Simon hates it when you’re sad. Not in the way that he thought it was annoying or burdensome but he just hated it. You got so mopey and hard on yourself, you refused to give yourself a break unless he forced you.
Which was why he was currently holding your hips down against the mattress and slurping at your cunt. He told you to just vent and talk about anything and everything while he made you feel better. A whine struggles to be heard as you try and speak.
“S’just that I’m so exhausted, ya know?” You look down at him briefly before flopping your head back down on the pillow. “I feel like I’m not doing enough and mmm.”
“Keep goin, love.” Simon’s words are muffled as he shuts his eyes and continues slowly, savoring every second of you.
“Not- not doing enough and so I try to do more but by that point I’m burnt out.”
He nods and his tongue flicks at your clit. His hand slides up your stomach to grab at your tits and he opens his eyes. “Take a break for a day or two. Reset.”
You let out a content sigh, shaking your head. “You know I can’t- ow!” You jerk away when Simon catches your clit between his teeth and bites down just a tiny bit. He gives you a warning glance before kissing it to soothe the sting.
“Y’can. Y’just won’t.” His hand waves for you to lay back down and he scoots closer to really get his face buried between your legs.
You have to stop talking because the coil in your abdomen was building up and it was all you could focus on at the moment. Your chest begins to rise and fall more rapidly the closer you get, thighs beginning to shake as well.
Then you cum into Simon’s mouth and don’t even realize you’re squeezing his head until he makes a low grunt and grips your legs. He keeps eating you out through your orgasm until your body relaxes and he pulls away, wiping his mouth.
“Y’still sad?”
He looks at you, catching your breath on the bed and looking like a whole new person but of course you wanted more. “A little bit, yeah.”
It comes at the window—three slow taps against the glass, patient as a funeral procession—and you know before you even turn your head. You know by the weight of it; by the way the sound doesn't ask.
Yves is mid-sentence. Something about a vineyard in Lyon, his mother's property, the way the light hits the grapes in September. He's nice. He wore a button-down and brought wine that didn't come from a Tesco meal deal. He is, by every quantifiable metric, a good date.
The tapping stops.
You don't breathe.
"Everything alright?" Yves asks, and you watch his face—open, earnest, completely unaware that the temperature in your flat just dropped ten degrees.
"Yeah," you answer before clearing your throat. "Excuse me a second."
You're already moving toward the hall when the front door opens. Not breaks. Not splinters. Opens. Because of course he still has the key. The landlord changed the lock three months ago. You don't know when he copied the new one and you're not sure you want to.
Your ex boyfriend fills your hallway the way smoke fills a room.
All ominous six-foot-four of him, still in full kit—plate carrier, tac belt, the Sig strapped to his thigh like it grew there. His hardshell mask is streaked with something dark. Mud. Maybe mud. The hall light catches the wet shine of it across the jaw and you tell yourself it's mud because the alternative makes your stomach fold in on itself.
He smells like diesel and copper and cold air, like he came straight from the tarmac. Like he didn't even stop at base to dekit.
He looks at you first. Always does. Those flat brown eyes finding you through the mask's sockets, dragging slow from your face to the silk top stretched across your supple chest, down the curve of your waist where your jeans sit snug against your plump hips.
And something shifts behind the mask. Not softening. Settling. Like a predator confirming its kill is still where it left it.
Then his gaze slides past you. Down the hall. Into the kitchen where Yves is half-standing from the stool with a glass of Côtes du Rhône in his hand and the dawning expression of a man who has just realized he is in the wrong story.
"Who's this then, pet?"
Low and conversational, like he's asking about a parcel you've received.
"Simon—"
"Didn't quite catch 'is name."
He hasn't moved nor raised his voice, which is even worse somehow. Hasn't done anything except stand there in your hallway with blood drying on his mask and one gloved hand resting almost lazy on the grip of his sidearm.
"Bit rude, innit. Not introducin' us."
Yves sets the wine glass down. You have to give him credit—his hand only shakes a little.
"I should go," Yves declares wide-eyed, already reaching for his jacket on the back of the stool.
Then he doesn't look at you. He looks at the door, and then at the six-foot-four obstacle between him and it, and something in his face goes very pale and very still.
Simon steps aside soundlessly. One measured pace to the left, his broad back pressing flat against the wall, giving Yves exactly enough room to pass. Generous. Magnanimous, even.
Yves doesn't take the space so much as bolt through it, shoulders pulled tight, not breathing, the way a mouse runs along a baseboard when it can smell the cat, and the front door closes behind him with a soft, apologetic click.
You stand in the hall with your arms crossed and your blood pressure somewhere in the stratosphere.
"Four months, Simon."
He tilts his head slowly, like a dog hearing a frequency it doesn't understand.
"Four months since I told you it was over."
"Mm."
He reaches up, unclips the mask at his jaw, pulls it off with the black cloth. Underneath, his pale face is all hard angles and shadows. There's a fresh split in his bottom lip, swollen and dark. He tongues it absently, watching you.
"Heard ya the first time."
"Then what the fuck are you doing in my flat?" Your voice goes up an octave and you hate it.
"Came home."
You almost stomp your foot. "This isn't your home anymore."
"Didn't say the flat."
That lands somewhere behind your ribs and sticks and you hate him for it—hate the way he can crack you open like a quail egg with four words while standing there looking like a war crime in boots. You set your jaw, hold your ground. You have practiced this; rehearsed the way this conversation goes in the shower, in bed, in the queue at Sainsbury's.
"I told you what I need," you say, and your voice is steadier now, which is a victory. "I need someone who's here. Present. Consistent. Someone who doesn't disappear for weeks and come home looking like—" You gesture at him. All of him. The blood, the gear, the split lip, the thousand-yard flatness behind his eyes. "—that."
"Fair."
"Don't—Don't just say 'fair' like you're humoring me."
"'M not."
Then he pushes off the wall. One step. Slow, the way he does everything when he's not working—deliberate and unhurried, like time is a thing that belongs to him. "Said ya needed space, pet. Gave you four months."
You roll your eyes in exasperation. "I said we were done, Simon."
"Nah."
Another step. Close enough now that you can feel the cold radiating off his gear, smell the copper-sharp tang of wherever he's been, see the dried blood cracking in the creases of his gloves.
