The concept of Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley taking the role of a protective, older boyfriend seriously is an absolute given. With his bloody military background, safeguarding what belongs to him isn’t just a habit—it’s a genuine, feral instinct.
But with you, that instinct borders on the primal.
In his mind, when you love something, you claim it, you lock it down, and you do whatever it takes to keep it safe from a world he knows is inherently rotten. You are perfectly capable of looking after yourself, but there is an undeniable, intoxicating comfort in knowing a massive, dangerous man is always ready to step in and tear the world apart for you.
Anytime you are out in public, his hand is on you instantly. But Simon doesn’t just hold your hand; he claims it, his heavy, scarred fingers locking around yours with a bruising firmness. He guides you wherever you are heading, acting like a human guard dog, his tight grip a physical leash tethering you to his side.
If you look up and question it, he’ll just grunt that it’s “so you don’t get lost.”
While that might be a fraction of the truth, it’s mostly because he physically needs you close—a raw vulnerability his pride would never openly admit. He needs to feel the pulse in your wrist beneath his thumb to quiet the constant, defensive static in his head.
This behavior carries over effortlessly to restaurants, where he simply orders for both of you.
It isn’t a lack of trust; rather, he has memorized your exact likes and dislikes by heart, logging them away like vital intel. Sometimes, you’ll instinctually reach for a menu out of habit, but a heavy, gloved hand will immediately pin yours to the table.
A quiet, raspy, “Got it covered, love. Relax,” is all it takes to freeze you in your tracks.
You don’t need to concern yourself with things so trivial as making choices.
Yielding to him satisfies that small, hyper-vigilant voice inside his head that stays permanently on the offense, even during a casual dinner date. You never really protest; he always gets it right, and it completely eliminates the exhausting pressure of your own indecisiveness.
But the leash tightens the moment you slip up.
You were out running a simple errand, so caught up in your tasks that you forgot to hit that unspoken mandatory text milestone. You got distracted, entirely unaware of the clock ticking away.
It was only when you were on the route home, behind the wheel, that you noticed the terrifying influx of missed calls and frantic texts lighting up your screen. You called him back immediately.
The tone of his voice through the speaker wasn't just angry; it was dangerously tight, vibrating with a dark, possessive panic. “You’ve been off the grid for three hours. We’ve talked about this.”
The second you cross the threshold of the house, Simon is on you. He doesn't greet you; he corners you, his massive frame blocking out the light as he checks you over for injuries.
His large, rough hands map every inch of your body under the guise of ensuring you're unharmed. He grips your hips, slides his palms up your ribs, and cups your face, his dark eyes boring into yours.
It’s a tactile interrogation—a silent, heavy reminder that you belong entirely in his orbit, and that making him wait is a dangerous game.
His vigilance goes deeper than you even realize. Ghost secretly had his base engineers chip your phone to keep accurate, military-grade tabs on your location, whether he’s sitting in the living room or deployed halfway across the world.
Simon expects you to check in regularly, needing to see that little blinking dot that represents your life force.
As far as you’re aware, it’s just a standard ‘Life360’ setup; he intentionally withheld the extensive scope of the tracker, knowing the sheer gravity of his obsession might frighten you away. He simply isn’t a man who takes chances with his property. Ever.
Piece by piece, you have surrendered yourself to him, systematically erasing your own autonomy until turning to him for the smallest fraction of your life has become your only surviving instinct. How should you wear your hair? What should you wear? What should you eat? Should you dare step outside, or stay safely locked away where only he has the key? Simon doesn't just accept this submission—he demands it.
He silently, methodically breeds a toxic, inescapable dependency until neither of you can remember who you were before he owned you.
It creates a divide your friends can't bridge; they see Simon through a completely different lens than you do. To them, he’s nothing more than a cold, weaponized machine—a military robot stripped of human emotion. They don’t see the fracturing beneath that harsh armour. They don't know the weight of a past no one else could comprehend.
You often wonder if it was that very brokenness that drew you to him in the first place, twisting his sharpest, most suffocating quirks into a fierce, obsessive love language only you know how to read.
Simon doesn't care for your friends either.
If there is one thing the man excels at, it’s reading a room and identifying threats, so it’s second nature for him to be utterly standoffish to anyone who dares enter your orbit. He glares down at outsiders with an intense, brutish stare that practically screams, ‘Take one step closer, and I'll bury you.’ He systematically alienates them, narrowing your world until he is the only person left.
At the end of the day, his only goal is to ensure no one ever has the opportunity to hurt you—or take you from him.
This willing surrender of your control is exactly what his damaged soul needs. Every worst-case scenario playing out in his hyper-aware mind is instantly silenced the moment he is allowed to decide the outcome himself.
He wants to protect you, consume you, and govern you in every conceivable way. And under the heavy, protective weight of his shadow, you don’t mind one bit.
Why did Simon's kissing headcanons almost make me cry? ;-: Protect Simon.
... Could we get price and Gaz kisses? The people cry for yet more smooches!
BAHAH. For Simon, I lost it at lip trembling tbf.
Sigh...yeah. (fond) lol
I suppose we can round this out.
Part One Here
(After writing note: Y'all are killing me with these. I fear I need to be put in the corner.)
XOXO
Scarlet
-You met him at a bar after a long day, standing out on the smoker's patio. Lighter sparking weakly and never catching a flame long enough to light your cigarette. Not that your a habitual smoker. But you had a fucking day. John strolls over, lights it for you then his cigar. He lets you tease him about smoking a cigar in public like some old English gentleman. Listens as you complain about your day. You're pretty sure you've annoyed the piss out of this random dude but he just smiles with his eyes all crinkled and fond and asks you out to dinner.
-John doesn't kiss you after the first date...or the second...or the third...probably because he's married to the job and doesn't want to form a deep connection until you know what that's like. And he likes you far too much to be a one time deal. But then you finally you say, "What the hell?"
-At first, he looks a little confused and then he just leans in and kisses you. It's gentle and scratchy, his beard is soft because he conditions it like a fucking gentleman but you can definitely feel it on your cheeks.
-I picture him making noise. lmao. Like little quiet chuffs of him trying to ground himself and not just manhandle the fuck out of you
-Hands on your biceps at first, not gripping tight but grounding. Just holding you, until finally they slip and one goes around your waist to haul you close and the other comes up to splay against your jaw and tilt your head enough to deepen the kiss.
-He's slow going like Simon but more methodical. Less uncertain in himself and more controlled.
-Eventually drags you somewhere because he was holding back the whole time, trying to let you lead but then you moan or let out a little whine into his mouth and John just...snaps, drags you off to your bedroom while you giggle.
