made good friends with a wandering waiter and ogled the bachelors from afar through a prosecco-laced haze.

“Price, so glad you could make it tonight, the two of you look wonderful,” Susannah was saying, offering the man and his partner a polite hug each.

Always a hug for the CEOs.

His partner grinned, lifting a hand which twinkled brightly, “I’ll take any chance to show it off.”

“Oh, congratulations!” your mother cheered, as you gave Mr. Price a polite handshake and smile. He was always nice to you. “Looks like I need to add a toast to my speech, hm?”

Then came Mr. Riley and the woman you could’ve sworn was his secretary just the year before, also with a gently glittering finger, completely wrapped around his arm. The pair couldn’t hide their affection for one another if they tried, it was almost stifling. Your mother shook their hands, her greetings only a little less familiar on account of the man being generally averted to physical touch.

And then the loudest of the CEOs came in grinning from ear to ear as he pulled your mother in for a tight hug, “Susannah! The place looks amazing,” Mr. Garrick cheered, kissing her cheek, the man following him offering a similar compliment before moving to greet you.

“Don’t think we’ve met before,” he said, taking up your hand, “I’m John MacTavish, ye are…?”

“Oh of course, you must’ve missed each other last year,” your mother said, “Johnny, this is my daughter.”

He turned that grin back on you as you gave him your name, eyes quickly skimming the length of you, “lovely to meet ye, hen.” And he kissed your knuckles.

Your lips parted in breathless surprise, eyebrows raising just a hair, “y-you too.”

Taking in your waning composure, he flashed you a wink, eyes dropping back down to the dip of your neckline, before following Mr. Garrick in pursuit of their table. Swallowing, you dared a glance back at your mother, but she was none-the-wiser, busy greeting more people.

Twenty minutes into the speeches and you could still feel your knuckles burning where you’d been kissed. You ran a thumb over them beneath the table as you started to feel a creeping sensation burning the back of your neck. Turning slowly to figure out what was nagging at you—only to lock eyes with Johnny, sat at the table diagonally behind you.

He cocked his head, brow raised. You felt your face warm and turned away again, flagging down a waiter to bring another flute of champagne.

There was something about him, MacTavish, that sent your pulse skittering. Something leather-smooth about him, the dangerous gleam in his grin, how he always found your eyeline—the way he looked at you? It was undeniable. He’d been checking you out all night. You weren’t blind though you were wondering how no one else managed to see it. It felt so blatant,

so openly lustful.

Whenever you found your gaze drifting, caught at your mother’s side in dull conversation, he was there, across the room, swirling the liquor in his glass. Just watching you. His steady fixation.

You couldn’t take it— “I’m going to get some air,” you muttered to no one in particular, edging out of the conversation and ducking into the hallway just outside the hosting space.

Perfect, there was no one there, you could exhale—

“Are ye runnin’ away from me?”

You gasped, spinning around to find Johnny right behind you, “what?”

He took a step forward, you took one back, “are ye runnin’ away from me, hen?”

You shook your head. There was no one around, no one to catch you—to stop you… “No.”

His bottom lip jutted out a little as he dipped his head toward you, pouting, “so why haven’t ye come over to say hi?”

He took another step forward and your back met the wall. Throwing caution to the wind, a little smile trembled over your lips in the face of his scattered grey hairs and tanned, faint crows-feet, “hi.”

One more step and you were completely surrounded, one heavy palm came up to cradle the side of your face, thumb rubbing over your cheek, and he lowered his head to murmur right into your ear, “d’ye want to see my limo, sweetheart?”

Nerves had since taken hold of you during the short walk outside, now inside the back of his limo and already on your knees, you were scrambling for an excuse, “Johnny, I should—I should get back inside. My mother—”

“Is tryin’ to seal a deal with another company. Ye could be in the Artic an’ she won’t realise til tomorrow,” he grunted, his hand tugging on your hair, forcing you to look up at him, “c’mon, ye were doin’ so good.”

“You’re ruining my hair,” you whined, reaching up to pull his hand away, he only tightened his grip and you winced, “Johnny—”

He shifted in his seat, his ruddy, drooling cock glaring at you from between his legs, “ye can go back if yer cunt’s dry…is it?” A mortified whimper escaped you, because you knew without even having to rub your thighs together, that your body had betrayed you. He grinned, “ach, just out of luck t’night, aren’t ye, bonnie?” He ran his tongue over his teeth, eyes dark as he looked down at you, “say ‘ah’.”

Unsticking your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you let it roll out, tasting that salty spill blooming from his tip. With his hand twisted in your hair, you couldn’t move back to make any further pleas, just bracing a hand on his knee as he sank deep into your mouth, tears brimming quickly in your eyes as he hit the back of your throat. God, he was big—thick in a way you hadn’t experienced—your jaw ached, lipstick smudged around the base of him, nose pressed into his trimmed dark hair.

Your nails bit into his thigh, eyes squeezing as you repressed a gag and he groaned, head tipping back, “christ, ye’re well practiced huh? No wonder yer eyes kept wanderin’ all night long. Just—fuck—just beggin’ for it.”

“Mmph—” you spluttered, voice useless with your mouth stuffed full of him. You squeezed his thigh, needing to pull up for air, but he kept you in place, rolling his hips up and practically grinding into the back of your throat. With the edges of your vision turning to static, you swung your fist down on his thigh, finally getting him to pull you up for air, “fuck you—” you gasped out.

“What’s the matter? Bit off more’n ye could chew?” He laughed, dragging a thumb through the spit dribbled down your chin, “gorgeous wee thing. C’mon, get up here,” and he patted his thigh.

And God help you, you leaned into that little glimpse of softness he showed. Clambering into his lap, still teary eyed, thong covered pussy hovering over his wet cock.

Then he pulled you down for a kiss and you were done-for.

He’s all tongue, messy and demanding, twisting inside your mouth and you mewled, feeling like your body’s been set alight. Reeling. You let your weight down onto him and felt him between your legs, hot, twitching against your heat like it knew how close he was. He bit your lower lip, hands gripping your hips and making you grind on his cock, pulling back just enough to say, “take off yer panties, go’an sit on my cock.”

“D’you have a condom?” You asked, panting to catch your breath as you reached down between your bodies, sliding your panties to the side, lips grazing the light stubble on his neck.

“More likely you’ll have a bug than me,” he grunted, brows furrowing over those icy eyes of his.

You scoffed, pulling away from him, “I don’t sleep around like that.”

He raised a brow, voice low as he studied your face, “but ye do sleep around.”

“I’m not a whore,” you insisted, moving to get off his lap but he tightened his grip on your hips, “I’m going back inside, Johnny—”

“Ach, I was just teasin’ lass, c’mon, don’t be like tha’,” he cooed, thumb rubbing a circle on your hip, “what’s it ye want? Need a little stretchin’ first? Scared I’ll hurt yer wee cunt?” You wanted to retort, to continue to pull away, but there was a jolt in your stomach that said he wasn’t entirely wrong—you felt rushed. Slowly, not meeting his eye, you nodded. He tutted, “just say tha’ next time if it’ll save me yer fuckin’ complainin’.” He delivered a swift smack to the side of your ass, “take off your dress and shoes, princess, ye don’t want me to mess ‘em up, do ye?”

A tendril of anxiety curled around your gut, “but—”

“D’ye want to walk back to yer mam with yer cum stained on yer pretty dress?”

You took it off.

“Shoes too.”

Your nose wrinkled, “I thought you businessman types liked to fuck a woman in heels.”

He rolled his eyes, reaching to undo the clasp on your heels for you since you were clearly taking too long, “ye won’t want to be walkin’ in these when I’m done with ye. Gonna have a hard enough time as it is.”

“What’s that supposed to—oh my god, at least give me a warni—oh!” He wrenched your thighs open and had his head between them sooner than you could process, a wad of spit sliding keenly down the seam of your cunt, caught with the drag of his tongue before it could melt over your hole.

Sucking your clit just to see how you squirmed, he pulled away with a wicked grin, “taste bloody good,” before he licked deep into you, the wet muscle making your toes curl behind his back, a high-pitched moan squeezing out of you as your grip tightened on the leather of the seat.