"Y'said you wanted someone steady. Present." His head dips. Just enough that his mouth is level with your temple, his voice a low scrape against your ear. "Didn't say y'wanted someone else."
"That's not—"
"'Cause ya don't."
His hand comes up. Gloved fingers catching your jaw—firm, not rough, the leather cold and stiff against your skin. He tilts your face up the way he always does, like he needs the angle, needs to see all of it. Your breath catches and you watch something in his eyes go dark and liquid, the flat operational blankness cracking open just enough to show you what is underneath.
Hunger. Not sharp. Not frantic. The slow, bone-deep kind that lives in the marrow. The kind that has been sitting in the dark for four months, patient as a held breath.
His thumb drags across your lower lip and his gaze follows it, tracing the path, and you feel the moment his breathing changes—deeper, slower, controlled the way a man controls himself when he's choosing not to take.
"You want me," he murmurs. Not a question but a fact. Delivered the same way he delivers coordinates, with flatness and certainty, already confirmed.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is the way your body answers before your mouth can. The way you lean into his grip, just barely, just enough. The way your lashes dip and your lips part against the pad of his thumb and something hot and liquid pools low in your belly, traitorous and familiar.
He clocks it immediately, because he's Simon Riley.
His other hand finds your hip, gloved fingers sinking into the soft give of your flesh, squeezing once—slow, proprietary, like he's relearning the shape of something that belongs to him. You feel the press of his belt buckle against your stomach, the hard edge of the holster against your thigh, and lower—the unmistakable, thickening line of him behind his tac pants, not hidden, not apologized for.
"Yves," you say weakly. A last stand. A white flag dressed up as a name.
"Who?" His split eyebrow quirks in amusement.
And then he kisses you.
Not gentle or careful or the way a man kisses someone he's trying to win back.
He kisses you like he's reclaiming territory—wet and filthy and all-consuming, his split lip smearing copper across your mouth, his tongue sliding against yours before you've even finished gasping. His hand stays locked on your jaw, holding you exactly where he wants you, and the other drags from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against the hard wall of his plate carrier until you can feel every buckle, every strap, every rigid unforgiving edge of him pressed into the softness of your body.
You make a sound. Something wrecked and involuntary that vibrates against his teeth, and he swallows it—greedy and thorough, like he's been starving and you're the first good thing he's tasted in months.
His tongue drags slow across your bottom lip and then he bites down, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to own, and the noise you make this time is worse. Needier. The kind of sound that undoes four months of conviction in a single breath.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. Mouth wet. Eyes black. The smug bastard isn't even breathing hard.
"There she is," he murmurs, and his forehead drops to yours.
He breathes you in like oxygen after a dive, and when he speaks, it's so low you feel it more than hear it, a vibration against your skin, a thing that lives in your chest:
"Told ya, love. Wasn't a suggestion."
The wine Yves brought sits on the counter, warm and forgotten. By morning it'll be flat.
You won't notice. You'll be in bed with Simon's arm locked around your waist, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his breathing deep and even for the first time in four months.
Summary: It's cold, and for some reason, your personal heater is still lying on the couch.
AN: This started as a quick imagine of the reader’s cold hands on Simon’s titties, but here we are. I hope the flow makes sense its been a hot minute since I've written anything.
You and Simon would occasionally play the silent game of tug-of-war, both equally hard-headed and refusing to budge. Right now, the fucker was winning, you realised, as you stared at the 65 on the thermostat. You had been stuck at his place since the weekend, the winter storm taking both of you by surprise. And although you loved him, you missed your warm bed at home right now. It was always colder at his place during the winter, and you felt you had the better sheets.
The weekend brought forth an insecurity you had not acknowledged before. You figured Simon would be sick of you by now, especially after the first two nights when he started staying on the couch. You tried your best not to let the thought run wild, knowing you had spent each night tucked right next to him, refusing to let you go.
You had taken two vacations together, spending a week or more in the same space, so what was the issue? Much like him, you were stubborn, hesitant to admit that you actually liked being in his neck of the woods, despite your initial complaints or nagging, as he called it. You could not help the constant buzz in your ear, worried that your presence was a nuisance to him. But regardless, the storm outside served as the perfect excuse to hoard him all to yourself.
It was always either too hot or too cold in Simon’s older home; your hands and feet left ice-cold through this blizzard. You were only wearing a shirt and some shorts, preferring to sleep in less, knowing Simon would keep you warm at night, but there he was on that stupid couch again.
About two hours passed when you announced you were turning in, and he had muttered, acknowledging the loss of warmth. You expected him to follow suit eventually, but as you adjusted the collar of his stretched-out shirt, shivering with the flimsy comforter, you realised his game. It would be the third time in a row you both fell asleep on the couch, and though you did not mind it much, you were feeling particularly annoyed tonight. When he had taken you both couch shopping one spontaneous week, you had thought him impulsive, but Simon was invested.
“Well played”, you muttered to no one in particular, after tirelessly working the thermostat that hadn't budged the last minute or so. Riled as his intent dawned on you.
Before you came into his life, he rarely ever spent time in his bedroom, only making it to the couch most nights, especially as a trainee, when all he had for a bed was a futon. For years, he had adjusted to such a lifestyle, and for the past two and a half years, he had compromised quietly, happy to share space with you, never pegging himself to be so physically affectionate.
He often reminisced about the memories of you snuggled next to him on the decade-old couch, worn out in his younger days, before he met you. He still struggled here and there to fall asleep, but as long as you were tucked in his corner, he was content. However, lately, he was on a rebellious streak.
That day at the furniture store, the clerk had referred to you as the missus, and Simon was quick to run with it.
“Whatever the Missus decides.”
You nagged him like you were married anyway, especially when you went on about his posture each time he tried to get you on the couch. You enjoyed it just as much, both that day and whenever he could convince you to sleep on the couch.
It didn't take long to break in the new couch; Simon loved that thing. It was bigger, firmer, and with all the compartments and other hidden mechanisms, he was letting his age show. If it were up to him, it would replace your bed every night, but Simon had to play the long game. One that he was winning, hearing you drag your feet to the living room, past midnight, muttering under your breath, upset with him.
