|18+| Minors please do not interact with my posts! If you follow me with no age in your blog you will be blocked same with untilted blank blogs
•°☆ requests are open! i write headcanons and short blurbs | all my works are with a female reader in mind
I post multifandom shit so it's not just one thing around herre
•°☆ I write for these/will write for these : DMC- Dante, Nero, Vergil : FFXV- Noctis, Ignis : COD- Soap/johnny mactavish, Ghost/Simon riley : DC- Adrian chase/vigilante, Jason todd : DISPATCH- Robert Robertson (holy fuck i need him)
•°☆Rules! I will not write these!
Self harm, bodily fluid kinks, rape, incest and any other weird shit! If you send me an ask that I do not like I will just not write it.
Maybe I will drop a fic rec list soon
my spotify (will be making a ffxv, noctis, and nero one soon)
CW: angst, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, references to suicide, injured Simon, eventual smut, military inaccuracies
wc: 7.1k
Masterlist 🦊
When Soap gave you Simon’s address, you thought you’d end up in some dodgy building with flickering lights and the pungent smell of piss.
You expected sleazy neighbours, creaky old doors, and grime-crusted flooring: he is a clean man, sure—pathologically so, you’d like to add, since his barracks back at HQ look like an OR—but he absolutely adores his privacy. You wouldn’t put it past him to move somewhere other people would never go for their safety, even if it meant tiptoeing around pools of unidentified fluids and used condoms.
Instead, as your GPS pings your arrival, you find yourself in front of the loveliest house you’ve ever seen.
Uneven bricks, ochre and grey, cloaked by a pitched roof and tiles laced with moss and ashen lichen. A chimney peeks from the top left, darkened right around the top. There’s a stone path leading from the gravel where you parked your car to the front door—sturdy hardwood thing, painted a deep dark chocolate with bronze trims all around. Wooden fixtures for the windows, worked and etched in that way that makes them look old, but they clearly aren’t. Thick glass, maybe to isolate sounds—as if it’s needed.
This house is as pretty as it is lonely. Lost in the middle of nowhere.
At least you were right about one thing. Not even God would go this far to look after His disciples.
Out of four hours, you spent half driving through unpaved roads, with your car jumping over fat roots and potholes. Got lost once. Almost ended up in a ditch twice.
However, the landscape they led to is gorgeous as few. Worth the money that you’ll surely have to splurge on new shock suspenders.
It’s autumn, so there’s the occasional tree popping golden amongst an emerald ocean extending behind the cottage, farther than the eye can see. In front of the house, there’s a small grove. It rustles with the wind, coos with birds and owls, runs with squirrels and wildlife clawing up the trees. Evergreen bushes with the occasional pop of colour, whether red or pale orange, lean against the trunks. The sun is setting behind it, painting the landscape with the shadows of the fronds and a soft golden glow.
It's quiet, in that way only nature can be.
If you hadn’t been worried down to the bone marrow, you’d have lit a cigarette and smoked it with your ass on the trunk of your car while basking in the last shafts of sunlight of the day.
Alas, you’re not here for sightseeing.
You turn off your car and jump out of the seat. Gently, you stretch your arms; your shoulders pop, your back cracks like a fucking glowstick. Your knees aren’t faring better, clicking when you stand up fully.
With a withering sigh, you walk to the back of the car and open the bonnet.
There are groceries for a lifetime stacked in there. Four bags from Tesco, two smaller ones from the chemist’s. Pain killers, vitamins, paracetamol, supplements, benzodiazepines, citalopram, escitalopram, and all the fucking prams the pharmacy had to offer. The list was long; you eyed Johnny worriedly when he gave it to you, but knew better than to ask.
You’re tired. Tired beyond measure. You went to work at the crack of dawn and then jumped in the car when you couldn’t take it anymore. Dropped everything, apologised to Kyle for leaving him to fend for himself with the diplomatic envoy, and when Price scrunched his nose disappointedly, you apologised to him as well and promised to do double the job once you were sure he was alright.
Because you hadn’t heard from him in days.
Not a phone call, not a text, not a sign that he was using his phone at all. Not a sign that he was alright, that he was still grumbling about the growing prices of groceries, that he was still nursing a nightcap in the evenings—that he was alive.
He used to tell you.
They don’t get it—Johnny, Kyle, Price. They don’t know about the texts, the calls, the photos, the messages sent in the middle of the night, the ones left just shy of dawn, just to wish each other a good day.
Your little secret, that. Your little something soft, developed in the ruthlessness of your job. Something amicable and familiar stuck in between the horrors of cold-blooded murder, of dead bodies scattered in your lives, and endless stacks of paperwork.
You’d send him pictures of your pale tea—too much milk, if you asked him. Of your pies baked during downtime, of the Christmas decorations you’d hang on the ceiling. He’d send you those of birds landing on the hood of his car, cats he’d find along his walk that would nuzzle his calf.
SR: Don’t know why.
LT: they think you’re snow white
LT: because you’re pale and you have the sweetest big brown eyes
SR: Wouldn’t say sweet.
LT: in fact i said sweetest :)
SR: Flattery won’t work on your lieutenant.
LT: ha! but im a lieutenant too. you can’t pull rank on me
SR: I’m your L.T.
SR: You’re my second lieutenant. Under my command.
LT: technicalities
SR: You’re L.T. too
SR: L.Too
SR: L2
L2: oi
SR: Haha
L2: rude
SR: Alright, L2.
They don’t get it.
SR: Sleeping?
L2: are you keeping tabs on me?
SR: You’d be surprised.
L2: won’t ask
SR: Shouldn’t.
L2: Fancy a chat?
And your phone would ring.
“L2,” he’d greet.
“Not funny anymore.” But it was.
“Reckon it’s bloody hilarious.”
“Been too long. It’s losing its charm.”
“Charm?” He’d breathe a laugh. Almost. “Right, then—El.”
Midnight, midday, seven AM, four AM, six PM. On and off the job. Christmases and birthdays and Easters and early Sundays and late-night Mondays—
His touch, secretive and fleeting. Warm hands on the hollow of your spine as he walks by, fingers tightening the straps of your vest, adjusting the holsters on your thighs. Watchful eyes chasing your shadow in the crowd, following your fingers as they deftly work through cables and buttons. Burning holes on the back of your hands as you aptly defuse an IED. His huff of relief, his palm warm on your shoulders. A pat, a caress.
“Good job, L2.”
“Fuck off with that,” you’d laugh. “Spooky fucker.”
“That’s my El.”
They don’t get it.
Or maybe they do.
Price wrinkled his nose, but didn’t stop you. Kyle took over your shift. Johnny gave you the means to reach him.
Maybe they saw it—your eyes softening whenever he walked into a room, his shoulders unravelling whenever your voice crackled over comms. Two peas in a pod, birds of a feather. The moon and the fucking sun. Lieutenant Riley and his 2nd lieutenant.
LT and L2. Ghost and El.
On the seventh day of no contact, you couldn’t take it anymore. You raided Tesco, you begged Johnny to give you his address (and thankfully, he was just as worried as you were—you’d have hated pulling rank on him), and he secretly passed you Simon’s medical file so you could pop by the chemist too.
Now, you find yourself properly hauling your own weight in groceries along the stone path leading to his cottage. You drop them with a grunt in front of his door.
On your side, his car is parked. Second-hand. Onyx black. Bird shit on the roof, windows grainy with soil and opaqued with rain tracks.
Unused for a while. Normal, in a way. It’s not like he can drive in that state. For any amenities, a nurse would come by, provided by the SAS. Sometimes he’d open and be cordial enough. Sometimes he would just tell them to leave groceries and whatnot at the door.
The nurse told Price it had been days since Simon even answered his phone calls, never mind open the door. Price told the team, but not you. Kyle passed you the intel with the same secrecy as a mole working for the enemy.
Gooseflesh crawls up your spine as you look at the weathered bronze of the doorknob. There’s no doorbell that you can see.
You knock.
“Lieutenant.”
Nothing.
The wind grazes your ears, ruffles the fronds as it intersects with the leaves. You dry the pearls of sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand, and knock again.
“L.T.,” you say, trying to sound chirpy. “Special delivery!”
Silence.
You lean to the side and try to peek through an overgrown bush into one of the windows, but the curtains are drawn shut. You bring your thumb to your lips and nibble at a cuticle.
Knock.
“Lieutenant!” Again. Worry seeps through the cracks. “It’s me! It’s lieutenant—”
You chew on your name. It dies on your tongue.
“It’s L2!” You yell instead. “It’s El!”
Blood beads on your thumbnail, bitten short.
Knock knock.
“Please open the door?” You venture. Your heart pounds in your ears. “I’m so fucking—so fucking tired and worried.”
Knock knock knock.
“Where the fuck do you live anyway, uh?” You sniffle. Your nose stings. “Was right, wasn’t I? You are fucking Snow White.”
Nothing.
Loudest silence you’ve ever heard.
You hate it. You want to fill it with more knocks, with more yells, with the sound of his footsteps, with the gravel of his voice, the crackle through comms, the clicking of his ankle when he rests his weight on it for too long, the burn of his cigarette in the coldest nights, the breath of a laugh he wants to swallow but doesn’t manage.
“Lieu—” You gulp. “Simon? Please.”
On the far right, there’s a bench whose greyish paint is chipping away. Old wood rots in the centre because of rain and constant humidity. Even though you sat in that godforsaken car for the past four hours and some, you feel your knees buckling the more you keep standing.
So, you carry yourself over there. Drop down. The bench creaks. As predicted, it’s wet and it seeps through your jeans. You sigh.
“I brought you food!” You go on, “And if you don’t open the door I’m gonna eat it. Everything. Even your stupid chocolate biscuits—I’m gonna gobble them up in one sitting.”
The milk will go bad if you don’t put it in a fridge. The ice cream will melt.
“The bourbon too,” you yell. “Gonna drink it all. Gonna get comatose on your stupid bench in this—in this fucking fairy grove you live in.”
The fruit will start softening. The meat will start rotting and smelling. And flies will run to it, conquer it, eat it raw, and lay their eggs inside. Their buzz will drive you insane, and you’ll lose your mind on this bench, in the middle of nowhere.
“And I’m gonna sleep here until you open that fucking door, you hear me?” Your voice cracks. “And I’m gonna get sick and—and it’ll be your fault, because you didn’t open the bloody door.”
You wonder whether you’d smell the same thing if you broke it down. If the buzz would be heavier, more persistent. If it would be something else driving you insane.
The image flashes bright and real. Smells like you have it within reach, before you, hanging from a chandelier, drowning in a crimson bathtub, or melting on the bed, stomach filled with pills and nothing else.
Your heart plummets at your feet. You feel claustrophobic, boxed in a square of cement that pushes in your shoulders and compresses your chest.
“Simon!” You yell, voice cracking. Droplets stain your jeans. It’s not raining. “You fucking cunt open the fucking door!”
Elbows on your knees, you drop your head in your hands. You’re so tired. You don’t even know if you can drive back home, especially now that the sun is setting. You’d gladly sleep in your car—fuck, you’d sleep on this bench if it meant finding him at the door the next morning, looking all cranky and grumbling about the mess you made.
All you can do is plead quietly, a breathy prayer you hope he can hear, even if only whispered.
“Please open the fucking door, please open the fucking door—"
Are you strong enough to break it down? You’re special forces, but you’re not a battering ram. You don’t have the tools that would help—you didn’t think you were gonna need them.
Stupid.
Are you brave enough to open the door? To find what’s inside? Should you call the police? An ambulance?
The thought makes you retch. You cover your mouth and bite on your palm.
“This fucking idiot—” You whisper. Swallow thick. Your throat stings as bile rises. “I swear to God you selfish bastard, you better not. You better fucking not, Simon, I will—”
“Which bourbon?”
Your head snaps.
His shoulders, wide and hunched, fill the doorway, open enough for you to see him entirely. A grey shirt hangs loose around his torso. He’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers, but there’s a strain in his arms. Corded and rigid, tied in a way that shows in his neck, too.
A scar runs thick down the side of his head, starting from the centre of his forehead and tipping at the shell of his ear, following a curved line clearly left by a surgeon. Bulbous near his temple, where the flesh was too soft and took longer to heal.
Darkness blossoms under his eyes, swollen and sunken at the same time; puffy with sleep, hollow with tiredness. He’s paler than usual, his cheeks are gaunt, and he’s so much fucking thinner.
But he’s alive.
His chest rises. His blood runs.
You blink.
A tear threatens to stream down your cheek, but you anticipate it, drying its path with the back of your hand. Your bones soften, muscles unclenched. Clumsily, you take a trembling breath, and it feels like it’s the first time you’ve ever done it.
“I-I don’t know,” you stutter. “Don’t drink the stuff. Asked the clerk for his favourite and he just—just tossed it in there.”
“Mh.”
His eyes look for the bottle amongst the mountain of food and drinks stuffed in the bags.
“You better like it.” You sniffle and nod at the bags. “Fifty-five quid just for that thing.”
He snorts. Sighs. “Good enough then.”
You exchange looks.
Then, he nods his head inside.
“Help me out?” He drawls.
Dizzy, you nod. Your legs tingle as if they’ve just been awakened, your stomach rumbles like you haven’t eaten in days. The world turns upside down—relief so visceral and thick you feel like it’s drowning you.
You stumble to the doorway. Your guts squeeze and thrash. You might throw up, but you don’t, swallowing the tightening feeling clawing up your throat.
You stuff the smaller pharmacy bags inside the Tesco ones.
Simon leans in too, taking his hands out of his pockets.
You hadn’t seen the aftermath yet.