He held you in place with his arms around your thighs, hauled up close against his mouth, nose nuzzling your mound. His tongue curled around your clit, petting over it, and you calf tensed, hand flying into his hair, breath hitching, “oh fuck—”

Never in your life had you come so quickly it surprised even you. Thighs squeezing either side of Johnny’s head as your hips bucked off the seat. When you let him up, his face was flushed and wet but he didn’t seem to care, sitting up and pulling you down with a hand on the back of your neck to steal your breath with a nasty kiss, sure to have removed half the makeup around your mouth and chin, mascara already smudged beneath your eyes.

Somewhere in the middle of it, he hooked a finger—then two—inside you, stroking over that spot that made you whimper into his mouth, nipples tight and sensitive where they brushed against his shirt and tie. “God,” your grip on his shoulders weakened as that already hot coil in the bottom of your stomach trembled. It was a good thing you were sitting—you couldn’t trust your knees not to turn to jelly. Then there was a new stretch that made you gasp, a third finger prodding around the tight seal of your cunt, “fuck—” you pulled away, your forehead dropping to the crook of his neck, “I can’t Johnny—s’too much.”

“Ye can an’ ye will,” he grumbled against your temple, hot breath ruffling your baby hairs, “not gonna leave ye half done, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t fathom how he was making your ruin sound like a favour. “Really Johnny—s’not gonna f-fit—”

But it did. He made it work with another glob of warm spit and an “ach—just need’a take a deep breath an—” you cried out into his shoulder, what little was left of your lipstick smearing on the rich black fabric. “See? Knew ye could do it. If ye cum one more time, I’ll give ye my cock, alright?” He murmured against your skin, kisses turning softer, messier—drunk.

Then he gave you a low, “good girl,” and something fizzled in the back of your mind, molten lava spreading through your chest.

…oh.

Your purse had a new weight to it with Johnny’s number in your phone, clutching to his arm as you waited for his driver to bring the limo around to the front entrance outside. The excuse made all too much sense to your mother, who was always partial to a glass (or three) of rosé after business was done on nights like these. “Gonna call her a cab,” Johnny had said, “see she gets home alright—aye, had too much t’drink.”

All she said was, “hm, thought I told them to limit hers,” before she returned to her conversation, waving the two of you off.

He was on you in a different way in the cab home, all soft, lingering kisses as you fought your exhaustion, eyelids fluttering back awake as you felt his cum seep out into the squish of your thighs, ass tender when you sat the wrong way, toes wet.

—

J M | Yesterday, 11:56pm

] call me when you want your knickers back

[3 attachments]

] or if there’s a second line

] always had strong swimmers

[gimme1margarita]

How Far Hate Gets You

John Price x Reader

3.5k one shot inspired by a deleted TikTok </3

18+ MDNI A little smutty⚠️, attitude from both parties, and John is bad at communicating…company retreat pt.2

At long last, you were on the annual company retreat. After six years at that crystal chandelier of a company, you'd been promoted beyond coffee runs or file checks or mere minute keeping. But the idyllic view came to an abrupt end. You hadn’t seen John in over a year and yet, there he was, looking painfully better than you remembered. Bearing those smile and frown lines you recognised from much too far a distance.

Read me on Ao3 💋

Simon's pt. 1

“You never mentioned you’d been invited out,” it’s Daniel, it’s always Daniel. He lives perpetually on the brink of temptation in your mind until he does that one thing that reminds you why you’re fine being on your own. “Here, I’ll grab your bags,” he’s already moving them before you can say you’re more than capable of handling a hardshell suitcase and duffel bag. But who are you to deny him his heart’s desire?

Instead, you pat him on the shoulder with a little, “thanks, Danny,” letting your gaze roam to the cars you’d just parked alongside. Not a single model earlier than 2020. With a swoop of your stomach, you realize you actually fucking made it.

After six trying years at this crystal chandelier of a company, you’d got yourself promoted beyond coffee runs or file checks or mere minute keeping. You were on the annual company retreat.

A delighted thrill threatened to swell up in your chest and suffocate you. “This place is…” words escape you at the view, nothing but lightly clouded skies, thickly forested hills, and swaying tall grass as far as you could see.

“I know,” Daniel sighed, closing the trunk of your car with a loud thud, “the beachfront last year puts this place to shame but hey, at least Allison didn’t get an invite, then it’d really be shitty.” Ah, there’s the one thing.

You give him a small smile, just shy of a grimace really, “ha.”

“Hey, what lodge did you get assigned?”

“Oh,” you reached for your back pocket, where the accommodation contact card had been wedged the entire drive and flip it over, “um, it just says ‘New House’?”

“Ah, you’re with Liv. That’s perfect, I can take you.”

With little other choice as he carried your luggage away, you followed, “what branch is she from?”

“California—she might be the only one from the coast, it wasn’t a good year for them.”

“Has everyone arrived? The lot’s starting to look full.”

“I think we’re just waiting on Michigan.”

A rock dropped in your stomach, “do you know who?”

Don’t let it be John. Don’t let it be John. Don’t let it be John.

“I think it’s mostly the executive committee so John, Simon, Kyle, and Johnny.” He laughed, glancing at you over his shoulder, “they’re in charge of the alcohol, so I hope you like your spirits.”

You can hardly feign a laugh, “unfortunately, I’ve gone off them.”

As Daniel walked up to your lodge, the lady you assumed to be Liv swung open the door and greeted the both of you with a smile, “so I do have a roommate.”

You managed a genuine smile, hers being incredibly infectious as it was, and gave her your name, “it’s nice to meet you.”

“Come in, come in—thanks Danny, we’ve got it,” the second you were inside, she closed the door and let out an exasperated sigh, “please tell me you don’t like him.”

“You can rest assured,” you laughed, “working with him dulls his charm a little more everyday.”

She pulls a face, “bless your soul, this retreat is more than enough for me—oh, your stuff, I’ll let you take the master—”

“What? You were here first, I insist!”

She waved a dismissive hand, flashing you a wry smile, “well, my plan is to sleep here as little as possible, so you might as well take the nicer room.” Your brows raise at her forwardness, and she balks at herself, “wait, that sounds much sluttier than I meant it to. I’m doing the whole long-distance thing with Kyle—one of the execs from Michigan. The big boss knows of course, Susannah just doesn’t put us officially in the same lodge for the sake of avoiding any potential dramas.”

You give a soft laugh at her little ramble and that manages to seep the lingering awkwardness from her shoulders, her smile returning. “I’m just glad you didn’t say it was Daniel.”

Suddenly, she gasped, taking you by the shoulders, “you have to join me for yoga!”

It happened on the way back from the yoga session you found too difficult to refuse, Olivia was saying something about child’s pose when you saw him in a black quarter zip and dark blue jeans, familiarly shaking hands with Susannah’s husband and laughing over some inaudible joke. Smile and frown lines you recognized from too far a distance.

You hadn’t seen John in over a year and yet, there he was, looking painfully better than you remembered.

“Kyle!” Olivia shouted, taking off in her little slip-on Sketchers across the pavers.

Unfortunately, her shout attracted John’s attention too, you were moving for your lodge instantly—trying to appear as unhurried and careless as you physically could. The second you were inside you gunned for the showers and tried to let the steam purge all thoughts of John Price from your mind.

It didn’t work.

God, he was the hardest non-break-up you’d ever made it out of. He lived in your city, worked in the same building—albeit a few floors up—he knew your family. All that and he still left for Michigan, “I really can’t turn down the position, love, I need to put my career first for a while.” That was it, the end of the undefined thing between you.

Pitifully, you’d sent messages in the early months, stupid little things that were the perfect call backs to inside jokes the two of you shared. Met with stark silence. So, you gave up and poured your attention into your own career, on moving forward instead of the past with him.

You didn’t stop to think that he’d be at the retreat to. A major oversight on your part, you would admit.

As you moisturized and went through the trillion-step regimen your esthetician had sworn you to, you came to the simple decision that you’ll ignore him as he had done to you. Sure, the sight of him was a shock that made you run away immediately...but otherwise it won’t be so difficult. You had technically forgot about him in this last two-month sprint leading up to the latest promotions, if you could just find that headspace again, you’d be fine.