-He's the absent minded 'stand behind you and nibble that little spot beneath your ear or kiss your shoulder' type. Which always turns into trouble.
*Scratchy Bearded Price kisses on shoulder make brain go BURRRR*
-You two met out dancing at the club and he has such good rhythm. You dance with him practically all night. He buys you drinks and keeps an eye on you and your friends. Mostly out of habit.
-He's kissing your shoulder and neck before he even kisses your lips. It's just more practical because he's behind you, y'all grinding on each other.
-When you smile and turn your head, he kisses your lips, soft in pressure, but quick in movement, like he's matching the sway of your body but not trying to overwhelm you. His hands slide over your stomach and hip to keep you anchored close.
-Then he spins you to face him, all without missing a beat and drags you in to kiss you properly. It's hot and passionate. More pressure and teeth.
-When you gasp after he bites your lip (a rather calculated move on his part) he slides his tongue into your mouth.
-You don't even make it beyond the parking lot and it's in his car when things get...spicy.
-He drives you home after. Drops flowers by the next morning with just his number on the card, early like. Before he's off to a mission.
-Gathers your hair up and kisses the nape of your neck often. Or sometimes the corners of your mouth in passing.
That day Price spends the day in his back yard, mostly fixing the flower bed you kinda trampled over during the night, but he also fixed the camera that goes above his back door. It has been sitting on his kitchen counter for the past month, broken.
If he is going crazy he won't get anything on the camera, but he still should probably get checked out. (He won't)
Anyhow, in the late evening, Price has settled down in his living room after turning the lamps on outside. He lit his cigar, hung his hat up and put something on the TV. It only takes about an hour for the camera to send a notification to his phone.
‘A person is in your back yard.’ Is what the notification read. Price didn't need anymore to be up, he is halfway to the door before the notification is gone from his lock screen. “I knew I wasn't going crazy.”
He chooses to stay inside not to scare you off. He stands next to the window.
You are kneeled where you were last night. Looking at the light, your wings relaxed…and his overgrown flowers trampled, again. Your big eyes are unblinking, locked on to the light.
Price didn't know much about moths, or the supernatural. He heard of myths like Mothman and him being a bad omen. Could you be an omen of some kind?
What kind of Moth?
Atlas
Rosy Maple
Emperor
Lunar
Remaining time: 7 minutes
Sorry it's been a bit since I posted y'all. Here's another part to this story.
can we get a pt2 to controlling kyle where the team ljke steps in, concerned, and reader realizes how sweet they all can be?
why yes we can🩶
no warnings again!
Part 1
-
You’d spent the whole day getting your place ready because Kyle told you the guys were coming over that night. You vacuumed and mopped, cleaned the windows, every single room, all of it. It’s not like Kyle specifically told you to do that, you just got carried away.
He comes home early to get the beers in the fridge and gives you a sideways glance when you step out of the room in the loungewear you’d been in all day. “You’re gonna change right? We have company coming over, maybe you wanna wear that one outfit you’ve been saving.”
“Well- that was reserved for a date night, I don’t wanna waste it at home.”
“Isn’t a waste if people are gonna see it, darling.” He responds, turning and pushing you back into the room. “Go on, then. Make yourself decent.”
You get changed into the repurposed date night outfit and come back just as Kyle’s opening the door to let everyone in. You wait at the end of the hall, just waving at them as they see you. Kyle looks back at you and nods, giving you the ‘ok’ to talk.
“It’s so nice to see you all again, how’ve you been?” You jump right into it, hesitating for a moment before accepting hugs from Price and Soap, and a weird pat from Ghost. It doesn’t go unnoticed, the way you stop and glance at Kyle beforehand.
Everyone gathers on or around the couch, you naturally and Kyle’s lap and joining the conversation every once in a while. Then Kyle gets up to use the restroom and the others instantly lean in, looking at you intently.
“Y’alright? The way Garrick is, he’s not-“
“Sweetheart ya know you can talk to us, right?”
“Aye, we’re here fer ye, lass.”
You blink, thrown off by the sudden questioning and overlapping chatter from them. They looked genuinely concerned for you, and slowly things began to sink in. Apparently Kyle was known to be the sweetest person on base, even to strangers so why was he so controlling over you? You don’t answer them right away, eyes narrowing just barely. “Guys, wh-“
“What are you all talking about?” Kyle interrupts, sitting down and pulling you back into his lap with a kiss.
“Oh nothing, they were just asking about where we got the beer,” you cover it up quickly, giving him a little smile before looking at the others again.
The rest of the night, you were fairly silent. Mind torn between the way you thought Kyle just was and the way his team violently disputed that. He wasn’t a bad person, never hurt you, but he just had to be in charge and to you it just felt normal. You didn’t really have to make big decisions which was nice but also you couldn’t even decide what you were going to wear or do without his say so.
The time comes for them to leave and you don’t hesitate with the hugs this time, quietly thanking them as you give them each an extra squeeze before letting go. You shut the door and look at Kyle who was beginning to clean up.
“They’re real sweet, all of them.”
“Yeah? Even Riley?” Kyle snickers, bottles clinking in his hand. “He’s kind of standoff-ish.”
“I didn’t think so. Quite sure, but sweet. Caring.”
Kyle stops and looks at you weird. “Caring. Yeah, if you wanna put it like that. Well why don’t we finish cleaning up tomorrow? I’m tired, I know you are too.” He kisses you again and ushers you to the room, meanwhile you’re already thinking up a plan to talk to the others again and figure out why the hell he was such a control freak.
People wonder how someone like you— no offense— could stand someone like Simon. He’s too intimidating— too tall, too broody. He’s covered in scars, both from his dad and from his black ops. The man is built like a mountain, and towering over people in that skull mask of his doesn’t help his case. He’s a Ghost. No one knows who he is or anything about him. Those who get close enough usually wind up dead because lord knows the most socialization Ghost does at his job is killing some terrorist. Even his own teammates haven’t seen his face.
Little do they know Simon is a completely different person outside work. He never touches his mask unless you ask him to fuck you in it, so he’s free for you to caress and touch any time you damn please. His hair is fluffy! It’s so soft and fuzzy you could spend hours combing your fingers through it. Around you, his face is always covered in smiles; you also pepper it in kisses a dozen times a day.