He’s missing the last two fingers on his left hand. Surgery scars run along the back of both, slicing the tattoo on his forearm in a cobweb of thick, ruddy lines. That is, where the flesh isn’t rubbery and burnt, convoluted as if yearning to weld itself back together in the aftermath of being torn apart.
They shake—fiercely, like he’s experiencing an earthquake inside his body; unfolding before your eyes, shattering his bones.
You look at them. Transfixed. At the mangled flesh sewn back together, at the tremble that runs through his veins and tips at his nails. The strain of his muscles clawing up his arms, taut to the point of pain—like he’s putting all his effort to keep them still, to exert control over them.
Control he lost.
When you lift your eyes again, you meet his face.
Stone cold. Dreadfully frigid.
“The bags are heavy,” you croak.
“Carried worse,” he replies flatly, and his hands curl around the handles of two.
His fingers tighten, knuckles painted white. Nails bite his palms, but he perseveres. Swallows a groan of pain that rumbles in his throat and lifts the groceries off the floor.
The plastic bags crackle like a gale is blowing furiously through them. The glass of the bottles clinks. You see, as he walks inside, the tension in his gait: forcing his legs to cooperate, to work by themselves, as he focuses exclusively on the stability of his hands.
Without looking back, he leaves the door open for you to follow.
You stand frozen stock still, arms down your sides, and eyes brimming with guilt.
Carried worse, he said.
Carried you, months ago, when the bomb went off.
Six Months Earlier
Intel’s rarely faulty when the source is the police themselves.
Granted, even in these cases, one should always take statistics into consideration: a mole, a diversion, the original source. However, things sometimes are so obvious that statistics fall flat.
Because in front of you, right now, there’s a big, fat bomb. No doubt about it.
A squared box, half as tall as you. It’s raggedly painted black, as if someone decided to spray the colour on the metal slabs at the last minute. Rust gathers at each corner, likely due to the humidity building up in this underground tunnel, which is also chipping away at the paint and leaving ruddy streaks scattered down the sides.
It’s not much different from the ones you’ve dispensed of already, at least at first sight. There’s no timer, not a visible one at least. Though from the looks of it, you don’t think this one is timed at all. If you’re fortunate, it needs to be manually detonated on site. Worst-case scenario, it can be set off remotely.
Thank fuck you’re wearing sturdy PPE, then.
With a huff, you flop on your knees before it. There’s a soft puff as the pressure pushes air out of your suit—a big, cumbersome thing that safely cradles you from head to toe.
“Captain,” you call through comms. “You sure it’s off, yeah?”
The static preceding his voice buzzes softly through your ear, before John’s usual rasp fills the helmet shielding your head.
“Local bomb squad’s had a look already,” he says. “Said it’s old.”
Though the bomb in front of you looks untouched by the deft hands of a demolition specialist. You wonder how they concluded that the device is too old to be active, since there doesn’t seem to be a sign that it has been studied at all.
“Doesn’t look like they did anything, though,” you offer.
John grunts. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Right.”
His voice rumbles even through the distortion of the radio. “Just passing it on, L2. They want us to check it before they move it.”
You roll your eyes at the nickname. You knew it would stick—Simon’s convincing like that—though it is the first time John actually uses it.
You let it slide.
“And why’s that?”
“Signed by Konni.”
You tilt your head and easily spot the mark of Konni group sprayed on one side, dried red paint drawing a path downwards from where it dripped.
“Always nice to see an old friend, isn’t it?”
“Keep us updated, yeah?”
“On it.”
You squeeze your eyes through the visor of your helmet, focusing on possible entry points. Each breath you take is measured and quiet as you clear your mind to steady yourself.
“Alrigh’?”
Though considering the questioning drawl coming from beside you, you’d wager the suit is amplifying not only your voice, but also the heaviness of your panting.
It’s fucking hot in this thing.
“You shouldn’t be here.” You give him a sidelong glance. He’s not wearing an EOD, only his usual uniform with an added clunky helmet, a bulletproof vest, and his stupid skull mask. “Especially not naked like that.”
“Naked, uh?” He snorts. “Better get a good look, then.”
You bite down a smile and return your eyes to your job. “Captain, the lieutenant is padding around in his birthday suit.”
Price’s voice crackles through the comms in your ear. By his tone, you can practically see the tight set of his jaw and the roll of his eyes.
“Ghost, either wear the EOD or leave the premises, for fuck’s sake. Don’t fancy scraping you off the walls.”
Simon gently kicks the side of your boot. “Rat.”
You turn your head around just enough to stick out your tongue at him.
“I asked the second lieutenant a question an’ she ain’t answered yet,” he drawls with his usual dispassionate tone. “Permission to kick her off the team?”
“You won’t hear a single fuckin’ word she says if you’re ground meat, Simon,” Price’s voice rasps. “Wear the bloody PPE and then we’ll talk.”
Static replaces John’s orders as communication cuts off on his part.
Only then does Simon pitch in.
“I asked you a question.”
You sigh, but it’s neither weary nor exasperated.
“Yeah, I’m alright,” you huff, already tinkering with your toolbox. “Why aren’t you wearing the gear?”
“I’m in good hands.”
“Thanks, I’m immensely flattered,” you quip. “Please go wear it now.”
“Thought it was too old to still be active.”
You don’t have time to roll your eyes, because as soon as he mutters his thoughts, you notice a familiar indented square in one of the panels. A carefully hidden entry point that, once popped open, will show you the intricacies inside the device. It’s like spotting an oasis in the desert.
You reach for a flat tip in your toolbox at your knees. Carefully, you wedge it in the embrasure.
It only takes a few tries, and it unhinges seamlessly. Metal clinks as you gently place the lid on the ground.
There’s no need for you to look his way—his presence is like a heavy blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A shadow sewn to your own.
“I won’t support your suicidal tendencies, so please, for the love of Christ, listen to the engineer—” you point at yourself with the screwdriver, “—and go wear the bloody bomb suit.”
Simon stays silent for a handful of seconds, only filled with the tinkering of metal of your tools.
“Worried ‘bout me, are ya?”
You huff. No use pretending, when he can see right through you. “Plenty.”
“Good heart.”
“Chop chop, Riley.”
“Aye aye, El.”
With a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, Simon turns on his heel. His footsteps become distant until the soft thud finally vanishes behind the creaky door that first led you down here, slamming shut behind you.
You don’t turn around, too focused on studying the wires wrapped around each other in the panel you just opened. There’s an entire bundle crossing the opening diagonally and so shrouding most of the circuit board in the back. They’re held together by a couple of cable ties that look awfully cheap, like the rest of the device.
“Weird,” you mumble to yourself.
“What is?” John pitches in.
You flinch, not expecting an answer to your musings.
“Uhm, uh—” You shake your head to recollect yourself. “The bomb—it looks quite cheap. Not their usual MO.”
John hums. “Could be one of Konni’s earliest works. Disposal said it’s old, innit?”
“Yeah,” you huff. “I don’t trust a single word those fuckers said.”
“Right,” he grunts, though you recognise that hint of agreement in it. “Do what you can with it. Keep me updated.”
“Roger that, captain.”
Back on track. First thing to do is get rid of those ties to isolate the cables.
You work quietly for a while, removing your gloves to minimise errors while doing such minute movements. The flush cutters are sturdy but the blades are small, and the thickness of the cable ties is stupidly non-existent. You want to avoid cutting things you shouldn’t.
However, you can’t quite ease the knot of doubt forming in your guts.
This device has literally nothing preventing you from disposing of it. Everything is poorly put together. The control centre was placed under a thin slab of metal, which you simply popped off using the flat tip of a screwdriver. There are corner store-level cable ties keeping together a bundle of wires. Each cable isn’t isolated, but either overlaps with others or knots on itself.
This is amateurish.
And you know, with utmost certainty, that Konni isn’t. The same Konni group that blew up an entire airport wouldn’t DIY a bomb and spray paint their signature on a slab of metal like a mere local gang of criminals.
Unless—
“El? You with us?”
Simon’s voice snaps you out of it. He sounds muffled and echoey, as if he’s speaking from behind a glass. You recognise that distortion: he put on the bomb suit.
Relief floods through you.
You shake your head to clear your mind. Sweat collects on your forehead. You feel each drop brewing on your skin, only to then slowly make its way to your brow, then your eye.
Your fingers close around the cutters, and the first tie snaps off.
Then, you squeeze your eyes to get rid of the burn.
“Yeah,” you huff. “They should invent more comfortable suits for us in demo. It’s fucking sweltering in here.”
Price’s voice crackles once more. “We’ll hire a fashion designer.”
Simon snorts.
“Look at you, captain,” you croon. “Providing jobs for the youth.”
You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes. “Do yours or you’ll lose it.”
But you know it’s an empty threat. Jokes tossed around to defuse the tension as you defuse your bomb. High stress situations require ways to destress in order to keep your mind clear and at ease, even as your life is on the line.
“Aye aye.”
And from then on, silence lingers, only interrupted by Simon shifting his weight on his feet behind you. The crinkle of the suit folding as he moves, the tap of his fingers against the pack he must be holding in his hands. There’s the occasional clink of metal when you drop a tool in its box, or the snap of plastic as yet another tie comes off.
And finally, you manage to isolate the cables from one another. Carefully you pinch one between two fingers and shift it to the side, only so you can have a broader vision of the circuit board in the back.
It’s entirely dead. Singed in places, the lights are off, no sounds fill your ears unless it's the ones you’ve already recognised as familiar. The blasting cap has an old serial number on it, different from the most recent ones you came across. The base was once attached to a couple of red cables that have been cut from their root.
You exhale, emptying your lungs in a single, long breath.
“It’s dead.”
John huffs through comms. “Thank Christ, eh. Sending Garrick over. ETA 20.”
But you stay put, staring holes through the jungle of wires that intersect and crisscross like vines in front of you, draped on the circuit board.
Simon shifts from behind you and comes to crouch by your side. The same puff of air exhales from his suit. You turn your head to look at him, though with the helmet it’s hard to have a good view of his face.
He’s taken off the skull mask to favour the protective gear placed around his head. His eyes aren’t poised on the bomb, though; they’re on your face. He must pick up on something there that doesn’t reassure him, because he knows you better than he should.
“Hang on, Price,” he rumbles.
You stall for a moment.
It’s only a hunch that spurs you to negate certainty. You’re special forces, an engineer—sixth sense isn’t enough to support evidence.
But Simon believes in it. He trusts that tiny spark he sees in your eye, the tautness of your fingers as they curl into fists atop your knees. You hear him sniff, shift on his knees to get closer.
“El?” He whispers, perhaps not wanting the radio to pick up on it.
Your stomach lurches.
“I mean—” You gesture vaguely at the device. “It looks dead. The circuit board is gone, and the wires have been cut from the detonator. Some of this shit could be older than me—"
John cuts through your conversation. He sounds irritated, and in turn, it irritates you, too.
“Get to the point.”
You stare at the dead circuit board. The main piece of this puzzle. It doesn’t take an engineer like you to recognise that it’s long gone, but in a very peculiar way that you don’t know how to explain without sounding like a lunatic, it looks too long gone.
You smack your lips. “Something’s wrong. It feels—”
“Don’t care how it feels, lieutenant. Is it dead or not?”
“Listen, John, I’m not here to fucking play—"
“Need to have another look at it, boss,” Simon cuts in. “Give us a minute, will ya?”
“Roger.”
You sigh. You wish you could scratch your forehead. Your scalp stings as sweat collects on it. Each tiny, uncomfortable thing happening to you is amplified, including the knot in your guts.
“I hate him with passion each time he acts like—”
“He can still hear ya.”
“Good.”
If John can actually still hear you, he doesn’t voice it. Thankfully, you think, because if he pitches in again with some more of his caustic sarcasm, you might just say things before your mind can properly filter them.
You take a couple of seconds to recollect your thoughts, guiding your eyes to study the device. It’s composed of rusted metal plates welded together and protecting the bomb inside. You’d need a plasma cutter to breach the plate, but the heat could set the thing off if it’s live. In fact, there are no entry points aside from a small, squared panel that you’ve opened with unexpected ease.
Considering how the rest of the thing is protected, however, it feels out of place. Conveniently put there for you to declare that the device is gone, when it actually isn’t.
A hunch isn’t enough to negate evidence, that is true, but it’s there, and you won’t allow it to gnaw at your guts.
Easy is never the right answer, not with Makarov.
“Pass me the snake cam.”
You hold your hand out to Simon, palm up, without sparing him a glance.
Your ears pick up on sounds even if you’re entirely wrapped in protective gear, even if your heart pounds madly up your throat. A zipper being opened, a cable as it unfolds. His hands are warm when they place the cold wire in your palm, steady when they close your fingers around it.
“Get it in,” he says. “I’ll hook it up.”
In the corner of your eye, pale hands reach inside the pack at his knees to pull out a pad. It blinks to life as he taps his fingers on it.
Gently, you insert the tip of the snake cam into the opened panel, carefully steering the camera underneath the knotted bundle of cables and behind the seemingly dead circuit board.
“Got anything?” You ask Simon.
“Too dark.”
“Turn on the flash.”
The pace of your heart matches the rapid tap of fingertips running across the pad. In a blink, a soft glow fills the darkness behind the board.
Simon hums.
“Got something.”
You inhale sharply. Your eyes flicker around, sifting through your thoughts as if you can see them, rushing unrestrained with endless possibilities. You squeeze them shut, clearing out the sting of sweat as it builds up on your brow and fogs up your sight.
“Fuck. Let’s switch.”
Simon shifts until he’s kneeling behind you. The rustle of his suit precedes his arms as they come around your head, carefully taking the cable from your fingers.
“Got it.”