That evening, you and Olivia joined the early birds around the fire pit when you’d spotted ingredients for smores. It was technically a chance to meet people from other branches—or catch up for the majority—but you were searching for the perfect roasting stick the second you’d left the house.

You’d just pierced your second marshmallow after the first suffered a mysterious disappearance, when you looked up and found your mouth going dry at the sight that met you.

John had this innate ability to look like he was hewn from the woods, made to be out in nature like this instead of pacing at the head of an oval table and waiting for people to repeat themselves without mumbling. His jeans went taught around the muscle of his thigh when he dropped a load of firewood on top of the growing pile, his undershirt clinging to his chest and the thick of his waist.

It was cruel to watch him turn his back and still be met with a sight to behold, this time taking shape in his shoulders and ass. No man made you feel like such a goddamn pervert like he did, you had to force your eyes away from him and back to the marshmallow you began roasting.

However, the longer you thought about it, the more your aggravation built. Fuck him and his marvelous butt and chest hair, he’d wrecked you beyond the physical sense and left you high and dry for a year. Over a year, actually! He didn’t get to taunt you with his stupid muscles and the new, fuller beard he kept.

And the feeling kept building long past champagne toasts and playing introduction circle, in fact, half the circle had dispersed when you heard footsteps approaching. You resolutely watched the fire char the end of your roasting stick as you toyed with the outermost edge of the pit instead of turning to him. “So, we’ve forgotten our manners? You don’t know how to say hello anymore?” He asked.

Not above pettiness, you still don’t look at him, “sorry, I don’t entertain strangers.”

His laugh is unamused, “you don’t entertain strangers?” he was closer with the next line, voice lower, spiteful, “you just let ‘em fuck you raw, make you cream an’ cry an’ squirt?”

“Fuck you,” you spit out, tossing your stick on the fire and getting up to leave. You didn’t get far before he followed, catching your wrist and hauling you to a stop, “oh, you’d rather be a stalker than a stranger, is that it?”

“Wouldn’t have to stalk you if you just let me in,” the way he says your name, all low and soft is maddening. You can smell the smoke of the firepit on him, with a hint of something spiced. For a moment you could've sworn it was the cologne you’d bought him for Christmas a few years back—but you didn’t let that thought take root. “There’s no need to pretend like I don’t exist.”

You scoff in his face, taking back your wrist from the solid hold of his hand, “well you didn’t struggle to pretend like I didn’t exist.”

He grabs you by the arm, your bicep this time—you’re too far from the campfire or the nearest people to be overheard, for your behavior to be questioned, and he takes advantage of it—and moves you. So simply, one push of his hand and your unbalanced, one foot shifting back and slipping off a paver, making you reach for him on instinct. “What’s your fuckin’ problem?”

“My problem?! What’s your—”

“I told you I was busy, told you I was focusing on work—”

“You forgot about me!” you bit out, anger burning hot in your chest.

“I didn’t forget about you.”

Again, you scoff, your eyes flitting about his face, every faded freckle, the new crease above his brow, the burning in his eyes, it damn near makes you livid to be this close to him, “really? You didn’t forget? So you just pretended like I didn’t exist for a fucking year—”

“Who said that?” he asked, his free hand taking hold of your other bicep, stopping you from pulling away anymore, forcing the confrontation. “Who said you didn’t exist? I thought about you all the time,” now it was his turn to get a good look at you, his voice a silken husk, “every time I jerked off, every time I came in my fist, I was thinkin’ about you.”

Your breath catches, makes you stumble over your words, “well, I’m—I’m sure you didn’t need help to get there. I’m sure you had plenty of other little sluts that you could’ve fucked anytime you wanted, John.”

The corner of his mouth twisted, something wry and filthy lurking there. he did always love jealousy on you. “No, love, there’s only one little slut that could get me exactly what I need, every time,” you feel your heart thud dangerously in your chest, sure he could feel your pulse simmer in the few inches of space between you, “no point tryin’ anythin’ else.”

A sneer scrunches your nose, “and I’m supposed to find that…what—flattering?”

“I don’t care if you find it flatterin’, I think it’s fittin’,” you swallow, his eyes dip to the movement, lingering on the curve of your neck, your jaw, before he can look up again, “I miss the way you fit around me.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, forgetting to pull away as he skimmed the side of your nose with his own, “I hate you so much.”

“How much?”

“You left me—ignored me for over a year, John—”

“Say my name again, sweetheart.”

“Fuck you—” He tasted like bourbon and tobacco and chocolate, and you clung desperately to the fabric of his jersey, pulling him closer, needinghim closer. “I hate you,” you gasped, voice catching as he flattened his tongue on the curve of your neck where you liked it, scraping his teeth along your jugular in the way that forced a sound from you every damn time.

He hummed, kissing that same spot with an open mouth as your pulse stuttered between your thighs, “sure sounds like it.”

“John—”

“My cabin, move,” he spins you, marching up the path, “c’mon, you’re gonna show me how much you hate me.”

You barely had a second to look around at the deep tub in the center of the room or the large king bed across from it before the door was locked behind him and he was pulling his clothes off. You missed him—missed this—just enough to not think twice and take off your own sweater and jeans. He drops to his knees as you unhook your bra and the sight is damn near devastating, “what color?” he asks against the skin of your stomach, kissing the plush flesh there as he tugs your panties off.

It's mortifying how they peel off your cunt, already soaked through, his eyes lock on to the sight and your knees pull together, “green.”

“Yeah?” He looks up at you, “so why are yourself hiding from me?”

“I don’t know,” you sucked in a deep breath as his hands came up either side of your thighs, squeezing the flesh of your ass.

“I don’t know? I don’t know, what? Who are you talking to?”

Your head fell back against the wall, heat pooling in your lower stomach as you pressed your thighs together, feeling the slide between them already, fuck. “Talking to you…daddy.”

Approval hummed gruffly in his chest, “mhmm,” he mouthed at your thigh, “fuck, I’ve missed this cunt—she missed me too?”

There’s still spite lingering in your chest when you say, “no. Hates you.”

“Poor thing,” he muttered, kissing your inner thigh, listening to the schlick as you move your thighs apart.

“Hates that you left,” you continue, “no text,” your hand finds his hair as he licks and sucks at the arousal spread between your thighs, your breath faltering, “no call or visit home. I had a—a drawer in your room, John.”

“Not like I gave you a fuckin’ ring, love—”

“Fuck you!” you snap, tugging at his hair.

He groans at the sting, “yeah, fuck me,” his mouth falling open against your cunt, “fuck me, lovie, c’mon.”

So, you did, you held him there as you used his face, grinding your hips incessantly until you came to a shuddering halt, breathless, hot sparks shooting down your thighs and spreading up your body.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, sliding one thick finger into you with ease, starting to stretch you with two, a gasp shuddering out of you, “c’mon, breathe through—” your palm against his cheek cut him short. He was frozen for a moment there on his knees, a hair’s breadth from your pussy.

Something cracked in your chest, your next breath a little squeaky as you fought back the tears welling in your eyes, “you left.”

With a great deal of patience, you imagine, he turns his head to look up at you again and a little disgruntled breath escapes his nose, “I’m right here.”

“But you weren’t. You didn’t want to be. You didn’t want—oh!” He curled his fingers, grazing that soft spot inside you that made you instinctively grab onto his shoulders just to stay upright. “You can’t just—John!”

“Who do you think recommended you? Hm? Who do you think kept note of all that work you’ve been putting in this last year?” You couldn’t figure out a response with him mouthing at your clit like that, lazy and assured, knees turning weak the longer he stroked at your g-spot. “Me.” He sucked, grazing his teeth over your pearl and making you cry out before letting go with a wet pop. “Always me. I was busy, working, but now I’ve got time…and a house.”

You were struggling to keep up with his words, hips bucking, craving his mouth’s attention like a dog wants a treat. “What?” you panted, flushed and molten all over. So close you really could’ve cried as his fingers slowed, “wait—wait I’m so close, John,” he raised a brow as he stood back up, fingers slipping out of you, your nipples grazing his chest, you swallowed, correcting yourself, “daddy…please?”

