lunar ౨ৎ

she/her - will say age if u dm!! just a blog of my fav fics that i come across<3

[beebymoonlight]

you'd do anything to fuck your boss. (18+, ghost x f!secretary)

well, he's not technically your boss. you report to captain price, but he never fails to remind his boys that there's a pretty thing that sits outside of his office that can file their paperwork and take notes for them. he's always volunteering your services to them, and all you can do is cross your legs behind your desk and smile. even if you didn't want to do it, you would never tell your captain no.

except for him—not for your favorite.

lieutenant riley is exactly the sort of thing you would ruin your career for. closed-off. angry. matter-of-fact. he dealt with no bullshit, and he said whatever he wanted to; he did not care for how anyone perceived his opinions.

there is something comforting about someone that does not wear a false face. ghost is not creepy nor is he mean (not unless you're asking for it). he tells it to you as it is, and he doesn't reserve room for comfort nor ease. he doesn't care, and that's what makes him feel safe to you. there is nothing to discover. he has no secret to hide from you. there's something transparent that he keeps close to himself, and in that way, you can't keep your eyes off of him.

oh, well—he's also built like a fucking tank.

you think often about what you might have to do to get him to look at you. he's so massive; you find yourself in meetings, watching the way he takes up whatever side of the room he's in. the chair creaking as he sits down, straining to take his weight. the top of the doorway nearly skimming his head. the way he pins you to where you are just with a fixed glare.

fuck. he's hot. when his reports come across your desk, you even feel yourself squeezing your legs together at the way he writes—eloquently, with expansive vocabulary, a keen eye for detail and a penmanship that isn't written in fucking blue crayon (you'll never forgive johnny for that shit).

capable, confident, killing machine—holy fucking shit, will you just forget you're in my bed for one night? please, please, please, please—

for fuck's sake, how hard could it be? he's just a man; and men are all the same.

it's late when you knock on his door. he likes this little corner of the base; a room with four walls and one measly window, tucked in with just enough yellow light to keep him settled. when he opens the door, you can smell the cigarette he must've been smoking. he's dressed down because of the hour; just in the shirt under his jacket and dark jeans, mask just under his nose as he blows the remaining breath of smoke he was holding to the side.

"'s late," he mutters. you're supposed to be off-base by now. at home, back in civilian life, back with people of the real world and not amongst the ones that hide from it. he talks like he doesn't care you're even there; like he didn't even notice your wet eyes.

"i-i know," you whisper. "i-i need some help. no one else is...up."

you hold up your hand, which is shaking now. the side of your hand has been sliced open—an office accident, a paper cutter in the wrong position. there's blood dripping down the skin of your arm, soaking through the thin napkin you're trying to use as a makeshift bandage. ghost tilts his head, looking down at it, and he shakes his head when he sees it.

"clumsy girl."

you sit on his desk as he flips open a first aid kit. it's quiet here, no music, no men, just the sound of the outside and the rustle of plastic as ghost fishes out a clean bandage. he already helped you clean up the cut over the sink; nothing but soap and water, big hand scrubbing at the cut until he was satisfied it was clean.

he uses his teeth to tear open a new package, and you keep your eyes on his as he smooths it over your hand. he's not looking at you; he's focused on your hands, keeping you still, and when he finishes, he finally looks at you.

"thank you," you whisper. ghost doesn't move away. he doesn't want to; if he did, he would already be out of your space. you don't flinch when he reaches a hand up, a gloved hand wiping under your eye. when your lashes flutter, ghost's nostrils flare, tongue coming out to trace along his teeth. you smile, so demure, so soft.

you look sweet; and a man has to eat.

you squeak when he takes a blade out of his boot. you meet his eyes, mouth dropping open in a pant as he licks across the metal before using the tip of it to cut the button of your blouse. you look down, a whine leaving you as he pops each button off of your blouse with a flick of his blade. the buttons scatter across the floor, clattering, and then he's closer, stretching your thighs apart, pencil skirt riding up as he slides those gloved hands up your legs until it scrunches around your wide hips.

"i know wot y'r doin'," ghost mutters. his forehead presses to yours, and you lift your knees, trapping him between your legs as you lock your ankles behind him. "think i haven't seen ya?"

"mmm..."

"oooohhh, now y'wanna play stupid, tha' 'ow it's gonna be, yeah?"

you'll play dumb and dumber until the day you die if he fucks you like this every time. the items on his desk scatter as he lays you over it, arms knocking pens and papers over as his mouth fits against yours and your little (compared to his own) hands fumble with the zipper of his jeans to get him just naked enough. he's eating you, stealing your breath, tongue laving over your teeth and around your mouth until there's spit gathering under your chin. he'd be a good kisser if he wasn't so fucking nasty about it, but it means you taste the ash that clings to him, and somehow it's good—so fucking good, take it out, take it out, take it out—

"knew you'd be big," you babble, soft hand cupping under his cock. he cradles the back of your head, tip catching between your folds, and you can do nothing but arch your back as he puts two thumbs against your pussy and fits himself inside.

he is big, in a nasty, terrible way. he's big in the way that must've turned other girls off. he's big in the way that must've made them gag, made them hurt, made them decide it was all too much and left before they could get his cock properly wet, and for that, you're taking this as a challenge.

when he presses a gloved hand over your belly and feels for the tip of his cock, you know you have him.

locked and fucking loaded.

he lets your fingers under the mask. your nails scratch over his buzzed hair under the fabric, and you hum into his mouth as he grips the outside of your thigh and pulls you even closer to him.

it'll never be the same again. you'll never be normal, not with this thing hiding you under their shadow. you'll never want another man, you'll never look at him the same way, you'll never feel as full as you at this very moment underneath him with his cock rearranging your insides and forcing your toes to curl in the heels you're still wearing.

your eyes water just as much as your pussy. you're leaking from everywhere—tears on your cheeks, slick along his cock, sweat at the base of your spine, drool in his mouth. you take it like the clumsy girl you really must be. your legs are dangling around his hips, body following his lead because you don't know what to do with yourself with how good he makes you feel.

you bare your throat as he grinds his hips. as your head tips back, his teeth catch your jaw, and when his cock punches somewhere soft, you push your hips up against his to meet him halfway. your body react on autopilot, but ghost forces you where he wants you with a stiff hand and a condescending huff.

"tha' good, innit?"

yes. yes, it's that fucking good, yes, it's the best you'll ever have, yes, you're going to make an excuse every single night so you can end up right here, underneath him, anchored against him for nothing but your pleasure. you'll do anything to come back.

you come just before him. your legs are shaking, hanging off his arms, and he buries his face into your neck when you feel his cum hot inside of you.

he pulls out slowly, chin against his thick chest as he watches the knickers he never took off of you soaked through now. he pinches the fabric between his gloved hands, sliding them off of you. he's a nasty man, and you expect him to pocket them, but what you didn't expect was his tongue to fall out, and you definitely didn't expect to see him wad up the fabric and stick it right into his mouth.

he grins, maniacal, as he sucks with a fervor before spitting it back out into his waiting hand. when your legs start to close, your thighs rubbing together for stimulation, ghost grits his teeth and shakes his head.

"oi," he pushes your legs apart, stepping between them again. "not done with you."

no, maybe ghost isn't like other men.

he's hungrier. it'll take much more than that to feed him right.

[unnamedrose]

𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐗 𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐓

Logan wasn’t exactly subtle. He wasn’t loud about it either, but anyone with two eyes and half a brain could tell he was into you.

Anyone but you, apparently.

He’d sit next to you even when the whole damn room was empty. Offer you the last beer, even though you knew he was craving it all day. He’d grunt and roll his eyes when you asked if he wanted to come with you on errands—but he always came. Always carried your bags. Always walked on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic.

And still, you thought he was just being nice.

“You look beautiful,” he muttered one day under his breath, watching you giggle at something on your phone while curled up in his flannel. You’d taken it weeks ago, claiming it was “comfy,” and never gave it back.

You looked up at him, blinking. “Did you say something?”

He just sighed, leaned back on the couch, and tossed an arm over his eyes.

One time, he even bought you flowers. Like, real ones. No occasion. Just saw them at the market and thought they reminded him of you. You took them with a beaming smile and said, “Aww! These are so pretty. I should get you something too—you’ve been such a good friend lately!”

Friend.

He nearly growled.

But he still gave you rides, still patched you up when you scraped your knees, still stood a little too close every time you were upset—like his presence alone could protect you from the world.

One night, he stood in your doorway, jaw tight, eyes stormy. You’d been talking about some guy who asked for your number at the bar.

“I said no,” you assured him, laughing. “I don’t even know if he was my type.”

Logan looked at you then. Really looked at you.

“What is your type?”

You shrugged, completely missing the tension in his shoulders. “I dunno. Strong, protective. Kinda broody, I guess? But sweet. Like... quiet sweet. If that makes sense?”

His voice was gravel when he spoke. “So me.”

You paused. Laughed. “Yeah, kinda like you.”

He raised an eyebrow. Waited. Nothing.

You stared at him, clueless.

He turned and muttered under his breath as he left your room, “Unbelievable.”

But the next morning, there was coffee waiting for you.

Just the way you liked it.

[bjlipss-deactivated20250530]

cw: sss - stands for short but shameless smut ;)

you were not expecting to get dicked down in a supply closet. especially not by lieutenant simon “ghost” riley. but here you were.

you’d made one offhand comment during a mission debrief — something about how stoic he always looked, like he didn’t even have a dick, let alone know how to use it — and it had somehow turned into this.

“not even a thank you for saving your ass back there,” he murmurs against your ear, hand already shoving your tactical vest up.

“i said thank you,” you pant, bracing one hand against the shelf, the other trying to keep your radio from falling off your belt. “just not with my—”

“mouth? yeah. ’bout to fix that, love.”

you choke on a laugh. “you’re so mean.”

he chuckles — dark, low, dangerous. “funny. that’s what they all say right before i make them cry.”

his fingers are already in your pants, shameless, rough and greedy like he’s earned this — and maybe he has. maybe saving your life gives him one free pass to absolutely ruin you in a closet full of duct tape and canned beans.

you gasp when he finds your sweet spot instantly, like he’s memorized your anatomy from a field manual. he grins against your neck when you grind down on his hand like you’re starved for it.

“jesus christ,” you mutter. “how the fuck are you this good with gloves on?”

“military grade dexterity,” he says, deadpan. “standard issue.”

you snort. then moan, loudly, because he crooks his fingers just right and it’s game over.

he’s panting now, grinding up against your ass, rutting like a man possessed. the mask stays on — obviously — but it’s making everything worse. more intense. more him.

“you gonna be good for me?” he murmurs, pulling down your pants in one swift motion. “gonna take my cock like a good girl?”

you nod desperately, fingers slipping on the shelf as he lines himself up.

“words,” he growls.

“yes, fuck, yes, ghost—”

“simon.”

he thrusts in with one hard, perfect stroke, and your vision blacks out for a second.

“fuck me,” you gasp.