Ever so slowly, you remove your hands, shuffling on your knees and ducking your head to leave the shelter of his body. With no minimal effort, considering the weight of your blast suit, you manage to stumble to where he once sat, grabbing the pad he left lying on the ground.
As he said, there’s something. The flash clearly highlights a darkened silhouette, bulky and squared, but the quality of the camera doesn’t allow you to make out much more of it.
Only one thing stands out.
A light.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Thought so,” he spits. “Fucking Makarov.”
You don’t have time to curse him as well, though you quietly share the sentiment.
“John.”
Like lightning, his voice crackles in your ear. “Send over.”
“We got something.”
“Details.”
“In a sec. Stay on.”
You look at Simon. He’s perfectly still, not a tremble in his fingers, exactly as you’d expected. He’d make an incredible demo specialist, though you know he’s an even better sniper.
“Gentle, Simon,” you murmur. “Need you to go south.”
He follows your orders, sliding the cable down inside the box.
“Gentle,” you repeat. “Slower.”
And without a single word, he heeds you. Trusts you. Lets the camera cover each corner, bit by bit, moving his muscles imperceptibly as he snakes the camera through the jungle of wires.
Now closer to the device, you can better make out its details on the screen. It’s not old nor rusted, not singed nor dead. It sits attached to one side of the box, each cable perfectly isolated and running on sinuous curves around the circuit board. One that blinks red, then green, then red again—beating like a heart, shifting its colours inside the darkness.
Stacks of white rubber are slathered around it, bulky and thick. You curse under your breath.
“C4.”
Simon clicks his tongue. “Christ.”
“John, tell the local authorities to clear out the area now,” you order steadily. “Add that they’re a bunch of lazy cunts, too.”
“Will do.” Then, quietly, “good work, lieutenant. Stay safe, both of you.”
“Roger.”
The static on the radio goes dead. There’s only your heart pounding in your ears, falling in rhythm with the switch of colours on the screen.
Red, green. Red, green.
Simon’s voice reaches out to you. “See a blasting cap?”
“Yeah.” You tongue your cheek. “South. Then move to the right.”
He follows suit, once again trusting you entirely. As the camera moves, you try to take stock of each tiny detail you can make out. The quality is poor, but you’re starting to have a general idea of what you’re working with. The serial number stamped on the blasting cap matches those of more recent detonators, causing the theory of the local bomb squad to completely crumble.
Red, green. Red, green.
While you can’t make out the logo on the circuit board, you recognize the finish immediately: factory-made, not cobbled together in some basement workshop. New. Polished clean. A pale square chip mounted against the green lacquer of the board.
Red, green. Red, red, green.
You blink.
“Stop.”
Simon falls still.
Red, green. Red, red, green.
There. Blinking in the shadows, off to the side.
“Right. Go to the right. Quick.”
Simon doesn’t put up a fight, though you can see the uncomfortable shift of his knees. Imperceptible and yet conveying the same nervousness festering in your eyes as they fly across the screen. He is quick with his hands to find the source of the light.
It ticks, ticks, ticks.
“Shit—Simon, drop it!”
And if the clock is right, it will tick only for two minutes more.
“Drop that shit and run!”
Simon bolts on his feet, awfully quick considering the bomb suit clinging to him. You hadn’t accounted for that. Fuck, you hadn’t accounted for any of this.
You told him to wear it. You put that extra weight on him. He would’ve been out of the place and far away enough to be safe if you hadn’t insisted, if you’d let the overwhelmingly stupid trust he had in you to win, for once.
“Fuck—” You drop the pad and stand up. Your knees buckle under the cumbersome weight of your suit and the sudden dread gripping your stomach.
“It’s timed, John!” You bellow. Your yell echoes inside the EOD helmet, ringing in your own ears. “We’re leaving—no time to defuse it. Less than two minutes and it goes off!”
An old, singed circuit board as a decoy to mask the real bomb ticking away just beneath its surface. Only a demolition specialist like those in the UKFS would’ve thought of venturing further inside the device.
Makarov knew it.
He knew the local authorities would have called the anti-terrorism unit as soon as they saw the Konni group mark. Makes sense that he signed the device so clearly, like a fucking amateur.
He wanted John’s team there.
He knew those bastards wouldn’t be arsed to check further. Why would they take on the burden when they could leave it in the good hands of better-trained professionals.
Call the big guns and then call it a day.
“Run. Don’t look back and run, both of you.”
He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You’re already panting, forcing your legs to move against the strain put onto them by the suit—not protection anymore, but a cage. Your knees don’t bend as they should, your feet struggle to hold you up. The sting in your eyes, the heart in your ears.
Simon’s ahead of you as you trudge behind him. But he’s faster, stronger—able to carry the added kilograms of his blast suit as if it’s only a mere annoyance to him.
Though he must hear you—or rather, he must feel the lack of you by his side.
He halts in his steps and looks behind to find you.
“Fuck—faster, El!”
“I know!” You’d like to yell at him to shut the fuck up, but that would be a waste of precious breath that you need to focus on using to run.
“Go!” Your voice cracks. “Fucking run, Riley!”
Though he’s been standing still for so long that you’re now by his side.
You stagger past him, grabbing his hand to tug him with you—though that’s one arduous thing, rooted on the ground as he is.
“We got one minute at most—run ahead for fuck’s sake!”
It’s like you can hear it, now—each ticking breath exhaled by the device behind you. You wonder if it had always been there, signalling his presence as you knelt next to it, but you were acting too cocky to notice it.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault—
Your rushing thoughts recede to a trickle the moment you feel Simon’s hand slipping away from yours. As it does, he takes your own heart with him, as you feel it skip a beat inside your chest.
The momentum of your run makes it hard to stop, and you almost stumble on your own feet as the weight of the suit drags you forward. Thankful for a wall next to your side, you slam your palm against it to avoid falling face-first into the ground.
Though when you turn, it’s your stomach that touches it.
Simon’s already pulled at the quick-release cord hanging from the front of his jacket.
“What—”
The contraption strapped around his torso unlatches from the back. While he struggles with it, he’s impressively steady as he rips at the sleeves to take it off, shimmying his shoulders out of it with ease—chest plate and all, until everything falls on the floor at his feet.
Initially, your eyes widen in shock. Then, your face morphs into a mask of unadulterated rage.
“Are you fucking mad?!”
But he’s taking his helmet off, too. The thud of it as it hits the ground is deafening, echoing ominously in the otherwise quiet underground tunnel you’re stuck in.
“Simon what the fuck!”
“Come ‘ere an’ shut yer mouth.”
He charges forward, running much faster as most of the extra weight that was hindering him now lies uselessly on the floor. He bends at the waist, using gravity to his advantage, and reaches towards you with his arms.
You don’t have time to think as breath is knocked out of you. His arm wedges between your legs, and the world turns upside down. Darkness and grey bricks swivel and roll before your eyes as the air catches in your lungs.
Your stomach curves around his shoulders. He holds your leg with one arm, curled around your knee, and your opposite sleeve with his offhand.
He stumbles at first, trying to find his balance.
“Simon—”
“Keep still.”
And then, he runs.
There’s a rasp in his breathing that makes it sound as if his chest is being crushed. The gravel of debris crunches under his boots, stomping heavily down the tunnel. Each sound is amplified, but you’re unsure of what is real and what isn’t.
He trembles. Groans fiercely for each step he takes, baring his teeth as if to scare an invisible monster ahead of him.
“I’m slowing you down!” You yell, hoping the chaos won’t mask your voice too much. “Put me down! I—I have the bomb suit on, I’m going to be fine!”
Though that’s a lie. He knows it, and you do as well. If the tunnel collapses, no miracle can bring you back.
But at least your head would be protected, giving you a chance. Your chest, too. Your legs. A minuscule, tiny possibility to have a minute more to breathe as you wait for Search and Rescue.
A chance he doesn’t have, not with half of his suit now lying uselessly on the floor.
However, Simon doesn’t answer, just runs. Runs and runs and runs, towards the exit at the end of the tunnel. It’s close, maybe another handful of meters, and yet now it feels like an endless chasm ready to suck you in.
A black hole hidden underground.
You don’t know how much time you have left before the bomb goes off. Your breathing picks up, hand reaching around to fist his shirt around his collar to make him please, please listen.
“Please Simon, please!”
His eyes are fixed ahead, feet as quick as can be considering the weight he’s carrying—yours, his own, the suits. He stumbles, pace naturally slowing down due to the effort, but it doesn’t deter him. Hits walls with his shoulders, slams your helmet and your boots against corners, but he never stops.
He just looks ahead, drunk on adrenaline and ignoring the unfathomable strain he’s putting on his body.
Your eyes sting with panic and tears. His face is red with exertion and lucid with sweat as it beads on his forehead. Then his run turns into a stagger, trembling legs forcing themselves ahead.
Simon bursts through the door. Your helmet knocks against it.
At the same time, the tunnel’s darkness turns blinding white.
You hated when people looked at you after they looked at Simon.
Because it always happened in that order.
Their eyes would land on him first— broad shoulders stuffed into dark clothes, that permanently tired stare, the kind of presence that made rooms quiet without him even trying — and then they’d shift to you.
And every single time, you swore you saw the same flicker of confusion.
Them?
It made your sick.
You knew Simon didn’t notice it. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. But you noticed. God, you noticed.
Especially at the pub near base.
You worked there most evenings, weaving through crowded tables with cheap trays balanced on one hand, apron dusted with flour from the kitchen because the cook kept dragging you back there to help plate when things got busy. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t important.
You were just… you. A waitress.
And Simon Riley was him.
Lieutenant. Decorated soldier. Feared. Respected. The kind of man people whispered about before he even entered a room.
The kind of man who looked absurd sitting in your tiny apartment kitchen at two in the morning drinking tea from a chipped mug while your socks slid across the floor.
You still didn’t understand why he stayed.
“You’re staring again.” Simon muttered one night from your couch.
You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “Sorry.”
He watched you from beneath heavy lashes. “What’s goin’ on in that head?”
“Nothin’.”
A lie. Simon always knew when you lied.
He sat forward slowly, elbows on his knees. “C’mere.”
You obeyed automatically, crossing the small apartment until he tugged you between his legs. His hands settled on your hips, warm and heavy even through your clothes.
“You’ve been distant all week..” he said quietly. “Talk.”
You tried to shrug it off. “I’m tired.”
“Try again.”
Your chest tightened.
You hated this part. Hated saying things out loud because they sounded even stupider once they existed in the air.
Simon waited patiently.
That made it worse.
“I just…” You laughed weakly, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“This.”
One of his brows twitched.
“You.” Your voice got quieter. “Us.”
Simon stared at you like he genuinely didn’t understand the question.
Which was insane.
“You could have anyone.” you murmured. “Anyone, Simon.”
His grip on your hips tightened slightly.
“And you’re with…” You gestured vaguely to yourself with a self-conscious smile that hurt more than it should’ve. “Me.”
Silence.
Not angry silence.
Not cold silence.
The dangerous kind — the kind where Simon got very, very still.
“You think I’m too good for you?” he asked finally.
Your face heated immediately. “When you say it like that it sounds—”
“Answer me.”
You swallowed.
“A little.”
Simon leaned back against the couch slowly, eyes never leaving yours. There was something awful in them suddenly. Something wounded.
Like you’d hurt him.
“You think I come here because I settled?”
“No—”
“You think I look at you and see someone lesser than me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you think it.”
You looked away.
That was answer enough.
Simon exhaled hard through his nose, jaw tightening beneath faint stubble.
“Christ.”
Your stomach dropped. “I’m sorry.”
That made his head snap up instantly.
“There you go again.”
“What?”
“Apologizin’ for existing.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it.
Simon’s hands slid from your hips up to your arms, gentler this time.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head.
“I see someone good.”
You almost laughed at that.
But Simon continued before you could.
“I see someone who remembers how I take my tea. Someone who works ten-hour shifts and still manages to smile at strangers.” His thumbs brushed absentmindedly against your sleeves. “Someone who treats people kindly even when they don’t deserve it.”
His eyes softened.
“You look at me and see the rank. The size. The scary reputation.” A humorless huff escaped him. “You don’t see what I see.”
“And what’s that?”
“A soldier.”
You frowned immediately. “Simon, I’m literally a waitress.”
“Aye.” He nodded once. “And every day you deal with rude customers, drunk men, shitty management, sore feet, exhaustion, bills…” His gaze locked onto yours. “And you keep goin’.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“You think strength only looks like violence,” Simon murmured. “Like guns and combat and knowin’ how to kill.”
One hand came up to cradle your jaw carefully.
“But I’ve seen men in the military weaker than you.”
Your eyes burned.
“Simon…”
“I mean it.” His voice dropped lower now, rough around the edges. “You walk through life soft. Do you understand how bloody difficult that is?”
That finally broke you a little.
Because Simon said it like softness was something sacred.
Something rare.
You looked down quickly, embarrassed by the sudden sting behind your eyes.
“I’m not special.”
Simon’s expression twisted like the sentence physically hurt him.
He stood abruptly, forcing you to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Big hands framed your face completely.
“Don’t do that.” he said sharply.
You startled.
“Don’t tear yourself apart in front of me.” His voice cracked slightly around the edges now. “Not when I love every part.”
The room went silent.
Simon wasn’t good at saying things like that. He showed love easier than he spoke it. Through quiet touches. Waiting outside your work after late shifts. Fixing things around your apartment without being asked. Standing between you and the world like a wall.
But this?
This was raw… and terrifyingly honest.
His forehead pressed against yours.
“I don’t need someone impressive.” he whispered. “I need you.”
Your chest ached so badly it almost hurt to breathe.
“You make my life quiet.”
One of his hands slid into your hair carefully.
“You make me feel human again.”
Your eyes finally spilled over.