“I said I’ve got a house. Paid off and all mine—ours. With a walk-in closet that’ll be all yours, a deep tub in the ensuite,” you squeaked out in surprise as he bent to lift you, your legs wrapping around his hips quickly, arms going around his neck, “an’ a hot tub out on the deck,” he kissed your collarbone, your neck and jaw, as he carried you over to the bed, laying you down on your back and hovering over you. He was all you could see, and he was saying damn near everything you’d always wanted to hear from him. “Spare room or two that could do with filling—”

“John,” you breathed, one hand moving to cup his cheek. You pinched him hard, “you had to leave me for that?!”

“You can be a real ungrateful brat sometimes,” he snapped, snatching both your wrists and pinning them to the bed, “to think I missed you,” he huffed a laugh, like he really couldn’t believe himself, “y’know I almost called the whole thing off. Wanted to turn around at the airport.”

A deep frown twisted the space between your brows, “why—”

“I could never have gotten you what you deserved if I stayed there, love. Christ, don’t you remember how unfocused I was? Would’ve taken me ten more years. All I could think about was you all the damn time. Waiting for you to message, waiting for you to ask me to come over—to say the heater was broken or you had a damn lightbulb that needed changing—anything! All I wanted—all I’ve been wanting—is you.”

Your expression crumples in the face of his admission. That clumsy wall around your heart that you built fell with a mighty crash. “You want me to move in with you?”

“Sweetheart, I want your name on the papers,” he corrected, lowering his head until your lips brushed. So chaste and yet you were reeling, “d’you want that too?”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you, all your emotions tugged at in little more that thirty minutes, “I hate you.”

He grinned, “how far did that get you, huh? Right back in my bed. What colour, my love?”

"Green," you whispered, tipping your head up to finally catch his lips.

A few months later

Rekindled at last, John was more than happy to indulge you in an old favorite treat of yours. Where he’d turn a blind eye to his bank account and let you take over his apartment once a month—maybe twice if you were good. Now that he’d given you the house of your dreams however…your grandiose desires dwindled down to something a little more carnal.

He was out of the house until late that night, returning from some conference, so in the meantime you poured yourself a large glass of wine, soaked at length in the tub as you started reading a book—then traded that in for your favorite vibrator—lavender scented bubbles popping just under your chin as you gasped out your orgasm. Eventually moving to your bed, dressed in your favorite nightdress, but now watching the video John had taken of the two of you just last weekend—

“Now this is why I bought this damn place,” came John’s voice suddenly from the doorway to your bedroom, almost scaring you out from under the duvet.

“John! I thought your flight didn’t get in till late tonight?!” you swallowed, quickly thumbing the power button on your little vibrator as if that was enough to hide what you’d been doing.

The twist to his lips said you were all but in cuffs, his eyes dragging from the empty wine glass on your nightstand, to the falling strap of your night dress, to your phone that you firmly held face down on the blanket, the volume dropped to zero. “Was gonna surprise you…self-care night?” he asked, his grin turned teasing.

You felt your face heat up under her watchful gaze, as if you’d been caught committing a crime, you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, the wine not helping in the slightest to smother your bashful smile, “mhm,” you nodded.

“Well,” he tugged his tie loose from around his neck, gaze dipping to where the lacy trim of your night dress was about to expose you, “don’t let me stop you.”

[gimme1margarita]

Under Lock and Key

Simon Riley x Reader

Awkward Simon Riley, tiny miscommunication trope, jealous Simon, office retreat au pt. 2

Simon was cold, calloused, and tedious to work with. You were too much his opposite for your partnership to work. Talkative, and teasing, most rolled over in your palm. Though you knew they were only as nice as they were to get to Simon. Not that it worked. You kept him under lock and key, and he was happy there.

Read me on Ao3 💋

Price's pt. 2

Johnny's pt. 3

“Look, I’m sure you’re great at your job, you must’ve worked really hard to be Mr. Riley’s secretary, but you don’t have the right to—” 

“As Mr. Riley’s secretary, I cannot pass on a call until I know who you are and why you’re calling. I will hang up on you if you can’t give me a reason, Mr. Davis,” you said, not even blinking as you rolled your finger over the scroll wheel of your mouse, skimming over the beauty subscriptions you had sent to your work email. You were thinking about a new hair oil… “Mr. Riley is very strict on wasting company time on calls he doesn’t need. If this is a personal matter, you can contact him through his mobile.”

Mr. Davis spluttered on the other end of the line, “fine—what’s his mobile number then?!”

You scoffed, your laugh a breathy thing, “sorry, I’m not at liberty to give that out. You’ll have to contact him directly. Perhaps try an email.”

“…Don’t you scan his emails for forwarding?”

“Yes I do,” you smiled, leaning back in your chair and spinning, looking out the large floor-to-ceiling window behind you. It was a lovely day, a little cloudy but the sun was out. “Shall I keep an eye out for yours to come through shortly?”

Mr. Davis sighed, frustration coming through the phone clear as day, “you’re wasting my time, girl.”

Your smile soured, “rather yours than his, Mr. Davis—” you noticed Simon’s line was blinking red, “sorry, I’m getting another call. Have a good day, sir.” You let him go with no further preamble, picking up Simon’s call, “yes, Mr. Riley?”

A slow exhale came through, “I told you to stop picking up for Andrew’s calls.”

You struggled to suppress your laugh, “he wants your phone number now, shall I pass it on?”

He didn’t even give you a reaction, “I’ve got a delivery arriving soon, I’d like you to wait for it at the door.”

“Yes sir,” you hummed, clicking onto your screensaver, “do I have time to pick up your lunch before it arrives?” You asked, slipping your heels back on under your desk.

“Not today, just get the delivery.”

You frowned, “are you—”

“You’ll see,” he said and the line cut.

Shaking your head, you got in the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor. He wasn’t the first person you’d been a secretary for, but he was certainly the strangest and most hard working.

He had a few rules you’d come to recognize over the past three years you’d worked for him:

All emails get directed to your office address. You skim them and only forward ones that are necessary. No mailers, no company newsletter, nothing you can’t handle yourself.  

All phone calls get filtered through you. He doesn’t allow personal calls through his work phone unless they are an outright emergency and he can’t be reached through his mobile. 

His direct contact details are only for the big boss Susannah, his fellow execs, and yourself, and they are not to be shared. Period.

He also has a very rigid schedule which he adheres to with an almost frightening strictness.

He jogs to the office building, rain or shine, every morning at 6am sharp, uses the company gym until 7:30am while listening to an audiobook (which will sometimes correspond with your lunchtime read), washes, gets dressed for work, gets breakfast from the café downstairs, and is in his office no later than 7:50am, finishing his coffee. Black, one sugar, in a navy mug.

Lunch was always from 12:30pm until 1:30pm during which you usually brought him his order from across the street (either a steak or chicken salad, you’d know which when you arrived at 8am by the sticky-note on your keyboard, and maybe the occasional pastry. Though that was rare, he didn’t often like the mess.)

He’ll tell you to go home if you haven’t by 5:15pm, and then he’ll work until 6pm before changing out of his work clothes, stretching, and jogging home.

Additionally, he doesn’t like anyone on his floor other than you. Maintenance and delivery people unfortunately get a cold eye through the sidelight window. So your days are typically very quiet. You’ll play some music from your computer and wear your slippers to and from the printer.

In short, you loved your job. 

Leaving Simon’s floor was like taking off noise cancelling headphones in the city square. People were everywhere shouting over cubicles, delivering, printing, eating. It was a shock to the system. Pandemonium in comparison. The longer you spent upstairs, the more you felt like Simon was subconsciously turning you into a hermit. 

“What a surprise,” you looked up as the elevator doors opened on Kyle Garrick’s smiling face, “I’m starting to think you’re only allowed out of your cage to keep appearances.”

You rolled your eyes, heels clicking sharply against the marble floors, “I am a free woman, Garrick— and I like my job. How many times do I have to say that?”

He snorted, swapping places with you and leaning against the inner wall of the elevator, a few other people around you stepping on as well, “at least until it becomes believable.”

Everyone here was like that. They all knew you were Simon’s secretary. And they couldn’t understand why you never complained. 

Simon was cold, calloused, and tedious to work with. You were too much his opposite for your partnership to work. Talkative, and teasing, most rolled over in your palm. (Excluding Mr. Davis of course, both you and Simon liked to toy with the man). Though you knew they were only as nice as they were to get to Simon. 