He noticed you were wearing one of his worn-out shirts, stretched out like the rest of his other ones from your failed attempts to practically crawl under his skin. You would complain about the cold while tucking yourself as close to him as possible. And he remembers the first time you mentioned something about skin-to-skin contact, before feeling choked by his collar at your tugs, trying to get under his shirt for warmth.
It’s funny when you look back at the beginning of your relationship, you both were so reserved in your own space, touch-starved, but neither ever willing to admit it. Maybe that's why you were bonded so well now. You remember the first time he slept over. It was late, and you had fixed your posture, wanting to lie down on the couch instead of being 6 feet apart. You wanted him to stay, but you were not used to asking someone that.
The conversation flowed with ease, with Simon mostly listening, before you gave in to the voice that wanted to be closer. You still don't know what prompted you to throw your pillow at his wide spread thighs, snuggling your head to get comfortable. Somehow, you ended up falling asleep on the couch, in that position, leaving Simon sitting upright. He didn't move the whole night, eventually falling asleep in said position, and when you woke up, you apologised profusely, while making him breakfast. Soap had called Simon out the week after, noticing his captain’s slight upbeat mood, something only his closest peers would notice.
You had been standing between Simon and the TV for the last two minutes now; the cheeky bastard was not even trying to hide his glee this time. You wanted to question why the thermostat was set so low in the cold weather, but you already knew the answer. Especially now, as you notice the couch was already extended, anticipating your return for the night. He also had the better comforter laid out. He wasn't even watching the TV, just waiting for you to join him for the night. The same thing he had done for the previous nights, and it was only now that his intentions were hitting you. The oh so subtle plan to condition you to the couch.
He was surprised you lasted as long as you did in the cold. You were not innocent either, always sneaky when getting your way, even though you didn't have to. He rarely ever said no to you. Simon watched as you let out a deep sigh, took off your shirt, and got under the covers. He could hear the chattering of your teeth, and he almost felt bad until you slid your ice-cold hands under your shirt, jolting a gruff breath out of him as you ran your hands over his chest. He thought your small payback was over until you slid your equally cold feet between his.
He let out a deep chuckle, “I deserve that”, muttering just enough for you to hear.
Your hands lingered around his pecs for a bit before you turned your back to him, preparing to fall asleep. “I hope my snoring keeps you up, too,” you joked. You had been embarrassed the first time he mentioned your supposed light snores, and although he insisted it didn't bother him at all, you struggled to believe him. This is the first time you have made light of the situation.
“You might have won the fight today, Simon, but we are sleeping in your bed tomorrow” He nods, snuggling closer.
“We’ll see about that love”
Unbeknownst to you, Simon often missed your snoring whenever he was away on deployment. At times, during the stillness of the nights, he found the quiet unbearing; despite the buzz of the mini fridge in his quarters, it always felt incomplete without it. The calm rhythm paired with the night always felt so domestic to him, made him hopeful, looking at a possible future with you. He wondered how obvious he was, and although he figured you felt the same, did you notice how almost desperate he was relishing in the small things?
As weird as it was, he also loved that you tossed and turned frequently through the night. You thought it meant less sleep for him, so you insisted on sleeping in separate spaces, but he came to realise that he loved holding you still throughout the night. And if he was being honest, he was anxious that you’d eventually drift away, want your own space away from him. It prompted his protective instincts, but also lingering was a trace of doubt he never voices. He would never admit this to you, at least not yet, only barely worried you might hide from him, considering you still kept your apartment. You two had discussed the idea of living together, but Simon was still biting back the final words to ask you to just stay.
All in all, you really didn't mind the couch since you had your quirks too, that Simon had made space for in his life. You both were similar but still very different, and he loved that about you because the banter kept him soft. He loved the quiet, and you did too. He had not been this comfortable in a long time. Simon Riley was happy exactly where he was, with you tucked next to him, snoring peacefully. He stayed up most of the night watching you blow a few raspy whisper-like snores, allowing you to toss once towards him, before propping your head up and pressing your forehead into the crook of his neck. You were his soft bundle of warmth, which is why he savoured cold nights such as this one, where he felt the least lonely.
Enjin was no stranger to the silent treatment. His reputation preceded him and women of all shapes and sizes have pointedly ignored him. His big mouth and oversized confidence have served him well in the past, and even in the present time if he’s being honest. But having an ego as large as his came with some pros and cons.
Pros: he’s been able to talk his way out of most situations when the need arose, not to mention the fact that he can pretty much score whenever he felt like it, and, most importantly, his reputation bought him free drinks in the majority of bars he’s been to.
Cons: the fact that you can’t stand to be in the same room as him for more than thirty seconds.
Fuck.
“So… whaddya do this time?” Rudo asked, tucking into a slice of cake, eyes darting between your retreating form and Enjin currently seated across from him.
Riyo perked up, leaning forward towards Rudo. “Well, when a mommy and a daddy love each other, and then the daddy can’t shut his-“
Enjin slammed a hand across her mouth, forcing her back down into her seat with a grunt. Riyo took it in stride, crossing her arms and kicking back in her chair to cross her legs. She tilted her head to one side, watching.
Rudo seemed too distracted by his food, so Enjin let out a breath, leg bouncing under the table.
“Shut your mouth,” he warned Riyo, leveling a glare. “Who taught you to speak like that, anyway.”
Riyo shrugged, smirking and smug. “You did.”
Well…she ain’t wrong.
Enjin rubbed a hand across his face and tried to ignore the murmurs from across the table. He wasn’t sure what the fuck to do here. He was pretty sure this fight wasn’t making it any worse for anyone at HQ. It was just that there was a notable absence of you where he was. He didn’t even know how to start apologizing at this point. Or what the fuck even caused this. One minute he was watching you come into the common room while he chatted with Gris, and then next had you damn near running away with the door slammed behind you.
He had to begin somewhere, he guessed.
Flowers weren’t his style and it was a pain in the ass to get them…
Chocolate wouldn’t work since Rudo effectively has his name written on any and all sweets that come by Team Akuta…
He could buy you clothes, but then August would have a fit about how he couldn’t get his hyper-ass mitts on it to ‘redesign’…
And then, all of a sudden, like a trash beast crowning out of a pile of garbage, an idea sprang forth and settled into his skull. An idea so obvious that even as much of an idiot as he was, he should have thought of it immediately.