Simon caught the tears immediately with his thumb, looking almost angry at them.
“Don’t cry.”
“You’re being too nice.” you whispered shakily.
A small, disbelieving laugh left him.
“Too nice..” he repeated. “That’s what did it?”
You laughed weakly through tears.
Simon stared at you for a long moment before pulling you against his chest so suddenly you nearly stumbled.
His arms wrapped around you tight. Protective. Certain. Like there had never been a question.
“You are not lucky to have me.” he murmured into your hair.
saying, “hi, daddy,” to your boyfriend when you’re out with friends and he called you to check up on you. you’re a little far away from your group and your body lights up when he chuckles and says, “hi, baby. how are you doing?”
#drunk confessions and split knuckles <- i need the lore pls
for you, @bowtiepasta that you asked about a very long time ago hehe <3
"Simon!"
The fourth time you've shouted his name now and still it fades into the roar of the crowd. There's a shoulder blocking your view that you shove away quickly, shuffling to the front of the circle that's gathered around where two bodies sprawl over wet concrete.
A few chants, drunken slurs from a man next to you, words slipping past clenched teeth as he swings. It's too dark to see the splatter over the ground but you hear it, hope the clink was a loose zipper and not a tooth. It's too late, it's too dark. The alcohol sitting in your belly sours too fast.
Seconds that pass over eternities before other hands are pulling the bulk of Simon back. He's giving in—you know this too well. No one could stop him: not even you.
"You ever touch 'er again–"
It flares within you then, the flames which blaze your cheeks, the air too hot as your nostrils flare. His name is sharper on your tongue, like a knife piercing through his reality. Jutting his chin up from the bug under his shoe to look at you.
Maybe you were stupid to think you'd find some amount of remorse or guilt, or his lip trembling with the fade of adrenaline.
What you really find is indifference. Back of his hand wiping under his nose although there's no blood, only the sweat of his fury. He's mostly unscathed save for the faint bruise on his cheek when he hit the floor too hard.
He opens his mouth and his teeth are pink.
"Why?" Your nose is burning, vision going blurry.
"Cunt got what 'e deserved."
Iron floods your own mouth, biting your tongue so hard. Better to hurt like that than because of this—because of him. Your finger punches into his chest despite it, a shaky breath as you look at him.
"Fuck. You."
It's all it takes to have the sting be unbearable, to turn on your heel and charge down the pavement, boots heavy with every step, arms wrapped around your chest to keep your jacket tight around you.
Eyes on the road ahead until he's grabbing your arm, reeling you back into him, forcing you to stop even as you try to shake him off once and twice.
"Oi," his voice is raspy. Tired. Always tired, isn't he? Always one thing or another and never you.
Your neck snaps around so hard it hurts. Biting out, "what?"
"I'm talkin' to you."
"I don't care!" You're in the deep end, thrashing in the water, voice cracking, betraying you.
His jaw tightens and he scratches a thumb over his brow. Blood cracking over his knuckles, faintly hissing as he flexes them after. How many times have you cleaned them up? Kept your peace? Never asked any questions about why, only let him curl into your breast in the aftermath, sinking your fingers into his hair.
"Don't."
"Don't what? Don't ignore me? You're an excellent example, yourself, aren't you?"
"He touched you–"
"And I told you to leave it!"
"He was in the wrong–"
"And so were you!" You jerk away from where his hand lingers over you, too familiar to the one you'd rejected from the man now sprawled on the floor at the other end of the road.
Simon's flexing those knuckles over and over again. As though considering something, or making a point. He sighs, but then quieter, almost dangerously: "Do ya expect me to just allow tha'?"
"Yes." Your nod only spurs on more tears. "Yes, I do, Simon. Because you have no idea– No clue, at all, about what it's like! I don't need you to fight him."
His hand brushes over your jaw gently, where you try to turn away it only follows, grounds your gaze back to his.
"I don't need you to fight anyone. That's not what I want and you know it–"
"Do I?"
"Stop," you cry. "Just stop."
There's a pause where the wet roll of tyres on the concrete is all you hear, where the amber of his irises glow with regret. No matter how delayed it is. And you shouldn't want his touch right now, not with the salt on your tongue, the mess of mascara you know must be underneath your eyes.
His thumb brushes up over your cheekbone.
"I wouldn' do it for just anyone."
You grit your teeth. "You're not listening to what I'm saying."
"Hard ta when you look like tha'."
"You cunt," you spit, shoving at his chest. He reels you back into him immediately. "Fuck you."
"Kno' you want to."
You're about to bite him when his teeth crash against yours. Hard and unforgiving, your lower lip pinched between sharp canines. And it doesn't take long for you to melt into it—going against your instinct. Knowing you'll hate yourself in the morning.
Heavy hand at the back of your head he keeps you tethered to his mouth, tongue exploring, tasting bitter beer and metal. As though you've bitten your own lip.
"I hate you," you breathe.
"No ya don't."
And the retort dies on your tongue there. Managing to glance away from where he's got your faces pressed together. A wet kiss pressed at your jawline, then just below your ear.
Because no...no you don't think you hate him at all.
CWs: smut!!! PWP. Established relationships, freaks who love each other, choking, light dom/sub dynamics, sub!simon, dubcon if you squint because the consent isn't explicitly stated but I promise you they had a conversation beforehand whatever
CoD Masterlist | Masterlist 🦊
Simon prefers sex in the morning.
First thing, as soon as he opens his eyes.
At night, he’s far too tired to put in the work. You’re rather knackered as well, considering your shifts often end right by dinner time. Not that you’d refuse him, if he asked, but he’s noticed how you tend to simply lie down and let him do the hard work.
And it doesn’t bother him. Not at all.
He thinks you look glorious when your lashes are fluttering closed and your moans are breathier. Thinks you look delicious when he’s pistoning his cock inside you, tits bouncing on your chest, and sweat glistening on your brow. Fuck, he could eat you up the moment you start babbling nonsense, looking syrupy soft and slack beneath him.
But he has preferences, one might say.
Honestly, he’s tired of being in charge.
Responsibilities drown him when he’s wearing the uniform. He’s called left and right by sergeants who need his supervision. Runs up and down the hallways of HQ to do Price’s bidding. Takes the stairs two, three at a time, ditching the elevator to favour speed. His quads burn because he’s way too old for this shit. His chest aches because he smokes way too much and he should quit.
He’s tired. So, so tired.
And while you’re positively gorgeous, taking the whole of his cock as you lie down, you’re even better when you’re sitting on top of him.
A preference of his.
Sunlight’s still dim, not intrusive. It sits there, just behind the drawn curtains, flickering past whenever the breeze brushes through the window, left ajar.
And it loves you, just like he does.
Caresses your skin, plays with your features. When it’s this gentle, the sun highlights the parts of you he likes the most. Granted, it’s hard to pinpoint what he loves best when the entirety of you is his favourite sight.
But there are pieces of you that come out exclusively during this time of day, when the sun is just shy of rising. When you’re naked, specifically, with his cock sunk inside you and your thighs spread wide to accommodate him.
The goosebumps down your arms, for example. With no blanket sheltering you from the cold and without his arms caging you to his chest, even the softest of breezes can make them rise.
Fuck, he loves to look at your skin as it wakes up. And he could watch you for days like this, bathed in gentle sunlight and stretched wide.
But it isn’t only how you look that strikes him. It’s how you act.
He’s the breathless one when you straddle him. The one whose lashes flutter when you sink fully, rolling your hips until the tip of his cock touches deepest. It’s his brow that glistens with sweat, his jaw that works to keep his mouth closed; otherwise, his words would come faster than his thoughts.
Though you’re catching sounds right out of his lips—hook, line, and sinker.
“Look at you,” you croon, settling your palms on his chest.
Your biceps press against your tits as you lean forward, peering down at him. His eyes fall on the way they bounce, plump and still slick with his spit—his mouth having been on them just minutes before. Then, your face: glossy lips, hooded eyes, sharp and attentive.
His silence doesn’t go unnoticed. The tight line of his mouth makes you frown, and you roll your hips once, twice, until he’s forced to open it just to breathe. There, you catch his lower lip with your thumb, fingers curled under his chin.
“Mh,” you hum, voice velvety and low. “Like this, uh?”
And you do it again, stretching yourself wider until your pussy is flush at the base of him.
“You like it when you’re deep, yeah?”
By then, Simon can barely catch up.
“Yeah,” is all he mutters.
Through his lashes, he can see the smirk that blooms on your cheeks, like you could eat him up whenever he speaks so reverently.
You lift your hips.
“Again,” you demand.
And sink down on him.
“F-fuck,” he croaks. “Yes. Yes. Do tha’ again.”
You do, leaving him just a speck of choice. Making him believe that he has one at all.
With a smile, you grind yourself down. Though he can see it falter when the curls on his pelvis scratch your clit. So, you do it again, and again, and again. Until your lip is trapped between your teeth. Until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head.
“God, you’re so big,” you breathe, spoken so quietly he wonders if you’re talking to him at all. “Splitting me open, baby.”
His eyes flicker to where you two join. The curls growing below his navel glisten with the wetness dripping from you. Your folds split in half where you’re impaling yourself on him, the knot of your clit grinding down hard each time you surge forward.
Fuck, he has to look away if he wants this to last.
“Fuckin’ hell yer killin’ me,” he croaks, eyes hooded and breath hoarse when he finds your face again.
Simon takes the lead there, if only briefly, sucking on your thumb that’s still resting against his mouth.
Breath is punched out of you, stumped as you blink yourself out of your bliss to return your focus on him. The look of complete surprise and adoration blossoming on your face might be enough to make him cum then and there.
How he loves to make you proud of him.
You push your thumb deeper, working your other fingers to grasp his jaw instead of his chin. Tight grip, forcing his eyes on your face.
A smile dimples your cheek, tender and still cheeky. “The lengths you go so I don’t hear you, uh?”
His skin is ablaze, heat stemming from all the places you touch. Chest blotched red, cheeks flushed pink. Diligently, he sucks on your thumb, welcoming it in the cradle of his mouth. He hums around it, with his lips pursed around the last knuckle.
Then, he pulls his head back, knocking it against the pillow, and releases your thumb with a pop.
The smirk he gives you is lazy and subdued, stretching just below the press of your finger.
“Mh. Caught red-handed.”
You don’t hesitate to smear his spit all over his mouth and chin.
“Can’t give me those pretty noises, Si?”
You roll your hips. His grin falters.
You click your lips. “Like to be quiet, don’t you?”
“Y’know I ain’t much of a talker,” he quips through gritted teeth.
Then, you’re lifting yourself off of him languidly. His nostrils flare, tongue tied and swallowing a groan down his throat.
“Mh,” you chuckle breathlessly. “But I bet I can make you sing.”
You sink again. Roll your hips, over and over, until the crown of his cock is entirely engulfed by you, somewhere so hot he thinks his skin might melt off. God forbid you rip yourself off of him now, of all times. He uses his hands on your hips to keep you firmly placed there, slotting his fingers in the crease between your thighs and your hipbones.
He’ll apologise later for the eventual claw marks left on your ass.
“Jesus, bird,” he curses, rolling his eyes to the back of his head. “Won’t last long if you keep tha’ up.”
Your hand holds his head steady, wrapped around his jaw. But then, you shift.
Dainty fingers slide down the column of his throat, barely brushing the skin. He thinks you might go further down and start touching yourself—nothing better than to feel you clench around him as he finishes inside you.
He’s left speechless when your hand curls around his neck instead.
Your fingers press against the sides of his throat, palm flat against his windpipe, but exercising barely any pressure. Though he feels that, anyway—a tightness that rapidly wraps around his jaw and runs upward. His cheeks grow red, heat brimming just under the surface of his skin.
Simon is completely disarmed. Utterly at your mercy.
“F-Fuck—”
“Yeah?” You grin. “You like that, don’t you?”
“Shit,” he croaks.
The air in his lungs is rarefied, so much so that each word pains him to speak. And still, he does, unable to control his tongue.
“Fuck, sweethea—oh shit.”
It’s then that your pace picks up. Your ass slams against his thighs, hips working tirelessly to milk him for all he’s worth. Until the room only echoes the slap of skin on skin, the wetness of sex, the shortness of his breath. Until there’s only the smell of sex, cloying and sharp, imbuing those rare gasps of air he can take in.
“Yes, you do.”
His body feels so good that it’s shocked in place, with only his nails digging into the fat of your hips and his toes curling by the edge of the bed. He feels like he’s floating, even as your hands weigh him like a chain around his neck.
Simon’s brain is fogged, his thoughts misty and scattered. Doesn’t know what his mouth is babbling, only feels its movements, totally out of his control—because you have it. You hold the reins. You guide him through this otherworldly bliss, cooing and tutting each time he manages to rasp a sigh.
His vision is hazy, fighting against the lack of oxygen. How ironic that it only took the softest of hands to make a sniper’s sharp eyes tremble.
“Fuckin’ hell.” A breath, staggered and worn. “Fuck I love ya. God yer—”
The shape of you, fuzzy and soft, tilts her head. “Oh, what’s that?”
“—perfect.” He croaks. “Yer perfect.”
The plump lines of your mouth curl in a smile, ever so gentle.
“Then cum for me, Simon,” you whisper.
Briefly, you release the hold on his throat. It only lasts a couple of reluctant seconds that he uses to gather some air to fill his lungs with. Though the natural relief coursing through his body has goosebumps rise along his skin, making his cock twitch inside you.
Then, you’re closing in your fingers again, and Simon groans.
You haven’t stopped for a single moment, not even to catch a breath yourself. You keep fucking him undeterred, and with how wet you feel and sound, he’s sure all it’d take is a brush of his fingers on your clit for you to shatter.