Not that it worked. You kept him under lock and key, and he was happy there. 

You waited by reception, for the delivery, making small talk with the clerk until you heard, “delivery for Simon Riley?” You intercepted and signed. There was a very obvious bouquet of flowers, orange and pink and white flowers all gathered in a pink bow. Then there was a box—the exact size of a shoe box—wrapped in a plastic shopping bag which you also signed for. “And one more,” the delivery man said, stacking a second box on top, not wrapped in plastic. With a distinct label from your favorite bakery downtown. You couldn’t help your grin anymore, murmuring a thank you as you juggled everything in your arms. “Have a nice day, ma’am!”

With a huff, you made it back to your desk and found Simon in your seat. You raised a brow at him, “what is all this?”

“Anniversary gift. You’ve been here four years today,” he shrugged, scrolling on your computer screen, “hard at work,” he muttered, clicking on a Sephora email. 

A guilty flush rose up your neck as you set the bouquet on the corner of your desk, “thank you, Mr. Riley.”

“Open it,” he said, nodding to the plastic wrapped box, already opening the baking to steal a danish for himself. 

You did and promptly squealed when you saw the shoes inside, “oh my god! Are you insane?!” But you were already taking off your heels and swapping them out for the new red bottoms. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” you were practically prancing around the room, trying to see them in the reflection of the pristine windows, taking a picture on your phone. Only then did you see a tiny detail at the heel of each shoe.

Your initials were finely pressed into the black patent leather. You gawked, looking up at Simon with wide eyes, “are you insane?! This is too much!”

“You don’t want them? I can take them back—”

“No!” You squawked, putting your hands out defensively as if he were about to take them right off your feet. He huffed out something similar to a laugh. “I love them, thank you so much!”

“Good,” he grunted, “they’re well deserved. Eat something.”

You couldn’t stop smiling, “can I at least have my seat back?”

“No, I want to look at you in your new shoes,” he said, eyes trailing you from your head to your toes. “You’ll wear them to the company dinner this weekend, yes?”

“Yes!”

You couldn’t stop throwing up, “I can’t go tonight, Mr. Riley, I’m so sorry. I think I got—” you paused, a wave of nausea threatening you, “I think I got food poisoning or something.”

“Jesus, you sound like shit,” he said through the phone with all the compassion of a rock. “Alright…I’ll be over in five.”

“What?” You asked, but when you pulled your phone from your ear, he’d already hung up. 

True to his word, five minutes later you could hear him unlocking your front door. For the life of you, you couldn’t recall when you’d given him a copy of your key, nor why. But you didn’t care, “Mr. Riley?”

He found you on the floor by your toilet, pale and clammy in your sweaty singlet and loose pajama pants. He wasn’t awfully good at hiding his grimace, “you look…bad.”

“Thanks, I tried,” you sighed, weakly pushing yourself up into a better sitting position. “Why aren’t you at the party?”

He shook his head, helping you up himself with two large hands lifting you just under your arms, “wasn’t going to that alone. You weren’t supposed to be sick, remember?”

“I know,” you pouted, leaning all your weight into him, “I ruined your night,” you sighed, rubbing weakly at your face, the energy sapped out of you, “m’sorry.”

He gently sat you on the edge of your bed, nudging your chin up with a thick knuckle, “you’re really crying’ over this?” He huffed, thumb away the tear, dragging at the soft skin of your cheek. “Christ, it’s alright. Just worry about sleepin’.”

You groaned a big sigh, fumbling your way into your bed, just as he set a bucket on the floor by your side of the bed, you looked up at him, “did you jog here?”

“I have a car,” he says, frowning at you like you were stupid. 

“Oh,” your eyebrows rose, “huh.”

“Just go to sleep,” he sighed, turning off your lamp, “text me when you wake up, alright?”

“You hate texts,” you mumbled, nuzzling into your pillow. 

“I know.”

A few months later

Mr. Bossman, 10:07pm

] Are you driving yourself to the retreat tomorrow?

] We could do a car pool if you’d like instead, since it’s a long drive.

Me, 10:07pm

Carpool is just one word, Mr. Riley :) [

I would like that, yes please! [

Mr. Bossman, 10:08pm

] OK.

] I will collect you at 0700. Good night. 

You had forgotten about packing until Simon messaged you last night and then spent the hour frantically shoving everything into your smallest suitcase and then falling asleep. Waking up well before 7am was a real struggle, you tried to placate yourself by thinking of the next four nights you’d spend beachside, but it didn’t help the fact that you had woken up before the sun. 

“You’re late,” he grumbled when you finally sat in the passenger seat after staring far too long at Simon’s car. It was the last thing you expected him to be picking you up in. 

Fumbling for words you spluttered out, “what the hell are you driving?!”

“1970 Ford Torino Cobra. Fixed her up myself over the past year and a half,” he said, his thumb rubbing over the leather on the steering wheel, a little frown furrowed between his eyebrows when he looked at you, unsure of how to decipher your expression, “you don’t like it?”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant! It’s really cool, I just…wasn’t expecting this,” your laugh is soft and still fairly disbelieving as you looked around the inside of the car. 

He must’ve done a great job because it was the smoothest car ride you’d been on in recent history—including your own driving. So smooth, in fact, that you fell asleep not long into it, waking up only when Simon pulled into a gas station and you got out to use the restroom. After that, you managed some small conversation for the rest of the drive, your mood tipping up the more you could see the beach from your window. 

“Okay, first mission is locating a mimosa,” you declared as Simon grabbed both yours and his luggage from the back. 

He raised a brow, “it’s not even lunch time.”

You raised a brow right back, “excuse you, I’m on vacation. It is officially five o’clock until I return to my apartment.” He couldn’t hide his amusement fast enough, a chuckle lifting his cheeks, carving handsome smile lines. You hadn’t seen him smile like that as far back as you could remember, you gasped, “you think I’m funny!”

His smile was gone as soon as it appeared, sealed under a tight lid, “do not.”

“Do too!”

“Do not.”

“Do too!” You laughed, bumping into him as you walked side by side. 

But he was distracted, “bloody hell.”

You followed his gaze and found your jaw similarly dropped, “wow.” You’d been told it was a resort but you hadn’t really thought too hard about the price point—palm trees, an immaculate lawn, and just across the road was the beach. All private. “Is this the right place?” You asked, voice dropped to a whisper. 

But Simon didn’t need to answer as his fellow executive, John MacTavish, emerged shirtless from the balcony with a bottle of champagne in hand, “steamin’ jesus, the bird actually managed to get ye outside!”

Simon scoffed, snapped out of his awe in a second, “I was the one driving, you bloody cunt. You comin’?” He called out and you realized he was already a few steps ahead. You’d just been standing there with your mouth open like an idiot, you hurried to catch up, dipping your head with a guilty smile. 

The foyer was grandiose, marble and white walls with lots of natural light. It looked like you and Simon were the last to arrive. You noticed an informational board set up on the center table with brochures and maps for the area—even a map for the resort itself, and bounded over to it, Simon following with the luggage and a sigh, “did you pack your entire apartment in this thing or what?”

Rolling your eyes you flitted through one of the brochures, “only the essentials—oh look! There’s even a spa!”

“Where’s your room? I’ll take your bag up.”

“Oh, um…” you spun around and squinted at the information board, picking up the remaining two keycards for your and Simon’s rooms, “I’ll be between you and Mr. MacTavish upstairs.”

“I thought this was a work event,” someone commented, a man with sharp eyes and a smile that reeked of arrogance, “didn’t realize this place had that kind of staff.”

You frowned up at him, “what do you—”

“Who are you?” Simon asked from behind you, his voice gone all hard.

“Mr. Riley,” the man straightened up a little, “I’m Daniel Reed, from the—”

Your sudden gasp or realization cut him off, “that’s such a rude assumption! I’m your superior!”

“It was a joke. Besides,” Daniel raised a brow, “aren’t you, like, a secretary?”

“She’s my secretary,” Simon grunted, “you’re not even allowed on my floor—in fact, go get ‘er a drink. She wants a mimosa.”

“…Sir?” he scoffed.

“Oh, I’d like a tequila sunrise mimosa, with a straw!” you made sure to call out as Simon herded you towards the stairs. When you were out of earshot, you turned to Simon with your eyebrows almost near your hairline, “did you hear what he said?!”