He wear normal, civilian clothes: hoodies that you borrow because they smell like him, soft pjs that are so comfy to cuddle against, sweatpants that have you shamelessly ogling his bits, sometimes going shirtless in only a towel that leads you to pull it down and suck him off…
He’s got favorite hangouts, hobbies that he enjoys, friends he could spend hours with. He likes taking you on dates on his motorcycle. He loves the way the wind blows against him when he’s not stuffed in gear. He loves your arms wrapping around his waist and your head resting against his shoulder. Sometimes, he’ll take you on picnics so he can lay his head on your lap and gaze up at the clouds or skies. He likes when you spoon him and sing him to sleep.
Oh, and he’s a chatterbox. He could talk your ears off. All day, he yaps about anything and everything. Doesn’t matter so long as he has a thought about something and you’re around to hear it. You’re half tempted to bug the place because you could swear he talks to himself when you’re away.
He’s a golden retriever basically. He’s capable of being a normal person. All he wants to do is be happy. He’ll follow you around like a puppy, pawing at you for affection and trying to get as much of you as he can. With the height difference, it’s almost comical how he’ll almost double over to snuggle his head into the crook of your neck or beg for a kiss. It’s a wonder he doesn’t tire of you, but he never will. He likes this piece of heaven he’s found. There’s a ring on your finger to remind you of that.
simon riley's scars are his biggest insecurity. from the way they look to the way they feel, simon doesn't like them one bite. he hates the excuses of 'they tell a story' because he doesn't want to remember his story. he doesn't want to remember the life he had before you.
you are simons treasure, and he means it when he says it. letting you see his scars was the most terrifying thing he ever had to face. it was scarier than the bombs he had to go through, scarier than anything.
from the moment you see his face to the moment he shows you the rest of his body, you are the post patient and loving person he has ever met. the way you hold him and caress his skin as he explains each one has his heart racing.
you're the most gentle with him and to that he's grateful. no more fear or insecurity because of the marks on his skin, just pure love and a permanent smile when you're around.
Occupied France, 1944.
You work in the railway administration, translating reports for the German army.
He is a British SAS soldier with a blackened face, a stolen file, and no intention of being taken alive.
Love survives the war, but it does not acquit anyone.
PREVIOUS / MASTERLIST
Chapter 4: Le signalement
Ten days pass. The office takes them without comment. The typing continues. The carbons continue. The third column continues. Drechsler drinks his coffee at four. Pfeiffer arrives at nine through the side door and says nothing unusual and does not bring you bread.
The filing room is at the far end of the second floor, the room furthest from the stairs. No one goes there without a reason. Every morning, the route is the same. The office door. The stairs. The corner where the corridor turns. The light overhead flickers in its usual place. When you reach the second floor, your eyes go once to the far end of the hall.
On the third morning the bread shop on the Rue du Commerce has a queue that starts at seven and ends at the door. You stand in it with your ration tickets folded in your coat pocket and your work pass in the other. The woman ahead of you is carrying a basket lined with newspaper, her weight settled into one hip from standing too long. The woman behind you has a child on her hip.
The queue has gone quiet. Shoulders have folded inward. The woman with the basket has stopped talking to the woman beside her and stands with her weight sunk into one hip. You wake at six. You sleep at twelve. Between twelve and sleep, there is nothing to do in this town. No cinema. No café where you belong. No friend whose door you would knock on at that hour. You lie on your bed in the room on the Rue de la Gare and look at the ceiling. Your body does not let go. One hour passes, then another. By the time sleep comes, the alarm is already close.
When it is your turn, the woman behind the counter looks at your work pass, looks at you, and cuts a piece of bread that is slightly more regular than the one she cut for the woman before you. You see it happen. The woman behind you sees it too. The bread is dark, sour, heavier than bread should be. You take it. You do not say thank you in German. You say merci and leave.
On the fourth morning, Drechsler is in a mood. He has been on the telephone twice before nine. Both times his voice comes through the office door flat and careful, the voice of a man speaking to someone above him. When he comes out, he stops at the duty desk. Poitiers wants to know why the transport reports for the southern section have not been cross-referenced with the fuel allocation for the same period. You tell him the cross-reference is on his desk, where you put it yesterday. He goes back into his office. The door closes.
On the fifth morning Pfeiffer sits at the edge of your desk while you type and tells you that two fuel tankers were hit on the line south of Poitiers last week. He says it the way he says most things, as gossip, leaning back on his hands, looking at the ceiling. The tankers burned for six hours. The repair crews could not get close until morning. You think of the cook at the canteen last Tuesday, standing in the doorway with a cigarette, complaining that the delivery from Poitiers was three days late and half the oil was missing and he was expected to feed forty men on turnip and air. You did not connect it then. You connect it now.
Pfeiffer says the Feldgendarmerie is under pressure from upstairs because they have not caught whoever is doing it. He says the word Fallschirmjäger, parachutist, and then corrects himself and says Saboteure, and then says he heard someone in the canteen say they are British, which makes no sense to him because what would the British be doing this far south.
You say: "Pfeiffer, I am trying to type."
He shrugs, hands still braced behind him on the desk, then looks at you for a second longer and gets down.
On the sixth day a circular arrives in the internal post. Distribution list, stamped for all administrative offices in the Châtellerault sector. You translate it into French for the mairie. The text describes a suspect: British male, tall, strong build, possibly injured, may be travelling under civilian cover, possibly assisted by local civilians. The description is general enough that it could be half the men in the British army and specific enough that it is not. You type it accurately. You put the carbon in the outgoing tray. Your hands do not shake. They have no reason to shake. The circular is about a suspect you have never met, because the man in your filing room was your husband, and your husband went home, and you have not seen him since.
Thursday is market day. You buy a small bag of chicory from the market and two carrots that are furred with soil and cost more than they should. The market still opens on Thursdays. But the tables have grown thin. Cabbages with split leaves. Apples bruised soft on one side. You walk home past the café on the square where the plat du jour is written on a board outside and the smell of stew comes through the door when a man in a field-grey collar opens it and goes in. The stew stays in your nose after the café door shuts. Meat, onion, fat in the heat. Food with a body to it. In your hand, the carrots and chicory swing in their paper bag, two carrots, one small bundle of leaves, soil collecting at the bottom. The walk home from the market takes twenty minutes.
Breakfast is chicory and yesterday's bread softened over the stove. Supper is whatever can be made small enough to look intentional. You eat at the table in your room on the Rue de la Gare with the blackout curtain pinned and the window closed and the sound of the tracks outside where no trains run because the yard is still under restricted movement and the memorandum you translated is still in effect.
Brandt asked about the husband. On the third morning, at the checkpoint, handing back your Kennkarte, he said: "Und Ihr Mann?"
You were ready. You had been ready since the first morning.