“already am,” he grunts, snapping his hips. “properly, i might add.”

somewhere in the distance, something crashes. probably a mop. you’re too cock-drunk to care.

he slams into you like he’s punishing you for every smart-ass comment you’ve ever made — which, fair. you moan through your teeth, grabbing at the shelving like it’ll save you.

“still think i don’t know how to use it?” he hisses in your ear.

“n-no,” you sob. “you’ve made your point—”

“nah.” he grabs your chin, forces you to look back at him. “i’m gonna make it again. just so you really remember.”

[stargirlrchive]

“ya like it?” you asked quietly, the soft cotton of your sweats lowered down just enough for simon to see the ink on your skin.

a pretty cursive letter ‘S’ with a heart right next to it sat inked right on the swell of your cheek.

simon’s finger ghosted over the protective layer and nerves bubbled in your belly as one hand held your hip in place.

“this why you went out today?”

you nodded, nervously toying with the zipper of your hoodie. “yeah.”

you’re just about to ask if he liked it again, but his lips pressed against the tattoo and your skin heats. already feeling your legs grow wobbly as he pressed another kiss to your spine and stood up, towering over you to pull you in.

big hand splayed on your lower back, thumb gently rubbing over the tattoo, “fucken’ love it, pr’tty girl.”

did see this tiktok and my mind went fuzzy

[cameronsbabydoll]

more blunt!simon because he’s hot

he doesn’t even look up from his phone when he says it.

just sprawled across the couch, one arm behind his head, legs spread like he’s on a throne instead of a beat-up cushion that still smells like smoke and sweat.

“ya know, if you’re gonna walk around like that, you oughta be ready to get fucked.”

you freeze. halfway across the living room, wearing nothing but a big t-shirt and the tiniest pair of shorts you forgot you even owned.

“like what?” you ask, already feeling the heat crawl up your throat.

he finally lifts his gaze.

smirks.

“like a mouth-watering little tease,” he says. “jesus. i can see the crease of your pussy from here.”

you make a shocked sound—half gasp, half laugh—and wrap your arms around yourself like that’ll help.

he scoffs.

“don’t act shy. you bent over the fridge earlier like you wanted me to notice. ass all high, thighs squeezin’ together like you were tryna get off on the cold air.”

you open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, lazy and cruel.

“if i pulled your shorts down right now, you’d be wet already. bet your fuckin’ panties are stickin’ to you.”

you stare. breath caught in your chest.

he grins wider.

“c’mon. lemme see. won’t even touch. just wanna take a look. see if i’m right.”

his eyes drop, heavy-lidded and hungry.

“you do like it when i talk like this, huh? your nipples are hard.”

you cross your arms tighter, turn to walk away, but his voice chases after you—

low and amused and absolutely depraved.

“run off if you want. just know the second i hear that shower start, i’m gonna be sittin’ here jerkin’ off with the door open. loud. so you know what you did to me.”

[captainfern]

it’s nothing new when rugby!simon makes you ride his thigh, still slick with sweat and stained with grass.

18+

sure, it’s not an after-match tradition. nothing like downing the equivalent of a half-pint of stella from his mate’s used boot, sprigs still caked in mud, changing-room filled with a chorus of chants.

nothing like the high of a win coiling off of him like steam as he presses you over the arm of the couch, folds you like a card, and drills into you until there’s a puddle at your toes.

but it’s something you’re familiar with. he’s familiar with. and you just love the way it gets him all riled up, even after his team had lost.

a rough defeat, it was. bitter-tasting in his mouth. against a team that all the betting agencies had promised they’d win against— the odds were stacked in their favour, and yet the 21-20 scoreboard at the full eighty minutes was a full-force kick in the guts.

you’d watched the game on tv, not risking the biting cold today. it was freezing, and when you’d shivered at the door as you gave him a kiss good luck, and goodbye, and sent him on his way, you realised relaxing in your pyjamas beneath a blanket was the way to go.

but your heart’s in your throat now, as you turn the tv off and let the silence of your living room envelop you. the scoreboard was not what you expected, and you know for certain it’s not what simon was expecting either.

an hour or so later, you hear the front door open and shut, and in walks simon. you can tell immediately that he’s fuming, but his face is stoic. his body, however, forever a mass of betrayal, is stiff and rigid, coiled back like the hammer of a gun.

he hasn’t had a shower, either. he usually does, after each game. cleans himself off and comes home to you smelling of a woody, masculine aftershave that’s not quite the simon you know at home, but the one you’ve come to recognise at the stadium.

he’s dirty. sweaty. he wears a hoodie, no doubt obscuring the smears of paint and grass that would run between the grooves of his biceps, down to his bruised knuckles. but his legs were bare, shorts exposing his strong thighs, damp with a mildewy-sort of sweat that indicates he hadn’t properly warmed-down post-match. blades of grass stick to the definition of his quads, and you watched one fall off as he kicked off his trainers.

“hi, baby,” you say, greeting him with a warm smile.

he approaches you, large shoulders shuddering as he dumps his bag against the wall and then heaves himself down onto the couch beside you. you were already going to give him a small kiss, but he beats your movements— grabbing the back of your head with one large palm and pulling your face to his.

your mouth parts quickly against his as he forces your faces together, lips parting. you gasp into his mouth, taken aback, as his tongue is quick to find the peaks of your teeth, sliding over them. his other large hand grabs at your hip, almost impatiently, and you plant your hands on his chest to slow him down.

“simon, are you okay?” you ask as his mouth draws down to the hollow of your throat, sucking harshly.

he smells of sweat and grass, his skin impossibly warm against you, almost burning. feverish. while he sucks at your neck, his arm anchors around you and pulls you over his lap. you let him, straddling his legs with your thighs and arse sitting heavy against him, just how he likes it.

“m’fuckin’ great, sweetheart,” he tells you, lies to you, as he licks a fat stripe up your neck before taking your mouth back into his. you huff, a noise of protest in the back of your throat, but you kiss him anyway.

the hand at the back of your head moves down, sliding down the soft curve of your back and settling on your other hip. he grips tightly, holding you firmly against one of his thighs, your legs slightly off-centre now.

you break the kiss to mutter against his lips, confused by the movement. “si?”

“you want t’be good for me, baby?” he says suddenly, panting into your mouth. your hands ball into fists, clutching at the thick material of his hoodie as his words set your stomach alight, heat building in your core at the purr in his voice.

“always,” you respond, pressing your lips to his again. he groans into your mouth, and the grip he has on your hips tightens.

then, you’re moving. his hands are a gentle guide, pressing you down onto the thick, corded muscles of his thigh. you can feel the heat of him through your pyjama shorts, and you know he can feel the heat of you through them too.

the movements glide because of the layer of sweat. the grass and paint stains will spoil the pretty pattern, but you don’t care. you’ll care in the morning, but not now. not with the firmness pressed directly to your arching core, quelling that pressure building inside you.

and you kiss him like he won. your tongues move against each other, licking over ivory teeth and silver crowns. smiling to yourself, you realise he tastes lightly of orange lucozade, and for once you’re glad there isn’t the taint of barley and hops on his tongue.

deft fingers pull at the fat of your arse, squeezing you through the fabric of your shorts while still rocking you against his well-tuned muscles. tuned like a car, worked on day-in, day-out. a work horse of a man, now chubbing up in his shorts as his missus grinds her clothed cunt against his quadricep.

“tha’s my girl, there we go,” he mutters against you, moving you faster now. harder.

his words are molten in your ears, lilting and quick to make your pussy pulse with the heaviness of your heartbeat. it’s pumping loudly beneath the hollow of your sternum, and you can hear it in the quiet of your home.

but you can hear him, too. huffing and grunting as he kisses you. as he grinds you against him, forces your cunt back and forth against the sweaty mess of his thigh. desperate to feel you, desperate to see you come apart.

“you know what t’do,” he whispers. affirmation, a lick of praise.

his words are so soft that it’s almost as if he didn’t win. almost as if it wasn’t late on a saturday evening. you’re truly surprised he hasn’t bent you over the couch and fucked you hard, like it would make him feel better.

(it would).

you like him soft like this. makes your pussy leak just that little bit more when he talks to you all nice, when he whispers all sweet-like to your pussy as if she could talk back, especially when you’d expected a cock jammed down your throat or a couple of forced orgasms from two filthy fingers stuffed into your tight cunt.

(that would likely come later. pun intended).

“my good girl, rubbin’ y’little pussy all over me,” simon says, shifting his mouth to kiss at the corner of yours. “makin’ a right mess, too, aren’t you, baby?”

with fluttering lids, you look down. it’s not like you can see much, but he’s right. the crutch of your shorts is soaking wet, your cunt drooling, smearing through the fabric, wet and desperate against his dewy skin. you moan loudly, helping the movements of his hands, grinding yourself harder against him, fists clinging to his hoodie.

his eyes are on you, and they’re sparkling.

“yeah, baby? feeling good?”

“yeah, si. feels good.”

back and forth, your clit is being ground against him and making your legs shake where they press to him. something in the base of your spine, and in the pit of your stomach, fizzles hot as simon moves you quicker and quicker against him.

shallow pants fall from his mouth, and you shove your hands beneath the thick material of his hooded sweatshirt, peeling his game shirt away from his skin, and placing your hands on his abdomen.

he’s warm and soft, the fat against muscle and the trail of hair adding an extra pulse to your aching core. you rub him, groping, fingers exploring, and he moans your name with his head on the back of the couch.

when he regathers himself, his shiny iron will fissuring beneath reddened skin, he tenses the muscles of his leg a few times and forces you down even harder, clit rubbing over the curve of his muscle.

you moan, trailing off in a whimper. “oh, si—”

he smiles down at you, small, no-teeth. his eyes, dark in the soft light of the living room, still glimmer.

“need you t’come for me, sweetheart. need this pussy t’make more’ve a mess, hm?” he whispers to you, and you nod rapidly as your body thrums with pleasure and every square inch of you feels as if you’re glowing.

“simon,” you whimper, and with one last glide of your puffy clit against the cotton of your shorts, all wet and pressed to his strong thigh, you come.

you shudder and collapse against him, upper-body falling onto his warm chest. he holds your lower-body though, grinding you through it, guiding you through it, pussy leaking all over his dirty thigh.

“there we go,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, orgasm still flickering through the nerves just below your skin. “good girl, baby. did such a good job.”

he kisses you again, and the two of you are silent as you catch your breath. now it’s your turn to pant, eyes closed, nose pressed to him, smelling the sweat and faded cologne.

a minute later, and you palm at the bulge in his shorts, whimpering from the back of your throat.

“simon…” you whine, palm flush to him, feeling the pure heat there. pulsing, no doubt flushed.

“oh, yeah, baby,” he utters, already moving to shift his shorts down. “pull those pretty shorts to the side.”

you do so. eyes closed with fatigue building, pussy puffy and sopping wet, you pull the thin shorts to the side as he pulls his cock free, thick and flushed at the tip, just like you knew it’d be.

simon notches the thick head at the entrance of your cunt, pushing in so it pops inside without much resistance, and you both moan, your stomach clenching.

he pushes in the rest of the way, slick-wet sounds making your body burn up as his cock slides home.