He nodded, looking grumpy as ever.

You shook your head, “asshole! What about me makes him think I’m a prostitute?! Ugh,” you grumbled, “asshole.” Simon set your bag down just inside your door once you unlocked it, but then he lingered in the doorway, you cast him a look, “Mr. Riley?”

“I’m going to…go down to the beach…” he said, rather aimlessly, rubbing the back of his neck, his shirt pulling taught across his chest.

Your eyebrows furrowed only slightly as you waited for him to continue, but he never did, a little smile pulled at your lips, “shall I…joinyou?”

He nodded, a little relief relaxing his shoulders and letting them drop from around his ears, “okay. Five minutes?”

“Sure,” you nodded, finally closing your door. Your smile only grew, vacation at last. Who cares if Daniel’s ass lived where his brain was meant to be. You were going to lie on the sand, maybe read your book, and then hit up the spa for a massage before dinner. It sounded damn-near idyllic.

Hauling your suitcase onto your bed, your unzipped it and were glad to see your bikini’s sprawled right on top. You grabbed the first one, a strappy black set with beads on the strings, and quickly changed, pulling on a loose dress overtop, your sunglasses and swiping on some more sunscreen. You’d grabbed your towel and book when Simon knocked on your door again and you joined him in the hallway.

He was still in his loose shirt but had changed his pants for a pair of shorts, his rolled-up towel clutched in his hand. Daniel found you downstairs as you were beelining for the patio doors, an icy drink in hand that he extended your way, “sorry about the joke I made, ma’am.”

You gave him a once over, taking the glass, lip curled in irritation, “you’re not as funny as you think you are, Daniel.”

As you set up on the sand, spreading out your towel and shedding your dress, Simon went straight to the water to dip his toes in, standing there and looking out across the water with his hand on his hips. You snorted a laugh softly to yourself, wondering when was the last time the man had been on a beach?

Hell, when was the last time the man did something relaxing?

Then he took off his shirt. You blinked, once, twice, nothing computing quite right. Mr. Riley has tattoos? All down his left arm, a large skull taking up the majority of his back. You had to double check that you were still looking at the right person, but he still had his blond hair, height, and frankly rather impressive build. 

Very impressive build, in fact. Those muscles looked heavy—how much could he lift? You forced yourself to look away, reaching for your book instead. But your eyes kept straying, darting up over the rim of your glasses, watching him crouch by the shoreline, picking and turning over pebbles, then looking back down at your book when you realized he was coming back your way.

He unfurled his towel that he’d left by you and sat down, setting his shirt down as well, opening up a tube of sunscreen he must’ve kept in his pocket, rubbing it over his arms and legs, skin turning all shiny under the sun. “Could you get my back, please?”

“Hm?” you cleared your throat, pretending like you hadn’t just been staring at him the whole time.

He held out the sunscreen, “my back?”

“Oh, sure,” you breathed, putting down your book and taking the sunscreen, pouring some out into your palm, moving to kneel behind him. His skin was soft, only a little raised over the lines of ink. He must’ve had these tattoos for years, if the fading was anything to go by. Your mouth went dry, and you had to lick your lips as you smoothed some of the cream across his lower back, hands dragging up over his shoulder blades, and up to the nape of his neck.

Something twisted in your stomach as you felt him lean slightly into your touch, “and my shoulders, too?” he asked. You’d never heard his voice like that, a soft rasp, as he hung his head.

“Mr. Riley,” you swallowed, feeling warm for reasons other than the sun beaming down on you, “you already did your shoulders.”

He turned a little to look over his shoulder, eyes catching yours, “you were watching?”

“I—”

“Then you’d know I already did my lower back too.” You froze, eyes going wide, but he looked away again, tugging his shirt into his lap, “it’s okay. It felt nice.”

You rubbed the rest of the sunscreen off on your thighs, “Mr. Riley, I shouldn’t have over—”

“Call me Simon,” he said, cutting you off. “It’s five o’clock until we get back, right? Then we’re out-of-office. No need for the formalities,” he continued, almost to himself as he fiddled with something in his lap. Peering over, you saw he had a little collection of stones in his shirt, all different colors and textures. He lifted one up and squinted at it against the sunlight, then held it up next to your face for a breathless second before nodded, “here.”

He dropped it in your palm. It was the color of your eyes. 

It seemed that the sun and massage had rendered you a lightweight, all giggly and loose-limbed at dinner as you chatted MacTavish’s ear off. Simon was across the table, a little closer to Susannah as she spoke with him and John. Kyle was at the other end entirely, looking like he was about to eat Oliva whole (though that’s not to say Olivia looked off put at the notion).

“Right,” Johnny nodded, fully turned towards you, arm resting across the back of your chair, “an’ how’d ye get this?” he asked, thumb brushing the tiny scar in front of your ear so gently it tickled. 

Shrugging you swatted haphazardly at his hand, “I was really little, apparently I’d cut myself on a rock after falling over.” You tucked a leg up on your seat, turning towards him too, “what about you? Any swashbuckling scars to rival my own?”

He snorted a laugh, knocking his knee into yours, “ach, nothin’ so darin’ as yers, hen.”

“Really?” you hummed, leaning closer, “what about your chin?”

“What about it?” he asked, rubbing an oblivious hand over the stubble along his jawline.

You giggled, reaching out to trace the pale line just under his lip, “right there’s a scar.”

Quickly, he nipped at your fingers, grinning like a fox all the while you pulled your hand back, “played rough as a kid, cannae tell ye what tha’ one’s from honestly.”

“How rough?”

“Oh, I’m much worse now,” he murmured, hooking a finger in the chain of your necklace, pulling you breathlessly forward, “an’ a whole lot more fun—”

A large hand clapped down on Johnny’s shoulder, pulling him back out of your space and breaking the spell, “she’s drunk, Johnny. Try it elsewhere.”

“Mr. Simon!” you cheered, half asleep against your seat, yawning. 

“Alright, I’m taking you up to sleep,” he grumbled, mostly to himself as he gave you a little shake to wake back up. You managed to get to your feet, looping your arm through his for balance as you attempted the stairs, “d’you like Johnny?” He asked when you were halfway up, looking down at you as you teetered on your feet. 

“Hm? Oh, Johnny, sure! He’s nice,” you hummed, taking another step forward. 

He was quiet for a moment, his hand finding the small of your back before you toppled right back down the stairs, “okay.”

“Okay?” You echoed, looking up at him with a little frown, “what were you saying?”

But Simon shook his head, “nothing, you have your room key?” You nodded, pulling it out of your bra and sliding it in the door, wedging yourself in it before it closed. “Goodnight then.”

“Night, Simon.”

Worse than your headache, Simon was in a peculiar mood the next morning. He even brought his laptop down to breakfast, “You do realise the point of a vacation is to take time off?” You tried to tease, sitting down next to him with a bowl of cereal you’d wrangled up in the kitchen. He didn’t respond, didn’t even glance your way, “…Simon?”

He broke for a second, eyes darting up over the rim of his reading glasses to yours and back down again, “don’t want a big backlog when we get back.”

Sighing, you stirred your cereal, “I’ll go get my laptop then.”

“No, enjoy your vacation. I don’t mind.”

You frowned, “is something the matter, Simon?”

He inhaled sharply, “perhaps I was a little too relaxed yesterday,” he closed his laptop, standing from the table, clearly with the intention of going anywhere else, “I think we should keep the formalities.”

“Oh,” you muttered, “yes, of course.”

With his leaving came Johnny, grinning as he sat himself beside you, “got a headache?”

You narrowed your eyes, faux scowling, “maybe.”

“Ach, I know a few remedies ye could try,” he offered, but by the look of his grin you’d be better off with just a few ibuprofen and lots of water. 

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

He huffed a laugh, eyes creasing and catching the early morning light, “probably a good call.”

A moment passed, some more people came downstairs or went outside, sleep still clinging to their eyes. Seems like you weren’t the only one who’d had more than a few last night. Then Johnny spoke, “somethin’ going on between ye and Simon?”

You frowned, “what do you mean?”

He gave you a droll look, “I mean, are ye seein’ each other? Knockin’ boots?”