Enjin wasn’t super aware of how his face looked while he processed this, and the noise from the table slowly died down the more he sat and ruminated. His nose scrunched up and his steepled hands covered his mouth and his eyes stared ahead, unfocused.
“He finally cracked, huh?” Zanka observed, rolling his eyes and he looked at the other man. He sniffed once, sparing a glance towards the others.
Riyo leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand as she propped an elbow on the table. “I think so, huh? That big, blonde head of his finally overheated.” She settled in further. “Now that I think about it, we should have seen this coming. He’s been followin’ her around like a lost puppy, quite out of character. Only a matter of time before those rusty circuits fried.”
She sighed and leaned back into her chair, pushing the table to move back and stand up. “Nothin’ else we can do here, guys. Let’s leave the lover boy to deal with the mess of his own making, kay?”
Zanka nodded once, following her out of the mess hall while Rudo trailed behind, shoving macarons into his uniform pockets.
--------------------------------
“And then I said- actually Semiu, I forgot to put it in that order. I’ll see you around,” you clipped, jumping down from your seated position on the front desk of HQ and moving towards the door leading down to your room. You walked by Enjin at a leisurely pace, a stack of notebooks firmly under one arm as you locked the door behind you.
Semiu looked less than pleased.
“…you have thirty seconds to explain yourself; oh wait, actually? I don’t really care. Just fix it.”
Enjin gawked, throwing his hands out and nearly smacking Follo as he walked through the lobby carrying a large bundle.
“Watch it, asshole. We’ve had too much collateral damage as is from your little lovers spat and I’m about at my wits end with it,” she looked through him now, her own glasses glowing yellow.
“You’re torn up and will continue to be torn up until you fix it and I suggest you do it quickly. Because this shit fucks the bottom line all the way up. And puts the rest of your team in danger because your dick is sad.”
Enjin actively deflated, shoulders curling in on themselves as umbreaker gently tapped the tile floor.
“And another thing,” Semiu continued, pointing at him with one accusatory finger. “You are damn lucky her vital instrument isn’t a weapon but that girl should have castrated you days ago and I would have hid the incident report.” She dropped her finger, looking back down at her magazine and moved to flip over the page. Her eyes looked up again, and caught Enjin as he went to walk away.
“Do I make myself clear, you bimbo-blonde motherfucker?”
“…yes ma’am.”
-----------------------
“You bought me…. Apology weed?” You asked, door open to Enjin brandishing a baggie and some rolling papers. To his credit, he looked apologetic. But there was something else underneath as he took in your form as draped by your pajamas.
If said pajamas were one of his old shirts and ratty shorts then well, it wasn’t his business anyways. Really. It wasn’t.
He audibly swallowed before forcing his carefully practiced mask of bravado to realign his face.
“Well, better than flowers, yeah?”
You rolled your eyes, narrowing them after at the way he leaned against your door frame as if he was always allowed there. Taking up space like it’s comfortable, expected… easy.
“Come back when your apology doesn’t smell as loud,” you noted, moving to close the door only to be stopped by a booted foot.
Enjin said your name then, in a tone so exasperated that it felt like another language. “Please, please, please… hear me out.”
He took advantage of your confusion to continue on, “give me two minutes and then you can do whatever and I mean WHATEVER. Kick me in the balls, or-or slap me! I don’t care jus’ gimme two minutes and then I’ll go back to moping or driving or whatever you need jus-“
“Fine,” you interrupted, opening the door. “Just get out of the hallway, you drama queen.”
The word ‘skedaddled’ comes to mind when Enjin thinks about how quickly and uncoordinated he gets into your room then. You close the door quietly and gently pull the lock with a soft click. Enjin was standing in the middle of the room, one hand still holding the weed and papers. You moved and pried his hand open to get the weed. You swore you felt him shudder when your hand touched his.
“‘M keeping this regardless if I forgive you or not,” you informed, moving to place the supplies in your own stash box hidden in your dresser.
“It’s a gift… so yeah, I expected you to.”
You nod once and turn back to him while pointing to a chair, “well sit down, let’s hear this,” you acquiesce.
Enjin sat like the dog he is, and watched as you remained standing. He swallowed again, looking up at you. “You gonna sit?”
You shook your head, crossing your arms. “No.”
Letting out a shaky breath, he nods once. “Well, I’m sorry.”
“And?”
Now Enjin is pissed. “And what? I apologized, and got you weed.”
You cocked a brow, temper flaring. “For all the huffing and puffing, this is the effort you bring to the apology?” Your tone was sharper now, and Enjin clocked how your fingers dug into your arms.
“I got you weed?”
A scoff and another eye roll. “I don’t care, get out.”
“Oh fuck that, you said two minutes!” Enjin boomed, standing up out of the chair and taking a step towards you. “I’m gettin’ my time.”
“You don’t scare me, ya know?” You snapped. “You think you’re hot shit, all the walls up, and then the moment you show vulnerability, poof! Alakazam, the amazing douchebag, Enjin!”
He swore he saw red for a flash before he relized who he was talking to, and why this conversation (or argument) was happening.
“You know me-“
“And I know you refuse to act like an adult when you need to.”
“And you’re so perfect then? Not a speck of shit on you?”
“You’re a DICK. You know that’s not true! Also, why are YOU talking about me? Oh wait! I know why, because women are just notches in that shitty regulation bed post I hear knocking against the wall. You wanna know WHY? Why I’m so angry? Because you and your big mouth, the moment I let you in, the moment I thought this could work, even in the hellscape we live in, you come out and call me EASY. In front of half of our coworkers.”
Enjin’s brain stuttered to a halt, like a rusty gear, and he was sure he could see the steam coming out of his ears. “What?”
You blinked, anger abated, and then it reared up again, contorting your face. “What do you mean, what?”
“I never said that.”
“I HEARD YOU.”
“When? When you were dreaming? You have to stop eating right before bed, you know it fucks with your he-“
“No, asshole. Common room, a week ago.” There was a finality in your words, so Enjin knew you weren’t lying. You met his expression head on, and there were tears threatening to tip over your waterline.
“With Gris?”
You nod. “You told him I was easy. I just got there, excited to see you and everyone and the first thing I hear is you bragging? That’s fucked, even for you. I’m under no illusion I could change you or whatever but fuck man. I liked you, I thought this could be a thing and I was just kind of rode it out but after that shit? No thank you.”