“good fuckin’ pussy,” simon whispers, mostly to himself. his hands are still on your hips, your hands back on his chest.

his cock stretches you open, splits your silky walls apart, your cum leaking out and onto his balls, the waistband of his shorts tucked behind them. the head of his cock is heavy against the narrow of your cervix, a thickened presence as you lazily draw yourself up, and then down, feeling the smooth shaft of him inside you.

you do most of the work, thighs clenching as you ride him, one hand having to move back down to hold your shorts out of the way. you realise you’re dripping onto the couch, too, between his thighs. you’ll clean it later. or, rather, make him clean it.

it was his fault, to be fair.

simon hums, pleased, watching you. “mm, sweetheart, m’not goin’ t’last like this. pussy’s a fuckin’ dream.”

“s’okay,” you whisper, fucking yourself faster onto him, a white ring forming at the base of his cock, your clit twitching as you pass through the veil of overstimulation, pleasure building behind your cunt. “s’okay, si, m’so close.”

he groans, helping you fuck yourself onto him. the hand you have on his chest moves to the back of his neck, massaging him there as you both watch the place where you’re connected, pussy wet and pliant where it takes the thick of his cock.

“do it again for me, baby,” simon says to you, finally letting one hand move away from your hip, his thumb automatically finding the swollen pearl of your clit. “need t’feel you this time.”

with just a couple more rolls of your hips, and aided by his calloused thumb against your sensitive clit, you come again, this time, squeezing his cock and milking him for all he’s worth.

it’s what he was looking forward to, after all. simon groans loudly, a pathetic whine of your name thrown in there too, and then he’s coming.

shamefully quick, by his standards. but you’d never complain. there’s nothing to complain about.

the head of his cock pushes up towards the base of your cervix, and he fills you with the same heat that seems to radiate off of his body. nuclear heat. radiation. your own body seems to react with it, sweat dripping down your body beneath your shirt, hairline beading.

you moan his name, softly, pleading, over and over until his cum is leaking out of your pussy and down the sides of his cock as he pumps it in a final few times, and then pulls out, leaving a sticky mess in his wake.

he slumps his head against your shoulder now, hair wet against his forehead, and his half-hard cock flopping back against his thigh. he sighs, large shoulders shuddering. “i love you, baby.”

he won’t tell you about his feelings of the game for another hour or so yet.

“i love you too, si.”

so might as well get another round in, right?

[gothghostiie]

price with erectile dysfunction. beats himself up simply because his love is too pretty to not get hard over, but being the wise old man he is he quickly finds a solution. what does he have three young men for, if not to help him out?

he regularly let's the boys have at you, fuck your cunt raw while he sits next to you and watches, petting your hair gently. and you? you only have eyes for him. no matter which of them fucks you, no matter what they do, you just have eyes for your husband. gazing up at him, gripping his arm, moaning his name, begging him to go harder, to make you cum.

and the boys loathe it. they're the ones fucking you, the ones making you feel good, why are you only looking at him? calling out for him when you cum, clutching his arm when they hit that spot that makes you see stars? they stumble over themselves to make you look at them, moan their names or at least acknowledge them, but you never do.

and yet they still keep coming back to do it over and over again.

[spurbleu]

happy mother’s day. john price x single mother

price is shucking on his jacket when the bar erupts into heel clicking and fawning. tracks the sound, as the waitresses flock the entrance of the pub with little grace and all thrill.

curiosity should be bored with an old bastard like him, but the creature paws at his stomach and forces his chin over the tables, peering through the occasional gaps in the crowd of embraces.

it’s not until some of them let the door breathe that he sees you.

a beautiful, sparsely decorated thing. all round edges, baking soda and quilts. flower modest in its blooming. nice smile- nicer eyes, that soften when you embrace the youngest of the girls.

carefully, as to not stir the fat baby on your hip.

you hardly look old enough to have such a thing. maybe the dim bar lights, and their tendency to layer age in flawless yellow ale, hide an older reality.

however he can see the plum beneath your eyes fairly well. absent of wrinkles, or middle age, or…

a husband.

the space behind you is vacant and loud. loud enough that john forces himself to look away before he starts imagining himself there. wonders if he’s a deadbeat. if he passed. if you even know who he is.

looks again, despite better judgement. the girls have begun to dip back into their routine, filling drafts and sliding them to seedy men who keep their gazes below their clavicles.

and he notices, between smiles at your designated post by the door, a flicker.

a fault line in a carefully composed, breathing disguise. the breaking of a window, stripped of velvet curtains- that reveal a deep exhaustion. a loneliness.

an opening.

john stands and strides to the door. makes sure he’s close. close when he adjusts his jacket. when his keys slips out, and he keeps walking. close enough to just barely leaving when he hears,

“excuse me!”

he turns, and sees you with his keys in your hand. the baby on your hip. good god, he breathes through his nose, would you look good on his porch, round with another.

“you dropped these.”

“oh,” he says, making sure he brushes the plush of your fingers when taking them, and not failing to miss how your cheeks flush, “thank you darl-“

addresses the baby, “ah, guess I have you to thank too…”

“Charlie. His name is Charlie.” you draw within yourself, questioning why you told him, but he only smiles wider.

“Good name. Strong. Like his father, I assume.”

a bloat of the lips. a crinkle in your nose and an uncomfortable shift of feet. bingo.

“he’s not…sorry hah…not in the picture.”

john hums, straightening to full height. “shame. must be a daft fool, to leave something so precious.”

you laugh. sounds like wedding bells. a baby rattle. “isn’t he though.”

john tips his head to the side. “wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout the baby, sweet’eart.”

[slater-baby]

Touch-starved Simon that gets hard every time the medic on base so much as puts a bandaid on him :((

[slater-baby]

Tags: perverted + awkward Simon, involuntary ejaculation

He's staring at you. Again.

You take a deep breath, slowly pulling the medication into the syringe. Yet, you can still feel his eyes sweeping over your spine, settling right over the curve of your ass.

Perv, you roll your eyes, steeling yourself to face him once again. It was always a long day when Simon came into your office. The only reason you knew the man's name was because of the forms he'd filled out. Since the day you'd met him, the man hadn't said a single word.

No "hello" or "How are you?"

He was dreadfully silent every time, and you might have longed for a bit of conversation...

That is, if the man ever managed to rein in his horrible ogling.

Seriously, you were starting to suspect it was an actual medical issue instead of innocent attraction. Each visit, from the minute he stalked up to your door to the second he situated his burly frame into a chair, his pupils mentally peeled your clothes off article by article, staring down the cups of your bra like the secret to the universe was squished somewhere in between your tits.

Even now, while you prepare to stick him with another needle, you can feel him visually tracing the panty lines beneath your trousers, practically drooling at the thought of your sweet skin, soft ass, and succulent cunt.

You clear your throat nervously.

He hadn't tried to grope you (not yet at least), and it's not like he was jumping out of his chair to lunge for your throat, you try to rationalize--for a reason that's completely beyond you. Maybe he hadn't tried his luck yet, but when would he get tired of just looking?

Maybe never, the meek part of your brain squeaks, Just don't look him straight in the eye. That's what they said about predators, right?

Warily, you turn back around, syringe in your gloved hands.

"Alright, Lieutenant," You mutter, "You ready for your shot?"

He doesn't answer. Crickets start chirping, almost. You might have laughed at the awkward silence if his ruthless eyes weren't staring so hard at your moving lips.

"Um..." you huff, hurriedly stepping closer.

You line up the shot as quickly as you can, shoving his sleeve up underneath his armpit so that you can push the needle into the bulging mass of his bicep. He doesn't so much as flinch when the needle meets his skin, and dutifully, you push the plunger in.

All the while, he stares unashamedly at your face. Like this, you're so close you're practically swallowed up by him--this mass of viscera, muscle, and pure man.

Your heart rate picks up as you gamble a glance at his face. When your eyes meet his, something raw fills your soul--something so close to fear, and yet...decidedly not.

You can smell him. Gun oil, sweat, testosterone...maybe a few cigarettes to take the edge off. It should be disgusting. A man who hadn't the tact to wear so much as a spritz of cologne before making a pass at a decent woman like you.

And yet...

The longer he leers at you...the longer he sits there, thighs spread wide so that you have an unobstructed view of the impressive erection tenting his pants (in the middle of the infirmary no less)...the less you think about his demeanor, and the more you think of what lies beneath.

You pull your eyes away from his crotch with a distracted noise, stepping back. Again, his sight follows you, like an animal tracking its prey, drooling while it waits for its first bite.

"So--come back in a week," you mumble out, barely able to maintain eye contact, "If you have any problems, just tell your CO. I'll come down to see you."

Your hands are shaking when you unpackage a bandaid. Your vision is just as wobbly, fumbling between the pits of his dark eyes and the bulge of the cock at the front of his pants.

Awkwardly, you smooth the bandaid over his arm, waiting (uselessly) for him to say something. God, the bandage is so small against the heft of his arm it's almost stupid.

He doesn't speak.

Again, you swallow, fear and arousal swirling in your gut. And in the haze of your own incompetence, you say something you're sure to regret.

"What?" you demand of him, "You want me to kiss it better or something?"

He takes in a breath through his nose. It's the most noise you've ever heard him make. You chance a look at the curtain around you, before you yank his arm forward with an irritated sigh, and before you can think better of it, you plant the tiniest of kisses against his bicep.

You swear you see his dick twitch in his pants the second your lips connect with his body.

"There," you roll your eyes for show, your heart practically imploding against your ribcage, "Better now?"

He doesn't move. He only blinks slowly, staring straight down at where you'd kissed him. Then, it's a flurry of motion as he stands up and shoves you out of his way all at once. He exits the room so quickly you don't even manage to call after him before it's slammed in your face.

-

He rushes towards the infirmary restroom as quickly as he can, just barely managing to open the door before he keels over the bathroom counter.

"Fuck," he groans, barely able to stand straight against the force of his ejaculation. He watches listlessly as white semen drips through the threads of his pants, painting a shameful stain right over the head of his cock.

It seems to go on forever, his stomach heaving with every gasping breath, prick twitching and pulsing even when his body has no more seed left to give.

The head rush is so ruthless it nearly sends him into a tailspin, and for a minute, all he manages to do is look at himself in the mirror and try to catch his breath.

Evidently, his thing for you was much worse than he'd originally anticipated. Up until now, he hadn't even mustered the courage to ask you out to dinner--let alone manage a conversation.

He'd been nothing but a gentleman, and yet, as he watches his own cum drip onto the floor of the public restroom, he's confronted with blistering reality.

If you could make him cum in his pants with nothing more than a little kiss atop his bandaid...what else could your mouth do to him?

[simonscumdump]

Reuniting with Simon after a long mission.