"Zurück nach Deutschland," you said. "Er hat mir etwas gebracht. Er spricht kein Französisch und kann sich nicht verständigen. Allein kommt er hier nicht zurecht."
Brandt looked at you. He nodded once. He lifted the barrier. You walked through. You do not know if he believed you. You know he wrote nothing down, because Brandt is a man who writes things down when they matter and does not when they do not, and a German woman's difficult husband going back to Germany is not a thing that matters. Or it was not, then.
On the eighth day Drechsler comes out of his office and puts a stack of papers on the duty desk and says the Kommandantur wants all railway personnel in the sector to re-verify their personal files by end of month. Routine, he says. Administrative housekeeping. He says it with the tired voice of a man who has been told to do something pointless and will do it because the alternative is explaining why he did not. He goes back into his office.
The forms are ordinary. Yellow paper, old stock, corners gone soft from sitting too long in a storeroom. Personnel verification forms. Name. Date of birth. Place of birth. Nationality. Marital status.
Marital status.
You look at the stack for three seconds. Then you pick up the next transport requisition and type the third column.
On the tenth night you stay late again.
The fuel allocation revision for the first week of July needs cross-referencing with the June originals. The second revision contradicts the first in the fourth column, which is the column no one reads except you. You correct it. You file the carbon. You put the original in Drechsler's tray for countersigning in the morning. The office is empty. At night, the fluorescent light in the second-floor corridor stops flickering. It burns flat and pale above the tiles. The far end of the hall remains dark. No light has been put there, only the door.
You go to the filing room because the June originals are on the second shelf on the left side, behind the bridge inspection stack, and you need the numbers for the carbon copy you are preparing. This is your job and your job is the reason you are in this building at nine in the evening.
The door is closed. You push it open.
The room is dark. The blackout curtain is pinned on both corners. No light. The window is shut. The air is different from ten days ago. Warmer. Used.
Someone is at the filing cabinet on the right side. The drawer is pulled out to its full length. His hand is inside, past the wrist, not quite to the elbow. The upper arm holds its position. Only the forearm moves with purpose among the files.
Then his head turns.
For one second, the blackened face means nothing to you. Burnt cork around the eyes. Netting pulled low. A dark jacket, close-fitting, not civilian. The man in the scarf and borrowed silence is not in the room.
Brown eyes. The whites show sharply against the blackened skin around them.
You know him.
He straightens. There is a thin file in his left hand. With his right, he closes the drawer.
That drawer catches when you use it. It has always caught. Tonight it slides shut without resistance and closes with a metal report that lingers in the room.
"You should be gone," you say.
"Should be." The netting flattens the vowels, but the consonants carry through. English.
You look at the file in his hand. Yellow-buff paper. Transport schedule. Not fuel allocation. Not bridge inspection. Transport. You know what is in those files because you have typed most of them. Train numbers, departure points, cargo abbreviations. MUN. KFZ. Betr.St. If someone wanted to stop a train from arriving, these are the numbers.
"That is not yours," you say.
"No."
"You came back for this."
He looks at you. The file flat against his leg. His right hand at his side. Open. Not inside the jacket.
"Not for you," he says.
Your hand is on the doorframe. Your fingers tighten on the wood and then you let go.
"No," you say. "Of course not."
The corridor behind you is empty. No one comes here at this hour except mosquitoes and men who do not want to be heard. The building around you is doing what it does every night.
"You are not regular army," you say.
He does not answer.
"A lost soldier does not come back for rail schedules."
"Then I'm not lost."
His face is streaked black and the netting covers him from the nose down and the file is in his hand and his boots are the same boots from ten days ago, re-soled, caked.
You look at his hand. The knuckles are scraped again, fresh. His thumb has a bruise at the base that has gone yellow at the edges.
"You should call," he says.
Your hand finds the door handle behind you. The metal is cold. Eight steps to the corridor. The stairs at the far end. The night guard’s window at the front, yellow light on the floor.
His eyes are on you. Above the burnt cork, level.
Your hand is on the door handle. The metal warms under your palm.
Betr.St. means fuel. Fuel goes south.
Your brother is somewhere near Bonneuil-Matours, in boots that have split at the toe.
The second passes. Another second.
The door handle is warm. You open it and go straight back into the corridor.
Behind you, he stays in the filing room with the transport schedule and the burnt cork and the netting across his face and the window he has already found. Your shoes sound on the stone. The toilet runs. The boiler ticks.
The stairs take you down fast. At the junction where the corridor meets the front hall, you turn right. The night guard’s window. Yellow light. The radio.
"Wache," The panic stays in your mouth. You use the voice you use at the office, low enough not to carry, clear enough to be obeyed. "Hier ist jemand. Im Aktenraum."
The guard's chair scrapes. The radio cuts. Boots on stone. A torch beam swings around the corner and catches your face. He comes past you. A second man behind him. They move down the corridor toward the filing room. You press yourself against the wall.
Inside the filing room, the sound of the window latch. The blackout curtain ripping free. The guard shouting. The second man shouting. The window banging open against the frame. Boots on the sill, then gravel, then nothing but voices and torchlight moving across the yard, toward the rusted warehouse doors and the coal train sitting dark on the freight siding and the wire fence where yellow tape marks the sections that have already been cut.
He is gone.
The window is open. The curtain hangs from one corner. The drawer is closed.
The file is not in it.
The guard asks you what you saw. You tell him: a man, in the filing room, at the cabinet. You did not see his face. His face was blackened. You do not know how he got in. You came to file a revision and found him there. You called immediately.
Immediately.
The guard writes it down. You become a line in the report. You give him your name. He writes it down. You give him the time. He writes it down.
The corridor goes quiet again. The footsteps are gone. The voices are gone. The radio stays behind glass. What remains is the knock inside your chest, one beat after another, too loud for a building this empty.
You go back to your desk. The fuel allocation revision is still in Drechsler's tray. The carbon is still on your desk, half-typed. You put your hands on the keys. Your right palm still holds the door handle in it, cold metal pressed into the skin.
You begin typing.
The carbon comes out clean. The third column is correct.
Outside, torchlight sweeps the yard. A vehicle moves along the perimeter road. The coal train sits on the siding, dark, unmoving. Past the wire fence and the yellow tape, beyond the warehouse doors, a man with a blackened face and a stolen file moves through the dark.
Every single time you say that, Ghost has given you the most deadpan look. The worst part is you don't even know if it's deadpan or not. Literally every look he gives could be considered deadpan because of his mask.
Regardless, you keep pointing out any cat you find in the area.