But you seem to have other ideas in mind, as his own floats in between reality and heaven.
“Show me how much you love me.” You pant. “Cum for me.”
He’s lost sight of you now—eyes rolled behind hooded eyelids. He can barely feel anything anymore that isn’t the waves of unbearable heat and pleasure that ripple from his thighs up to his throat—where your fingers grow tight, tight, tighter.
“Fuck—” He mouths, breathy and quiet, losing control of his tongue. “Fuck I love ya. Love y—”
“Then cum, baby,” you bark like it’s a command, slamming your hips down. “Come on. Fill me up—”
The groan that rips from his chest crackles, breaks on his tongue. His orgasm is earth-shattering, seizes his body, and only his hips react as they uselessly rut upwards to meet your ceaseless grinding. Dark spots in his vision, tinnitus in his ear—loud, cottoned by the clouds he’s still floating upon.
Only then do you release the hold on his neck.
Simon splutters, coughs. The pitch in his ears ratchets up, ricochets in his skull. There’s a fierce tremble in his hands as they abandon your thighs, exhausted as they fall onto the mattress.
There are bruises left by his fingertips on your skin, cuts marked by his nails. He’ll kiss you there, then, when he remembers how to breathe correctly.
His breathing is staggered, broken into tiny puffs of air that meddle with his vocal cords. It’s why each breath takes the shape of his voice—whimpers, cries, moans. Some softer, some louder. Some lower, others more shrill.
Simon can barely hear them as he comes down from his high, almost slamming onto the mattress from the heaven he’d inhabited for a while.
He looks at you like you’re insane. He looks at you like maybe he hasn’t left that heaven at all.
“Yer mad,” he wheezes in awe, taking pleasure in the sharp aches in his chest. “Fuck I love you.”
Your hips come to a slow, measured pace. Your hand finds his cheek. Nose to nose, lips to lips.
CWs: smut, pwp, surreptitiously getting the cherry popped. simon is is a little shit here lol you're worse
wc: 6.3k
Inspired by the gorgeous @/rememberwren's Threshold, which is one of my favourite fics ever.
CoD Masterlist | Masterlist 🦊
The weather outside is frigid, and the HQ is almost empty, aside from a few who are stuck inside due to never-ending shifts.
The city at the horizon glistens in snow, glitters with festivities. Although the gorgeous view is a welcome sight, the mood is overall sour, as most of the soldiers would rather be home on Christmas Eve.
But Simon’s got nowhere to go, and apparently neither do you. For now, you’re both content with the spot you’ve secured in the rec room for the remainder of the evening. The fanciest of the seats. The softest ones, with the tanned leather intact and the cushions still plush.
You look awfully relaxed, slumped back on the loveseat while sipping on your beer, with your eyes lazily roaming the ceiling. Christmas sounds like it’s going to be boring, uneventful, and quiet, and Simon cannot wait for it to roll around exactly like that—
“We should fuck, Riley,” you say. “To kill some time.”
He chokes on his beer. The can creaks under his fingers, bends. To hide the pitiful coughs and save his face, he pulls the balaclava over his mouth.
Your statement is clinical, as if you’re listing the tactical equipment needed for the next op. Plate carriers, chest rigs, back panels, a fuck to kill some time, thigh holsters, magazine pouches.
“’Scuse me?”
You roll your head idly, turning your focus to him. You’ve got a dullness in your eyes, that hazy veil of alcohol and boredom, but somehow you still manage to slither under his mask. Your thumb draws slow lines on the condensation built on your can of beer, the corners of your lips quirk boldly—satisfied, in a way, to have left him speechless.
“Sometimes, two consenting adults can find ways to be close to one another in order to share—”
“Yeah, I got tha’,” he blurts, suddenly irritated. Then, with a resigned sigh, “Fuckin’ hell yer definitely somethin’.”
You snort. "Ah, ya love it."
Three divots indent the can of beer, welcoming his fingers, still contracted enough to push into the tin. His eyes turn ahead, staring at a crack in the wall.
“So?”
“Can’t believe yer even askin’.”
You chuckle. “Oh piss off, you’re a grown man—”
“Not bitin’.”
“Just see it as a Christmas celebration.”
“Fuckin’ hell—”
“A feast.”
“Oi. Pack it in, will ya?”
You bite down a smile. “You can keep the mask on.”
Fuck’s sake.
There is a plethora of reasons why he should tell you no, starting from mere regulations—but he’s broken plenty of those plenty of times, hence they weigh very little on his decision. He does, however, still care about harmony in the team, and while you might not be directly involved in it, you still have your own role in the task force.
On the other hand, he’s bored, and you’re hot. If he had a third hand, he’d add that the thought of fucking you stupid came to mind a couple of times. Maybe three, or four, or five—
And isn’t he just a man—even if dead inside and whatnot?
It’s fucking Christmas after all, for fuck’s sake.
“My room, 22 hundred.” He orders as he stands. A long finger points your way. “Not a fuckin’ second late, y’ hear?”
Your smile is surprised, genuine, and he swears, almost quivering.
“Yes, sir.”
Ah, now he’s heard that plenty.
Always yes, sir, always bowing your head, lending a hand. A pawn in a game whose work turned undeniably inestimable, and now you bear the crown—queen of the chessboard. You’re always clad in that perfect uniform, steamed flat with no wrinkles in sight. Always with your straight back, with your hand palming your knuckles behind your back.
But fuck him—he’s never thought he’d get the chance to see you like this.
Skin of velvet, sweat embroidered like pearls. If he touches your chest, right there in between your breasts, he’d feel your heartbeat. Thunderous, crazed.
And what strikes him is that he can. He can touch you, he can explore you, and you’d let him—perhaps you’d even enjoy it, judging by how much you’re enjoying everything else about him, fuck if he knows why.
Undeterred by the battlefield on his body, thighs spread like butter, open wide to welcome the girth of his hips. Your palm finds his stomach for balance, as his own finds your breast. He thumbs your nipple, watches you drag your slit along his shaft, flattened to his belly. Pearls of precum bead the crown of his cock—it weeps for you, waits to have you.
How long has he waited? Weeks, months. He’s watched you march across HQ with a confidence about you, enough to make heads turn—or at least, his sure did.
Every. Fucking. Time.
From the moment Price introduced you, you had him smitten. How you stared into his eyes, burning holes into the hollows of his mask—the fear he was so used to seeing billow from others, completely torn asunder within you. Not even the hard shell of that skull could keep you out: you had him on his knees from the first word you spoke, from the first yes, sir.
Metaphorically, sure.
Physically, too, since he found himself fisting his cock at the thought of you mere hours later. An orgasm so strong it knocked him off his feet, ropes of cum painting the toilet seat of the bathroom where he hid.
Fucking hell, he didn’t know he still had it in him.
It’s the confidence, he thinks. How you never cower, how you meet the harsh looks of less talented peers with sharp eyes and just a hint of a cheeky smirk—I did it, you fucking cunts. Those who think they deserve your spot in one of the most elite task forces in the bloody army just because they have a cock and you don’t.
Or maybe it’s your voice. Steady, charged, roaring like thunder. Orders, answers, remarks. Wit sharp enough to cut. Cut him you do, because there are times in which he’s the one rendered speechless, when he’s so used to it being the other way around.
It’s how you got him here, that tongue of yours.
He wonders what it can do also. What else do you have in store?
It’s the mystery shrouding you. A girl from a small town of a handful of souls, charging like a mad horse through ranks and throngs of men, until she’s finally seen and her work appreciated.
It’s the stubbornness, maybe. What brought you here, in Hereford, being heard without the need of raising your voice. Fighting smarter, rising higher.
Straddling his hips, cheeks puffed, shaky limbs.
Where’s that confidence gone now, uh? Where’s that voice of yours?
Not even a mewl, a cry. Quiet like the dead, breathless like one too.
Your nipple turns puffy the more he rolls it between his fingers. Pinching, pulling, thinking how good it would taste if he were to bite it. Gently, just a graze of his teeth—watch you squirm and pant. Maybe it’s what you need, a little push to make you speak. Would you beg? Would you ask, kindly? Or would you match the same fire—bite harder, enough to draw blood?
God, the possibilities of you.
Doe eyes stare at the head of his cock and widen each time it disappears between the folds of your cunt. You’re so wet that you’re dripping on him, biting down your lip whenever the strokes catch your clit.
And if you keep stroking yourself like that, he’s surely going to cum on his stomach before the fun even begins. While the view is different from the usual one, definitely more pleasing, it’s a fuck you offered and a fuck he’s accepted to have.
Lord help him if he’s not getting one.
“Gonna keep yer word?” He drawls.
Wide eyes snap to him. It’s like he brought you back to this world while you were lost in another one.
You cock your head. “Got somewhere to be?”
Ah, there’s that tongue.
He’s got one too.
“Got someone to fuck.”
You stiffen, back straighter and hips stalling. It’s just a second in which he sees you wither, and it feels like his own chest might cave in. But before you can make him interject, you’re lifting yourself off of him and gliding your hand around his cock.
Simon’s head collapses on the pillow as his lips give in to a breathless fuck.
"Arrogant as usual, I see," you snark. "Didn’t know we were in a rush."
He blinks his eyes open.
That cheek of yours is often welcome, but right now all his blood is collected down below, and his head is not in the best state. All he wants is to get his cock wet as you offered—call it a primordial need, awakening the most embarrassingly prehistoric chunk of his brain.
His hand curls around your wrist and snatches it away from him.
“Be good and let me do my thing, now.”
You’re wide-eyed and speechless again. Simon doesn’t know if he likes you more when you’ve got that bite, or when you lack one—you sure are a sight like this, though.
You gulp. “Yes, sir.”
Fucking hell.
His nostrils flare, cock twitching against his stomach. The head bobs, trying to get your attention, but he has it directed to his face instead. Piercing inside the eyehole of his mask, as if you could see his expression underneath.
He softens it just in case, but your active compliance and that sweet, sweet Yes, sir, have him fighting to keep his eye from twitching and his cock from coming.
He breathes. Guides your hand to rest on his belly again. Then, his own travels downwards, until the tips of his fingers skim the knot of your clit.
And God, don’t they glide smoothly.
You’re so wet that it has Simon bite down on his cheek. The moan catching down your throat and the muscles tightening your stomach are what does him in, iron flooding his tongue.
He draws slow circles around your clit, teasing its hood instead of directly touching it to avoid overstimulation. As much as he wants to see you mewl and keen above him, you already look way too agitated, and his current goal isn’t to make you cum, but to make you relax.
“Yer a good listener, righ’?” He rasps. “Know y’are. Seen ya out there.”
Your head bobs in a nod, jaw slack and eyes hooded.
“Words, pet.”
“Mh—” You gulp. “Yes.”
Simon’s lips twitch. “Yes, what?”
Between pants, you murmur it—fucking sweet.
“Yes, sir.”
“Fuck—” He curses himself—not you, never you. Not when you look like this. “That’s it. Listen to me.”
Two fingers line your slit, leaving your clit unattended. Downwards, they find your hole. The tip of his middle finger circles it, and when he prods inside, he can feel you pulse around it.
“Relax,” he breathes. “Take it easy. We’ll do it like ye said—no rush.”
But when he tries to stick two of them inside, you lift your hips away.
And fucking Christ, are you hard to read.
“Alrigh’?” He asks with a sigh.
You look like he’s caught you red-handed doing something illegal. Your mouth parts to speak, but for the first few tries, it babbles nothing but heavy breaths.
“Yeah—yeah, I am,” you clear your throat. “Why?”
Now that’s a weird fucking question, if you ask him.
“Yer runnin’ away,” he states flatly. “That’s why. If you want me t’ stop, say so.”
You stiffen, there.
“No, no—” Out of breath. “God no—I asked this, for fuck’s sake. I want it. I do.”
Simon is glad you offered to let him keep the mask on, because he cannot, for the life of him, control the baffled expression on his face.
“Don’t look like it, love.”
You puff. “I do. I just,” you rub your chest in discomfort. “Wasn’t expecting your fingers is all.”
He cocks his brow. “No fingers, then?”
“No, I mean—”
“You were the one moanin’ we were rushin’,” he says. “Figured I’d put you in a good mood so you’d stop whinin’.”
You splutter. “Put me in a good mood?!”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuckin’ hell—it’s a figure o’ speech.”
“Oh wow, didn’t know you were a poet, Riley. Forgive me—”
Ah, bite him. Keep fucking biting and he’ll bite you too.
“You wanna fuck or not?” He interrupts.
Your mouth closes, and you sigh. “Yes.”
“Then do as I say an’ shut it,” he bites. Will you?
You gulp, searching his eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
No. You won’t. Uncharacteristic of you, in a way that has his stomach drop. Though he catches it easily, because when you say those words so pliantly he forgets how to use his own head to think.
His hand settles on the crease of your hips and guides you down. The tips of his fingers prod against your entrance again, as you lay your weight on the top of his thighs.
“Sink on ‘em,” he murmurs. “Go on.”
Your breathing trembles, but you follow his order and slide down until he’s got two of them wrapped to the first knuckle. And fucking hell, you’re tight.
“Relax, pet,” he whispers. “S’gotta feel good, alrigh’? Not gonna hurt ya, jus’ need to stretch ya out.”
You nod dumbly, closing your eyes and exhaling, taking another knuckle of him. You’re scorching hot, and Simon salivates at the thought of having his cock in there, later.
And you keep going, down and down, until he’s got his palm flattened to your pussy. You’re still stiff around him, but he blames it on the fact that you two have just finished quarrelling like an old couple, and that isn’t exactly the nicest flavour of foreplay.
He helps.