It was a rough one, you’d be able to tell the moment his sluggish form stepped into the apartment.

The thud of his boots almost dragging against the floor was sign enough that he was drained, worn out even.

You’d greet him, the usual hug and quick kiss that whilst one would satisfy him…did very little for him in that moment.

He missed you.

Achingly, desperately. Yearning for the touch and affection of the woman who so easily owned his heart.

It would take little effort, he’d lift you up, carrying you over to the sofa before plopping down on it with a familiar grunt. Having you perched in his lap.

“Kisses, lovie.”

The words would escape him in a groggier tone than normal, and for a moment…they’d sound almost vulnerable.

Not one to deny your man the privilege of your affection, you’d press your lips to his. A kiss so gentle it borderline frustrated him.

He’d deepen it, simply relishing in the taste of you after so long without it. He would try to ignore the way his cock would twitch and throb to life beneath you. Not wanting to sour his innocent moment with you.

But with each kiss, a desperation clawed at him. His breath would grow ragged, soft little puffs into your mouth. Yet the moment he’d feel your tongue slide against his own, the aching throb in his cock grew too much.

“Please…I know m’tired…but I just…need to feel you love…please…”

It would croak out of him, seeping into the kiss in such a pathetic whisper of desperation that you simply couldn’t help but indulge.

Taking the time to help him strip, counting the new bruises and odd healing cuts, making sure to show love to each one…you’d be met with a sight so pitiful it would be embarrassing if it didn’t further solidify how deeply wanted you were by him.

The picture perfect sight of need…his boxers, that tightly strained with the weight of his cock pressing through the fabric, had the darkest patch of wet fabric right where his tip dug into it. A stark realisation that the man missed you enough for kissing to be enough to have him leaking beneath you.

“Love…quit starin’.”

It would be enough to motivate you to shred off the last bit of offending fabric, only to have yours follow shortly after.

And the moment he buried into your cunt, Simon relaxed, as if he could finally feel like he was home again. As close to you as possible.

[laceyfaeryy]

Sexting and nudes trading with Simon after sending your tit-pic for the wrong number and then arranging a date for a fuck (literally just sucking him on a alley

MDNI 18+

cw: sending nudes, oral (m) receiving, not proof read

it first started off as a mistake, sending a photo of your tits whilst you were in the shower, the steam on your damp body whilst you lathered soap around your chest. after all, tit pics were boring - but soapy tit pics? god, he loved them, having his own private folder locked away on his phone.

> fucking hell luvie, you wanna kill me or something?

it then became a transactional thing, simon sending videos of him fisting his cock in his tatted hands.

> my hands don’t do the job, need your cunt luvie, or maybe even your mouth. i’m a desperate man.

now the two of you were in a shabby alleyway, your cheeks slightly flushed from the alcohol as you hastily undid his belt. “slow down luvie, i ain’t going no where,” simon’s voice thick with his accent as he chuckled lowly at how eager you were just to have your pretty mouth full.

“can’t believe ‘m gonna have yer pretty mouth wrapped around me hm?” he cooed softly as he tilted your head back, his free hand gently squishing your cheeks, forming your plush lips in an ‘o’ shape.

“bet yer mouth feels so nice and warm hm?”

oh, and he was so right.

nights he had spent dreaming about this, you in your knees sucking him, your wet tongue lapping around his tip whilst his cock plunged deep into your throat. “can take a little deeper yeah?” simon’s voice hoarse as his groans filled up the empty alleyway.

it’s been weeks since he had his cock sucked, weeks since the only thing he has fucked was his own rough calloused hand, that paled in comparison to your mouth wrapped around his cock.

his hands fisted your hair, tangling with the messy locks as drool dribbled down your chin, your vision blurry as you looked up at him through your lashes.

“look at you pretty girl, bein’ so eager. don’t worry, ‘m gonna take yer back to my place and we’ll have all the time in the world.”

tag list: @happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22 @lucienofthelakes @arabellatreaty @tessakate @kayden666

[ghouljams]

So bestie, can we get a bit more 1860s! Price? I'm beggin. I'm a sucker for men who want it so bad and women that don't quite reject them.

He so rarely comes into your clinic that you turn your blade on the deputy as soon as hands grab your hips.

"John," relief colors your sigh, and you lower your knife back to the table, content that you're not being stolen away by anyone nefarious, just being bothered by a terrible flirt.

"Any way to greet your future husband?" He chuckles, leaning against your back to push his face against your neck. His beard tickles, but his lips are soft where they trace your pulse.

"Thought you were buildin' me a house." His hum vibrates against your skin. He's warm, soaked up too much of the sun, and it seeps into your skin even through your clothes.

"Heat's gettin' to me." He presses the words into your skin and you shiver. It's getting to you too, soaking you with sweat so that you'll roll up your shirtsleeves, hitch your skirts higher in the privacy of your practice. John's hands trace over your waist, over the seam of your skirt, finding the bones of your corset and following them down and up, down and up. Dizzying.

You push back into him, eager to find him hard, to feel the press of him against you. It's improper, but you're just as subject to the throbbing between your thighs as any man would be. Perhaps more so when it's John that leans his weight against you and grinds his cock against you with a lazy reassurance that he has nothing to do, and nowhere to be but here with you.

"Let me clear space," you fumble through the words, your fingers scraping over the wood of your work desk, mind attempting to catch on what needs to be put away and what can merely be shoved to the side.

"What for?" John rumbles, his hands are already searching, already tugging your skirts up, "Don't let me distract you sweet'eart, keep workin'."

Easier said than done. Your hands are unsteady even as you place them flat against the table, body shivering in anticipation as stagnant air greets your legs. John's fingers sweep between your thighs as quickly as he can get your skirts raised to do so, rough pads swiping through your folds, seeking out the already slick hole that lays between them. It's the heat, it melts sense out of the mind, makes your normally logical thoughts stutter to a halt as one of those fingers presses in, in, in to your cunt.

You make a choked noise, sound trapped behind your rips and your head bowed. You stare at your splayed fingers and try to remember what you were doing before John came in. Some spread of herbs covers the table, ergot, maybe. John's finger draws in and out of you, pushing and pulling at the slowly built heat that bubbles so low in your gut. The warmth of the movement spreads over your skin, tingling with each scrape of his palm against your bottom, with each drag of his knuckle against your entrance.

You push back into the feeling and he clicks his tongue. You're supposed to be working. He moves one of your hands to the knife you'd held, and slips his finger free to circle the digit around your clit. Knives are the last thing you should be handling, but you take it, grip it with too tight fingers and begin separating the leaves from their stems again.

"There you go," John rubs his finger over your clit, and you press the blade of your knife against the table as you squeeze your eyes shut against the feeling. "Just take it slow."

Slow is all you can manage with him touching you. His finger returns to working you open while you slice leaves like molasses through snow. Each slice precise and agonizingly long. The pump of John's finger turns one into two, stroking at your walls, searching with each crook of his fingers. You clench around them, feel the bones of his fingers drag against your soft walls, callused and worn skin meeting the most delicate parts of you.

"Like velvet," John husks against your ear, "you give me the world I'll wrap this pussy so tight around my cock you'll never walk away again."

It's all too tempting like this. Too easy to let whines slip free of your lips, to try and force his hand without giving him a word. To arch your back and wiggle your hips and tempt the way you've seen girls at the saloon tempt. It's the heat, the sun beating down on the world and turning men into animals. Singularly focused, desperate, needy as the moan that finds voice when John's free hand finds your throat.

"Want ta feel you say it." He squeezes his fingers, lips scraping your ear, "Fuck me." Your breath shudders out of you, words failing just to feel the bare of his teeth when he repeats himself. "Fuck me."

John's always hated repeating himself.

"Fuck me," You fold, voice lost to the empty room, words for no one but John Price.

You barely mourn the loss of his fingers before the head of his cock notches against your entrance. Sinful, that's the only word for the burning stretch, for the sinking, the swallowing of your cunt around him. Each rocking of his hips eases another inch inside, knocks another breath from your lungs. He finds the deepest pit of you, pushing his hips against your ass and circling them, knocking that aching darkness until it feels like it'll swallow you whole.

"Thought you needed a house," John hums.

"We can add an extra room," You murmur, turning your head to try and catch his eye. His hand moves, cradling your jaw to keep your head tipped when he wants. Your neck twinges from the stretch, but you can't seem to bring yourself to care when his lips find yours and his hips begin to thrust.

[luvbabydoll]

you’re sittin’ on the porch in your little sundress, legs crossed just like he likes, that soft breeze kissin’ your skin while you sip sweet tea like a proper southern belle. phillip’s watchin’ you from the truck, arms crossed, aviators on, smirkin’ like he knows exactly what you’re tryin’ to do.

“mm-mm, baby, don’t go sittin’ out here like that, all cute n’ clueless. i ain’t tryna start nothin’ ‘fore dinner.” his boots thud heavy on the steps as he makes his way over, drawl thick, eyes hot as they trail over your thighs.

you bat your lashes, lips all glossy and pouty. “i was just waitin’ for you, phillip.”

“i bet you were,” he mutters, hand slidin’ up your bare leg like he owns every inch. “always waitin’ on me to come home ‘n tell ya what to do, huh? that’s my good girl.”

he tugs your chin up so you're lookin’ right at him. “ain’t no reason for you to worry that pretty lil head with nothin’ complicated. i handle the thinkin’. you just keep lookin’ sweet ‘n keepin’ my house soft ‘n warm.”

“but—”

he cuts you off with a slow kiss, palm heavy on your throat. “no buts. don’t go actin’ like you got opinions now. ‘less they’re about what color lace you’re wearin’ under that dress.”

and you do have opinions. but he’s already got you pulled into his lap, callin’ you “darlin’” and “sugar” and “my dumb lil wife” like it’s a compliment. and maybe it is the way he says it—slow, drawlin’, possessive.

“what am i gonna do with you, huh?” he whispers against your skin, nosin’ at your collarbone. “married a baby doll who don’t know a damn thing ‘cept how to keep me wrapped ‘round her finger.”

[rememberwren]

Threshold

Simon asks you to take his virginity, just not in so many words. Or any words at all, really. 5.7 k

cw: virgin!Simon, PIV, oral sex f and m receiving, stop and start sex, lack of communication (typical Simon), poor writing, soft!Simon, hints at past trauma, contraception.

-

A Ghost shaped shadow falls over the table. Your eyes lift to find him standing there, the neck of his beer bottle held loosely in his hand. His mask is drawn down below his chin, revealing to you one of your favorite parts of him: his mouth. Simon has a pretty mouth, scarred though it is. Maybe you have such an affinity for it because it is so often hidden away from your sight, or maybe it’s what that mouth is capable of, being just as likely to crack a poor dad joke as it is to cut a grown man to the bone with just a few words. 

He takes the seat across from you, the screeching of the chair on the floor lost to the ambient sounds of the pub. The others are playing pool (Gaz is taking all of them to task), and the place is packed with bodies, a cacophony of voices and laughter. Feeling overstimulated, you had sequestered yourself away to this little corner hoping to catch your breath and tether yourself back to the earth instead of spending the rest of the night in a dissociated haze. 