You baulked, voice going high with shock, “what?! No!”

“Really?” He looked markedly surprised, “are ye sure?”

Spluttering, you almost laughed, “am I sure I’m not sleeping with my boss? Yes! My god Johnny. We’re colleagues,” you said, then tacked on, “friends.”

“Right,” he gave you a long look, then shook his head, evidently the topic was somewhat baffling to him, “he knows this too?”

You gave him an equally baffled look, if not more so, “Johnny, I’m not sleeping with him. What is with you?”

He shrugged, prodding at his cereal, then he turned to look at you again, the gleam in his eye renewed, “ye’re not seein’ anyone at all then?”

“Just because you’re not my boss, doesn’t mean that I’ll sleep with you—god, what is with this weekend? Do I look like a prostitute?!”

His eyes went wide, “steamin’ jesus, bonnie, I was teasin’.”

Then Daniel came downstairs. Just the sight of him was enough to piss you clean off. “This is all your fault!” He looked at you like you’d grown a second head. 

“I literally just woke up.”

With your appetite lost, you took your bowl to the kitchen, emptied it out and stormed back upstairs to your room. 

The sound of the waves ebbed away your anger as you slept off the worst of your hangover, now just hungry and a little hurt, you decided to go back downstairs for some fruit, bag packed to spend a couple hours on the beach—this time without the mimosa, which seemed to have been the precursor to last nights drunkenness. 

But Simon calling out your name behind you made you stop just as you’d closed your room door, “are you going to the beach?”

Still feeling petulantly bitter, you turned on him with something akin to a pout on your face, “oh, so now you want to talk to me? Aren’t I a pariah? Apparently sleeping with the whole damn building!”

Simon grimaced, “last night—”

“I was drunk! Weren’t you there?”

He frowned, “but you and Johnny—”

“What about him?” you sighed, refraining from the urge to rub at your temples.

“You said you liked him.”

You blinked, looking up at him, “…as a friend. What is this—” you paused, watching the way his shoulders dropped an inch. Realisation bloomed in your gut, a fresh coat of snow over your anger, “you were jealous.”

He looked away, shoving his hands into his pockets, mumbling out a small, “wasn’t.”

Not sure whether you should laugh or cry, you shook your head and turned for the stairs, “fine. I’m going to the beach.”

Maybe twenty minutes after you’d laid yourself down under the sun, sunhat pulled low over your eyes, a new shadow settled beside you. You cracked open an eye and found Simon sitting shirtless on his own beach towel, staring at his tube of sunscreen. Sighing, you dragged up the last of your patience from deep within you and asked, “do you need help with your back again?”

He nodded, eyes darting to your bare legs for a moment before he held out the tube to you. 

You took it, squeezing some out into your palm, but you paused right as you were about to touch his skin, “nothing should happen between us, Mr. Riley. I work for you. It would be…” the word evaded you as you rubbed the sunscreen over the muscles in his shoulders, voice going softer, “problematic.”

He was quiet for a while, sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, hands clasped loosely together s you worked your way down his back. But eventually he did speak, “why?”

“Why what?”

Turning around to look at you, you were forced to stop, “why would it be problematic?”

You scoffed, looking out at the water to avoid his eyes, “because…we work in such close quarters Mr. Riley, and—” you made the mistake of sparing him a glance and felt your breath catch in your chest at how earnest his expression was. The little crease between his brow speaking of honest longing. How could you have missed that look? “And when things go wrong? I’d have to quit my job.”

“But why do they have to go wrong?”

For that, you couldn’t think of an answer. Locked in a stalemate with one another, the waves crashing into each other in the distance. You don’t think you’d ever allowed yourself to look at him this long and the longer you did, the less you could reconcile the man before you with the one who kindled so much fear with the rest of the staff. He was just Simon. Your Mr. Riley. 

Finally, you shrugged, “maybe they don’t.”

He nodded, “they won’t.”

[lil-yearnings]

Simon Riley would be the type of boyfriend who likes nobody, except you, and his mates.

When he's forced on leave, before and after you come into his life, he holes himself up in his flat, sustained by a diet of tea and beer, only moving from the couch to grab another can. He almost never meets up with the team on leave.

He's "Busy."

Busy doing nothing.

Because nothing was a luxury activity.

With you, his habits aren't as self-destructive. He no longer drowns himself in alcohol, and actually gets up and walks around the flat, just to look for you. See what you're up to. Other than whatever football game is on, he's more interested in your own hobbies. What's going on in your games, luvie? What're making now? Is that a new recipe? Johnny's missus taught you, that right?

He even forces himself relents to go outside.

It's a big reason why the 141 likes you. You get their friend to come out of hiding and breathe some fresh air. With you, they could almost see the man they could call a brother begin to recover. Be normal.

It's Kyle that notices first. The men (plus you) are left alone at the quaint little pub John's selected, a feat accomplished by Simon's wicked RBF. You ask Sergeant MacTavish a question, and Kyle finally understands why people wrote "his gaze softened."

John catches on, too. The "normalizing" effect you had on his Simon. Your look, your voice, you were by no means a siren who made Simon lose control, but an anchor that rooted a ship to a safe bay, despite a raging sea.

Simon opens up more to the 141 whenever you're around. He responds in sentences, orients his body to you when you speak, and even cracks some jokes.

He's even more relaxed once you head home. His whole body is turned towards you, and there's even the beginning of a lazy smile on his lips as he listens to you talk.

[beebymoonlight]

you always knew this day would come—when someone would finally come looking for you. (ghost x f!reader, 18+, cw graphic violence)

he's always reminding you about consequences. there are deliberate choices that you make that set off chain reactions, whether or not you intended to.

one of your choices was choosing simon riley. terrible, horrifying, brute simon riley, who on paper was supposed to be dead, but in reality was still on the SAS payroll.

there were a lot of reasons not to let simon into your life. there were a lot of reasons to let him go.

he never answers his phone—the relic that it is. he comes and goes as the job demands; sometimes he's home for supper when he says, and sometimes you don't see him until three weeks too late. his entire family is dead because of the same job he leaves for, and he's never let you see his face.

yeah. definitely reasons to walk away; but there were too many other reasons to stay.

"oi—eyes 'ere, love."

your lashes flutter when his gloved fingers hit under your chin, angling your face up. he kisses you, masked lips pressing against your mouth, and you sigh as he runs his other hand down the back of your head, clutching the nape of your neck.

"come back soon," you whisper. "i-i...i know you can't promise—"

"'s olright," he murmurs. "heart's beatin' out of y'r chest, baby." he runs his nose along yours, shaking his head. "won't be long. this one's recon, nothin' else."

you close your eyes, reaching for his jacket. you clutch the front of it, standing on your toes, and he chuckles lowly. your mouth falls open when his hands cup you under your thighs, squeezing your ass as he drags you even closer and breathes out slowly.

"can you say it?" you ask.

"even though you know it?"

"just say it, simon."

"mmm." he grips your jaw tight with one hand, and it forces your eyes open. you look at him, trying not to smile, and you feel warmth spread in your belly when you see his eyes crinkle, indicating his own smile. "i love you."

you can't stop the giggle that leaves you. it feels so stupid sometimes, to feel this way. you never understood the metaphor of butterflies in your stomach, but fuck, what else could it be? how else do you describe it?

it's quiet when he's away. it's nothing but monotonous chores and waiting for him to come home. you go to work, you come home, and then you try to distract yourself from doing anything except think about simon.

simon in the field. simon in hostile territory. simon having to fire that gun. it follows you into your nightmares, and you think about it when you close your eyes.

it's why you can't sleep. it's why you hear footsteps on the ground floor of your house, and it's why you're awake when you know someone is here.

your hand reaches for the knife simon keeps under his side of the mattress. you slide out of bed, slipping your socks on, and you use them to keep your steps quiet as you go to hide by the doorway to your bedroom.

you peek around the edge, looking over the railing towards downstairs. you can't see much from this angle, but you do see a shadow pass by, and you know just from the shadow of it that it isn't simon.

you hug the wall again, closing your eyes. you squeeze the hilt of the blade in your hand tight, taking a deep breath.

keep your head on. you know what to do.