His fingers move gently at first, pressing against the front of your walls. He watches you squirm and then soften when he does it a second time. Then a third has you choke on a cry, a fourth has you keel over him, holding yourself up with your hands on his chest.
Bent over like that, eventually your hips start grinding on his palm, and your breathing stutters whenever your clit rubs against the heel of his hand.
“There we go,” he murmurs, throat dry. “That’s it. Knew y’could listen.”
His cock twitches on his stomach for each breathy moan you allow to escape. You sound so unbelievably broken that he wonders what you’ll do when he’s fucking that attitude out of you, even if it’s nowhere to be seen now.
He knows it’s there. He’d bet his fucking left kidney on it making an appearance in a handful of minutes.
His hand is soaked. He keeps his eyes on the bounce of your tits as he grinds his teeth to dust to stave off an orgasm that might as well hit him with just a glance to your face, pent up as he is.
Your movements become more erratic. His forearm is sore and tired of holding you up, but he’ll be damned if he loses sight of your orgasm just as it’s about to strike.
“Fuck—fuck,” you pant, squeezing your eyes closed.
Simon bites down on his tongue.
“Atta girl,” he drawls slowly. “Go on—follow tha’.”
“Shit,” you heave, right before he watches you shatter.
You collapse on him, sandwiching his cock between your stomach and his. Your face is nestled in the crook of his neck, and the only thing Simon can see like this is the delicious curve of your spine tipping at your ass, as your hips roll to chase his hand.
Granted, it’s a hassle to keep it in place, so instead, he pulls out of you and lets his fingers glide over your clit to prolong your ecstasy.
With your face so close, he can hear every pitch of your voice. When it rises and when it catches in your throat. He can feel every time you choke on a breath and every damp puff you release on the bare skin of his neck.
Fucking hell.
His hands find your hips. A yelp is all you manage before he has you on your back, the breadth of him snug between your thighs. His cock slides smoothly between your folds, and because he wants to hear more of that voice, he snakes his thumb to your clit.
It still throbs under the pad of his finger.
You go rigid beneath him, neck corded and teeth bared. He hears you, finally. Not those little mewls or choked-up breaths. You crack a loud groan that bullies itself inside his head and settles there, perpetually etched.
He travels lower, gently wrapping his fingers around his cock to prep it for you, using the wetness soaking his palm. You look fucked out already, fluttering lashes and spit-slick lips.
He finds his fingers properly fisting the pillow next to your head to keep himself sane.
“Now tha’ wasn’t hard, was it?” He quips.
“Fuck,” a pant. “Off.”
Ah, his left kidney is safe.
Simon slaps your clit a few times with the head of his cock in retaliation, pleased to see the twitch of your eye for each hit, before aligning himself with you.
“Mh,” he chuckles lowly. “I like it when ya bite.”
Your hands tremble as they grip his shoulders, but the sudden warmth enveloping him is enough to turn his thoughts into syrup and briefly forget about it.
“Nice an’ easy,” he croaks, mostly to you but also to himself. Then, breathlessly, “Fuck, yer wet.”
It’s been a while—months, maybe, in which the only warmth that’s ever held him was the callous one of his hands. And sure, his memories of a good fuck might be murky, but he doesn’t remember it being so breathtakingly tight.
And to think he did all that just to turn you softer.
“Fuckin’ Christ,” he cracks. His forehead drops to the slope of your neck, the fabric of the balaclava absorbing the dampness collected there. “Yer tight, princess—”
“Don’t—” You choke, sounding like you haven’t been breathing right. “Don’t call me that.”
Simon would laugh and remark about it. He’d definitely call you princess again, just to get a rise out of you—see that fire he’s so used to. That defiance he swears by.
But he’s drunk already. Doesn’t think he can quite follow through with his plan on having the spitfire ride him until dawn—he’s lucky if he lasts a couple minutes more, with how bloody tight you’re squeezing him.
“Can ya relax, pet?” He huffs, sliding another inch inside.
Your reply is not made of words, but instead it translates into your pussy tightening even more. This time, it’s no pleasure at all—it’s actually hurting him too, but he bets it might be even worse for you, so he tries to be accommodating even though it feels like you’re going to melt the skin off his cock.
“Need you to—Jesus,” he huffs. “Need ya to open up. Tell me what ya need—”
Your breath is shallow, and he can taste each stutter when he nuzzles your neck. Then, his mouth finds your ear, sighs heavily against it as he dreams of having a taste, but he’s got the mask in the way.
“Need feedback, sarge,” he whispers. “Gotta give me somethin’ t’ work with.”
“Jesusfuckingchristfuck—” curses tumble under your breath, irked and winded. “Right. Right. Okay. Yes. Like that. Just—sl-slower.”
Definitely not the feedback he was expecting, but feedback, nonetheless. Still, a somewhat concerning one, so he lifts his head to meet your face. He finds you crisscrossed with wrinkles: the curl of your nose, the divot between your brows, your mouth tightened in a knot.
“Fuck, you alrigh’?” He feels compelled to ask again. This time, there’s less frustration in it and more of a genuine concern.
Your eyes blink open. They worry, in a way he can’t quite pinpoint, but it’s like he’s breached a space that’s been exclusively yours for a long time. He knows that feeling.
He’s not the only one sauntering around base with a mask, apparently.
And as you saw right through his, that first day, he’s seeing right through yours now, for the first time. He’s known you for a bloody long time, and he’s seeing it only now for the first fucking time.
Everything clicks, slowly, and the concern progressively growing on your face is the last missing piece of the puzzle you’ve been all night.
“Listen,” he heaves, gulping down a stone in his throat. All his strength now focuses on keeping his voice as gentle as a bastard like him can manage. “Are ya—is this—”
The mask cracks, lashes fluttering anxiously. Then, it hardens again. The frown he's so used to see, the stern line of your lips. Anger blossoms—a veil to hide the apprehension lying underneath.
“Oh, fucking hell—” You groan and push him off of you.
He watches you wither as you clam up on his bed, bringing your knees to your chest and burying your face in there—a wall he's not sure how to climb.
For a moment, it’s quiet. Really quiet. That silence that strangles windpipes and crushes down chests. Simon is usually a lover of those; he thrives in that environment, but he’d hate for them to shatter you.
He thought you unbreakable, and he wants to keep it that way.
He sits up, throwing his legs off the bed. The sharp inhale you take has him wondering if you’re worried he’ll leave. He’s pondered it for a second, sure, but just because you’re wrapped in a cocoon of your own, and maybe you need space to metabolise the events. Plus, he really isn’t the best fit for situations like these, since he can barely deal with his own feelings—doesn’t know how to put up with other people’s, too.
He never even bothered learning, before today.
But then he’s reminded that this is his room. And there’s an annoying hunch inside his chest hooking at his ribs, telling him that he couldn’t leave you like this if he tried.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he sighs, thumbing the middle of his brow through the mask. “Ya could’ve told me, I woulda—”
“You’d what,” you snap, lifting your head.
He tongues his cheek. Decides that facing fire with fire, tonight, wouldn’t lead to the best outcome.
“—been gentler,” he finishes.
You snort in a self-deprecating way that could rival his own.
“Oh, fuck off, Riley,” you sniffle. “You wouldn’t be here at all if I told you, that’s what.”
Your eyes dart around the room, trying to fixate on something that isn’t his face and his nakedness, or yours.
“How would I even ask something like that, uh?” You scoff. “Hi lieutenant, would you have sex with me since I never had it with anyone before—"
You sigh, burying your face in your hands. "Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I fucking said it out loud—God—This can't get any worse—"
You run your hand below your nose, placing your cheek on your knee while facing the opposite way. He watches you deflate, fold inwards, as if you could curl up even further within yourself.
“Just—This is already embarrassing as is,” you sigh. “Please give me a minute and then I’ll leave.”
That's what takes him aback. Maybe you are so focused on your work that you’ve become blind to everything else. He can’t blame you for it; this job chews you up and spits you out if you’re not careful.
But to think he’d have turned you down, as if this could’ve been a turn off at all, is pure insanity.
His eyes soften, though. So does his voice.
“Yer mad.”
Your breathing stutters. He can’t see your face, but the other tells are easy to recognise: attention perked, convictions shattered.
He scoots forward, resting a hand on your shin. Thankfully, you don’t flinch from his touch. It rises upwards, clasping your knee. Then, his thumb brushes the skin there, as he takes stock of the tremble rippling up your legs in the throes of your agitation.
However, even as you refuse to look at him, you’re still soft as butter.
He parts your legs, spreading you open again.
It catches you off guard enough to grant him the sight of your face.
There’s that doe look again, not at all like the sharp eyes he’s used to seeing whenever you strut around HQ. It makes his stomach churn.
Fuck, you’re trouble, turning him soft like that.
“M’gonna ask again,” he murmurs. “Wan’ me to stop?”
Your throat bobs. A flickering gaze searches for a hidden agenda on his face, but the mask is in the way, and that seems to trouble you—unable, as of now, to slither underneath it in that effortless way that is so characteristically you.
Two of his fingers hook at the hem of the balaclava cinching his neck, and he pulls it up and off. It falls on the floor, next to your clothes.
Not the first time you’ve seen his ugly mug, but it still has your eyes widening, and those angry wrinkles soften. One vulnerability in front of the other.
“No," you breathe.
He licks his teeth. Bites down the corner of his mouth.
Slowly, he moves closer, guiding you to lie down again. His palm cups the back of your head, as if to protect it from touching the pillows. As if that’s needed at all, but he’s got this worm in his brain yelling to keep you as comfortable as can be.
“Can ya listen, sarge?” He asks, dropping his face to yours until your noses touch.
His offhand wraps around his cock, stroking the embarrassing amount of precum down his shaft. Each touch translates into ache, but he swallows the grunts to favour you.
You nod softly, still with wide open eyes and lip tucked between your teeth—so fucking appetising that he wants to eat you whole.
“Mh.” The corner of his lips quirks. “Words.”
That has your nose curl. A glimpse of the you he knows cracking the shell you’re hiding in.
“Yes, sir.”
He groans. “Fuckin’ love it when ya say it like tha’.”
Then, he kisses you.
He’s fucked more than he’s kissed.
In fact, he’s even more hesitant than you were moments before, all tucked within yourself. But you take the lead here. Your fingers find the back of his head, threading through the hair all mussed up by the balaclava.
Soft tongue dancing with his, that’s what else it can do. Malleable lips meshing with his own, scarred and thin, hardened by years spent barely using them—whether to kiss, speak, or smile.
You got him doing all that in one evening.
“Alrigh’?” He asks into your mouth.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Alrigh’. You?”
“Peachy. Wanna ‘ave a chat?”
You breathe a laugh. “You’re fucking impossible.”
And he follows suit. Glad you’ve relented, even if just a little.
He aligns himself with you again, nudging the head of his cock to your entrance.
“We’re gonna go slow, yeah?” He whispers, taking hold of your jaw to redirect your focus to his eyes. “Slow ‘n easy. S'not gonna hurt—won't let it. But you gotta relax f'me—can ya do tha', pet?”
Your head shifts on the pillow, cocked sideways. You’ve got this glow on you now, one that ripens your cheeks and blossoms in the loveliest of smiles. Your hand cups the side of his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone—ridges and bumps of pockmarks and scars with more gruesome stories to tell.
Yeah. Yeah, you’re fucking trouble, alright.
“Got it, lieutenant.”
This time, as he slowly enters you again, he brushes his lips down your jaw.
You mould for him, throwing your head back and drowning it in the pillow. He goes down, meeting the smooth skin of your neck. Just pecks at first, left on the line of your throat. But when your nails dig into his back just a tad harshly, his mouth opens.
“Yer alrigh’,” he murmurs. “Doin’ good. Relax f’me.”
You don’t reply, but instead take in slow, deep breaths.
“Like tha’,” he whispers, sliding another inch. “Just like tha’.”
He can feel you softening around him, growing wetter for each word he breathes. His voice must help you, or his guidance does at least, so he murmurs it right into you.
Easy, he says. Deep breaths.
He kisses your throat. Feels each inhale that flows, each exhale you yield. Listening, complying. As if every intake of air is a sweet, silent yes, sir.
It takes him a minute, filled with your stutters and the rumble of his voice, and then you’re completely wrapped around him. Heels digging in the back of his thighs, arms coiled around his neck, cock snug inside of you.
Your teeth sink into the muscle of his shoulder when he finally bottoms out.
He likes it, when you bite.
“Fuck,” you croak.
He lifts his head and meets your eyes. “Breathe,” he drawls, slow and steady.
You heed him. He watches your chest fill, gooseflesh rising up your stomach, pebbling your nipples. Your eyes are closed, now, as you focus on welcoming the girth of him, so unfamiliar, inside you.
He takes that time to study you. The focused wrinkle between your brows, the oval of your mouth as you push out air, the tip of your nose as you take in more of it.
It lights something warm inside him, the tiniest flame. It grows brighter when it hits him, that no one else has ever seen you like this. That no one, out there, knows this side of you. That they only know the confident sergeant who never takes no for an answer, who grits her teeth and spits orders when the respect she deserves is not given.
That they don’t know how much more of you there is to discover.
And call him selfish if you like, but he hopes they’ll never find out.
“You broken?” He murmurs after a moment.
You crack your eyes open. “Not broken. Stuffed.”
“Aye, that’s the point o’ it.”
Your lips pull in a smile. “Oh, so that’s it? That’s the whole deal? Pretty disappointing if you ask me.”
He snorts. “Glad t’ see you still got it in ya.”
That has you laughing, however soft. It glows on your face, put those wrinkles back, but they’re of different shapes. He reaches for them, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
Then, his hips pull back. The stroke of your pussy has him see stars, but he tries to focus on you instead. Your smile falters, and your chuckle wanes, lodged in the middle of your throat.