The sight of Ghost is like a light slap to the cheek, rousing you from your stupor. Lights burn brighter. Sounds are sharper. If you wrack your brain you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve ever been singled out by Ghost, so you know whatever is about to happen is out of the ordinary. Leaning in, you lace your fingers together on the table top and nearly have to shout to be heard as you say: “What can I do for you, Ghost?” 

“We should hook up,” he says. Then he takes a long drink from his bottle, eyes sharp and dark where they are narrowed in on you over the top. A sniper’s eyes. 

“What?” you shout back, positive that you have misheard him. 

He shrugs. He won’t repeat himself. 

“Me—and you?”

He raises his brows, looking around the empty table as if to ask, Who else?

“Why?”

He takes another drink, and you see him mulling over his potential answers this time, sucking on his teeth as he thinks. What you wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall in his head. He’s got you on tenterhooks, leaning forward onto your elbows, fingers absently (anxiously) playing with a condensation ring left by someone else’s drink earlier in the night. 

Finally, he says, “Why not?”

-

His hand rests low on your back as the two of you say goodbye to the others. You see the downright thunderstruck looks Gaz and Soap throw at each other at your announcement that Ghost is driving you home, but the deeper meaning hardly registers. Who cares if everyone knows that you’re taking Ghost home to fuck him? You’re both adults; you need no one’s permission. Still, as soon as you are outside, you press your palms to your heated cheeks, wondering how you will be able to face any of them in the future. 

“You driving?” you ask him. 

He lifts his hand, showing you the keys in his palm. He doesn’t open the car door for you—not that you had really expected him to. It isn’t as if this is a date. It’s just two adults hooking up.

Inside, he shifts the vents towards you and turns on the heat, soothing the goosebumps that had begun to bloom on your arms. He waits until you’ve buckled your seatbelt before backing out and onto the street. It’s only then that you remember what Soap says about Ghost’s driving. You wish you had a second seatbelt. 

“So what brought all this on?” you ask, feeling remarkably shy in the passenger seat. You’re beginning to sober up from your drinks at the pub, not that you had ever been that drunk to begin with. Maybe this was a mistake. You’re already suffering from nerves, and you haven’t even gotten back to your apartment yet. How were you supposed to fuck Ghost without looking like a fawn, your knees knocking together coltishly, nauseous from anxiety? 

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he admits. 

Alright. Downright digestible news. Before tonight, you wouldn’t have even considered you and Ghost friends, necessarily. More like friend-adjacent, thanks to your mutual friendship with Johnny. It’s good to know that apparently you had caught his eye somehow, even if it was by being the only woman among a male-dominated group of friends. 

You can’t leave it alone. “But why?” 

“That’s what people do, isn’t it?” he asks, like he’s not a person, like he’s only ever heard about what it’s like to be one from a friend of a friend. “They think about fucking each other. Don’t you think about fucking me?” 

Your mouth goes dry. You do. You think about fucking Ghost a lot than one might expect for how few minimal interactions you’ve had. Being perfectly honest, tonight is sort of becoming a dream come true. You’d had an attraction for Ghost ever since you’d met him, even before he’d taken the mask off and you’d seen that he has such a pretty face underneath. 

You’d be willing to examine under a microscope your affection for aloof, seemingly unaffected men on a different day.

Ghost looks at you, trying to interpret your silence, the car swerving slowly into the other lane. You make a sound remarkably close to a screech and reach out to adjust the wheel, but he adjusts it before you do, batting your hand away softly. 

“We don’t have to do this,” he says, eyes firmly on the road now. “I’ll just drop you off.” 

“No, I want to,” you say. “It’s just—it’s been a while for me. I want to, though.” 

Ghost casts you a doubtful glance. He pulls into your apartment complex’s parking lot and the two of you head up together. True to form, you feel his eyes taking in all the new sights: the man behind the desk who doesn’t even look up as you both enter, the elevator that was last inspected two years ago, the proximity to the neighboring apartments.

After you unlock the door but before he crosses the threshold, he reaches up and runs his hand along the top of the doorframe—and easily pulls away your spare key. For a moment he holds it between you both, staring. He seems nearly as surprised as you are by his own actions. Reaching out, he sets it down on the end table just beyond the entry and says: “You couldn’t find a better hiding place for that?” 

“Goddamnit, Ghost,” you whine, slipping off your shoes. “You’re not here to assess my, my security measures. You’re here to fuck me. Will you get in?”

He comes in and makes a circle of the living space, his steps silent in a way you’ve never been able to replicate, not even here in your own living space. You cross your arms, wondering what he’s thinking. Does he think you a slob? A terrible interior designer? You told yourself that you didn’t care. The space was yours, and yours alone, and you liked it well enough. He could survive being in it for one night.

“What’s the verdict?” you ask after the silence stretches too thin. 

“It’s nice,” he says. Then he amends, or perhaps adds: “It’s you.” 

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. Do you…want a drink?”’ 

“No,” he says, taking off his jacket and resting it on the arm of the couch. “Want you to c’mere.” 

Your feet obey before your mind even thinks to question it, padding across the living room in your socks until you stand in front of where he has seated himself on your frayed, careworn loveseat. He looks up at you, eyes dark and all-seeing. His hands find your hips, testing the width of them, and he makes you feel like something small, something precious, something to be cradled in the palm of his hand like a gem or jewel.

“Sit down,” he says. So you sit beside him, close enough to breathe in his clean scent. 

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “As soon as you say you’ll let me.” 

“I’ll let you.” 

His lips are soft as they look, mouth warm and insistent as he coaxes you to part your lips and taste him—as if you need the incentive. He tastes like Price’s whiskey that he had sipped at the bar, like he would settle warm in your belly and everywhere else. His hand relaxes his hold on your chin, choosing instead to cup your jaw, suffusing warmth throughout your cheek. 

It turns into the longest makeout session you’ve had since you were a teenager. You kiss until your jaw aches, until your lips are raw, until you’re throbbing between your legs. Each time you try to move things along, Ghost gently deflects your advances, seeming content to kiss you for ages. If this is how he fucks, it will be an all night affair. 

“Ghost please,” you mutter against his mouth when you feel liable to burst, when he won’t even let you slip a hand beneath his t-shirt. 

“Here,” he mutters, hauling you onto his lap. That’s headed in the right direction. Your thighs spread obscenely wide to accommodate him, lowering yourself until you feel that hard line beneath his jeans. Instinct has you lining yourself up until you can rub off against him, a choked sound rising up in the back of your throat at the blissful friction. 

He sighs into your mouth, a trembling little exhale of air, his hands finding your hips and pinning you in place. Pulling back, he mutters: “None of that.” 

“Why not?” you pant. “Feels good.” 

“I’m trying not to embarrass myself. Work with me.”

The two of you move to the bedroom. You stand on legs that are already shaking, stripping clothes off along as you go: socks here, leggings there. The typical anxious thoughts have just started spiraling in your head—what underwear are you wearing? Have you shaved recently enough? Is the light flattering? When did you last change the sheets?—when Ghost catches you, looping his forearm around your waist and pulling you back against his firm chest. 

“I wanted to undress you,” he says against the nape of your neck. 

“I can put the clothes back on if you like.” 

“Think I’ll just do the rest myself, if it’s all the same to you.” 

His hands are remarkably gentle for his line of work as he helps you out of your shirt, your arms lifting obligingly to help him. The light from the lamp in the corner is actually quite flattering, casting shadows across you both in a way that is artful. His fingertips, calloused but careful, trace up the lengths of your arms and around to your back. 

He fumbles a little with the clasp of your bra. 

“I hate those things,” you breathe once he finally gets it figured out, coaxing the straps off your shoulders. 

“Me too,” he says in that dry, bland way that you’ve come to associate with his humor.

All that’s left are your panties. He presses you back onto the bedspread and hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, peeling them off your thighs. Your legs try to close on instinct, but he is quick to wedge himself between them, thumbs finding the creases where your thighs meet your pelvis and stroking the sensitive skin until you don’t know whether to laugh from being tickled or cry from being teased. 

“Fuckin’ pretty, aren’t you?” he murmurs, eyes on your pussy. Maybe he’s talking to it and not to you. “Want to get my mouth on you. Can I?” 

God, how long has it been since you’ve gotten head? You nod, near frantic. Even if he’s no good, some effort will be better than nothing. Besides, a part of you has high hopes for Ghost as a lover; so far he has been thorough and careful, both points in his favor. He leans up and kisses you again, your nipples brushing against his t-shirt, reminding you that you are naked while he is still entirely dressed. He seems content, and as desperate as you are to see him naked, you’re even more desperate not to break this blissful little soap bubble you both have somehow managed to find yourselves in. 

Nudging your head up and to the side with the tip of his nose, he trails his mouth down your neck, tasting your skin and searching for your most sensitive spots. When he finds them, he drags his teeth against them softly until your heels are digging into the bed beneath you, hips up and searching for any kind of friction, even if you have to rub yourself against his jeans to find it. 

Ghost continues down over the plains of your chest, teasing first one nipple and then the other with his mouth and his hands, testing the heft of your breasts in his huge palms. He explores your body with an admirable single-mindedness, not the perfunctory, half-hearted way some of your past lovers had. His eyes are never far from your own, categorizing your reactions; for what purpose, you aren’t sure. 

After kissing a line right over your navel, he grips your thighs in his hands and spreads you wide. That close to your cunt, he must be able to smell how desperate you are, must be able to see the way it drips from you. He ghosts a thumb along your slit, turns it towards himself until your slick catches on the light. That thumb disappears into his mouth, and it takes all your breath and all your thoughts with it. His hum of approval vibrates against your calves which are pressed to either side of his chest. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

You nod, unable to trust your voice. 

He leans down and kisses your folds, chaste and sweet as he might have kissed your mouth. He uses the fingers of one hand to spread you open, and there is a rush of warmth as he lets the saliva pool on his tongue and then flood against your sex, leaning down to chase it with his mouth. 

He is all merciful tongue and lips, no hint of teeth as he licks and sucks at that hidden knot of flesh at the top of your sex. He barely pays your entrance any attention—which is fine by you, honestly, his tongue is direly needed elsewhere—but shifts an arm free to sling it over your pelvis, palm resting over your mons, thumb pulling back that hood that seeks to keep your most sensitive parts hidden from him. 

Your hands grip fistfuls of your bedspread, unsure if he’s willing to let you touch his hair. The noises—gasps and whines and choked groans—coming out of your mouth would have your soul leaving your body if only you could hear them over the sound of blood rushing through your ears. 

He’s strong, fighting against your natural urges to clamp your thighs shut around his head. Instead he presses you open wider, leaving no where for you to run to or hide as the pleasure in your pelvis blossoms, swells into some sweet fruit that bursts all over his tongue, your back arching into a neat bow. 