He was silent, stunned into speechlessness actually, because he didn’t think you could have missed the point any further.
“Enjin, I’m tired. It’s been over two minutes. Just leave it,” you acquiesced. “I’ll be civil with you, apology accepted. Just, leave me alone.”
The room felt too warm, even though the AC was blowing. He was angry still, but not at you anymore. Is this what growth was? Because… the fuck? He was pissed at himself.
“You can’t say that when you’re wearin’ my shirt, first of all,” he stated, taking a step closer. “Second of all, you caught the tail end of that.”
“Stop moving.”
Another step.
“Enjin, I fucking mean it, I’ll scream.”
He stopped, reaching forward to wrap a hand around your wrist. He rubbed a thumb across the inside, and you shivered.
“I told Gris, that I was scared shitless because you were easy…”
You tried to yank your hand away then, but his grip tightened.
“Easy to be around, easy to talk to, easy to forgive, easy on the eyes…”
You let out a watery laugh, tension releasing from your shoulders. “That’s bullshit, Gris would have said somethin’ to me.”
Enjin shook his head once. “You think he’s dumb enough to get in between something like this? Nah, man has solid self preservation instincts.” He looked at you and smiled, sadly.
“You, babe, cross my wires alllllllll wrong. In the best way possible. Which fucks me up,” he confessed, tugging your wrist a little to move you closer. “I genuinely am, sorry that is, that you thought I think so low of you.”
You shrugged, allowing yourself to be led. “Wasn’t like I coulda asked you.”
“Why not?”
You scoffed. “You’re not good with your feelings, I wasn’t going to be clingy and scare you off. If you wanted to leave, it would be my decision. I wanted to be out on top.”
Enjin smiled then, something genuine that made his cheeks hurt. “We could, ya know, still get you on top?” He moved his eyes in the direction of your bed. “Perfectly easy, done it a million times…”
“Stop,” you mumbled, but there was no malice behind it as you met his eyes. “You’re still an over dramatic dumb blonde and I’ll treat you as such.”
“I’m amenable to that,” he confirmed, leaning down to steal a kiss that you happily accepted. Leaning towards him, you started to walk forward, guiding him towards the corner of the room where your bed was. He went willingly, hands now given free rein to push your borrowed shirt up and over your head as he sat down.
-----------------------------
Semiu didn’t get paid enough to deal with everyone’s bullshit. No! Scratch that…
She didn’t get paid enough to deal with Enjin’s bullshit specifically.
So when she woke up and resumed her post at the front desk, she purposefully avoided looking at him as he twirled umbreaker like a cane, whistling, while he made his way past her desk.
“Semiu! Boss Girl! My favorite, or should I say, SECOND FAV-“
“Enjin, if you don’t move your scrawny ass out of my lobby…”
a/n- “I can change him!!“ Baby noooo. I can make him worse :)
Smut of your angsty messy eater ghost would be so hot
Im reference to [this] post, here's ghost being a messy guy with an eager mouth
It takes a long time for ghost to feel comfortable touching you, but it does happen eventually.
Just small moments, fingers hooked together while walking down the hallway, a quick peck to his clothed mouth. But every subtly touch has a fire burning in him, embers or desire that make ghost dizzy with the need to really touch you.
"Ghost? Si, are you okay?" It's late, and ghost is stumbling into your apartment clutching a lockpick and not the keys you gave him. You stand up to hold his biceps, studying the disheveled and frantic look on his face "I thought you were supposed to be gone on that op?"
He tucks his head into your neck, breathing in your scent, and only pauses to rip his mask off. "Got done early, needed you."
You don't fight him when he takes you to your bedroom, a place he loves to spend time in. Though, never in this way, never with him flicking the lights off and gripping your hips.
"Yeah. Yeah, si, go ahead." You reassure, reaching down into the dark to help him pull your waistband down when he pauses.
It's messy, desperate, and wholly amazing when ghost gets his mouth on you. You're not sure how much of the wetness is actually your own or just Simon's spit leaking out of his mouth. It doesn't really matter when he rumbles in delight and all that vibration works through you. "Oooh, fuck, si– just like that, yes!"
You're used to seeing ghost eat, hesitant and slow. Careful not to make a mess, hunched over and always a bit worried. You kind of expected this to be the same, but with the filthy wet sounds and the heat from his mouth all over you, it's like all that hunger ghost hides during meals jumps out now between your legs.
You're not sure how long he spends down there, but the unmistakable sound of him sucking his fingers clean have you tempted to hook a leg over his shoulder and make him go again.
"Oh my god, si, come here I wanna kiss you." You reach blindly in the dark, dragging ghost up by the hair. It's messy, too, but so damn good. His lips are split against yours, and when he breathes in you can feel cool air through the gash against your tongue.
When you finally, finally pull away, you can feel ghosts heavy and satisfied breath against your face. You trail a hand over his clothed stomach, not expectant but questioning. Ghost grabs your hand, voice low "not needed, love."
"Okay," you accept easily, it's always easy with you "already done, or...?"
"Mhh," another kiss to your cheek "when we kissed."
"O-oh." You try to ignore how hot that it, and instead pull ghost into a hug.
Price gets whiskey dick HARD. Like, literally, a glass at dinner and it’s liable to happen
Though, it never really bothered him. It just means he has more time to spread you out over the mattress, bully his clumsy, drunk fingers into your soft cunt, and swirl his tongue around your clit until the taste of alcohol has left his mouth…it also conveniently gives him more time to loosen up his creaky knee joints enough to fuck you lmao
When you first started dating, Price was a bit worried if a man like him would be enough to satisfy a young bird like you. But the first time he took you home and leant you over his bed frame, your sweet little thighs raw and sore from chafing against the hair on his graying beard…
Well, he didn’t see the point in being embarrassed about having a take a couple of viagra to get it up.
After all, you were so fucked out after waiting all that time, brain fried from more orgasms than you could possibly count, that you hardly noticed when he let go of you.
It was nothing short of perfection, looking at you like that. Sprawled out on his mattress, panting like you’d just run a marathon.
Meanwhile, he leans against the bathroom doorway, popping a little blue pill between his teeth, flicking his belt buckle out of the loops.