A gray one with white spots speckled all over consistently finds the two of you. He never meows, is always in some corner taking a nap and seems to be an old loner.
"Meow meow!" You call out excitedly. You kneel down on the asphalt and pick him up in your arms, cuddling close to the cat. "Hi, baby! My baby."
You smoosh his cheeks together and he doesn't bite. He doesn't bite! How the hell does he not bite?! Ghost is staring at the both of you with the most perplexed look on his face, eyebrows knitted together and mouth curling like he ate rancid cat food.
"Who's that? Who's that?" You turn to Ghost. "That's my lieutenant! Say hi to Lieutenant Ghost. Say hi!"
You cradle him in your arms like a baby and stand up, walking over to Ghost. His back feels like someone shoved a ramrod down his spine. You pat the cat's butt like he's a baby.
"Say hi, baby."
The cat with his twitchy little nose and fluttering tail, really does look at Ghost. To his surprise, the cat gives a slow blink to the masked man.
"Meow."
You giggle happily, cradling him in your arms some more. Eventually, he wiggles unhappily and you have to put him down.
With his tail high up in the air and his butt on full display, the two of you watch him saunter away like the gentleman he is.
"You know, I think he likes you." You smile at Ghost.
I saw a post from someone else and I legit can’t find it BUT!
Possessive Kyle X people pleaser!reader
Kyle has been controlling what they eat day and wear, making sure everything is perfect and reader just wants to be needed, to be sought out and loved and after hearing what the rest of the 141 says she’s kinda like…..where did my life go?
oooh ok I think I can kinda piggyback off the last one I did cuz that’s when reader started to like realize shit lol
nothing for warnings! Part 1 part 2
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It took a while until you were able to get in touch with the others again. Not because you forgot, you just couldn’t figure out how to get their information without piquing Kyle’s attention or suspicion. Their words had stuck with you since their last visit, about Kyle being known as the sweetheart to everyone.
But one night when Kyle was showering, you finally get ahold of his phone and send the team’a numbers to yourself, deleting the evidence from his phone before putting it back. He comes out of the shower and you feign innocence, being just as sweet and compliant as you always were despite the inner turmoil you were facing. Just in case, not that Kyle was one to go through your phone, you save everyone under fake names and create a group chat.
Hey it’s me, Kyle doesn’t know I have your numbers. Can we find time to talk about this whole thing?
You send the message and shove your phone into your pocket before joining him on the couch for your nightly show binge. The next morning, you check your phone and see they all responded with some variation of yes. You make plans to get together and now you just needed a good enough excuse to leave without Kyle insisting he come along or questioning it. So that night at dinner, you just go for it.
“Kyle, love, I’m meeting the girls for brunch this weekend,” you begin, gauging his reaction. “Mackenzie’s just gone through a breakup and just wants us to be there. Moral support and all.”
Kyle nods, taking a bite of his food without an issue. “Course, darling. You need to get out, s’good for you.”
And with that, you’re free to go that very weekend. You act like everything’s normal, even dolling up a little like you always did when you actually met with your friends. You make it to the cafe you and the others agreed on and quickly find them sticking out like sore thumbs at the back of the shop. You go over and sit in the empty seat, swallowing the anxiety building in your throat. “Spill. What’s off about Kyle?”
Price is the first to speak, trying to be mindful with his words. “He just doesn’t seem like the Gaz- er- Kyle we’re familiar with. On base, he’s just about the nicest bloke you’ll ever find.”
“He’s jus not like that with ya,” adds Simon, tilting his head a little. “Seems controlling.”
“Controlling? No. No, Kyle isn’t-“ you scoff and shake your head at the absurd suggestion. “He’s not controlling, alright?”
“Lass, he tells ye when yer allowed tae talk. Tha’ don’t seem crazy tae ye?”
You breathe out slowly, almost glaring at them as you try to put it together. “But…I just wanna make him happy.” Your voice cracks on ‘happy’ and you let out a quiet gasp as you fight back the tears. “He’s happy when I listen, what’s so wrong with that?”
The tears fall anyway, short gasps and sniffles accompanying the waterworks. You didn’t get it, you couldn’t. How could Kyle- your Kyle be controlling? All he wanted was for you to listen to him and he was fine. That wasn’t control. But the looks on the men’s faces say otherwise. They share a glance and Simon clears his throat before speaking again.
“Listen, if ya wanna stay with one of us in the meantime ya can. We can talk to ‘im. Get some sense knocked into that brain of his.” It was a kind offer, really, but you couldn’t accept. You shake your head, swiping your tears away.
“No, this…this is something I should do on my own. Confront it head on,” you get up from your seat and sniffle again before giving an awkward goodbye and leaving.
When you walk into your apartment, Kyle looks up from his phone and smiles subtly at the sight of you. “Hey, how was brunch? Mackenzie okay?”
who’d taken a vow of celibacy. He’d spent years taming his desires, abstaining not only from sex but also from any dreams of love. His place was in the church, serving god and the people.
When he met you, he didn’t fall in lust. No, it was a slow-burn. You were a new nun, and he spent time settling you in and keeping an eye out for you. You’d chatter with him about every little thing. You were talkative and honest, and Simon never found himself tired of listening. It was barely noticeable, the way he inclined himself towards you. It didn’t show; but it was present in the way he suggested the garden walls be painted your favorite color, the way he planned meals so you’d get enough nutrition, the way he nearly broke the face of a man who harassed you and no one had ever seen the usually gentle giant be this furious.
He spent months trying to convince himself he was just perhaps better friends with you. It wasn’t until you were about to transfer to another parish that he realized he was head over heels.
But Simon was barely certain you felt the same way about him. And he knew your devotion well enough to know you’d never break your vows even if you did. So once more, he crucified his flesh and dreams to bury himself into the ministry. He spends his life having lost you.
VS
Incubus Simon, and you’re his latest target. He sets out in disguise to seduce you. Your libido has never been higher, enhanced by his powers. He’ll take your body— again and again, in every corner of your house, tempting you to indulge in fornication and filth till you’ve both had your full— though what he really wants is your soul. He convinces himself it’s just about the lust. It’s about his demon nature and his need to claim you for hell.
Never mind that his eyes stray from your pussy to your eyes instead. Never mind he feels his heart flutter and flatline, wishing you’d gaze into his instead of squeezing them shut in pleasure. Never mind that his hips slow and gentle, and he tells you it’s because he needs a break but really it’s because he’s taken by the urge to make love instead. Never mind that instead of torturing your soul, he does everything in his power to make you happy.