You find out then that Ghost eats pussy the same way he kisses. He seems content to lap you clean and continue sucking at your swollen flesh, and even though you don’t think you could cum again, it still feels good. You melt into the mattress, boneless. Against your better judgement, your hand finds his hair, tucking back the longest strands that just begin to tickle the tops of his ears.  

His mouth stutters against you at the touch, losing its easy rhythm. He pulls back until he is out of your reach. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, throat raw. Your hand falls to rest on your soft belly, feeling exhausted.

“You can touch. Just don’t pull. I don’t—“ he stops, like he is searching for the right words. “—I don’t want it to hurt.” 

“Not at all?” 

“No.” 

“Me neither. Would you kiss me again?” 

His only answer is to shift upwards so that he can meet your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue. His cock, still confined in his jeans, brushes against your thighs. One of your hands wanders down his firm chest, down his belly, til you can map the shape of his erection with your fingers. His biceps tense around you where he braces himself on the bed to keep from putting his weight on you, head dropping til his forehead rests against the juncture between your neck and shoulder. 

“You should get undressed,” you remind him. 

He lets out a breath through his nose that sounds suspiciously like a sigh, leaning back onto his haunches to tug his shirt off over his head. You stare, awed. He’s so thick, all over: muscles hidden beneath a nice layer of soft padding, chest hair broken up by the odd scar here or there. You reach out toward his belt but he stops you. 

“I can do it,” he says. He stands and strips himself naked in one fell swoop, like ripping off a bandaid. He’s thick here too, just as you had suspected: thighs and cock included. Already you can feel the phantom stretch of him between your legs and in your jaw. It burns away the last bits of sleepiness your orgasm had given you. 

Throughout your perusal, he stands still, at attention, mouth turned downward in its most comfortable frown, meeting your eyes with an almost obstinate persistence. You kneel up and crawl to the edge of the bed, letting your legs dangle off of it. 

“Can I touch you?” 

“Alright,” he says. 

You start at his shoulders, tracing over the broad width of them. Everything about him displays his strength. Even his scars, which some might consider signs of failure, only showed his persistence for survival. You ran your hands across his pecs, pausing to toy with one pale, pink nipple, so soft beneath your fingers. With each breath he takes, his abs are thrown into sharp relief. 

“God, Ghost,” you mutter, tracing a line down to his cock. 

“I know,” he says dully, though what he knows, you’re unsure of. “Condom’s in my pants.”

“We don’t need one.”

“I don’t want any surprises.”

“You won’t get any. Here.” You take his hand and guide it to your upper arm where your implant sits just beneath the surface of your skin. He flinches, unsure what he is touching. “It’s my contraception.”

“That’s horrifying,” he mutters. 

“Do what I do—don’t think of it.” 

“Right.”

You shift backwards up into the bed, thighs falling open invitingly. Instead of filling the space between them, he lays next to you, rolling you til you both face each other. 

He runs his calloused palm up the length of your leg and grips your thigh, tugging it up and over his hip until you are spread open for him. There’s a question in his eyes, a slowness to his movement that gives you ample time to deny him this if you don’t want it—but you do. God you do. You ache for it—for him. 

He reaches down and slips two fingers into you, easy as anything in your wet, relaxed state. The fullness is divine, even more so when he decides you’re ready for that third finger, the one that stretches your entrance and makes you hiss a breath through your teeth. 

Ghost doesn’t even fuck you with them, just leaves you stuffed full of his fingers while he kisses you more. He waits until you’re the one shifting and thrusting against his touch before pulling out and wiping your wetness across your tender folds. 

He grips his cock, guides it to your entrance. Hesitates. 

“Please,” you mutter, face flushed with heat, hoping he doesn’t want you to beg. You’ll debase yourself, but it will be painful. 

Whether or not it was your word he was waiting for, he slips inside you, a near-unbearable fullness and pressure that has you burying your face in his chest. His own breaths are stuttered, shallow as he sinks as deep into you as your body will allow and no deeper. Once he’s inside you, he seems to relax, like some great race has been run, some threshold has been crossed and now he can rest. 

“Let me know when I can move,” he says, running his hand up and down the length of your back, down over the curve of your ass. 

“Not yet,” you beg. “Feels like you’re in my fucking throat. Jesus, Ghost.” 

His cock twitches. You both suck in a breath. 

“Don’t say that shit,” he mutters, breathless, fingers digging grooves into the soft flesh of your hips. “Lean back. I want to look at you.”

You uncurl yourself away from his chest, tilting your chin up towards him. The last twinges of pain in your cunt have receded until all that lasts is that ceaseless fullness. He moves at last, laying down his arm so you can rest your head on his bicep. Only then are you aware of how painfully intimate this position is. There is nowhere to turn away to, nowhere to hide. You’ve had sex with partners less intimate than this. 

“You can move,” you assure him, hoping for a distraction. 

He takes a breath so deep his chest brushes your own. The pace he sets is downright agonizingly slow, less thrusting and more of a solid grind against you that has you a shivering mess in his arms. There’s little chance you could cum at this pace, but it feels good, and all of it is strangely secondary to him. 

There’s a look in his eyes. You don’t understand it. Is it tenderness? Genuine affection? Gratitude? You’ve never had sex with this much eye contact before, never felt like breaking that gaze could take you out of the hazy headspace you’re in. Ghost finds your hand and grips it—doesn’t lace your fingers together but instead holds them like a tiny bundle of sticks in his giant hand.

He rests his forehead against your own. His eyes fall shut for just a moment, and it gives you the freedom to examine his features freely: the low brow, the curve of his nose, the pink scars tinged pale purple in the low light. You feel like you’re seeing him for the first time. You feel like you’re the first person to ever see him. 

That strange thought starts a domino effect in your mind, sets off a chain reaction, slides a dozen puzzle pieces into a Ghost shaped puzzle and all at once it hits you. 

“Ghost—stop.” 

He stills, eyes opening. Reverses, withdrawing from inside you. “What hurts?”

“Nothing,” you assure him. “But—I’m sorry. You’ve done this before, right?” 

He doesn’t respond. He’s meeting your eyes, but he has that obstinate, pained look again, like he’d rather be looking straight at the sun. 

Your voice pitches upward with a hint of panic. “Ghost??”

“Fucking hell,” he groans, rolling onto his back, cock slipping free and leaving you feeling bereft. The mattress dips, making you sway toward him. You shift away.  “What gave me away?”

“Oh my god. You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re joking.” 

“Bloody wish,” he mutters, arm thrown over his eyes. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“The fuck would I tell you for?” He sounds genuinely baffled. 

“So I could—I don’t know! So I could have known!” 

“Didn’t want you to fucking know,” he says, letting his arm down so that he can glare at you fiercely. At the sight of you huddled at the other side of the bed, naked, arms wrapped around yourself, the fury seems to melt out of him. His shoulders sag. He palms at his eyes briefly, like a headache is brewing.

“Fucked it,” he mutters to himself, going for his jeans and sitting on the edge of the bed to put them on. “Fucked it all.” 

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily, though it does feel a little fucked. Suddenly you realize that your chance to fuck Ghost is slipping through your fingers like so much sand. What had started as a dream come true was turning into a nightmare, and you couldn’t bear the thought of letting him leave. Not like this. 

At your words, he tosses you a look, and how a human can fit so much skepticism in a single expression is beyond your belief.

“Really. I just wish I’d known so I could have been better for you.” You don’t realize the truth of the statement until you say it. The last thing you wanted was for him to look back on this moment with disappointment. 

He shakes his head and mutters: “You’re mad.” 

“We could still—you know.” 

He stops, jeans halfway pulled up his thick thighs. “What, fuck?”

You find a loose thread on your bedspread and twist it around your finger, shrugging. Aiming for cool and missing by a mile. 

“You want to.” 

“Well, yeah.” You abandon the thread, feeling too exposed. Tucking your legs up toward your chest, you wrap your arms around yourself. “Like you said in the car. I’ve been thinking about it.”

“About fucking me.”

“Are these questions?” you ask, face warm. “Yes, I think about it. Thought about it. I have thoughts.” 

His lips twitch, a ghost of a smile, gone before you can imagine what a full-fledged grin would even begin to look like. “You’re serious.”

“Really serious,” you offer, sensing that he might be coming back around to the idea himself. Though you’re no vixen, you let your body unfold just to watch the way his eyes drop to look you over. You never knew eyes could be hungry. “Pants off? Please?”

He’s still and quiet for several long moments, but at length he shoves them back down his thighs, naked once more. He’s only half hard, but no less intimidating in this state. You eagerly shift to the edge of the bed and off, back down onto your knees in front of him, palms against his thighs. 

“Is this okay?” you ask, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, aware that this is one of your most flattering angles. 

“Go on,” he says. He sounds doubtful. You are too, unsure if you can find the same rhythm you both had going before. Unsure if you want to, now that you know him better. 

You take one of his hands and coax it into cupping your cheek, then slide it back and up into your hair. “Don’t pull. No pain, right?” 

Something hard in his expression softens marginally. His fingertips scratch gently at your scalp, a silent praise as he agrees: “No pain.”

Leaning forward, you nuzzle at his cock. It is velvety soft against your cheek. His scent here is more concentrated, masculine and warm. Above you, he sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

How much you enjoy giving head usually directly depends on your partner, and Ghost is brilliant to suck off. Some might find him stoic or unaffected, but his expressions are just understated. When you place an open mouthed kiss against his shaft, his fingers twitch in your hair. When you take the tip past your lips to rest heavily against your tongue, he lets out a shaky exhale. By the time he’s nudging the back of your throat while you work the excess inches of his cock in your fist, he is grunting in between in sharp breaths. You find yourself becoming hyper attuned to his reactions until each minuscule motion feels exaggerated to your brain. A twitch becomes a caress. A sigh a moan.  

“I’ll cum in your mouth if you don’t stop,” he grits out. 

You pull off, jaw aching, lips slick. “I’d rather you came inside me.” 

He pulls you to your feet and kisses you. All the kisses tonight, and this one has been the most honest, the most needful, the most raw. Had he never even kissed anyone before tonight? you wonder. It’s hard to believe that the answer might be yes. The way he kisses melts your brain, fizzles your thoughts. 

“Ghost,” you breathe when he gives you a moment to come up for air, his mouth dipping low to your collarbone where he sucks softly. 

“You know my name,” he says, mouth against your skin. “Use it.”

Simon. You have to say it in your mind first to get used to it. Simon. Simon. Then he finds one of those sensitive spots in the crook of your neck and you are whispering it, voice trembling more than you’d like: “Simon.” 

“I like the way you say it,” he admits. “You’ve got a pretty mouth.”

“So do you.” 

He snorts softly, shaking his head, like you have said something very silly. 

“Up.” He grips your waist and helps you up onto the bed. You scoot back, making room for him between your thighs, and he fills the space so fucking snugly. His cock nudges at your sex and reminds you of how you ache all anew. 