“Shhh—don’t worry, baby,” he coos, stepping towards your beautiful, ruined body, “Daddy’s almost ready now. Only half ‘n hour more before the pills start workin’…”
When tears start falling from your eyes mere seconds after your fifth orgasm of the night…well, John drinks them in just as well as a glass of whiskey.
“Shit, birdie, don’t start cryin’ yet…gonna let an ol’ man like me outlast you in bed? Where’s your sense of pride gone now, huh, darlin’? Now, spread your legs, baby, c’mon. I didn’t take all those lil’ pills for nothing, yeah?”
those anons calling you “old” can catch these hands👊🏻
It’s comforting for me personally to know I’ll always be my fangirl/fanfic lovin’ self even if I’m not a teenager🥹 We’ll always just be girls🩷
I appreciate that, nonnie! And listen, if you're 20 or 80, there is no expiration date on fandom. Hobbies and passion don't end because you hit an age milestone. There should be room for ranges and for people to enjoy what they like.
The world is crazy enough. Let us enjoy what we can. Love and thanks! ❤️
Synopsis: Mahito doesn't like that you have an interest in a book character.
Word count: 1787
notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of other people being tortured/killed, supreme self indulgence of the highest order
“Who is the smiling man?”
The silence that had existed between the two of you was broken by a question that made you flinch. Well, why not? Mahito has been quiet all morning--and afternoon, actually, which perhaps should have startled you more than his sudden words.
But you were too happy to enjoy some quiet (you would never say “peace and quiet,” not down here, not with him); all too happy to curl up in your haphazard nest on the floor with some books that took you away from this place. Away from Mahito.
Who was, of course, still here. Lounging in his hammock with a pile of books sagging down the netting.
You couldn’t tell exactly what he was reading from down here--you probably needed new glasses, a subject you were certainly not going to bring up with Mahito, who might reiterate his offer to “fix” your eyes. It looked like a bundle of pages stapled together. Maybe he went to the library and printed off obscure articles to read again.
“Hey,” he calls down, and the first hint of worry begins to prickle on your arms at his uncharacteristically serious tone, “Answer me.”
Your mind stutters, tries to put one word in front of the other, and make sense of it all.
The smiling man? The smiling man, the… ah. From Small Spaces. The otherworldly supernatural entity who lives in a world behind mist and has a penchant for making deals with people for their greatest wishes.
It’s not your fault that you haven’t thought about him in ages. It’s not like you had copies of your books with you, and the fun you had with imagining him in an endless number of scenarios had fallen by the wayside considering your circumstances.
It’s hard to daydream about worlds behind mist and cornfield servants when you’re watching people be turned into grotesque experiments that had them, sometimes quite literally and loudly, begging for death.
Mahito is looking down at you now, staring expectantly.
“He’s a character,” you say, fidgeting on the floor. “From a book series.” You look down, flip a page in your book, although you haven’t finished reading the last one, and ask, casually as you can muster: “Why?”
Mahito, up above, flips a page. You can hear the wobble in the paper--not a bound book, that’s for certain. And there’s some low, primal sense that shivers through you which says, plainly, that he’s actually reading whatever’s in front of him.
“You write about him a lot.”
Oh.
Low, slimy dread filters into your stomach. Thick and gelatinous, resting at the bottom of your belly like an unwanted slug.
“I… don’t know what you mean,” you say, voice only half-there, because while you are apparently stupid enough to lie to Mahito’s face, you’re not stupid enough to think he’ll believe you.
You are just stupid enough to think that he won’t know exactly how deep your interest in this particular character goes; before Mahito took you, you thought about him all the time. You’d take walks and daydream about him, write story after story; you’d even commissioned fanart of him, because it wasn’t like there was a plethora of fanart for a character from a middle grade horror book.
Mahito huffs out a sigh. Quick and short, it sends a shock right down your stomach.
“Get you a man,” he starts, and confusion buzzes through your brain until he continues. “Who is an otherworldly entity that is so petty when an 11 year old beats him that he traps her in another world, leaving her to a fate worse than death, and laughs until he cries about it.”
You wrote that. There’s a vague memory of when you posted it--after you’d taken a walk, you think, and reread your favorite parts in the books for a few hours. But the way Mahito says it makes it sound--you don’t know how to explain it. Like saying the words out loud almost pains him; they come out clipped and bitter.
Bitter? But why?
He doesn’t stop there. He reads something else, voice getting higher, almost mocking the way you talk. And that bitterness is still there, a thread continuing through every syllable.
“What if we kissed in the corn maze before you turned me into a scarecrow servant whose soul slowly gets dried out and useless and in the end you feed it, crunchy and tasteless, to your hellhound.”
He takes a breath. Then--
“One particular aspect of the Smiling Man’s cruelty that I truly adore is that he can make people feel understood. He can make them feel like he cares, like he’s lending a listening ear, like he’s wanting to help them out and make them feel nice.”
Another breath--and he continues, again and again, reading your posts. Quoting your stories. Listing off the titles, the imagine posts, everything you’ve said about him.
All the while, bitter and mocking, his voice raising now and then in an imitation of your own.
Then he gets to the last page of his clearly self-created tome and stares down at you, waiting, expectant.
And you… you actually glare up at him.
Because you're scared, sure. You’re always scared in some way, when you’re with Mahito. But there’s something else too, something that digs its way out of the rot in your gut and sticks up a petulant middle finger.
How dare he do this. How dare he take something that was yours and make it his; put it in his mouth and sneer over it.
“Have you been--” Your mouth sticks together, refusing to let you accuse him of what you know he’s been doing. Stalking your online profiles. “That’s… that’s private,” is what you finally mutter, cheeks feeling hot and that half-buried petulance pushing you forward. “It’s not any of your business.”
“Private?” He mutters the word softly, cradling the sound.
And then--
Mahito doesn’t often move fast around you. He prefers to be slow, languid. Calculating. You think it’s because that terrifies you more.
But now, in a moment, he goes from being slouched in his hammock to leaping down and crouching right in your face--there’s sudden pain in your head, and you realize he’s grabbed your hair and yanked it back.
That metaphorical middle finger sinks back down into the slimy gut sludge.
“Not from me,” he says, low, a warning. “Not for you.”
This is all it takes for tears to prick inside your eyes.
Mahito’s lips quirk up. Just a little. Just enough for you to notice.