Time passes, and he still hasn’t returned to hell. There’s a ring on his finger that pairs with yours, and identical wrinkles around his body and yours. When you die, he forfeits your soul that he’d claimed years back, because doing so means you’ll be in heaven where an angel like you deserves to be. He’s willing to be battered and stripped of his status in hell if that’s what it takes to make sure you’re okay. He spends eternity looking up at you and savoring every hint of you he can get from afar. Your memories are wiped of your time with him, and you’re perfectly happy. His souls wilts and withers. his fate is to spend eternity having lost you.
Simon Riley didn't do 'relationships'. What could a guy like him offer anyone anyway? He was rough, grumpy, hard to love, struggling with affection and romantic gestures. His experiences with dating and relationships didn't give him much hope for the future either.
But then there was you, and he thought maybe, just maybe... he wasn't sure what maybe he was thinking about, but he dared to give it a shot. Nothing to lose, right? He could try to be more affectionate. He could try to be as soft as you were, or even a fraction of.
He could hold your hand or put his own on your thigh while he drove you around town. He could... kiss you, he liked kissing you. The bare minimum, considering you'd been dating for a month. His full and strict schedule barely gave him time for you, so when you two only met up during the night, there wasn't much to do except sit in his car, talk about whatever could be talked about and make out.
He messed up. He knows he messed up, he did much worse than just mess up, and you know that he knows. You didn't deserve to be treated the way he treated you, he knows that. But he doesn't think about it too much. Work takes up too much of his time. His attempts at pushing you out of his mind are horrible.
You miss him, he knows that. You miss him, you've cried over him, you had your heart broken by him, and yet he's emotionally constipated to the point where he refuses to take accountability. He refuses to communicate other than send one singular message to apologise - 'circumstances don't allow a proper talk', he tells himself. Bullshit.
Days of you hoping he would come back to you turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, and two months after your break up - one month after you stopped begging him to talk things out - fate gave him another shot. One week off, one singular week that he swears to himself he will make worth it.
He has been a shitty boyfriend, below bare minimum, and looking back he doesn't understand how you put up with his bullshit for so long. But he sees that you're worth fighting for. You tried your best to stay with him when he wasn't doing well in his own life and in your relationship, you showered him with affection and kisses when he couldn't even meet you before sunset.
You carefully open the door and he can see it in your eyes, the way your heart drops to your stomach. He notices how you swallow, clearly caught off-guard, fingers tightening around the handle.
He straightens up just a little bit, holding the bouquet between you, a peace offering.
The first ever flowers you receive from him.
"I came to talk," he says.
You just stare at him in return. Not in the way you used to, not with adoration in your eyes while you hold his face in your hands and call him nicknames. You stare at him like you're in shock, like the world just came crashing down on you.
You hadn't gotten over him yet, had you?
He steps just a little bit closer to you, hand hesitantly reaching up to cup your cheek in his palm. And he does, your soft skin warm against his, making his hand tingle and his heart leap a little. But then you pull away and frown at him, arms crossed.
"Maybe I don't want to see you," you say quietly, like you're not sure what else to say, and he realises he kind of forgot what your voice sounded like.
"Bullshit, you do want to see me, you wanted to talk-"
"That was a month ago, Simon." You can't help the way your lip trembles, tears welling up in your eyes as you stare at the flowers, unable to look at him. "I begged you to talk to me for an entire month."
He sighs quietly and lowers his head. "I had work-"
"You always have work." You angrily wipe away your tears. "Y-you always have work and then you have to sleep and you can't even text me. You never made time for me."
His heart breaks at your tears and he steps into your home like he belongs there, right with you. Freeing himself from the flowers by putting them aside, he quickly pulls you into a tight hug. "I'm so sorry."
"You're not," you sob into his chest, clinging to him like you're scared he'll leave again.
"I am, I swear I am," he whispers into your hair and closes his eyes, "I was a dick. Please forgive me."
“Down, look up at me.” Johnny pushes Simon head until he’s down on his knees in front of him. His cheek was right up against Johnny’s bulge and the Scot didn’t even try and hide how fucking turned on he was by it, grinding against his lieutenant’s face just for the hell of it. “Take it out, LT.”
Simon squints up at him from behind his frames but listens, slipping his gloves off before raising his hands to Johnny’s belt. He holds eye contact as the metal clinks softly and the sound of the zipper fills the storage closet Johnny pulled him into. He only looks away as he pulls his pants down and watches as his cock comes free. It looked like he’d been hard for a while, judging by the way his tip was already leaking and red.
He wraps his fingers around it and starts stroking, his wrist twisting slightly as he builds up a rhythm. Johnny inches his hips forward until his precum streaks across Simon’s lips like a gloss and then Simon gets the hint. He parts his lips and takes him into his mouth, having to shift on his knees since he had a feeling Johnny would make him work for it. His tongue dances around the girth in his mouth, drool dripping from the corners whenever Johnny hits the back of his throat.
“Ah- fuck just like tha’ keep lookin at me, pretty,” Johnny urges, brows furrowing and back hitting the wall while his hands remain on Simon’s head and his fingers grip his hair. He gasps and lets out a harsh breath, trying to stay quiet but he was finding it significantly harder considering his newfound fetish.
Simon keeps on, humming softly as he sucks Johnny off and getting drool all over his shirt. His glasses start slipping and he goes to fix them but Johnny beats him to it, pushing them up his nose and very suddenly yanking Simon’s head off him. “Fuck-!”
Johnny starts fisting his own cock, jaw falling open as he croaks out a strangled moan, covering Simon’s lenses and face in thick, hot ropes of cum. Simon flinches, have expecting it to get into his eyes but thankfully they’re the only safe part of his face. Johnny whimpers as he lets go of his hair and leans against the wall completely to hold himself up.
Simon takes the glasses off and finds a rag, cleaning his face off before doing his best to get his glasses clean. “Y’really had to do it on these, Johnny?”
“Ye looked hot.” Johnny shrugs, panting slightly. “Couldn’t help maself.”
Platonic yandere Simon with reader purposefully being annoying and rebellious to try and get him to let them free. They're just poking and proding as much as possible, doing harmless pranks as well to try and get him to not want us anymore. Jokes on them, he's figures out pretty early and just finds it cute.
Hope you like it <33
Platonic Yandere Simon Riley - Pranks
Simon almost didn’t notice at first, little things would happen that would confuse him. All of his spoons would be in the wrong drawer, then all of his socks suddenly weren’t pairs anymore. He didn’t think much of it at first, he did tend to put stuff in the wrong places, and he lost socks all the time.
Then, his coffee filters had holes cut out of them, every qtip had its cotton ends cut off. He realized quickly what was happening. He didn’t feel angry, he was a little giddy. You were trying to annoy him, pranking him, making his life inconvenient.
After months of you ignoring him after he.. brought you home.. you were finally engaging with him. He was starting to look forward to what you were going to do next.
All of the tags on his new clothes were cut off so he couldn’t return them, you put salt in his coffee when he wasn’t looking. You were always confused when he would just crack a smile, shaking his head.
You start to get frustrated with him. Shouldn’t he be mad? Angry with you? You couldn’t understand it at all. You were being annoying, inconsiderate, and he was just.. doing nothing about it?
“Why aren’t you mad at me..?” You ask him quietly one night at dinner. He looks up at you from his plate, watching as you slowly eat the food he made for you.
“It’s better than you ignoring me, kiddo.” He says gently, all he wants is your attention really. It seems that your attempts at sabotage have sabotaged you instead.
“It’s cute, honestly. Reminds me of my mates messing around with me when I was your age.” He looks back down to his plate as he continues to eat his dinner. You think for several moments, unsure of how to respond to him after he threw you a curveball.
“But.. I wrecked your coffee filters.. and I hid all the spoons.” you try to speak, a little flabbergasted. He nods along as you stubble through your sentence.
“You sure did.” He’s not annoyed at all, his eyes racking over your confused face with rapt attention.
“You gonna put a thumb tack on my chair next?” He jokes a little, shaking his head as he chuckles. You go quiet, you were going to do that next, but now you're not going to.
“Don’t worry kiddo, I’m not mad about harmless pranks.” He waves away your concern, shoving more food into his mouth.
“But if you ever hurt me or yourself, I’ll be mad. You understand?” His voice gets low for a second, causing you to stiffen in your seat.
“Y-yeah.” You mumble, looking away from him as you plant your eyes on your dinner plate.
You aren't a child, despite being born in a different century than he was, and you certainly aren't helpless. What you are is John's fucking princess.
You can have a job if you want, of course, or you could laze around in the library he built for you all day. He never wants to stop you from doing anything or hold you back. What he wants needs is to take care of you.
He cooks, he cleans, he fixes, he works. You want to bake him some muffins? You are a darling, and he will eat them all in one sitting just to keep that smile on your face. But you feel peckish? He's fixing charcutery. You feel like something fancy? He's prepping a fondue night. And you don't even take your dishes to the sink. You keep your pretty ass in your seat and talk to him about your day while he washes up. If he's running late one night and can't fix dinner, he orders in for you. Before he goes on a mission, he meal preps, hires and schedules a cleaning service, and hand washes your car inside and out just in case anything happens.
In the beginning, you thought you might grow tired of it eventually or go stir crazy, but years in, you were quite cushy on your throne. Because by letting him take care of you, you take care of him.
You haven't thought too hard about where the compulsion stems from, but it is as much a part of him as his hat. Taking care of you is everything to him, his hobby, his passion, his purpose. You are everything that is good in his life, and worshipping you is the only way he can atone for keeping you to himself.
And in the beginning, you accepted it as him being an excellent partner. He drove you everywhere you wanted, he got you the puppy you had always wanted(it was a retired military dog trained and bred to take down bears), and he ate pussy like a fucking pie-eating contest he'd won twenty years in a row.
He always asked before he started doing things for you. He never wanted you to feel like you were a doll in a dollhouse for him to play with. But sometimes he didn't ask for what he needed for fear of smothering you. About two months into dating, you were getting dressed for the day after he'd spent the night at your flat. He had already put on his uniform and leant against the wall as you picked through your closet to find an outfit. A glance in the mirror told you that he wasn't exactly relaxed. His arms were crossed, and his brow furrowed. You asked if everything was alright. It wasn't until the fifth time that this happened that you sat him down and planted yourself on his lap, refusing to move away or closer until he fessed up. Each time you dressed with him present, it got worse. His fingers would drum against his biceps, then he would clench his jaw, then grind his teeth, and the last straw was a persistent eye twitch that showed up whenever you walked into your closet.
You didn't have to pull teeth to get it out of him. He was nothing if not straightforward with you, and this seemed to be the only deviation. He sighed as he rested his forehead on your shoulder and admitted that he wanted to dress you. Not just lay out your clothes for today, but help you step into your pants, button your shirt, and tie your shoelaces.
It was off-putting. By then, you knew it was more than just being a great partner. John explained that when he wasn't taking care of you, he felt the room close in, his throat close up, and his skin crawl. He hadn't told you not because he was self-conscious about his needs, but because he didn't see his desires as important.
From then on, you kept careful watch of when he started getting twitchy and when he melted like butter on cornbread. And it was a learning curve to be sure. You realized even before you moved in together that he got a bit gruff when you used your card to buy something, even if it was a present for him. So you agreed when you moved in together that every penny you owned stayed in a high-interest savings account while your name went on every one of his cards and properties. This was a perfect medium for both of you, almost. But when you realized that he had been sneaking even more money into your personal account somehow, you had to have a meeting. He had noticed that you would come home with a fresh set of nails, and he hadn't gotten a notification from the credit card company. It was the first time you two compromised on his caretaking. He agreed that he would stop giving you more money if you started actually using his card.
Little hiccups here and there were natural and handled like partners. When you wanted to do something independently, you told him explicitly that he was not to interfere. Or when you needed private time, and he would respect it like orders from Laswell.
The problem was that he wasn't always home. His work required a lot from him, and he travelled a good bit sometimes without knowing if or when he would be back. This caused a great deal of anxiety for him. The first time he went on a trip after you got together, it was only for four days, but when he came back, he was pale, ashen, and damn near delirious from lack of sleep. His boys had rushed him from the airfield straight to your flat and into your arms as soon as they landed. They'd never seen him like that, not with his previous partners or anything. You thanked them and promised to take care of it before they left with concerned glances over their shoulders.
It was a wake-up call for John. You hadn't been together for even six months, and he was a basket case. That was when you sat down together and decided to come up with an actual plan. A plan for while he was away, a plan for if anything were to happen to him, and finally, if anything happened to you. He threw up during the last one.
Each plan involved his support network. You invited the whole task force over for drinks so that you and your partner could explain to them what was happening. They responded with disbelief at first, then confusion, then with eagerness to help.
You had met each of them many times at parties or even just poker nights. The boys had been kind enough to let you into their little circle without so much as a huff of annoyance. And of course, John talked about each of them as part of his own soul. You knew each of them well, and they loved you. But you were all about to get a lot closer.