This time when he slips inside you, it punches a sound out of you that is remarkably close to a whine, your toes curling. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” you gasp, hands scrabbling for purchase against his broad shoulders, careful not to scratch him. 

His head drops, forehead resting against your own, eyes shut. “Fuck’s right. Not a chance I’ll last after being in your mouth.”

“Wait for me,” you choke out, working one hand between you both until your fingers can find your clit. The angle isn’t the best, not with him so close, but it’s made up for by how blissfully full you are, by how Simon’s arms are trembling where he holds himself up above you. Briefly you let your fingers take a side trip, teasing his cock where he stretches you open, and Simon groans. Fuck, it goes right to your head. It makes you feel like you could walk on water. 

You find his mouth and kiss him, kiss him til your head is light with lack of air, kiss him til your thighs are shaking with how close you are from your own expert touch. 

“Fuck me, now, fuck me please,” you beg into his mouth.

He draws back until just the thick head sits inside you, giving your fingers room to work for a moment before he thrusts back in slow and smooth, pinning your fingers against your clit and that simple pressure—it’s enough. Your body bows against him, choked sounds lost against his mouth as he swallows them whole, fucking you so softly through the peak of your pleasure. 

Simon stiffens not a handful of moments later, cock twitching inside you. The burst of warmth is pleasant, making you shiver. He drops down til his chest presses against your own, careful not to crush you with his weight. 

“Don’t pull out yet.” 

His softening cock twitches inside you. All he says is: “Alright.” 

You hum, warm and sated. Sleepy. “You sleeping over?”

“Didn’t plan on it,” he murmurs, lips against your shoulder. 

“But the walk of shame is a valuable part of the experience.”

“‘M not ashamed of fucking you,” he says. 

You’re strangely touched. “Me neither.”

“Did you fake it?” he wonders.

“I’m no good at faking,” you admit. He leans up so his eyes can scan your face, looking for any hint of deception. Whatever he finds must satisfy his curiosity because he lowers his head back to rest against your shoulder. 

He rolls you both onto your sides, and his soft cock slips free with a rush of seed. You make an unhappy sound in the back of your throat. Afterward is always your least favorite part, when you feel so empty.

Simon hushes you as he slips from the bed. “Bathroom,” he tells you. 

“Through there.”

“Not for me, for you.”

“Why?” you whine, tired and petulant. 

“Because pissing afterward is a valuable part of the experience for you. Can you walk, or did I break you?” 

When you don’t answer, he grips one of your ankles and pulls you toward the end of the bed. You shriek, rolling onto your belly, but it’s no use. Looping his arm around your waist, he tosses you over his shoulder and carries you to the bathroom like you weigh nothing more than a sack of potatoes, which is patently untrue. 

“Are you going to watch me go, too?” you ask. 

“Kinky,” he says, already disappearing into the other room. 

By the time you clean yourself up and take care of any “valuable post-sex experiences”, Simon has dressed himself. His clothes are gone from the floor in your bedroom. You can’t help but feel disappointed; a part of you really had been hoping he’d stay.  Slipping on your panties and a clean shirt, you chase after him hoping he hasn’t left only to find him toying with your spare key at your door. 

The way he reaches for your hand and draws you to him soothes some of the ache of seeing out. He thumbs your pulse and says: “I have to be ready to leave for work at a moment’s notice or I’d stay.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“You’re lying,” he says, pressing his thumb more firmly against your wrist. “Don’t lie to me, or I’ll know. Do you want tonight to happen again?” 

“Are you seriously copping a feel of my pulse to see if I’m being truthful?”

“Evading the question,” he says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Thanks anyway, for tonight. I’ll see myself out.”

“Yes! Alright, yes. Of course I do.” 

His mouth quirks upwards, his grin a little crooked thanks to the scar, but no less precious. His thumb strokes softly. “I don’t need your pulse to tell when you’re lying. I just like to feel it racing when you look at me.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest. How embarrassing is that? 

“Next time, I’ll stay,” he promises. “Alright? Repeat it back to me.” 

“Next time you’ll stay.” 

“Next time,” he murmurs softly, turning away. He takes the stairs.  

[lunisparkles]

THIS IS SO CUTEEEUGH😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[luvbabydoll]

simon “ghost” riley is so fucking blunt with his words

you’re not even trying to be sexy. just sat on his couch in that worn old tank top, the one with the frayed strap and no bra underneath. your legs are curled under you, hair damp from the shower, picking at your nails and talking about some show you half-watched.

he’s not listening.

"y’re tits sit nice in that top f’yours," he says, eyes on the tv. voice low, almost lazy, like he’s commenting on the weather.

you blink at him. "what?"

"didn’t stutter, love," he says, finally turning to look. eyes dragging down your chest, slow and shameless. “reckon you wear shit like that on purpose.”

your face goes hot but he just huffs a laugh through his nose, leans back further. spreads his thighs a little wider like he’s settling in.

“saw a porno the other day. girl looked like you. sweet thing, bit mouthy. got fucked face-down in a stairwell.” he pauses. shrugs. “thought of ya.”

your jaw drops.

“what?” he says, tilting his head. “should be flattered. ain’t every day i get off twice to the same fuckin’ video.”

he grins when you throw a pillow at him. catches it. holds it in his lap.

"gonna keep wearin' that top, or y’gonna come sit here and gimme a better fuckin’ view?"

[07x1x4x1]

sugar plum promises | 1

SYNOPSIS: SIMON RILEY, WHO DISCOVERS (AND ACCEPTS) THAT HE HAS A RAGING MOMMY KINK, MUCH THANKS TO YOU.

PAIRING: SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY x FEM!READER

WARNINGS/INFO: 18+ | Mommy kink; VIRGIN!SIMON; dom/sub dynamics; cussing; strangers to lovers; hurt/comfort; eventual smut [Please mind the warnings for each part!]

➥ BASED ON THIS BLURB × | [ SPP MASTERLIST ]

It’s Saturday, his first day off base since returning from a three month long deployment just the day before yesterday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly like no one ever has before while he’s minding his business and checking out the new flavours of instant Ramen noodle cups.

And his spine goes rigid, when you suddenly address him directly.

“Big lad like you needs a proper meal,” you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. “In my humble opinion.” You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.

Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, immediately checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.

His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a “Have a good day, love,” and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.

By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.

And he doesn’t quite know what he’s feeling in this moment as his body decides to act on autopilot, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.

Oh, perhaps this time, Simon’s going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping that maybe, you’ll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.

He follows you discreetly through the supermarket like a man on a never-ending mission, silently stalking like a cat in a mouse chase down the aisles. His eyes are locked on you like a heat-seeking missile, noting every move you make, watching how every step sways your curves in the right fashion, nearly causing him to run into a display rack at his momentary distraction.

He nearly growls when some random bloke blocks his path to you and to ask you a question on top of that. He doesn’t quite manage to pick up the words, but it’s enough for him to clench his jaw and tighten his grip on the abused instant noodles cup. A deep huff escapes from behind his balaclava, and he resumes his discreet surveillance as soon as the man saunters his merry way.

Simon watches as you throw a pack of biscuits into the cart, your body turned away from him, your back facing him while you lean over. His eyes land on your round, firm rear like a magnet drawn to the iron. He can almost see the way your muscles move under the jeans fabric—

His thoughts are rudely interrupted when an elderly woman approaches the same shelf, and he has to step into the next aisle and pretend to browse, stomach twisting as he loses visuals on you.

As the woman moves her squeaky cart on wheels down the lane, his eyes flicker nervously before he catches sight of you again, chest heaving with a sigh of relief as he sees you browsing the frozen goods section, and his fingers twitch around the plastic cup, itching to touch you, to grab your hips and grind himself against—he shakes his head with a low grunt, trying to rid himself of that thought. He's already painfully hard enough.

It’s wrong, Simon knows that. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t use his skills to basically stalk you for making a nice, yet throwaway remark in his direction, but he somehow can’t keep his eyes off your body, his gaze glued to your every move—until you obviously pick up on the surveillance.

You do notice him. He’s like a looming shadow sneaking after your own, and for a moment, you wonder if you should’ve just kept your mouth shut for once when you’d spotted him initially.

He’s built like a bloody tank, wearing a balaclava and matching gloves with a skeleton pattern. What the bloody hell were you thinking?

All bark, no bite. That’s what you were thinking, and Wonder if he’s as tough as he looks or if he crumbles like a fresh scone with a few buttery words—like many other “scary dog privilege” men before him.

Slowing your steps, you eventually come to a stop, heart thudding as you glance over your shoulder, only to see him a few feet away, staring right back at you in a way that’s as adorable as it is eerie.

Simon’s feet freeze on the spot, his gaze locking with yours across the freezer cabinets, eyes wide. He didn’t expect to be discovered so easily, and he stands there like a deer caught in the headlights of a Humvee with an RPG attached to it—that he hopes will shoot him on sight.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly under the fabric of the balaclava, his mind racing for an excuse, a reason, though he comes up with nothing. The seconds feel like hours as the two of you stare at each other, before he finally blurts out:

“I...” His voice is hoarse, a low grumble that betrays his own surprise.

Oh. You almost laugh out loud at the sight before you, though you manage to suppress it, lips pursing in amusement instead.

No bark, no bite, actually.

He looks like an awkward little boy who’s been caught with his hand in the secret candy drawer in the living room.

“Yes, you?” you ask teasingly, wanting him to continue, to stammer and try to come up with a proper yet easily punishable lie. Raising an eyebrow, you turn towards him fully, keeping one hand on the shopping cart while your other rests on the curve of your hip casually.

“Well?”

Simon’s brain short-circuits as he desperately tries to come up with a plausible excuse, but all his mind supplies is a loop of caught, caught, caught like a broken record while he merely stands there like a fish washed out on the shore. He clears his throat awkwardly and straightens up, attempting to look innocent.

“I... I was just... uh...” he stammers, his voice wavering as the words refuse to come out. He mentally curses his lack of social skills, the years of isolation making him stumble like some twonk.

“Just doing some shopping,” he eventually mutters gruffly, his eyes flitting away from your gaze for a moment before darting back, unable to resist another look. There’s a hint of defensiveness in his voice, mixed with a tinge of embarrassment.

You nod slowly. “Doing some shopping,” you repeat, amusement glinting in your eyes as you glance down at the single cup of instant Ramen he’s still clutching in his hands like a lifebuoy. “Right.”

You notice how utterly still he is; no shuffling, no fidgeting, broad chest barely moving as he breathes, dark eyes flickering the slightest bit whenever your gaze catches his.

He’s a different breed of man, that one, you muse.

Clicking your tongue, you shift on your feet. “You call that shopping?” You nod your chin at his hands. “Like I said, you need to be fed a proper meal, love. Is your wife out of town or something?”

Simon bristles at your comment, his shoulders tensing as your words hit a nerve, a bit too close to home. He glances down at the cup of Ramen in his hands, feeling a mixture of shame and stubbornness.