“Oh,” is all you say.
It’s enough for him, as he pushes back in.
“Oh,” you croak. “Oh f-fuck—”
His voice cracks, too. “Not all tha’, mh?”
No remarks to his joke, no little quip of your own. Just the roll of your eyes, the scratch of your moans, the cut of your nails as they pierce his shoulder blades.
He fucks you slowly at first, kissing the skin of your neck and rising upwards. His belly fills with each breath you yield into his mouth, but instead of feeling sated, his hunger for you only grows.
He snakes his arm underneath the hollow of your spine. Your back arches as he lifts you, the plush of your tits pushing against the coarse hair running up his chest.
And Christ, you’re soft. It’s undoing him.
“You close?” He asks, breathless—hopeful, too.
Because his cock has been aching for a while now, like everything else about him, and if he doesn’t come soon, he’ll lose a marble or two—of the few he’s got left, that is.
“N-no, but—” A whimper breaks your sentence. “—don’t stop, please don’t stop, don’t stop—”
Asking him like that will most likely achieve the opposite effect. You're unaware, though, it’s why you repeat it over and over—a litany that rises in pitch and cracks at the edges.
“Swee’heart,” he reasons quietly. “M'not made o’ plastic—won’t last much lon—”
“Then cum inside just don’t stop—”
Jesus Christ.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he croaks. “Yer gonna kill me.”
Simon fucks you at that same pace even though his body yearns to ram into you until you’re babbling nonsense. But you seem to love it, this tenderness—maybe it’s what you seek, to have a soft place to fall onto.
And who is he to deny you, really, when you’re pleading like that?
He wishes he had it in him to go on for longer, if not for your sake, then for his, because he craves to feel your cunt tightening around his cock as it did on his fingers—but he’s so close that he can barely put two coherent words together.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunts. “Fuck, pet—”
You catch the back of his head and swiftly guide his lips to yours.
Simon cums as you kiss him, messy and wet, and Christ, enough to triple the intensity of his ecstasy.
He ruts his hips with deep, slow thrusts that have a trembling quality to them. He never pulls out, preferring the warmth of you to milk him dry for all it’s worth. And just like he ate up your moans, you’re now drinking in his, as he comes down from his own high.
He stays buried inside you as he catches his breath, with your nails gently raking the indent of his spine. Perhaps he’s putting too much weight on you, but you haven’t whispered a single thing yet, so he decides to be selfish and bask in the warmth you exude, in the softness of your body.
Then, a kiss to his temple forces him to recollect his bearings.
“Merry Christmas,” you whisper.
Simon huffs into your neck, exchanging the gesture with his lips on your shoulder.
“Aye.” He shakes his head with mirth. “Happy fuckin’ holidays.”
Your chest bubbles with a laugh so soft he can feel it thrum against his skin before he actually hears it. It prompts him to lift himself up enough to catch it with his eyes, too.
Your smile finds him. A soft curve that drips with thankfulness.
“Alrigh’?” He breathes.
“Alright,” you nod.
His forehead drops to yours. You’re both sticky with sweat, but none of you tries to move away. Silence fills the room once again. It has a different taste.
He’s not used to this. He leaves when it’s over, yet now he doesn’t know how. He likes it—this quiet, this comfort he suddenly found with you.
And there's that mouth of yours, now running up the side of his neck. The clicks of your kisses rising upwards, the sting of your teeth as they drag down his lobe. Your tongue drawing the outline of the shell of his ear, breath wanton and hot against his skin.
Your voice, a whisper. “I wanna cum again."
No ifs or buts. Just blurted out with the same bluntness you used to ask him to fuck you that evening. He’s still got his cock inside you, still has your cum and his own mixing in a mess between your legs, and you’re asking for more.
Oh, it's still you alright.
Confident, proud, inevitable. Never one to back down—it’s how you got him here, after all.
“Jesus—” He chuckles quietly, “Yer definitely somethin’.”
You tut playfully. “Ya love it.”
And what if, uh?
“Right—love it,” he huffs sarcastically—thought the knot in his throat says otherwise. “A Christmas miracle, tha’.”
Then, he props himself on his knees.
He watches your eyes fall on where you two join, and he follows the trajectory. Wetness wraps around the base of him, glistening in the dim light. His hips experimentally push inside, and the crown of his cock burns at the friction—definitely not ready for a second round.
But then he looks at you. Soft teeth sink into your lip as if the sight of him buried inside you makes you hungry.
He’s the one to blame for that. He made you hungry, it’s only fair that he satiates the ache.
“You sure ‘bout this, yeah?”
You look at him. Eyes heavy with lust and challenge. His throat goes dry.
A nod.
He kisses his teeth. “Wha’ did I say?”
It’s then that your mouth curls. A wicked smile framed by sharp eyes. There’s no mask to burn holes into, now, so instead you’re effortlessly slithering under his skin.
There you are.
“Oh, you like it, don’t you?”
His eyes narrow. “Yer gettin’ too comfortable.”
“Says the one buried in my guts.”
He clicks his tongue.
Simon matches your energy, hooking his elbows under your knees. Palms to your thighs, ass lifted off the bed. You’re locked in place; there’s nowhere you can go if he doesn’t release you first—and you don’t seem to mind.
Actually, you encourage him, slipping two fingers into your mouth and heading for your clit. Slow circles that have him hypnotised, before your voice brings his focus back on your face.
“Will you fuck me again?” You bat your lashes. “Please, Sir?”
Simon releases a long, resigned sigh from his nose
“Oh, yer trouble,” he breathes. “Yer trouble alrigh'.”
Johnny’s one of those boyfriends that suddenly remembers you exist and roams the house seeking you out. No real rhyme or reason to it he just wants to see you, peeks into wherever you are and reminds himself you’re still around.
Johnny’s one of those boyfriends who randomly grabs you and shakes you around, I fear you’re going to be a victim of cuteness aggression for the rest of your life.
Johnny’s one of those boyfriends who grabs at your ass when he’s bored, like it’s his own personal stress ball. Same thing with your tits.
Johnny’s one of those boyfriends who blows raspberries into your stomach while he’s laying down on you, even if you hate it. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.
Johnny’s one of those boyfriends who knows how to have a laugh when you’re having sex. He brought a glow in the dark condom once and you said his dick looks like a neon green Kermit and he laughed so hard he almost forgot where he was. Almost.
Johnny’s one of those boyfriends who actively gets upset if you try to crawl away from him while you’re cuddling, like ACTUALLY upset, it’s not even funny, don’t try it.
Jason has a wet dream while you’re trying to wake him up | cw: fem!reader, smut, a bit of fluff, established relationship, he's whiny in this
Jason’s got a soft look on his face while he sleeps, lips parted and chest rising and falling peacefully. Nothing like the wild, haunted eyes that meet yours right after patrol. Or the harsh breaths he takes when panic claws through his chest.
This Jason was yours. Untouched by cruel hands and crueler words. Your Jason only knew soft mornings, where sunlight spilled in and your fingers brushed through his unruly dark locks.
You wanted to let him sleep longer. But even more so, you wanted to look into his pretty eyes and see them soften like you were his world.
Which you knew you were.
“Jay,” you whisper.
He was practically on top of you, cheek smushed against your head, muscular arms wound tightly around you as you lay on your back.
It’s suffocating in the best way. For him to be so close to you meant he felt safe.
“Come on, wake up. M'hungry,” you murmur gently.
He groans, moving his head to bury his face in the crook of your neck. One of his hands moves from your waist to your stomach and up to your chest as if making sure you were here.
Your thoughts slide to a halt when you feel his hand cup your boob. Is he—
“Jason?” you try again, weakly. The man was using your boob as a stress ball.
“Five more minutes, sweetheart,” he mumbles and squeezes again. The thin fabric of your shirt does nothing to keep the heat of his touch away.
“Oh, um…” Your cheeks burn.
He lets out another sleepy sigh and mumbles something under his breath. Something that sounds far too much like, “You’re so good to me, baby.”
You close your eyes. He’s definitely having a wet dream.
Muffling a tiny giggle, you shift slightly, trying to wiggle out of his hold. Instead, his grip tightens, keeping you pressed down to the sheets.
He moves then, trying to get even closer, his hard on pressing against your thigh and making him whine.
“Oh my god.” Mouth to the ceiling, a giddy smile on your face.
You reach out to play with his hair. Pausing for a moment, you wonder what he’d do if you tugged on it.
Naturally, you do just that. A tiny groan leaves him, his hips grinding against your thigh. You feel his lips against the curve of your neck, just resting there.
“You’re gonna be so mortified when you wake up,” you mumble, combing his hair back lovingly.
A tiny, soft sigh escapes him, and suddenly you don’t want to wake him.
So you let him sleep, occasionally pressing a kiss to his forehead while he whines and grinds his hard and aching dick against your thigh.
That was the first thought running through his head as he stood just inside the shelter doors, arms crossed over his chest, skull mask traded for a simple balaclava. You were three steps ahead of him, practically vibrating with excitement, eyes wide as you looked at every kennel like it held the meaning of life itself.
“Simon..” you whispered, like speaking too loud would scare them away. “Look at that one.”
He didn’t even follow your gaze yet. He was already regretting this.
“You said you wanted a dog.” he muttered. “Not… a project.”
You spun on your heel, hands clasped under your chin. “Dogs aren’t projects!”
“They are when they bite.”
“They won’t bite me.”
“That’s what they all—”
“Oh my God, Simon, look.”
He sighed, heavy and long-suffering, before finally turning his head.
…and then immediately wished he hadn’t.
It was small.
Too small.
A tiny, bug-eyed rat with ears that stood straight up like radar dishes, teeth bared in a way that was far too aggressive for something that could fit in his cargo pocket. It snarled at him the second his gaze landed on it.
“Absolutely not.”
Your face dropped. “What?! Why?!”
“It’s possessed.”
“He is not possessed!”
The dog barked. Loud. Sharp. Violent. Like it had something to prove.
Simon pointed at it. “That’s a demon.”
You gasped, offended on its behalf, and crouched down near the kennel. Instantly, the creature stopped barking. Its entire demeanor flipped like a switch—tail wagging, little paws scratching at the door, eyes soft and adoring as it looked at you.
Simon narrowed his eyes.
“…and manipulative.” he added.
You cooed softly, slipping your fingers through the bars, and the little thing licked you like it had hadn’t just threatened Simon’s life.
“Oh, he’s perfect! You said happily.
“He’s a menace.”
“He’s a baby.”
“He just threatened me.”
You looked over your shoulder at Simon, giving him that look—the one that always got him, the one that softened something deep and stubborn in his chest.
“Pretty Please?”
He stared at you. Then at the dog. Then back at you.
The dog growled again. At him specifically.
Simon sighed. “…if it bites me, it’s your fault.”
His name was Lucifer.
You claimed it was “ironic.”
Simon didn’t think you knew what the word meant.
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Lucifer hated him.
There was no other way to put it.
The dog loved you, looked at you like you were the center of its universe—following you from room to room, curling up in your lap, yipping happily whenever you so much as looked at it.
Simon, on the other hand, got teeth.
“Stop baring your fangs at me.” Simon muttered one evening, watching as Lucifer sat on your chest like a tiny guard dog, glaring at him from across the couch.
“He’s just protective.” you said sweetly, scratching behind Lucifer’s ears.
“He weighs five pounds.”
“Six.” you corrected. “He’s growing.”
Simon deadpanned. “That’s concerning.”
Lucifer barked at him.
Simon leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ve taken down grown men twice my size. You are not intimidating.”
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Despite everything, the dog stayed.
Because you loved him.
And Simon—unfortunately—loved you.
It happened a week later.
A quiet afternoon, the kind Simon didn’t get often but had learned to appreciate. You’d dragged him out to some little mobile coffee booth parked on the edge of the park, insisting the drinks were “life-changing.”
He didn’t argue.
Mostly because you were already halfway there before he could.
Lucifer, of course, came with you.
“Hold him for me?” you asked, already passing the leash into Simon’s hand before he could respond.
He stared down at the tiny creature now attached to him.
Lucifer stared back.
There was a long, tense pause.
“…don’t start.” Simon warned quietly.
Lucifer huffed.
You smiled, oblivious, and stepped up to the window to order.
Simon stayed a few feet back, one hand loosely holding the leash, the other resting near his pocket. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes weren’t—always scanning, always watching.
It didn’t take long to notice the man.
Late twenties, maybe. Too confident. He slid up next to you at the window, leaning in just a bit too close, saying something that made you laugh politely.
Simon’s grip on the leash tightened.
Lucifer noticed.
The dog’s ears perked up, attention snapping from Simon to you in an instant.
The man said something else. Smiled wider. Leaned closer.
Simon exhaled slowly through his nose.
“…you see that?” he murmured.
Lucifer gave a low, almost eager little growl.
Simon glanced down at him.
“yeah..” he muttered. “Thought you might.”
There was a beat.
Then, very casually—
He unclipped the leash.
“Bite ‘em.”
Lucifer didn’t hesitate.
The tiny demon launched forward like a missile.
Simon took a step back, hands slipping into his pockets as he watched.
The man barely had time to react before Lucifer latched onto his ankle with all the fury of something ten times his size.
“WHAT THE—GET IT OFF—!”
You turned, eyes going wide. “LUCIFER?!”
The man hopped around uselessly, trying to shake him off, but Lucifer was relentless—tiny teeth, big attitude, absolutely no mercy.
Simon stepped forward then, slow and calm, reaching down to grab the dog by the harness.
“That’s enough.” he said evenly.
Lucifer released instantly.
The man stumbled back, glaring, clutching his ankle. “What the hell is wrong with your dog?!”
Simon tilted his head slightly.
“…seems he doesn’t like you.”
You rushed over, grabbing Lucifer from Simon’s hands, cradling him protectively. “I’m so sorry! He’s usually not like this—”
Lucifer growled again. At the man.
Simon hid it, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The man scoffed, muttering something under his breath before limping off.
You looked between Simon and Lucifer, suspicious. “…what happened?”
Simon shrugged.
“Bloke got too close.”
You frowned slightly, glancing down at Lucifer, who was now perfectly content in your arms, licking your chin like nothing had happened.
“…he was just talking.”
“Mhm.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Simon.”
He met your gaze, unbothered. “What?”
“…did you tell him to do that?”
Simon blinked slowly.
“…I might’ve suggested it.”
“Simon!”
Lucifer barked happily, tail wagging like he hadn’t just attacked someone.
You tried to stay mad—you really did—but the absurdity of it hit too fast. A tiny, six-pound dog defending you like some kind of feral bodyguard.
“…you’re both unbelievable.” you muttered, shaking your head.
Simon reached out, scratching Lucifer behind the ears.
The dog didn’t bite him.
In fact… he leaned into it.
Simon paused.
Lucifer looked up at him, eyes bright, tail wagging.
A silent understanding passed between them.
Simon huffed quietly. “…you’re still a demon.”
And when you turned back to grab your coffee, you missed the way he let the leash stay just a little tighter in his grip.
Or the way Lucifer walked just a little closer to his side.
Man’s best friend, after all.
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This fic is based on this wonderful artwork by @l3ibnest
Ghost with demons!
TF 141 with dogs🐶
It's been a while painting full rendered pieces, enjoyed a lot!
Inspired from awesome @yourfaithfulauthor's request.
CW: rough sex, breath play, power play, slapping, squirting—the whole thing. Hints of piss kink don't look at me. This is like 20 words I want to write but I don't have the brainpower to do it
Simon gets a little mean during sex, sometimes.
Not as often as you'd like him to, unfortunately. He's more comfortable when he handles you delicately, and it took you ages to make him realise that you're not as fragile as he thinks.
So, while still scarcely, you're occasionally granted the gorgeous sight of him losing control of his urges.
Needless to say, you're over-fucking-joyed when you hear his sighs turn into groans and his caresses harden into slaps. In fact, you're over the goddamn moon when you feel his hands flip you over, chest flattened to the bed.
A big hand fists your hair and pushes your face into the pillow—because he is a little into breath play every once in a while, even if he tries to mask it on his good days.
But you can read him better than he thinks.
He likes his chest against your back. Likes the feeling of you squirming beneath his weight when his arm snakes to your belly, sandwiched between your skin and the duvet.
Loves it when you push back your hips to meet his thrusts. When you groan into the pillow as he flicks his fingers over your clit—over and over and over, until your moans grow breathy, lost in linen and spit.
You know his eyes roll to the back of his head when you come around him. When he feels the rhythmic pulse of your cunt as it tightens, threatening to push him out—but he's stubborn, isn't he?
He keeps fucking you until your orgasm turns wetter and splashes his cock with every thrust of his hips. A pool on the bedsheets that sticks uncomfortably to your skin, soaking through and spreading wide.
Only then does he lift your face off the pillow with a harsh tug of your hair.
Your scalp stings. Drool down your lips and smeared on fabric, cheeks ripe with air now that you're finally breathing it. Oxygen burns your lungs—the most delicious ache in your chest.
His mouth is next to your ear, hot and lascivious. You can feel his derisive smile push against your cheek, his wet kiss landing open on it.
"Feel so good tha' ya pissed yerself, eh?"
You know he loves the wicked grin that lazily spreads across your face. Loves the cheeky glance you send him from the sidelines as he keeps your head stuck in place with a fistful of hair.
Shame he won't see it for long, he thinks, as he pushes your face into the pillow again.
mentions: angst + smut = happy ending, established relationship, reader and jason got into an argument, reason as to why not depicted, shower sex oh yeah, really steamy (haha pun intended get it) makeout sesh, unprotected p in v, creampie, cockdrunk!reader, pussydrunk!jason, eye contact, praises, slight fingering?? but TEEEEEENSION, and yearning ish too, only one water pun mentioned stop its acu so funny
(i had this idea yst and it was originally supposed to be for bruce but i knew it would hit different with my boy jason. plus, wanted to write smth mdni for him)
———————————————————————-
you and jason rarely got into an argument. sure, there would be bickering or small disagreements brushed off as teasing remarks, but nothing as big as an actual argument. but like they say, arguments were normal in a happy couple
you forgot what you and jason were arguing about, but you know it was so serious that both of you have been avoiding each other for days. jason would come back more later than he already did and wake up more early than he already did, making you spend the past few days without seeing him. you would pretend to be asleep, making jason thinking that you didn’t wait for him like you usually did (when in fact, you did)
you were in the shower, warm water gently hitting you as you closed your eyes to feel the water dripping down from your hair to your face before wiping your face up to your hair and opening your eyes, letting out a breathless exhale. it was late, jason was out on patrol, and you decided that a shower would be best to clear your mind
you missed jason-- god, you missed him so much. you missed the way he’d immediately come to you after showering the blood and grime off him, feeling his warmth on yours. you missed the kisses he’d plant on your lips to wake you up. you just missed him
you hear a small familiar knock on the bathroom door, making you whip your head to the sound. jason doesn’t usually come home around this time
but seems like tonight was an exception. “hey” you heard jason’s muffled voice from behind the door. “mind if i join you?” you heard the slight hesitation in his voice as he asked.
there was a moment of silence with the running water as the only sound before you responded. “door’s unlocked”
the door slowly creaked open, like he wasn’t sure he was really allowed to step in. steam escaped the bathroom as he entered, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. you didn’t turn around right away, but you felt his familiar presence— heavy, grounding, and impossible to ignore
for a second, neither of you spoke, until the silence was broken by the soft rustle of fabric and the muted thud of his gear hitting the floor piece by piece. it was a sound you knew by heart. you heard the glass shower door being slid open before it was slid closed. even when you knew jason was now behind you, your back still didn’t turn.
“you’re up late” he muttered, his voice rough and closer now. you swallowed, fingers twitching at your sides under the stream of water. “could say the same about you” you responded
another pause
jason started. “i-" then stopped, and you could almost feel the hesitation in him, which wasn’t like him. and that’s what finally made you turn, eyes immediately meeting his. however, your gaze softened and your chest tightened from the sight
his hair was damp with sweat, a faint bruise along his jaw — all from patrol, no doubt— but even from those, what caught you was his expression. it was guarded, conflicted and something softer underneath— something tired, something that looked a lot like missing you. “you’ve been avoiding me.” you spoke quietly
“you’ve been pretending to be asleep”
“guess we’re both guilty, then”
that almost made jason smile, almost. and soon, the distance between you two suddenly felt unbearable
“jay…“ your voice cracked slightly, but enough for jason’s heart to tighten in his chest as your voice betrayed everything you’ve been holding in. “i don’t even remember what we were fighting about anymore.” and that did it for him— something in him broke at your words, and you saw it on how his shoulders dropped and how the tension drained just enough
“yeah” jason admitted, slowly stepping closer as if he was approaching something fragile. “me either.” words that sounded so simple yet it felt like as if the weight of everything dropped on them, and you noticed. despite the warm water that ran down your body, all you could do was focus on him standing right there, finally within reach after days that felt like weeks
“i missed you” you whispered. and that let jason exhale sharply from your words, the words hitting him harder than any punch.
his hand lifted, hesitating for just a beat of a second before settling gently,— so gently— against your arm. “yeah” he said, voice low. “i missed you too”
another beat of silence but this time, it was your eyes talking to one another, words unspoken now passing and being understood
and that must have done the trick because that was all it took for both of you to close the gap with lips on one another, craving for each other’s touch and taste that both of you have missed for days. your hands cupped his face while his arms were wrapped around your waist, pulling you tight and not planning on letting you go anytime soon
the kiss was slow as it spoke more words than the ones you passed with jason. ‘im sorry’ ‘i love you’ ‘forgive me’ ‘i missed you’
and just like that, the tension from days of silence dissolved into a kiss wrapped in an apology and yearning. slowly, both of you broke the kiss for air, foreheads pressed against one another and breath mingling.
“don’t do that again”
“yeah, you too”
and right after you said that, jason went in for another taste of your lips, but more messy and desperate. he let out a muffled exhale, as if your taste and presence were the only things that were bringing relief to him after days of not talking to you. and you kissed him with the same intensity, hands now trailing off to wrap your arms around his neck
one of his hands trailed up to the back of your head, deepening the kiss and taking a step back. now, the water was hitting both of you as the droplets seared through the corners of your lips, bodies now wet and pressed against each other
jason backed you up again until your back hit the cold bathroom tiles on the wall, but it was soon forgotten by the warmth of his body plus the water compensating. and soon, what would start off as an apology kiss soon led to a makeout session in the shower, the warmth from the shower and your taste sending jason into a frenzy
now, the water was only hitting jason. each water droplet was dripping down from his white streaked hair to his collarbone, slowly trailing down to the valley of his tits before more drops landed on his abdomen, streaming down the middle of his abs untill his hips. what a sight
he murmured into your lips. “can i-" but you were already nodding, and that was enough for jason to pull his hand from behind your head to take one of your legs and hook it by his hip, being the first to pull out from the kiss before trailing his lips down to your jaw. instinctively, your hands trailed to his back
“jay—" you let out a moan, feeling his lips trail lower to a sensitive spot on your neck and leaving hickeys. jason’s other hand slid down to your cunt, his finger slowly tracing a circle to the entrance of your pussy. and that motion alone made your breath hitch
“fuck” he groaned in the crook of your neck. “she’s already wet for me.” and before you could chuckle from his unintended pun, a breathless gasp left your lips instead from feeling his tip slowly rub on your cunt, his cock already hard and already leaking. there was tension that needed to be released ever since your argument not just from jason but from you as well— and both of you knew just the trick
jason slowly pulled his lips away, a string of saliva connecting them to the fresh hickeys he just placed all over your neck before it snapped as his eyes admired the red and purple that decorated both the sides and the collarbone of your neck.
“missed her so much.” his hand left your cunt and went to his cock, the tip already lining up with your entrance before slowly inserting it in you, a groan leaving jason from how tight and warm you were— like always. “missed you even more.”
god, you missed how good he always filled you up. you would have said that if you weren’t so cockdrunk with your lips fully agape. but instead, you let out soft sounds while your nails buried themselves in his back as jason started to insert more of his length into him
your name slipped out of his lips so filthy it made you throb on his cock, making his breath hitch and lay his forehead on yours, lust and desperation overriding his green eyes as they made eye contact with yours. “uh huh— juuust like that, pretty girl.” jason whispered, his breath hitting your lips
and slowly, his cock was buried to the hilt in your pussy, walls fluttering around him like it was your first time taking him. truth be told, jason was so thick that you’d always act like it was your first time
jason’s hand that was originally lining his cock up now went to your hip. and slowly, he started to move deep in you. both you and jason let out a moan from the first thrust, his cock perfectly sliding in and out of your tight walls. “mmm jay” you moaned, eyes half lidded and getting cockdrunk minute by minute
and jason was no exception. the grip your pussy had on his cock was making him more obsessed with her every second your walls fluttered around him— and by her, i mean your pussy.
“i know, baby. fuck, i know” he moaned, his grip on your hip tightening. it was a miracle that jason survived this long without your body. meanwhile, you felt every inch— every vein being dragged in and out of your pussy. and then, jason picked up the pace, small grunt leaving his lips yet his eyes never left yours
his name left your lips in a moan and when you were goning to close your eyes and lean your head to the wall to take in the satisfaction of pleasure you were feeling, jason’s hand went up from your waist to your face, gently yet firmly cupping it with one hand. “wanna see you cum” he murmured, knowing that if he spoke too loud, a moan would have slipped out from his lips.
like that was ever gonna happen. a moan was pulled out from jason anyway, the sounds of wet skin slaps mixed with the background noise of the shower running.
“jay i- jason, im close—" you whined, nails trailing on his back. if he wasn’t holding your face to meet with your eyes, they would have rolled to the back of your head from how deep he was fucking you. and jason already knew you were close; your fluttering walls were making that obvious enough
“uh huh—“ jason let out a moan, his cock twitching in you. “make a mess on me, baby.” because truth be told, he was close too. and fucking his cock in you with both of your cums mixed sounded and felt like a wet dream
and his words was the last straw for you. the familiar knot in your stomach snapped, and your lips gaped into an ‘o’ with your eyes more lidded, still staring at jason as your orgasm came crashing onto his cock and the water that was still pouring from the shower
you looked so beautiful, looking like a mess -— his mess— and boy, was jason happy to see that sight again
one last deep thrust and a guttural groan of your name was heard from jason before his orgasm soon crashed onto yours, his hips now slowing down but still deep enough for him to fuck and bury his cum in you before meeting your lips once more— not the slow, passionate or the hungry, sloppy kiss you two shared earlier, but more gentle as he murmured praises onto your lips for taking him so well like you always did
and when jason broke the kiss and stopped his thrusts after burying his cum deep in you and still feeling the buzz from his intense orgasm, he still looked at you with those same lustful eyes with his grip on your leg still not budging. and the truth? he didn’t want to stop, and you didn’t want him too.
the argument? soon forgotten. the shower? still running. and you and jason? in the shower, making up for lost time together
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masterlist!
(a/n: neeeed this man 😵💫😵💫😵💫 idk smth with the batboys and shower sex has me wetter than water ughhh #need. and i have such a massive headache from the red bull i inhaled this week alone which was why it was hard to focus on writing this)