"So the Captain has needs," Soap said, "And you two want us to take care of them when he's not here?"
You looked to John, who nodded solemnly. "Tha' bout sums it up. I need you to take care of the missus when I'm not around. Can't do a bloody thing while I'm out there, not knowing she's being cared for."
They all sat uncomfortably and took a pause as they remembered the sorry state he was in a few days prior. Forget not being able to do his job, Price couldn't function without you.
"Fair 'nuf." Gaz nodded and swirled his beer in the bottle absently at his side. "But I have a feeling you mean more than just mowing the lawn once a week."
You pursed your lips. "No. John would make a list before each trip."
"And that would include?" Ghost looked at you while he leaned back on the couch with his arms crossed and his legs spread. He wasn't going to let you move on without clarifying specifics.
You glanced at John by your side. He was hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in a death grip, his scotch long forgotten on the side table.
"Well, cooking, for one-" you started.
"Everything. Driving her, feeding her, dressing in the morning, sex, letting the dog out, everything."
The room was silent for a moment. He'd said the quiet part out loud. They'd all been expecting it, but they took a second to let it settle in.
Gaz was the first to break it, addressing you directly, "And you're alright with it, love?"
You blinked. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Gaz's brow furrowed. Soap cut in, "Well, we're not, you know," he gestured to John, "him."
"As far as I'm concerned, each of you is part of me. And if she's happy and spoiled, then I can rest easy." John shrugged.
"We'll be fucking your bird, Price." Ghost once again insisted on the utmost clarity.
You blushed and nodded, picking at a run in the couch.
"Well, she's certainly not against that part. Brought it up the other week as an option before I even left." John sat back. He probably relaxed a bit at no longer being the focus of the conversation.
You choked on a particularly deep gulp of your beverage. You couldn't bring yourself to look up. "Uh-"
"And whatever the missus wants, she fucking gets. I'm happy with it so long as I get proof you got the job done. Send a video here and there."
Now the boys were speechless. Soap gaped like a fish out of water. Gaz took the opportunity to chug the rest of his beer. Ghost stared dead into John's soul.
You sighed. "Well, our cards are on the table." If this didn't end well, you and John were going to have to move to Alaska. "Thoughts? Questions? Constructive feedback?"
"John." Everyone turned to Ghost, giving him their full attention. "We get a taste, and we're not going anywhere. You willing to take that step? She's gonna be our bird too now."
John nodded. "'s only right. Been keeping 'er to myself for too long. She deserves more."
You seemed to be behind in the conversation. What did they mean? Were they in?
John pulled you into his lap to sit sideways while he leaned back, relaxed now that the hard part was done.
"Sides," Soap started as he resettled into a new position between Ghost and Gaz, "'s not like we're strangers to sharing and taking care of each other."
It was true and a big part of why you and John had felt comfortable asking in the first place. The boys were in a tight circle in a way that standard sexuality and normative dynamics didn't apply. You knew from day one in your relationship with their captain that they were a package deal. Often, while they were out roughing it, they partook in each other for stress relief and comfort. John had told you it wasn't uncommon for them to pair up in tents for warmth and companionship. You had no qualms with any of it. After all, they were there first, and you had no place denying that, given the opportunity, you wouldn't do the same. There wasn't even a concern of STDs or anything because the boys kept the circle closed, save for you. More than anything, you felt like you were being included in the team rather than betraying your partner.
Oh... Uh-... Oh!
You were being brought into the circle. No longer were you John's plus one; you belonged to all of them now and presumably vice versa.
It wasn't until your cheeks started aching that you realised how big you were smiling. But you needed to go one step at a time.
"It might be best if we take this in a few steps," you spoke slowly. Every eye was on you, and every ear was perked. John's arm around your waist tightened. "It's a big shift, and I want to make sure we don't break our necks going too fast. John's next trip is in what? Three weeks? Until then, John and I'll stay here together while you three come visit when you want, but we'll wait until he ships off until you truly take over for a bit. It might help you feel a bit more in control, darling."
Gaz grimaced and Soap pouted, but they nodded and mumbled their agreement that your plan would be the best.
John kissed your temple, his whiskers tickling your eyelashes. "That's very thoughtful of you, love. I'm amenable to that."
"When you say visit when we want," Gaz had a lilt in his voice that feigned indifference to the answer of the question, "You mean whenever we want?"
You started to open your mouth, but John beat you to it, "No nights yet."
"But-" Soap jumped up to argue.
"Let me finish, Sergeant."
Soap pouted again but sat back quietly. You could see the tick in his jaw from the effort.
"No nights yet. We'll have a big pile on the night before I leave. But in the meantime, you'll be over quite a bit. You have a lot of training to go through before I leave her in your hands."
Simon considers himself a quiet person, only talking when it's necessary or when his opinion is asked. He is used to shouting at the group of goddamn soldiers who think they can do whatever the hell they want during training. That was until he met you—someone even quieter than him. You are a sergeant whose voice is usually heard only by the Captain. It isn't that you have a condition that prevents you from speaking; you are just naturally quiet, always listening, smiling, and paying close attention during meetings. Simon admires that. He admires how patient you are with everyone.
But today? Simon is sitting on the couch in the common room, reading a book he pulled off the shelf, when he hears it.
"GOD DAMMIT! WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK? ARE YOU CRAZY, SOLDIER?"
A voice echoes from the hall. Who the hell would shout like that? Simon looks up just as you storm into the common room. Your face is flushed red with anger, your jaw is clenched, and your knuckles are white from the tension.
"These people are fucking useless!" you snap. "They can't even follow basic instructions. How am I supposed to have any patience with them when they’re absolute fucking plonkers?"
Oh, you are mad. Really mad.
Simon is instantly hard. He has never heard you like this before, and for some strange reason, he loves the way you look right now—livid because some shitty bastards couldn't follow rules. He takes in the sight of you: your hair messy from where you've been running your hands through it, your breathing heavy and ragged.
"Hard day?" he asks quietly.
"Hard? A bloody nightmare."
You look at him, and Simon feels his cock tighten and ache against his cargo pants. He shifts on the couch, trying to adjust himself so you won't notice the bulge.
Only God is a witness to how many times Simon has jerked off at night, his fist wrapped around his cock, stroking up and down while thinking of you. He thinks of how beautiful you looked, all mad and frustrated, wishing he were the one who could fuck that attitude right out of you.
Two posts in a row? Holy moly 👹
I'm on vacation so I have absolutely nothing to do with my life. 🥳 hope you like it, now you can ask for any question or request on my profile!