The truth is that he’s so bloody touch–and attention-starved that your simple words, your simple presence, make him feel flustered, his frayed nerves now on edge.

“I don't have a wife,” he mutters, words edged with a hint of bitterness. He knows he’s being judged, but there’s a baser, hidden part of him that simply revels in the attention, in the fact that someone as classy and obviously put-together as you, has noticed him at all.

“And I can feed myself just fine.” He adds dryly, raising the cup defiantly as if to prove a point.

You swallow another pleased smile as he confirms what you've expected while the word brat burns on the tip of your tongue at this display of attitude.

Glancing back at your full shopping cart, you lick your lips briefly in thought, pondering and weighing the risks before looking back at him. He hasn’t moved an inch, simply keeps observing like you’re the odd ball here.

Pulling on the shopping cart, you slowly start walking backwards towards him, approaching like someone would a strange street dog.

“Tell you what,” you say as soon as you’re an appropriate distance away from him, and it’s then that you notice how tall and broad he truly this is up close. “If you help me carry these groceries to my car, I’ll cook you a proper dinner tonight.”

His mouth drops open, eyes wide and bewildered by your audacity. He simply stares at you for a moment, dumbfounded, grappling with the unexpected situation. You’re trying to coax him with a treat like one would do with an animal to gain its trust, and Simon is furious about the tiny part inside his brain that’s thrashing to jump on this opportunity.

“You... You’re serious,” he finally manages to sputter, his brain struggling to process that you, that a woman like you, a stranger, is actually proposing this to someone like him.

“Why would you do that?” His eyes narrow in suspicion, though beneath the hardness of his expression, there’s a hint of curiosity, a hint of longing for a chance at this offered piece of normalcy.

Sensing his—understandable—apprehension, you give a small shrug in return, finally offering him a tentative yet genuine smile.

“Because you look like you could use it, love.”

You let your eyes roam once more, looking him up and down from boot to mask, heart giving a curious flutter as your gaze locks with his; tawny eyes so dark, you know you could get lost in them if he lets you in.

Then you reach into your purse slung over your shoulder and you notice how his broad shoulders tense and how his fingers flex as if he’s bracing himself for an attack.

As your hand disappears into your purse, Simon’s defensive instincts kick in automatically, his muscles coiling tightly in anticipation. His sharp senses on high alert, he blinks, slightly taken aback but not surprised by his own reaction, though he can’t help it; years of experience and survival training already hard-wired into his responses.

But he relaxes incrementally, when he sees you withdrawing your hand—now holding a purple ball pen and small note pad, and the sudden burst of adrenaline fades to a steady thrum in his veins as fast as it came.

“I...” he begins, but the words feel caught in his throat, his mind suddenly blank.

Covering his little slip-up with your own feigned nonchalance, you start scribbling away on the first blank page of your notepad before ripping it out and holding it out for him to take, thus offering a different treat—secretly hoping he’ll like this one.

“My name,” you explain, deciding that it might not be as self-explanatory as it would be for any other man you’ve previously met, “and my phone number.”

When he eventually takes the slip of paper with due care, his eyes keep flickering between your hand and face as if still expecting you to pull a gun on him, until you take a polite step backwards.

“Call or text me for that meal if you change your mind,” you add confidently.

Simon’s gaze follows your hand warily, taking the note from you with a slow, measured movement, his gloved fingers feeling uncharacteristically clumsy and uncoordinated as he grabs it. He stares at the slip of paper in his hand for a moment, brows furrowing behind his balaclava as he takes in the sight of your phone number and name written in neat, cursive handwriting, reading the words slowly in an almost mechanical manner, committing them to memory as a precaution.

His fingers twitch involuntarily, and for a wild, fleeting moment, he wants to raise the paper to his nose and inhale the faint scent of your perfume that clings onto the paper. And then you take a step backward, giving him space, and he takes an unconscious step forward, like a puppet on a string, not wanting to put that space between you again while his eyes stay glued to yours with a touch of desperation.

You’re leaving the ball in his corner and he doesn’t know how what to think, how to act.

As you adjust the straps of your purse on your shoulder, you drink in his subtle reaction with a mixture of sympathy and glee.

“Alright then?”

Simon watches in awe as you readjust your purse like it’s the most interesting action he’s ever seen, and when he opens his mouth to respond, his thoughts tumble over each other like leaves in a breeze. A simple yeah or a sure would’ve been the logical answers, but none of this is logical to him right now.

“You’re not worried,” he observes, the words nearly sounding accusatory, “about having a stranger over for dinner?”

He almost wants to call you daft, reckless; giving a man like him your number and name, offering your kindness up so easily. Can’t you tell what kind of man he is? Don’t you know what he can do with the intel you’ve already provided him with so willingly?

Simon wants to reach out and shake you, but his fingers are trembling and his cock is still throbbing, still semi-hard in his pants—and he can’t quite tell which is worse.

There’s a long pause between you as you regard his question with a light crease between your eyebrows, and you catch yourself wondering again what this poor man could’ve possibly been through for him to be this bloody suspicious.

From your experience, almost every other man would’ve jumped on this opportunity already, presented on a silver plate. You’ve been flirting with him since you spotted him entering the supermarket. However, you can only admit to yourself that his cautious reactions are merely heightening your curiosity and the urge to unravel this beast of a man completely.

“Most people start out as strangers,” you answer eventually, gauging his next reaction carefully, “and usually one takes the initiative to get to know the other if they’re interested, you know?” You flash him a disarming smile. “This is me taking that initiative here, mister.”

He takes a step forward, invading your personal space, and the height difference between you two becomes more painfully (arousingly) clear. Simon towers over you, his body vibrating with suppressed tension while he looks down at you with a stare that usually has his rookies quiver in their boots—not you, though.

“And what if I’m not interested?” he responds too bluntly and not as playful as he intended to, his voice lowered, nearly growling at you. He’s picked up on how other men talk to women at pubs, has eavesdropped and heard how Soap and Gaz talk to the birds they end up taking back to the barracks, and yet he can’t quite get his own tone right.

He certainly doesn’t like the fact that you’re making his heart race, that you’ve piqued his curiosity without even trying. It feels unfamiliar, dangerous, and somehow, he finds himself craving more of it in the same heartbeat.

Tilting your head owlishly, you regard him with a half-puzzled, half-amused look.

“Then I'll go on my merry way, love,” you reply with a breathy chuckle that obviously leaves him feeling even more lost judging how his eyes widen. “And then we move on after having a basic human interaction at a supermarket. Life’s beautiful, innit?”

Something about the way you talk, with the casual pet name, ‘love’, thrown in every second sentence, or the way your laugh makes his skin prickle in some foreign, exciting way, drives him mad with primal want and the unfamiliar urge to keep you here with him, keep you talking.

But he also feels like a damn fool in this moment, and on top of that, his face feels so hot under his balaclava, too. You’re not reacting the way he expects you to, not at all, and it’s throwing him off-guard.

He clears his throat again. “You’ll just... move on,” he repeats incredulously, like it pains him to say the words. “Just like that.”

You shrug, flashing another smile. “I mean... yes. What else is there to do? I’m not running after a man who’s not interested in me. I’m too old for games like that.”

Simon’s eyes narrow again. The thought of you giving up so easily, leaving, not even giving him a second thought—it pisses him off, for some reason, because it’s making him desperate. How the bloody hell does Garrick make it sound so easy and suave every time?

“How old are you?” The words burst out without him meaning to, his tone still gruff and defensive.

You snort softly. He’s so bratty, so rude, it’s almost endearing for a man looking like him, and it pokes your curiosity, causing the urge to take care of him to blossom even more hotly behind your ribcage as you drink up the tension in his body and fatigue clinging behind his wary, bottomless gaze.

“Old enough to know what I want, love.” It’s a curt response that has the desired effect judging by the way his jaw ticks under his odd mask. You smile again as you put the pen and notepad back into your purse, turning halfway around to your shopping cart to signal your departure.

“Anyway... my ice cream is melting, so I’ll be heading to the cashier. Thanks for the chat. You have a good day now.”

Just like that.

Simon is reeling internally as you prepare to leave, and he can’t help but admire the subtle power you wield with the way you carry yourself and the nonchalance you display so bloody effortlessly. Suddenly, he is torn between letting you go and the fierce need for you to not walk away. His chest tightens and his fingers twitch, and he suddenly feels like a child lost in this bloody supermarket, scared of being abandoned again.

However, he swallows the plea festering on the tip of his tongue, the words asking you to wait, stay, and talk more. No, Simon falls back, clutching the bloody Ramen cup in one hand as he stares after you while you simply move on like you said you would, as if you didn’t just throw him off balance completely with this whole interaction.

When his other hand balls into a tight fist, he hears the crumpling of paper, and when he glances down at his open palm, his heart nearly drops with relief.

You’ve given him your number. He’s never gotten a girl’s number in his life.

It was real. It is real. Everything that just happened is real, and he wasn’t simply daydreaming it up this time.

His fingers close around that scrap of paper like a life line, his mind racing once more with possibilities, the scenarios, the what-ifs.

[jaesblogstuff]

Simon absolutely seems like the kind of man who tells you to use his rank in any sort of intimacy. Like, he’s so used to commanding respect, it turns him on to hear it whispered into the crook of his neck, low and breathy. You say “Lieutenant” and suddenly he’s grabbing your hips harder, muttering “That’s it” like he’s been starved for it. You don’t get to call him Simon—not until you’ve earned it. Not until you’re good.

Anyways, here’s my brain rot idk

⸻

He was already half-dressed when you stepped inside. Black tee clinging to his chest, mask rolled up just enough to show the hard line of his jaw. The door clicked shut behind you, but neither of you said a word.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just muttered, “Didn’t expect visitors.”

Your heart thundered, but your voice was steady. “I needed to see you.”

He turned then. slow, deliberate. The room dim and warm from a single lamp. You couldn’t read him, not through the way he looked at you, like you were something dangerous. Like you’d walked in here with bad intentions and he wanted to see you carry them out.

“What for?”

You swallowed. “I just…”

You took a step closer.

“…couldn’t sleep.”

That was a lie.

You came because you wanted him. Wanted that voice that always dropped a pitch when he used your rank. Wanted to feel his hands, his mouth, the command in his gaze.

He arched a brow. “Didn’t know I was your bedtime remedy, Sergeant.”

“You’re something.”

Your voice was softer now. Honest.

And when he closed the space between you, one hand slipping beneath your chin to tip your head back, your breath caught.

“Say my name, then.”

It was a test. A dare.

You hesitated. “Simon—”

He clicked his tongue, thumb pressing lightly to your lips. “No.”

His mouth was close now, breath hot, lashes low.

“Try again.”

“Lieutenant,” you whispered, obedient this time.

That did it. His grip tightened just enough to ground you, his mouth brushing your jaw.

“That’s it, love.”

A low growl.

“That’s what I like. Good girl.”

And you knew; oh boy you knew, wouldn’t be allowed to say Simon until your body was wrecked from obeying every filthy command that came after.

oh fuck me