“You’re going to cry already? I didn’t even do anything.”
Your eyes dart up and back, towards where he’s currently gripping your hair hard enough for it to sting.
He sighs through his nose. “This isn’t anything. You know that. Don’t be childish now.”
But--he lets go of your hair, and doesn’t grab for you when you scoot backwards on your blanket nest. Instead, he plops himself down, crossing his legs and resting his chin on his elbow.
You don’t speak. You don’t want to, and you don’t know what to say. Sometimes it’s better to be quiet around Mahito, so he doesn’t get ideas. Although he comes up with them on his own just fine, even if you try to stay silent.
It’s Mahito who breaks the silence.
“Why do you like him so much?”
How silly, to feel embarrassed right now. With the creature in front of you, and what he can do. But that’s what makes your cheeks burn: embarrassment.
“I don’t know,” you mumble, because while you are stupid in so many ways, you’re still smart enough to know he wants an answer. “I guess I just like antagonist characters sometimes.” Well, most of the time. But it’s better to keep that from Mahito, if you can.
Mahito’s lips quirk here and there while he thinks. Then he looks at you with something like genuine confusion.
“You say that you like how awful he is. The awful things he does. So…” He tilts his head a little. “You should like me. Right?”
Your fingers pick at the loose threads of your clothes. Your eyes don’t meet his entirely--they flick up and down, from your legs to his face.
“It’s not the same thing,” is what you come up with. But how to explain that to a curse?
Mahito frowns.
“I don’t understand.” No bitterness, no pouting. A simple statement of fact.
“He’s not real.” You swallow against the minefield that all of this is making you step through, hoping you’ll avoid them. “But you are. That makes it different.”
Mahito leans forward, grabbing your wrists, pulling you closer to him with a yanking, childish gesture.
“So you should like me more,” he says, a slight pout in his tone. “Because I can really do those things.” His eyebrows raise, and you swear you can hear a buzzing light bulb go off. “I could turn someone into a scarecrow for you.” He smiles, sudden, excited. “Do you want me to find some school children to torment?”
“No!” Your voice cracks. There are brief images in your mind--the people he’s tortured and killed, experimented with, before you were here and while you’re here and probably after you’re dead and gone--and you shake them away.
Mahito’s eyebrows furrow. He groans and rolls his eyes backwards until they are entirely white, not in mockery or an attempt to scare you, but in irritation. Fingers squeeze your wrists briefly and let go, and you stay quiet, trying to fight your urge to cry, until Mahito slowly rolls his eyes back to stare at you.
His gaze flicks over you, until he catches your eyes with his.
“You won’t write about him anymore.”
You don’t take a moment to answer this time.
“I won’t.”
“You won’t read those books anymore.”
“I won’t,” you stay. “I haven’t. I--don’t even have copies anymore.”
Mahito smiles, a little. Maybe it’s a good thing you never asked him to find you a copy, a thought which had been a brief temptation a while back.
And then he leans in closer again, until his nose touches yours.
“You won’t think about him anymore,” he says, quiet, solemn. Not an order but a matter of fact.
You don’t answer. You swallow against a bitter taste in your throat; you swear, sometimes, that the sludge in your gut is real and tries to make its way out sometimes.
Mahito presses his nose against yours until it starts to hurt.
“You won’t,” he says again, this time more to himself. “I’ll make sure of it.”
It throws you for a loop. The first time, you hear it. His boys? Boys, plural You didn't think he had children... twins maybe? you'd think he was talking about dogs, with the way he describes them, getting you prepared for their vastly different personalities. He starts listing off their traits and names every now and then, and you're not sure anymore.
Gaz is the golden boy, smart, and knows how to handle himself got a good head on his shouldes. Johnny's full of it, always gotta a quip. Simon, he's a bit rough round the edges, but he'll warm up to you.
You only wish you met them under better circumstances.
John fucks you deep,always has even more so today. Knees brought close to your ears, his body so close to yours leaves you with nowhere to hide, only to accept the blazing warmth in your stomach growing stronger, ready to burst
"You busy? I'll wait in the siting room"
You can just about make out the maked man behind John's shoulders and freeze. As you scream and push, scrabbling to get yourself together, John doesn't seem bothered, gripping your hips in place.
" Stood there a little too long to not see I'm busy" he doesn't bother too look back just continues moving in you
You're dressed and out in the siting room before you know it still dazed and confused by the events and John's lack of care. The masked man is sat on the chair true to his word. Its John's hand at the low of your back that pushes you towards him. "Don't look so scared. I've already today you about him haven't I. Simon"
You take him in and remember John's words 'oh yeah, the one who bites'
I’d about lock the doors for the next two months religiously after that 😭. He must have wanted an invite waiting and asking if he busy Smdh but also it’s not like I wouldn’t want that 🙈🫣
Notes: my sister did a dramatic read with this in the background. they apparently had some rich character in mind.
Pairing: Simon x Reader
It was nothing serious at first so you insisted on resolving the issue immediately, and of course, he wanted to be anywhere else but there to talk about it. Neither one of you were in the mood, him more so than you, and though you knew better than to bug him about it you were only worried about calming your anxiety. You were absorbed in apprehension causing your voice to carry, wholly fixed on reconciling yet disregarding Simon’s solace. It was a second too late when you registered the slight rise to his voice, he was now approaching anger at your persistence. You decide to drop it on instinct, but now Simon is riled up matching your initial resolve.
It was your turn to be uncomfortable, unprepared for the vices he spewed, it was nothing cruel, but his tone stirred up a fret. “You wanted to talk, so let’s talk love” he snides. This was not what you wanted, it was much less calm than you hoped, and now you wanted out, having lost direction. If only you had listened. The dread was now up to your chest and everything was beginning to feel muted, you needed fresh air. “No don't walk away now,” he grabs your arm scornfully, preventing you from leaving. “Let fucking go of me.” he easily loosened his grip, realising how much the situation had escalated having never seen such a reaction from you.
It had been a year and a half of knowing each other and another year of living together. Things worked out surprisingly quickly, and Simon had never felt so seen, till he met you. You would have a tiff here and there but now as he watched you relieve the itch from your underarms, he scolded himself for missing how heavy and slow your breathing had gotten. Your palm on your chest, as you concentrate on breathing, was more of an indicator that this had gone beyond a petty quarrel. You felt that you had let your intuition down, somehow not foreseeing the left turn that this took.