"negative. nothing downstairs. heading up-top."

you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. you hear a step creak, and you know that he's halfway up the stairs now. american accent. you grit your teeth, trying to commit all the little details to memory.

the clock reads 3 in the morning. there's a full moon tonight. it's cool outside. there's someone in your house—

you see the toe of his boot just before he comes into the bedroom. you wait until his gun has made it past the doorway before you make your move.

incapacitate. incapacitate. incapacitate.

you go for the thigh first. you swipe with all of your weight, catching him off-guard. you go for the warm spots that his gear doesn't protect, and you cut deep on his inner thigh. he stumbles forward, screaming, and you use his moment of weakness and shove the blade right up into his armpit. the gun skids across the floor as he screams again in agony, and you shove him hard into the dresser behind him before you run.

"you fucking bitch! i'm gonna kill you!"

not before i kill you.

you make your way downstairs, skipping the creaky step before making your way into the den. you pat a hand under the coffee table, mentally giving your assassin boyfriend a big, wet kiss when you find a gun secured to the underside. you slide it out of its holster, checking the chamber, where you see one loaded in already. you switch the safety off, the weight of it heavy, and you hurry to duck around a corner as you hear him limp downstairs.

"i'm gonna find you, you fucking cunt. i'm gonna find you and fucking bury you!"

you keep circling behind the walls as he makes his way further into the living room. he's stalking, swinging his gun around sloppily as he kicks the couch and flips chairs looking for you.

"i'm gonna make sure he sees what i do to you. he's gonna pay!"

when you see him sway on his feet, you know you have the upper hand.

you circle back into the kitchen, ducking to use the counters as cover. you tuck the gun under the sink before reaching for the skillet sitting there. stainless steel; the weight feels good as you hold it in front of you, and you creep to where he still is checking under the dining table.

he never hears you coming. he turns around for a split second, but you're already swinging.

"fucking bitch—"

something cracks under the pressure as he crumples to the floor. you kick the gun out of his way, and you lick over your teeth as you inspect the damage. the lip of the pan caught the edge of his mouth, and a couple of his teeth lay on the floor behind him. he coughs, blood splattering, and you drop the pan as you go for the duck tape in one of the kitchen drawers.

it takes a considerable amount of effort to hoist him up onto a dining chair. he's all bulk and gear, but you manage to sit him there, and you carefully tape each wrist and leg to the chair before securing him with zip-ties and spare rope. you use the remaining bit of rope to fasten it around his mouth, not even stopping when he howls from the broken teeth he's still spitting out.

you go for the bookshelf in the living room, keeping an eye on him the entire time. you feel for the right book, pulling it off the shelf before reaching for the satellite phone hidden inside.

you dial the only number on it.

it only rings a few times before you hear someone pick up on the other line.

"this is price."

you swallow hard, toes curling as your hands tremble just a little.

"uhm—" you close your eyes for a second as you rack your brain. "we're geronimo."

the other line is quiet for a few moments before you hear a deep sigh.

"i read you, love. how many?"

you squeeze the phone to your ear, sniffling.

"just one. i think."

"you think?"

"just...just one."

you hear some interference, and then he grunts.

"stay low. stay quiet."

"wait—" your voice shakes. "he...he knew. he knew who was supposed to be here."

"mmm," price curses under his breath. "roger tha'. you stay put. don't answer the door for anyone, and don't leave. do not open the bloody door unless i call this phone, do you read me?"

"y-yes."

you flinch as the phone call gets cut. you wobble on shaky legs as you take a seat on the couch. your eyes are wet and watery as you keep staring at the back of the man's head, not willing to look away in fear that he'll get loose.

you wait hours. you're still in your pajamas; just a big shirt to sleep in and fuzzy socks, your hair in all directions and on the cusp of totally freaking out as you guard the intruder to your house. he can't talk; he tried for awhile, screaming and spitting over the rope, but he gave up after awhile, and now he sits with his head slumped over and his chin to his chest.

when the satellite phone rings, you count to three before answering it. the sun is high now; it must be close to noon.

"hello?"

"open the door, baby."

as soon as he crosses the threshold, you're in his arms. forearm hooked around the small of your back, masked face buried in your neck as he hoists you up onto your toes and hugs you to his chest. you bite back a sob as you wrap your arms around his neck, hugging him back tight as you let all of the tension melt off your body.

all the fear. all the worry. all the guilt—he takes it all.

"i...i-i did what you said, simon, i—"

"did so well, baby," simon mutters. "y'r perfect. you 'ear tha'? perfect."

he pulls away, cupping both of your cheeks and making you look at him. you sniffle, letting some tears fall finally, and he catches them on his gloved thumbs and brushes them away.

"oi," simon shakes his head. "i'm proud o' you. y'r mine, yeah? oll mine."

you nod, stepping forward, and he wraps and arm around your shoulders as you bury your face in his chest. you cling to him, digging your nails in, and he stands up straight before opening the door wider.

three men file into your home. you've never met any of them, but you recognize the mohawked one from a picture simon showed you once. when the three of them make it into the kitchen, you hear a low whistle and a few curses.

"bleedin' christ," one laughs. "ye look like right shite!"

you're holding simon's hand when you follow him into the kitchen. simon sighs, narrowing his eyes as he gets a good look at your trophy. he's bleeding in your kitchen, eyes watery as he looks around the room. he's terrified; he doesn't try to fight, and he averts his gaze as quickly as he looked up.

"bloody hell," simon mutters.

the one in the beanie is definitely in charge. he looks much older, a few greys sprinkled throughout his hair, and when he speaks, you recognize his voice.

"this your work, simon?" he asks, nodding towards where you stand. you squeeze simon's hand, and he squeezes back.

"it's mine," you say.

"is that right?" he raises a brow. "simon didn't teach you how to subdue a bloody target this way, is that it?"

"well, not exactly," you hide a little behind simon's arm. "i took some...creative liberties."

"i can see that."

simon ushers you upstairs, kissing the back of your head through the mask as he watches you climb them. he gave you the go-ahead to start packing your things, and you just nodded and made your way up. simon lingers at the bottom of the steps as gaz sticks a bag over the guy's head.

"price," simon says lowly, and his captain turns his head to look at him.

"got somethin' to say?"

simon looks back to where you just disappeared into the bedroom.

"do wot you will with the bloke." simon's grip on the railing nearly splits the wood. "but you leave the last of 'im to me."

"copy that."

[lilskippity]

man's best friend. dog owner!simon + dog owner!reader thinking about the time I was out for drinks and there was a dude with the biggest fucking dog I’ve ever seen just chilling at the bar. surrounded by ladies.

simon taking riley out for an afternoon walk, but ending up at the pub cuz a man needs pint every now and then.

he's finishing his beer while watching the match on the pub telly when he feels a tug on the leash. he looks down, and finds you petting and cooing at riley. the bugger is all in for the attention, ears perked and tail wagging against his boots.

pretty little thing, you.

he doesn't move, content with watching you like this. maybe a minute later is when you finally notice him staring.

"oh! sorry," your voice is as sweet as you look; too tempting for a man like him. "your dog is so cute! what's its name?"

"riley." he grunts out. wouldn't mind indulging you, just for a while.

"cute name, it suits him," you say. riley nudges your hand with a wet nose begging for scratches. it makes you laugh. the sound is enough to make simon shift in his seat.

would suit you too, he thinks.

"got one of your own?" he asks instead.

you smile. "yes! i have a doberman. she's in her terrible twos right now, though. not as well behaved as riley."

"lots of energy, those ones," he grumbles. "better get a playmate before she rips your couch up."

simon ends up leaving the bar with a new number on his phone and a marked date on his calendar.

wasn't looking; wasn't hunting for anything, but riley sniffed you out for him. fell right into his lap anyway. he spoils the pup with some treats once they get home.

good hunting, riley.

[basementcoffee]

ghost who kills time playing geoguessr and doesn't realize how good he's gotten until he falls down a rabbit hole of videos from some cute wannabe influencer, documenting every second of her 'journey' fixing up an old cabin she bought in the middle of nowhere. she's so careful about never tagging the location or saying outright where it is, but it only takes him a couple hours of going frame-by-frame to narrow it down. when he puts in for leave, price asks where he's off to, and ghost just says it's a secret. a surprise. he doesn't say for who, though.