The fresh cold air felt nice as it swept across your face, and the backyard provided the console you needed. You were breathing in more air than you could hold in but it slowly cut through the suffocating uneasiness. Simon let you be, keeping an eye on you from the door, you seemed to know how to handle yourself. You felt stupid whenever you attempted to wane yourself from a panicked state with the methods you came across online, but you tried it despite whether they were effective or not. You sit on the staircase in silence once you feel grounded. You can feel Simon’s orbs boring into the back of your head, and you gather your thoughts to say something after a while.
“I’m sorry if you feel like an asshole, I should have listened when you said you didn't wanna talk about it” you admitted.
He gruffed as he moved to sit next to you, saying nothing for a while before deciding to reply. “No, I should be apologising, shouldn’t have raised my voice like that.” He grabs your shoulder to bring you closer, and you turn to him with tears threatening to spill, and he realises he doesn’t remember the last time you cried, at least in front of him. “I just didn't wanna go to bed angry you know?” He nods, rubbing your arm in comfort, agreeing with your sentiment. “I just prefer to talk things out, and you’re leaving tomorrow, so…” you don't finish your thought but he knows you make a good point.
“Does that normally happen when things get too loud?” He asks. You sniffle, wiping away the tears that do escape, taking his question into account. You lay your head on his chest, still in your head.
“I don't know… It's been a while, but I suppose so.” you pause before going on. “ I walk away sometimes too, I guess I’ve never had someone else walk away, so I know how frustrating that feels now ” he chuckles at your resolve. “I get it, you wanted to remove yourself before things escalated.” That was your last thought, and now you could revel in the silence. Simon loved how insightful you could be most times, this moment being no exception.
“How about this, we can agree to never go to bed angry. If either one of us doesn’t wanna talk, we can leave it for the morning.” He breaks his silence, pressing a kiss on your head. You couldn’t agree more, pleased with how it ended.
Dabi jokingly asked his fwb if they wanna get married and they turned him down. Now he’s butthurt about it cause why on earth don’t they wanna marry him? He’d be the best husband
NO CAUSE LIKE WHY DID YOU LAUGH SO HARD????!! Why did you say no so quickly??? wtf-
now he WILL marry you, cause no- no, no no, you're not ending the fwb thing, HE IS. Because BAM! yall are now dating and Dabi wont let you turn him down(he will burn away all your potential suitors until its only u and him)
Fuck you Y/n. He scoffs, as he purchases a big ring. Yeah, this will show you.
The urge to learn every language and play every instrument and travel the world and live through every historical time period and be a writer and a poet and an actor and
Simon appreciates where Kyle has decided to put down some roots.
He likes this part of the city. It's busy, but manageable, and Kyle's managed to find himself a decently sized home, one big enough to accommodate both Simon and Johnny when they're on those swing days between missions. There are enough beds or couches for when the three of them get pissed at the pub down the street and have to stumble back nearly crossed eyed.
Of course, he never talks about the other reason why he finds this neighborhood so charming, but he suspects both the boys know.
He likes to hold onto your memory like a little secret. Knowing you're possibly still living in this area, in that flat, is enough to bring him out to the pub after they all get back to the house and crash.
Kyle's mouth twists into a mischievous smirk, and he glances at Johnny before honing his sights. "Fancy a drink, LT?"
It's been just over a year since Simon has been here. He rubs his palms against the bar top, trying to casually glance around, searching for something he knows he won't find. He can still hear you, still smell you, still feel your skin against his. He's spent the last year jumping from mission to mission, country to country, plane to plane- and above the carnage and the sounds of killing and fighting-
he still hears your voice. His name on your lips. When he closes his eyes to go to bed at night, it’s your face he sees, lulling him to sleep.
A fantasy.
"Did ye get her number, at least?" Johnny interrupts his memories, and Simon shakes his head.
“Better off that way.” He rolls his shoulders, stretching sinew and bone, trying to force his body to relax. It’s always like this, between ops. He’s stuck in fight mode, wires all crossed, head still fuzzy. Every now and then, his ears will ring, and he tries shake it loose, echoes of gunfire popping inside his skull.
He chooses to drown it out.
All three of them do. It works well enough, and they stumble back to Kyle’s, taking their respective places strewn across the house, Simon falling asleep face down in the guest bed without another drunken thought.
The sun cracks through the blinds too quickly. He stomachs a tea, and advises the Sergeants he’s heading back early to wrap up some paperwork, and steps out onto the street.
It’s later than he’d like, sidewalk already bustling with throngs of people, and he pulls his nondescript black ball cap farther down over his face. The sun is warm, glaring onto the back of his neck until his jacket almost feels claustrophobic. His hands fall idle as he walks, so used to holding a weapon or clicking the mic open on a radio, he doesn’t know what to do with them at rest. Doesn’t know how to hold them. There’s a void there, a void everywhere, etched into his skin, a whisper of the man he should’ve been.
The sidewalk may be busy, but he doesn’t miss a face. He never does, it’s a part of the job, but when his eyes glance across a woman who looks just like you- his entire life stutters to a stop.
You have a baby strapped to your chest. A chubby, round baby who kicks their feet when you lower your head to murmur something to them, palm flat against their belly.
You have a baby? You have a baby. There’s a pang of sadness in his heart, a swell of disappointment as he rationalizes what he’s seeing, the proof of you belonging to someone else, having a life with someone else, loving someone else. He only had you for a night, and he knows it, but he can’t pretend he hasn’t been seeing your face every time he closes his eyes for the past year.
It’s closure. A final nail in the coffin. The end of something that never was.
You’re just as beautiful as he remembers, a sunny spring day, a bouquet of overflowing flowers. Does your hair still smell the same? Would you still make the same noises for him?
Reality brings him back to life earth. Are you in love, or married, or with the father?
And then you turn his direction, closing the gap, failing to notice him standing like a stiff board in the middle of the sidewalk until you’re too close, eyes darting up and up-
to meet his.
Your mouth drops open. An ocean of people flow around where you’re both frozen in place, and he gives you a sheepish smile. “Uh, hey.”
Your hand cups the back of the baby’s head, and you look panicked, scared, before you blurt out the one thing he didn’t expect:
