hi queen! if it’s not too much, may i PLEASE, ask for some more park the shark smau’s
⋆.˚ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 your messages if you were dating brendon park, part two
pairing - brendon park x f!reader
wc - it's an smau, so idk!
cw - none that i'm aware of. tumblr is being weird with the layout of these, though, so fair warning!!
a/n - gosh, i have several brendon asks that i just haven't gotten to. i'm sorry to keep you all waiting! i think I'm going to try to fulfill them with drabbles so i can get to them all! i just finished what i had intended to be my eighth chapter in my delivered series, and i hate how it turned out, so i had to return to my roots, lmao. hopefully you enjoy! part one was a piece from my park the shark week event. if you'd like to read it, click here!
one: vanille havane
two: privacy reasons
three: sugar daddy
four: mistakes
taglist ⋆˚.༄ @melissa66orion @realwhoreforfictionalmen @keepingitundercover @peachiestevie @high-fivingamillionangelz @ineedaaronhotchner @rd14 @divaplanet @annabellq @xoxoloverb @somethingclevertbd @loki-trickst3r @cheekym8s @citrina-apricot @sugakookieswithacupoftae16 @annabethboleyn @emma8895eb @midnight-cherry5 @oliviah-25 @sullyselena @daddyrafeslittleslut @romancelibrarian @dianaxx99 @hehehehahahohohuhu @jgoose13 @pinksabotageveil @rainaris-ac @corvusmorte @ribyourtoplip @straykids1011 @alphabetically-deranged @iloveejackabbott @cloudyparadoxqueen (i wasn't sure if you all would like to be tagged in any brendon park fics that aren't park the shark week, so if you'd like to be removed, let me know!)
Brendon’s mom is sooooo protective of reader. She’s her favorite daughter in law and she has no shame in admitting that. And she won’t let anyone fuck with her. She’s never pushy about grandkids, and if anyone else asks why you and Brendon don’t have kids yet she gets sooooo mad. “You don’t ask a woman questions like that! You don’t know what they’re going through!”. No one can give her the side eye or say shit about her. Mama just tells her ALL that persons drama and dirty laundry.
walking around the house in just one of simon's enormous t-shirts with 'riley' emblazoned on the back. having him lift up the hem as you walk past and calling it an inspection.
"just checking yer not hidin' any contraband, petal," he adds, pulling your ass cheeks apart a little to catch a peek of your holes before you swat at his shoulder.
he loves seeing tears streaming down your face as you take his cock over and over again, hitting your walls in all the right spots.
his eyes are riveted to your face in the mirror as it transforms into a fucked-out expression, watching as your make-up gets ruined and your mouth stays wide open to let out the moans.
everything about your face during sex just makes him want to ram his cock harder to make you scream louder, to make you cum for the millionth time that night.
Simon likes to joke about the age difference between you two. And by joke, we’re talking about jokes that are too real to be jokes.
He knows that the age difference makes people side eye or do a double take. He’s aware that he receives strange looks when he tells people that his partner is twenty years younger than him.
It wasn’t intentional; it wasn’t like he was specifically scoping out someone younger than him. He wasn’t a goddamn creep, cut him some slack.
The two of you connected over something entirely so dumb. He had caught you staring at a cereal box at a grocery store with the most disgusted look on your face. “Can you believe they changed the design on the box?” you had asked him.
And all he could do was stare down at you with the flattest expression imaginable. Here you were, a stranger, speaking to him like you came in the store with him. But he played along, “Wouldn’t be the first. You’re too young to know what the first design looked like.”
Since that one singular conversation, his life has changed; a complete switch. Instead of his usual “Leave-Me-Alone-It’s-Bourbon-Saturday,” his weekends now consist of date nights with you.
Or “Taco-Mondays” (because Taco Tuesday was so overused in his mind), had now become “Simon gets to spend Mondays trying out new restaurants with his new partner.”
He felt young again; remembering that life was more than gunshots and gun wounds. Or that summer wasn’t just a long mission in the middle of a country he’s never been to but rather, a long weekend getaway while the sun burns the fuck out of his back.
“You got daddy issues,” Simon randomly said as he laid ontop of your beach towel. His sunglasses covered his eyes, a blob of sunscreen was on his nose, and his arms rested by his sides like he was ready for the summer heat to wash him away.
The beach was full of people; all setting up their little spots and kids running away from the gentle waves. You stared down at Simon, whom looked too comfortable tanning. Since when the fuck do men like him tan? Apparently, since he started dating you. “That came out of nowhere,” you replied, glaring down at him.
“Just saying, love. Not everyone wants to date a man who looks like he could be your father’s friend,” Simon replies without a second thought. He didn’t move— you barely noticed his lips move. That’s how serious he took his tanning.
A quiet scoff escaped your lips as you glanced over at the water, the small waves bringing in sand before throwing it back. “Yeah, it’s really not my fault you’re like… fifty and past your prime,” you joked back. “You probably have to pop a viagra to get it up before we fuck,” you added with a shit-faced eating grin.
It’s become a running joke of who could make who feel more uncomfortable at this point.
“Hey,” Simon began and finally shifted. “First of all, I’m not fifty. And second of all—“ he propped himself up with his elbows before turning around to lay on his stomach, “my dick’s twenty years older than you and you take it well, so.”
⸝⸝ SUMMARY — ❝ he only texts after midnight. you know it's toxic, and promise yourself this time you'll end it. but somewhere between his baby blues and the sick satisfaction of knowing you're the one he keeps coming back to, you end up crying in his lap. good thing ari thinks you're prettiest when those tears are for him. ❞ ⧽ 7.4k
！ SMUT, p in v, creampie, dacryphilia, light dubcon, dry humping, face squishing, pwp, praise kink, faux sympathy/soft mean!ari, finger sucking, size kink, toxic situationship, pet names (baby, babygirl, crybaby), 18+ MDNI » based on this request » MASTERLIST ⟡˙⋆
You up? | 2:47 AM
The notification lights up your ceiling. You know who it is before you even read the contact name. You tell yourself it’s because no-one else texts at this hour. In reality, the more embarrassing truth is that knowing and hoping have started to feel like the same thing.
You should reply not for you. Let him sit with that rejection the way you've sat with two weeks of silence.
Better yet, you shouldn't reply at all. You should leave him on read, let that little notification sit there unacknowledged while he spirals for once, wondering if you've finally moved on.
Best option - the one that would require something adjacent to self-respect - you should block his number. Should have done it weeks ago, when you'd seen him out with another girl and your friends had spent the entire cab ride home telling you what you already knew. He's never going to commit. He's never going to change. Block his number.
You'd promised you would.
You hadn't, obviously. Instead, you’ve had Ari Levinson saved as “DO NOT ANSWER” for the past four weeks. Like seeing those words flash across your screen would be enough to override six months of muscle memory and bad decisions.
But it hasn’t helped even once. And it doesn’t help now, at 2:47 in the morning, when your phone buzzes again because your hand moves before your brain can interfere.
I know you're awake | 2:49 AM
Arrogant bastard. He doesn't know anything. Except he does, doesn't he? Knows you like he's mapped you from the inside out. Knows the glow of your screen is already bleeding blue light across your rumpled sheets. Knows you're staring at his text with your heart doing that stupid hummingbird thing it does whenever he reminds you that he's out there, somewhere in the city, thinking about you.
yes. | 2:52 AM
Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again. He's typing, deleting, retyping. The hesitation should comfort you - evidence that maybe he's nervous too, that maybe this costs him something. But you know Ari well enough to recognize the tactic. He's drawing it out. Making you wait. Building the tension because he knows exactly what those little dots do to your pulse.
Your heart hammers against your ribs and you hate him for it. Hate that your body is already ahead of you, already warm and restless, muscle memory doing the work your dignity should be doing. But six months of Ari has ruined you for anything or anyone else.
Ruined you for anything that isn't his big hands on your hips holding you exactly where he wants you, his thick cock filling you up so perfectly your eyes roll back, his voice low in your ear talking you through it until you're shaking. Ari Levinson is a lot of bad things. But between your thighs he is devastatingly, infuriatingly good.
Good | 2:53 AM
Been thinking about you. | 2:53 AM
The ease of it makes you want to scream. Been thinking about you. As if that explains the two weeks of silence. As if that justifies showing up in your notifications like he still has the right.
You should ask where he's been. Who he's been with. If she knows he's texting you at three in the fucking morning.
But your thighs clench anyway, because your body doesn't care about your pride. Your body remembers what been thinking about you means in Ari's vocabulary. Remembers the last time he'd said it, three weeks ago when he'd shown up at your apartment after midnight. You'd barely gotten the door open before his mouth was on yours, walking you backward into your apartment with his hands already sliding under your shirt.
“Been thinking about you all fucking day,” he'd growled against your throat, and you'd melted like you always do, let him peel you out of your clothes and fuck you against the kitchen counter.
You'd had bruises on your hips for a week after. Had pressed your fingers into them whenever you needed to remember that you were real to him, that you weren't just imagining the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
yeah? | 2:55 AM
what about? | 2:55 AM
There's a pause. Longer this time. You can picture him so clearly it hurts. Sprawled in his bed, chest bare, all that dark hair dusting across muscle and tapering down his stomach in a trail your tongue knows by memory. The broad sprawl of his shoulders. The thick arms. The heavy muscle of his thighs. The kind of body that makes you feel small in ways you've stopped pretending you don't love.
And already half-hard just from the anticipation of watching you slowly give in via text message.
You know what about | 3:00 AM
You do know. God help you, you know exactly what he's thinking about and your body has already started making decisions without consulting you.
that's not an answer | 3:00 AM
ari | 3:00 AM
You add his name in a second text, and you realise you’re already chasing. That’s what he does. He texts you first, casts the line, and then sits back and watches you swim toward him every time.
I'm thinking about the way your thighs shake when you're trying not to cum before I say you can | 3:01 AM
Heat floods through you, pooling low in your belly and spreading outward until your skin feels too hot. Your free hand slides under your waistband without a second thought, fingers slipping through how wet you are and your hips tilt up into your own touch. But all you can think about is how much better he feels.
you're an asshole | 3:02 AM
I know | 3:03 AM
Let me come over anyway | 3:03 AM
And there it is. The ask that isn't really an ask because you both know how this ends. The presumption that should offend you but doesn't because he's earned it, hasn't he? Six months of this dance, of you saying no and meaning yes, of drawing boundaries and then opening the door anyway when he shows up with that look in his eyes.
You stare at the message until the words start to blur. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling slightly.
This is the moment. The fork in the road where you prove to yourself, to your friends, to your therapist, to everyone who's watched you self-destruct over Ari fucking Levinson that you're capable of choosing yourself. That you're more than the girl who waits for 3 AM texts. That you deserve someone who doesn't make you feel like a toy he keeps on the shelf until he wants something warm to sink into.
i'm not the one you should be texting at 3am | 3:05 AM
There. Boundaries. Self-respect. All the things you're supposed to have.
Probably not | 3:06 AM
But you're the one I want | 3:06 AM
Four words and you feel them everywhere. The lie tastes bitter even secondhand, transmitted through pixels and cellular data. The one I want. Not the only one - you're not quite delusional enough to believe that. But the one he wants right now.
Presumably she's asleep, blissfully unaware that her—what? Boyfriend? Situationship? Whatever Ari is to her—is currently sexting his other whatever-the-fuck-you-are. Maybe she's in the bathroom. Maybe she's asleep next to him and he's doing this anyway, getting off on the proximity of the secret. The thought makes you nauseous and aroused in equal measure.
You should say to fuck off. Should tell him to lose your number, block him for real this time, delete the photos from your phone and burn the clothes he's left in your closet. Should pull your hand out from under your waistband and go to sleep. Should feel literally anything other than the dark, sick satisfaction currently unfurling in your chest at the thought of him choosing your bed over hers.
fine | 3:09 AM
You send it before you can talk yourself out of it. Then you drop your phone face down on the mattress like you can't stand to look at what you've just done. Three seconds later you pick it back up.
One word. All that internal warfare and it comes down to four letters and no punctuation, casual as anything, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribs. Like your fingers aren’t still moving absently between your thighs because your body made the decision before you even sent that text.
20 minutes | 3:10 AM
Be ready for me | 3:11 AM
The command in those last four words makes your stomach flip. You drop your phone onto the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, your heart still racing, your body already preparing itself.
Twenty minutes to shower, to shave, to make yourself into the version of yourself that he wants. Twenty minutes to pretend you haven't been wanting this every single night for two weeks. Twenty minutes to become the girl who's winning, even though you both know she's losing.
Your phone buzzes twice more, and you grab it so fast you nearly drop it.
Wear that black set | 3:13 AM
You know the one | 3:13 AM
You do know. Of course you know. The lace set he'd bought you a month ago, presented in expensive tissue paper after he'd cancelled dinner plans for the third time. “Let me make it up to you,” he'd murmured, watching you unwrap it with heat in his eyes.
You'd worn it for him that same night. Had modelled the set while Ari sat on the edge of your bed watching you with dark eyes and that infuriating half smile, turning you with one finger like you were something he'd commissioned. Had ended up on your back with the lace pushed aside and his mouth on your throat while he fucked you slow enough to make you beg for it.
The sick satisfaction blooms darker, spreading wider through your chest like poison ivy.
── ⟢ ₊ 🌙 ˚・🥀 ⊹
The knock comes at exactly 3:32 AM. Three sharp raps, confident and unapologetic. The knock of someone who has never once considered that he might not be welcome.
You've been perched awkwardly on the arm of your couch for the last three minutes, fingers worrying the tie of your robe into knots. The black lace sits against your skin like a reminder of every bad decision that's led to this moment, delicate and expensive and utterly wasted on what's about to happen. The set and the silk robe thrown over it feels like costuming, like you’re playing the part of someone in control.
You're not in control. You haven't been since the first time Ari Levinson looked at you like you were something worth ruining himself for.
Padding over to the door, silk robe whispering against your thighs, you take one steadying breath before you open it. And there he is.
He's devastating. That's the only word for it. Big in a way that makes your apartment feel like a dollhouse. Shoulders broad enough to block out the hallway light, and tall enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
The t-shirt stretched across his chest leaves nothing to the imagination, which is almost funny because your imagination doesn't need the help anymore. You know that body. Know it embarrassingly well. Know exactly how it feels to be underneath it - small, delicate and so deliciously overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Your thighs press together involuntarily at the thought.
His hair is slightly mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look softer than he is. And the beard - god the beard - is fuller than the last time you saw him, framing a mouth that knows exactly how to destroy you.
But it's his eyes that do the real damage. Blue enough to drown in, they rake over you with a possessive appreciation that’s entirely unapologetic.
“Look at you,” Ari rumbles, voice already rough, deeper than usual. His eyes linger where your robe has fallen open just enough to reveal the black lace underneath, tongue flicking out to brush his bottom lip. “You trying to kill me?”
“You told me to wear it.” You lean against the doorframe, trying for casual, but your pulse is hammering visibly in your throat and you know he can see it.
“I did.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, and the smile that crosses his face is slow and pleased and entirely too satisfied with itself. His eyes sweep over you once again, like he's taking inventory of something that belongs to him. “And you listened, you’re always such a good girl for me.”
His praise unfurls something warm and pathetic in your chest. You hate how much you want to be his good girl, how desperately you crave the affection he'll give you.
The door clicks shut behind him and suddenly your apartment feels too small, the air too thick. He shrugs his jacket off, tosses it somewhere without looking. Underneath, the sleeves of his t-shirt are pushed to his elbows, revealing his thick forearms, corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. And attached to those big hands that know exactly how to take you apart.
You make yourself look back up at his face. It doesn't help. His eyes are already on you, full of heat and already dark.
“Hi,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant.
“Hi, baby.” His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His palm spans from your chin to your ear, and you feel small in a way that makes your stomach flip. He could break you so easily. In some ways, he already has. “Missed you.”
The words land like a gut punch. “And whose fault is that?”
“I know.” His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. “I'm sorry.”
He's not, though. You both know he's not. Sorry would mean changing, would mean choosing you in daylight instead of just in the dark. But then his hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back further, and his mouth hovers just above yours. Waiting. The bastard is waiting for you to close the distance, chase it, prove how much you want him.
“You're an asshole,” you whisper against his lips.
“You said that already.” His breath mingles with yours. “Say it again. I like when you're mean to me.”
You should. Should call him every name you've been saving up for two weeks. Should ask him where he's been, who he's been with, if she knows he's here. Should demand answers or respect or literally anything other than this.
Instead you kiss him.
His hand tightens in your hair the second your lips touch his, taking over immediately, changing the angle to deepen it on his terms. Your mouth opens instinctively when his tongue presses against your bottom lip, and he licks into you like he owns it. You whimper into it and he swallows the sound whole, pulls back just enough to drag his teeth across your bottom lip before coming back deeper. Tasting you. Taking his time. His other hand grips your jaw, holding you steady, and the message is clear - you're not going anywhere, and you both know it.
“Fuck, I missed this,” he groans, punctuating it with another kiss. “Missed those pretty noises you make for me.”
Pulling back just enough to breathe, eyes dark, he swipes his thumb across your swollen bottom lip, dragging it down. Without thinking, your tongue dips out and chases his thumb. He notices. Of course he notices, the corner of his mouth curving as he steps back and drops onto your couch. One arm stretches along the back it, the other rests on his thigh, and his legs spread wide in an easy sprawl.
“Come here, baby.”
He tilts his head at the space between his knees, one finger curling in a single lazy beckon, and your feet are moving before your brain has any say in the matter.
You stop between his thighs and his hands find your hips immediately. Big, warm, and immediately possessive, settling on your hips with a certainty that makes your breath catch. You make the mistake of looking down at him and catching those deadly blue eyes looking back up at you through thick lashes, and your stomach drops straight through the floor. Standing between his spread thighs you feel it acutely, how much larger he is. How solid. His hands nearly span your entire waist and something about that, about being held so easily, makes heat pool low and insistent.
His fingers find the tie of your robe and toy with it, unhurried, knuckles grazing your stomach through the silk.
“This is pretty,” he murmurs, tugging one end of the belt slowly until the bow dissolves. Your robe falls open and his eyes drop, taking in the full view of black lace underneath. “But I like what's underneath better.”
The silk whispers off your shoulders and pools at your feet, leaving you in nothing but scraps of lace while he remains completely, infuriatingly dressed. And that thought alone - the disparity of it - sends heat rushing straight between your thighs. His eyes devour you slowly, like you're something he's very pleased with himself for having.
The thick bulge straining against his jeans suggests he's more than just pleased.
A sharp inhale escapes you when his hand palms your ass, tugging you closer between his spread thighs until his mouth finds your midriff. Warm lips press against your skin in lazy kisses as your hands slide into his hair. His hands smooth up the backs of your thighs to grip your hips, anchoring you in place, and his mouth moves across your skin slow enough to make you dizzy.
“Do me a favour, babygirl,” he rumbles against you, thumb tracing the lace at your hip, light enough to make you shiver. “Give me a little spin, yeah?” The timbre of his voice has dropped somewhere sinful. “Want to see all of you.”
Your face flushes but you obey, turning in the circle of his thighs while his hand guides you. You feel his gaze like a physical touch, lingering on the curve of your ass where the lace cuts high, on the line of your spine, on the backs of your thighs.
“God, I missed this view,” he groans. “Come back here.”
When you complete the turn, both his hands reach for you, gripping your hips and pulling you forward into his lap in one smooth motion that steals your breath. You end up straddling him, thighs spread wide over his, the rough denim of his jeans against your bare skin. His mouth finds yours immediately, greedier this time, more demanding, tongue sliding against yours while his hands roam. Your waist, your back, your ass, mapping you like he's reminding himself of everything he's been missing.
One hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple through the lace until it peaks, and then he pinches lightly. You gasp into his mouth, hips grinding forward instinctively.
“That's it,” he breathes. “Fuckin’ love the sounds you make. Love feeling you respond to me.”
His hips roll up slightly and the pressure against your clit makes your head fall back. He takes advantage immediately, mouth moving to your throat, beard scraping sensitive skin as he kisses and bites his way down to your collarbone.
“Ari—” Your hands fist in his hair, needing something to hold onto.
“I've got you baby.” His hands slide to your hips, guiding you into a rhythm, encouraging you to grind against him. “That's my girl, take what you need. Use me.”
So you do. Hips rolling, chasing the friction, grinding down against the thick ridge of him while his mouth stays greedy on your throat. His hands guide you, encourage you, grip harder when you hit the right angle. The lace between your thighs is soaked through, dragging against denim with every roll of your hips.
“Soaking these pretty panties,” he rasps against your collarbone, like he can feel exactly how wet you are through his jeans. “Love having you like this. Love watching you fall apart. All for me.”
The praise washes over you, warm and devastating. He's always been good at this - making you feel seen, special, like you're the only person in the world who matters. It's intoxicating and dangerous and you can feel yourself getting lost in it, in him.
Your hips are moving faster now, chasing more friction, and he matches your rhythm with slow, controlled rolls of his hips that drag against your clit through your panties and make your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part around a needy little sound you have absolutely no control over, hips stuttering forward greedily as your head tips back.
“Fuck, look at you. So beautiful when you're desperate for it.” His hand slides up to cup your face, thumb pressing against your parted lips and tilting your chin back down until you meet his eyes. They're dark, pupils blown wide, and the heat in them makes your breath stutter. “You have any idea what you do to me babygirl? How fucking crazy you make me?”
You want to believe him. Want to believe that this means something, that you're not just convenient and willing at 3 AM. But the wanting is what breaks you. His hips roll up and pleasure spikes through you sharp. You're so turned on it aches, so close to the edge already, and underneath all of it is the creeping, horrible feeling of wanting this to mean what it doesn't mean.
“My girl.” His mouth brushes yours as he says it, barely a kiss. The hand on your cheek slides into your hair as his hips keep moving. You can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this, wants you, and for a moment it's so easy to believe that wanting and choosing are the same thing.
“You'll always be my girl, won't you? You know that.”
The thing is, you do know. That's the problem. You know it in the way his name in your phone makes your stomach drop. In the way you put on the black lace without hesitating. In the way your body has been his since the first time he touched you and has never quite figured out how to belong to itself again. You know it in your bones.
But knowing you're his and knowing he's yours are two very different things. And only one of them is true.
The first tear slips free before you can stop it and you instinctively try to hide your face in his neck. Seeking his warmth, his scent and the solid size of him, because he has ruined you so thoroughly that even now, even like this, he’s what your body reaches for. He’s the reason you’re crying and he’s who you want to cry into and that’s the most pathetic part of it.
But his hand catches your face before you can, palm curving around your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks. Your lips pucker involuntarily into a helpless little pout, fresh tears spilling over his fingers as he forces you to look directly at him.
“Oh baby,” he coos, soft and devastating and not entirely kind. His hips roll up and you whimper through the pout he’s forcing on your lips, grinding you against his erection in a rhythm that makes your body sing even as your heart splinters “What’s this? What’s going on in that pretty head?”
His thumb swipes at your tears almost lazily, eyes tracking each one with a toxic mix of heat and hunger and satisfaction barely concealed beneath concern. The humiliation and the pleasure coil into something indistinguishable from each other, and the need between your thighs deepens with every tear he collects.
“I cant do this anymore,” you manage, small and pathetic and entirely unconvincing.
More tears follow, hot and wet against your cheeks. Beneath you he's harder than before, thick and obvious through his jeans, his free hand pressing your hips down into a rhythm you're helpless to resist. The friction drags a moan out of you that breaks halfway into a sob, messy and humiliating, and you're still pouty-lipped and crying in his palm. He watches it happen with those dark, greedy eyes before schooling his expression back into something that looks like concern.
He tilts his head, blue eyes wide and earnest, and you feel insane. Like you've invented the problem out of thin air. “Where’s this coming from?”
The gentleness of his tone is pure performance. Like he has no idea why you'd be falling apart in his lap. Like he isn’t the architect of every wound he’s now pretending to care about. Like your tears aren’t exactly what he came here for.
“You know where.” You try to pull away but his hand tightens on your cheeks, keeping you seated firmly in his lap, keeping the thick ridge of his cock pressed right against your clit through the soaked lace.
“I really don't, baby.” His thumb swipes another tear. “Talk to me.”
But you can't. Can't articulate the war happening inside you. The way your body is screaming yes while your heart is screaming no. Can't explain that you're furious and desperate and so far gone for him that the anger only makes you want him more.
More tears spill over and you watch his pupils dilate, watch his breath catch.
“We're done,” you finally say, the words muffled and graceless against the pout his fingers are still forcing on your lips. “I mean it this time.”
For a second he just stares at you, and then his expression shifts into something that makes your stomach drop. Not surprised - of course not - just entirely indulgent like you're a child throwing a tantrum.
“Aww, baby.” His voice goes soft, syrupy, as though he's talking you down from something small and silly. “Hey, hey. It's okay, good girl. Let it all out.”
“I'm serious—”
“Shh, I know. I know you are.” His thumb traces your bottom lip as his tongue drags slowly across his own. “You're upset. You've got all these big feelings and nowhere to put them, yeah? Go on baby, show me how much you're feeling right now, cry because it’s over.”
The patronizing tone makes you cry harder, as he keeps you pressed against the hard length of him that proves he's not taking any of this seriously. His eyes track each tear with rapt attention, that small smile playing at his mouth. Your face is still caught in his grip, bottom lip still protruding in that humiliating little pout, wobbling with each wet sob
He uses that grip on your face to pull you forward into his mouth before you can reply. The kiss is messy and wet and salty with your tears, his tongue licking into you like he's tasting the evidence of everything you feel for him, everything you just tried to end. You moan into it despite yourself and he swallows that too, hips rolling up beneath you slow and deliberate, keeping the rhythm, reminding your body what it wants even as your heart tries to want something else.
He pulls back only to drag his mouth across your cheek, your jaw, following the wet trails your tears have left behind. His tongue collects them one by one and the groan that rumbles out of him against your skin makes your thighs clench around his.
“So fucking sweet,” he rasps, mouth moving to find more, greedy. “My pretty little crybaby.”
Once satiated with your tears, his hand finally releases your cheeks and you collapse forward immediately, face buried in the crook of his neck where you wanted to be ten minutes ago. Your arms loop weakly around his broad shoulders, breath ragged and wet, nose pressed into his skin. You're still crying - soft, hiccuping sobs you can't quite get a handle on - yet your hips continue to grind desperately against him because your body has clearly given up on listening to your better judgment.
His other hand slides down between your bodies, palm grazing your stomach, the lace at your hip, and then the soaked fabric between your thighs. The first brush of his fingers against the soaked lace makes you moan into his throat before you can stop yourself, hips bucking helplessly into the contact.
“Ari, I said—I ended it—” But your protest is weak and entirely unconvincing because the rest dissolves into a moan that you muffle desperately against his neck.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You're drenched.”
His fingers trace the wet fabric, and another wet moan escapes you as he presses against your clit.
“See? Your body knows what it wants even if you're confused up here.” His thumb taps gently at your temple, patronising and tender all at once.
Pushing the lace aside, the first stroke of his thick fingers through your wetness makes you moan into his neck. He hums his approval before sinking two fingers into you in one slow stroke, and your whole body shudders.
“Ari, you're not listening,” you manage between ragged breaths, hips grinding down onto his hand despite every word coming out of your mouth. “I ended it. I told you I—” Another moan chokes off the sentence as he curls his fingers deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.
“I am listening, babygirl. I hear you,” he soothes, infuriatingly gentle. “You're very upset. Very hurt. And you're handling it by making a big declaration at four in the morning while you're sitting in my lap in that lace I bought you.” He keeps pumping his fingers into you as he talks, and you can barely focus on the words. “While you're soaking my fingers and grinding on my cock.”
Your protests begin dissolve into something more honest - desperate little whines mewled into his neck because that's the only place you can hide. The tears keep falling even as your hips chase his hand, even as your fingers claw at his shoulders, even as every coherent thought you had about ending this burns away to nothing.
“Please, please, please—”
You’re so close, desperately close, trembling on the edge of it when he pulls his fingers free. The sound you make is pathetic and defeated, and goes wilfully ignored.
Ari brings those same fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a moan that vibrates through his chest.
“Fuck, don't know what's sweeter, baby.” His eyes track between his fingers and your wet cheeks, dark and considering. “You or those pretty tears.”
He sucks them clean one more time like he can't help himself, then reaches down.
The zip of his jeans is the loudest sound in the room. He frees himself, and you can’t help the eager noise that escapes you because god, his cock is so pretty. Thick and hard and flushed dark, the swollen head already glistening. The kind of cock that's ruined your standards permanently.
A drop of precum slides down to streak against your inner thigh before his big hands close around your hips. With an ease that always makes you feel like a doll he's positioning, he drags your soaked pussy along the length of him without pushing in. Just sliding you over him, painting himself in your wet heat while the lace stays bunched to the side and you make needy little sounds against his throat.
The fat head of his cock catches your clit and you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Ari,” you whine, a desperate little plea. “Please.”
“Please what, babygirl?” His voice is pure honey, dark and indulgent. “Tell me what you need.”
“Need you to—” Another gasp as he catches your clit again.
“Use your words, c’mon, know you can do it.” He guides your hips forward again, achingly slow, the thick head of him nudging against your entrance before he pulls you back. Not pushing in, just making sure you know exactly what you're begging for.
“Inside,” you sob against his neck. “Please, I need your cock Ari.”
“Hmm,” he teases, almost thoughtful as he tilts his head. His hands still on your hips, holding you hovering right there, right on the edge of it. “I would, baby. You know I would.” He pauses, and you feel your heart drop into your stomach. His thumb strokes your hip in possessive circles. “But I thought you ended it. Thought you meant it this time.”
Your face snaps up to his, panic and need crashing into each other behind your eyes.
“Ari, please, no—I need you, I need—”
“Aww.” His voice softens, faux-tender, that infuriating little crease appearing between his brows. “Baby, no, I'm just doing what you asked me to do. It’s over, right? We’re done. That's what you said.” He drags you slowly over him again and the head of his cock catches your clit and you sob, fresh tears spilling hot down your cheeks. “Wouldn't want to take advantage.”
“I didn't mean it.” The words tumble out of you in a desperate rush, choked and wet and humiliating. “Ari I didn't mean it, I'm sorry, please, please I'm sorry—” You kiss him before he can answer, messy and needy, lips chasing his, hands fisting in his shirt to keep him close. “Please, I need you, I need it, please don't stop—”
You feel his cock twitch against your folds. Hot and obvious. A pulse of want he can't hide. He hums against your mouth, low and pleased, and you can feel him smiling.
“Shhh,” he breathes against your lips between kisses, voice dropping to something dark and pleased. “Look at you. Crying and begging and apologising. So fucking pretty when you're like this. Gone all dumb for my cock, haven't you?”
He drags you over him again, slow and torturous, the slick head of him catching your clit and making you whine.
“Yes,” The word falls out of you broken and grateful. “Yes, please, Ari—”
“Yeah?” His mouth moves against yours, almost amused. “You want me to take care of you? Even after you tried to end it?” Another devastating drag. “Even after you broke my heart?”
“Please, I'm yours, please—” Your hips are still chasing him, still desperate, every word collapsing into the next.
“Okay, baby. Okay.” His tone is generous now. Magnanimous, like he's bestowing something. “I'll give it to you because that's what I do, isn't it? I take care of my girl.” His hand slides to grip the base of his cock, the other tightening on your hip. “This is why you're mine, crying so pretty for my cock.”
He lines the thick, swollen head of his cock up at your entrance, and guides you down with his hand on your hip. The first inch of him has your eyes rolling back already, stretching you open with that familiar fullness that your body has been craving for two weeks.
“Shit, baby,” he groans, head tipping back briefly. “Tightest little cunt I've ever felt. Made for me, isn't it?”
You try to chase his mouth, desperate to keep kissing him, but your jaw won't cooperate. Instead, it keeps falling slack with every inch you take, lips parting uselessly around the moans pouring out of you. By the time you're fully seated your forehead is resting against his, your mouth hanging open against his lips.
“Dumb already,” he rumbles, watching your face with dark amusement, watching your wet, glassy eyes blink slowly back at him. “What am I going to do with you, baby?” His thumb finds your bottom lip, slipping into your open mouth and pressing down on your tongue. “Suck. Good girl. Keep that mouth occupied.”
You close your lips around his thumb obediently, sucking, eyes fluttering shut around the dual fullness of him in your mouth and inside you. His hips give a small, lazy roll beneath you and you whimper around his fingers.
“Go on, show me how much my little crybaby needed this.”
You find your rhythm slowly, hips rolling, chasing the friction, thighs burning with the effort of it. Ari watches you from beneath heavy lids, enjoying every second of making you work for it - not helping, not even a little. Just watching you ride him like you’re entertainment, thumb still pressed to your tongue, free hand coming up to pop the clasp of your bra like he has all the time in the world.
It falls away and his hand cups your breast immediately, squeezing, thumb dragging over your nipple before pinching it sharply. You whimper around his thumb, drool clinging to his knuckle, trailing down your chin in thin little strings.
He pinches harder and you clench around him hard enough to make him hiss, so he does it again just to feel you grip him. You're close. So desperately close you can feel it shimmering just out of reach, coiling tight in your belly with every roll of your hips. Soft whining sounds escape around his thumb with every breath.
“You getting close, baby? Want to cum?”
You nod frantically, eyes wet and pleading, drool slipping down his hand. A thin string of it pulls from your lips as you try to form the word yes.
“Then beg for it,” he purrs, lazy and mean. “You want it so bad? Let's hear it.”
You try. You really try - tongue working uselessly around his thumb, shaping syllables as best you can. What escapes is something that vaguely resembles please, mangled by saliva and his cruel pressure on your tongue, deliberately obstructing the attempt.
His grin is slow and wolfish. “That supposed to be begging?”
A desperate whine vibrates against his thumb. He presses it deeper in response, just to feel you gag, just to watch your lips stretch wider around him, and your eyes well with fresh tears.
“Nah.” His mouth drags to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Not good enough, babygirl. All I hear is spit and nonsense.” His free hand drops between your bodies, fingers brushing your clit - just a mean, fleeting touch - and you sob desperately. “Drooling all over my fingers like a needy little thing. Can't even beg right - guess you don't want it that bad, huh?”
A pathetic cry claws its way out of you, half-strangled by the thumb still in your mouth. You shake your head wildly, eyes glassy and wide. So you try harder. Put everything you have left into it, hips still rolling desperately, thighs shaking.
“P-plea'—Ari—please—wan'—wan'—cum—”
Slurred, barely English, mangled around his thumb. But desperate. Unmistakably desperate.
He groans - deep, hungry and satisfied - hips finally snapping up to meet yours. He drags his thumb from your mouth just long enough to hear the broken sob of relief that breaks loose from your lips before his mouth crashes against yours.
“Good girl,” he breathes against your tongue. “Fucking good girl.”
He fucks up into you hard, one big hand gripping the curve of your ass to slam you down to meet every thrust. The other stays between you to circle you clit with perfect pressure. Every snap of his hips hits you so deep you can feel it in your teeth. The sound of it is filthy, slick and wet and rhythmic, your apartment filled with the obscene slap of skin and your broken, mindless cries.
“Fuckin' look at you,” he growls against your jaw. “That’s my fucking girl, riding my cock so pretty.”
You can't answer. Can barely hold yourself upright. His name is the only word left in your mouth—Ari Ari Ari Ari—a desperate, broken loop as he drives into you.
“That's right.” His thumb works your clit faster, mouth dragging across your jaw. “Say it. Whose are you? Whose pussy is this?”
“Ari—” you moan. “Ari, Ari, Ari—”
“Yeah, that's right. Mine, so let me feel my pussy soak my cock.”
You break apart. Your whole body convulses, walls clamping down around him so hard he hisses, the orgasm tearing through you in wave after wave while his hips never stop, never slow. His name is still falling helplessly out of your mouth in a broken chant as he fucks you through it, hips snapping up into you while you sob and shake and clench around him.
“Fuck—fuck, baby, just like that—strangling my cock.”
His rhythm goes sloppier. Hungrier. His hand leaves your clit and his arm wraps around your waist instead, holding you against him, pinning you in place so he can fuck up into you with everything he has left.
“Gonna fill you up, baby. Fill this perfect pussy with my cum.”
You nod helplessly, squeezing around him and he loses it. His hips drive up one last time, burying himself deep, and groans against your skin as he spills inside you. You feel every pulse of it. Every hot, possessive flood while you tremble in his lap, his cock still twitching, his hand still gripping your ass like he can't quite let go.
You come down slowly, in pieces, his arms still locked around you and his cock still buried deep. His mouth moves over your throat, your jaw, your tear-tracked cheeks. Soft, sweet kisses that are a complete contrast to what he just did to you.
“My perfect girl,” he murmurs, voice gentle and warm. “Always so good for me. Always so fucking perfect.”
You can't even respond. Just whimper against his shoulder while his hand strokes up and down your spine, gentling you, his other hand cradling the back of your head. You're floating somewhere between exhaustion and bliss, and he holds you through all of it, patient and warm and impossibly tender.
Praise pours out of him in a low, constant stream, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself believe in it, just for a minute.
When he finally pulls out you feel his cum start to slip out of you immediately. Hot and slick, sliding down between your thighs onto the wet head of him still pressed against you. He glances down and tuts, both amused and disapproving.
“Mm, look at the mess you're making.” His thumb catches some of it where it's beading on his cock and brings it back up to your bottom lip, smearing it there, watching your face. Your tongue darts out before you've made any conscious decision about it. He hums, deeply pleased. “You made the mess baby, reckon you ought to help clean it up.”
He guides you off his lap slowly, careful with you, until your knees meet the floor between his spread thighs. You look up at him from there - face wet, lips parted, cum running down the insides of your thighs onto your apartment floor - and the look on his face stops your breath in your chest.
That undone, almost tender expression he never wears anywhere but here. Only ever when he thinks you can't tell, when his guard has slipped, when you've fucked him past the point where he can keep the walls up.
It's the drug. It's always been the drug. It's why you didn't block his number when you said you would. Why you opened the door at 3:32 AM. Why you let him talk you out of ending it without ever actually arguing. Why you'll do the same thing the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that. Because no one else has ever looked at you the way Ari Levinson is looking at you right now.
His thumb traces your bottom lip, possessive yet tender. “Open up, babygirl.”
more mads: honestly, i'm not entirely sure that's what the request meant, but i started listening to "don't smile" to get inspo for the fic and my mind immediately went to dacryphilia and that was it really, so um, sorry if this isn't what you meant anon, but i hope you, and anyone else who read this enjoyed anyway!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make my whole day. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 <33
simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader — between the sheets
smut!, 18+, mdni, fingering, oral, penetrative sex, brief sexting, welcome home sex, kissing, porn with barely any plot, filthy dirty talk, fem!reader, husband!simon, kinda desperate simon, handjob, crying during sex, cumming inside, this is my first time posting smut!! be nice to me lmfao
—
The phone at your side lights up the bedroom with a text message.
Simon: Gonna be late getting home, love. Train got delayed. Don't wait up.
You pause the movie you'd been half-heartedly watching, sighing into the dark, emptiness of the room.
Simon had been gone for nearly three weeks now, on some counter-terrorism mission in the East that was only meant to be a few days duration. But it seemed the universe was dead-set on keeping you apart from your husband as long as it could manage.
You've been missing him, and you've been plenty vocal about it, too.
You kick the light, summery sheets off your legs and ruck up the cotton tee you're wearing. Shimmying down the mattress to stretch out your torso and press your thighs together tight, you display the planes of your figure to your phone's camera.
You capture the angle like a pro. Before Simon, you never cared for sending nudes or sexting with any one of your partners, but with how often he's sent away from home (and the way Simon falls apart on the other end), you've learned to enjoy it.
Your favorite part? You don't need expensive lingerie with Simon, just one of his oversized t-shirts and a pair of lacy underwear is enough to get the 6'3 mountain of a man to crumble to his knees. The very bottom of your breasts are revealed just under where you pulled up your top, followed by the smooth expanse of your abdomen framed by the dainty waistband of your undies. Tame, but perfectly sexy.
You study the photo on your glowing screen for only a moment, heat pooling between your legs at what you're about to do— that feeling never goes away, even after years of practice. It feels new with your husband every. single. time. You'll never get tired of it.
You: I've been waiting for you long enough, Lieutenant. Get home already.
Simon's brows furrow as he feels the vibration of his phone in his back pocket. He wasn't expecting a response from you, it's late, and you should be asleep by now. In fact, he's supposed to be curled up next to you, but one thing after another and he's still sitting at this dingy train station, surrounded by his bags and exhaustion seeping into his bones. So close to home, but still so far.
He enters his password and clicks on your pretty icon, a selfie he took of you, asleep on his chest and nuzzled into the crook of his arm, practically eclipsed by his giant grey hoodie. The only person in his phone with a photo icon at all.
His heart drops to his balls when he sees the attachment in your messages.
All laid out in the bed for him, pretty skin and pretty curves, he can practically feel the warmth of you through the phone.
His pants feel tight. Shit.
He glances around him, but luckily the station is devoid of life— he's the only poor soul still stuck here. Simon adjusts his pants discreetly, then looks back down at your messages. He reads your text.
"Fuck." He mutters under his breath.
As if being away from you for three weeks when it was only supposed to be six days wasn't torture enough.
As if the thread of messages and phone calls over the past week alone wasn't enough to kill a man when his only source of relief was his own hand or an ice cold shower in the barracks.
As if— no, he can't keep thinking about this in public. Even with no one in sight.
Simon: Fuck. Can't wait to see you. Be home in another hour.
Simon wanted to punch himself for not taking your offer earlier to just pick him up from the airport yourself. At the time, he was being a proper gentleman— didn't want you to have to drive all that way so late at night when he could just take the tube. Now, after 11 straight hours of travel time and the hardening problem down south, Simon just wanted to fall into bed with you and fuck you senseless.
—
By the time Simon's boots finally land on the welcome mat of your shared townhouse, two more hours had passed.
His hands are shaking with anticipation as he clumsily unlocks the front door, shoving open the wood with his shoulder and dumping his bags unceremoniously at the threshold. Only you could manage to dissolve the rigid, trained military man that he is into such a wreck.
The Ghost, turned fully corporeal, every nerve in his body alight with the fire that burns between the crests of his hips.
You had stopped responding to his texts a half an hour ago, and while Simon was worried he'd missed his chance of a particularly warm welcome home from his lovely wife, he was more than happy to just hold you while you slept. From the silence coming from the house, the latter was a more likely outcome.
He leaves his boots at the door and sneaks up to the bathroom to freshen up for bed.
You were in fact asleep, but your brain knows the exact weight and cadence of Simon's gait against the hardwood floors, even out cold and buried in the sheets. It's all you need to regain alertness, excitement and unadulterated relief to have your husband back home urging you upright. You see the bathroom light on, glowing into the hallway and through the cracked bedroom door, and flip the covers off you to rise to your feet.
You pad across the room and pull open the door. The bathroom is ajar and Simon's broad figure fills up the space in front of the vanity, his cotton long sleeve shirt stretched taut across his back and shoulders. His eyes meet yours in the mirror and a smile breaks out around his toothbrush, minty toothpaste foaming at the corner of his mouth.
"You are awake." He remarks.
You hum, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, fingers splaying across his ribs and cheek pressed tight between the blades of his shoulders. His heart beats steadily in his chest, his muscles warm against your skin through his shirt.
Simon spits his toothpaste into the sink and rinses the brush, then places his other hand around one of your wrists, smoothing his thumb against your forearm. He spins around, not letting go, and pulls you into his chest where he holds you tight with both arms, leaning back into the counter. Simon kisses the top of your head.
"You drive me crazy, y'know that?" He mumbles into your hair, but there's no darkness to it, just complete adoration and awe.
You chuckle, "I was hoping you'd rip a hole through space and time to get home quicker."
"Would if I could, sweetheart."
You look up to press your lips to his, loving yet firm. "I missed you," you say against him.
"I know." He quips.
You pull back to give him a look, which only makes him smirk back at you proudly. You suppose he does know, you barely let him rest.
"Missed you too," He says finally, kissing you deeply again, "You gonna let me show you how much?"
"Please," you sigh against him.
It's all the go-ahead he needs before hauling you against his large frame, lifting you from behind the legs and splaying his hands against your ass. You wrap your arms around his neck, fingers trailing through the slightly longer locks of blonde at his nape as he bites gently at your lower lip. He feels like the embodiment of love, and home, and heat and you swear you'll never get enough of him.
The buckle of his belt jabs against that sweet spot between your legs as you cross your ankles behind him, sending a jolt through your stomach as you gasp. Simon tastes like his toothpaste and he smells like pine and gun-smoke, it's so good you wish you get inside him.
In an instant your horizontal again, head cradled in a halo of pillows and rumpled sheets against your skin. He moves so fast into the bedroom you would've thought you'd just teleported if you didn't know any better.
Simon presses into you from above, framing your face with his forearms and stealing your breath away with his pretty mouth. You trace your fingers along the scars of his face, following that familiar map until you reach the hollow of his throat. He cants his hips into yours, spreading your thighs open as his drags his hardness into you delectably. He groans deep at the friction, the rumble of it only serving to make you impossibly wetter.
Simon pulls your his shirt up your body, bunching it over your chest like you had it in that photo you sent him and trails a line of open mouthed kisses down your sternum, sliding down your body. As he descends, your fingers dance at the hem of his shirt against his back, dragging the fabric up and over his head. You let your nails scratch lightly across his skin as he sheds his own shirt, trailing goosebumps in your wake.
Simon settles between your legs, one propped up on his shoulder and the other falling open on the bed. Your mouth gapes open in a silent moan, the breath stolen away from you as he kisses your center through the damp material of your undies. He hooks a finger around them, pulling it to the side whilst the other hand smooths up your belly. He's so much larger than you that his arm could probably reach completely along your torso if he wanted to.
Simon can't decide if he wants to watch your pretty eyes roll into the back of your head as his thumb rolls against your clit or if he wants to watch your pussy glisten in the low light of the bedroom for him. His eyes drag up your body appreciatively as you roll your hips slowly against the pressure he applies, making you exhale a breath as you watch him half-lidded.
"Shit," He murmurs, "So glad I married you. Wanna have you like this for the rest of my life."
And with that, he bows his head to replace his thumb with his mouth, pressing the tip of his tongue flat against your folds and sucking hard.
Your body arches off the bed, fingers tightening in his hair. "Fuck, Simon." He rocks his hips against the bed slowly, groaning into you at the drag of it on his cock.
He stays like that, lapping at you like a man starved as you writhe beneath his ministrations, occasionally peering up at you with his whisky brown eyes, pupils blown. You pull gently at his hair to get his attention.
Simon hums into you, pressing a kiss to your clit which has you keening before he pulls away.
"Come up here," you plead, voice steady, but teetering on a pathetic whine. Simon grins, raising himself to crawl back over your body. You kiss him, hot and heavy, the taste of you still lingering in his breath. He moans into you as you drag your tongue against his teeth, letting you explore the inside of his mouth as his fingers press into your sides.
Simon paws at your breast with one hand, rubbing his thumb across your nipple and you swear sparks fly straight down your body. He separates from you for just a moment, to pull your shirt all the way off your body. When he kisses you again, his hand has traveled back down to the slick between your thighs, circling around your most sensitive spots. When he plunges two fingers inside of you, you lose his lips to moan. A string of saliva connects you until Simon cranes his neck to kiss you again, fingers pumping deep inside of you. Your legs fall open uselessly, one leg still wrapped around the back of his thigh as he holds himself over you and you swear you'll cum right then and there. You don't know if it's the missing him for three weeks, or if Simon just knows exactly the right way to handle you. Maybe it's both.
You're so wet, the sound of it fills the whole room. You'd be embarrassed if it wasn't Simon— and if he wasn't currently grinding himself desperately against your inner thigh.
"So perfect, sweetheart." He whispers at your ear, "Missed you so bad. Missed this pretty pussy."
You think he might've fucked you brainless already, with just his fingers. You can't even respond. Instead you reach down and pull at his belt buckle, fighting with his clothes to unwrap his cock like some sinful present box. You push down his pants until you can wrap your hand around his length, squeezing gently at the base of him. Simon draws in a sharp breath and his eyes flutter in pleasure, his fingers don't falter though, he keeps thrusting them into you rhythmically as you clench around him. He's all lean muscle and sharp lines, a body like tempered steel forged for lithe movement and effortless strength.
"Do you know how crazy you make me when I'm away? Teasing me with all those photos of you and sending me videos with your hands between your thighs?"
"Just don't want you to forget what's waiting for you at home." You reply, eyes fluttering closed.
Simon huffs, "How could I ever? You were made for me."
You smile. What's crazy is the way that Simon can fuck you so filthy with only his hands and his mouth, yet make you feel so wholesomely loved at the same time.
You're vaguely aware of the sounds coming out of your mouth as you tighten your fist around his cock and stroke him up and down. Simon's not bothered by the noises you make, in fact that smirk on his face says he's quite proud of the way he unravels you, and you're sure he's made you sound far more pathetic plenty times before.
Simon adds his thumb to the mix of sensations happening at your core, and that pressure builds inside of you, hot and electric.
"Si', I'm gonna cum—" you warn, rolling your hips into him. Simon grits his teeth, his jaw working as you slide your hand around him and squeeze lightly just below the tip. He exhales harshly at the sensation, whole body jumping, "Hah— fuck. Stop." He presses his nose into the crook of your neck, "Stop, I'm not gonna last."
You're about to protest, knowing you're about to fall over the edge any second with his perfect fingers so deep inside you.
"Want you to come, but you gotta stop touching me. Gotta hold out so I can come inside you."
You moan at his words and it's all you need to tumble into a mind-blowing orgasm as you oblige. You see stars in your vision as you struggle to focus on Simon's face, body shuddering uncontrollably.
He doesn't even give you a second to recuperate before he's centering himself between your legs. He leans back on his knees and grabs you by the thighs, pulling you down the bed to prop your hips up atop the fronts of his legs. He stares mesmerized at the way your pussy weeps for him, resting his hard length against your folds and thrusting it against your clit, once, twice, three times before guiding himself against your entrance. You writhe in pleasure against him, teeth clenched.
You both groan in tandem as he slides deliciously inside of you, bullying into your velvety walls as you clench helplessly around his girth. It doesn't matter how many times you've had him like this, he's so big, and he fills you up just right.
"You feel so good, Simon." You moan, hands resting squarely against his muscular chest.
"Always so tight, love. Fuck, you're gonna kill me." Simon pulls nearly all the way out of you, achingly slow before pushing back in to the hilt sevenfold faster. You gasp loudly as he thrusts into you, skin slapping loudly throughout the room. It's a good thing your bedroom doesn't share walls with the neighbors.
Simon watches you attentively as he fucks into you, his exhales timed with each sharp press into you, the intimacy of it strangling your heart in your chest. The drag of his cock inside you is too good to be true.
"I'm gonna tear you apart." He growls lowly, teeth grazing your jaw before he nips at you teasingly.
"Please—" you moan, and it's with sudden awareness that you realize you might be crying, the bruising pleasure that accompanies Simon's rough fucking renders you completely used.
Simon let's go of your thighs and leans over you, hands on either side of your head. You grip on to his biceps like a life line, nails definitely breaking skin as he shifts your lower halves into a new angle. He fucks you so hard you're not sure you'll be able to walk tomorrow but it feels so good you don't care.
"God, I love you." He says, groaning, "Love you so much."
"I-I love you, Simon. Shit—" Yeah, you're definitely crying. Simon kisses the tears away with such reverence, like he's not breaking you in at the same time.
"You gonna let me cum inside you?" He coos, claiming your open mouth. You nod, kissing him back.
"Say it, baby."
You groan, breathless. You aren't shy, your husband practically worships the ground you walk on.
"Want you to cum inside me, Simon. Want you so bad."
Simon swears sharply, hips stuttering as he pulls you against him, impossibly deeper inside of you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, moaning loudly into your hair, bordering on a breathy whine near the end of it. His body shudders as you clutch onto him, and god, it feels like heaven. Your second orgasm hits you like a truck, wrecking every nerve in your body as you shake beneath Simon's weight, painstakingly, saccharine sweet all at the same time. Heat ignites every well of your body, settling deep in your bones.
You both lie there, breathless for a while until Simon pulls back, kneeling before you with his cock still deep within your aching core.
"You okay, sweetheart? You're crying." He asks, running his hands soothingly up and down your hips.
You close your eyes, fighting a scoff as you place the back of your hand against your forehead, "Simon, you just fucked my brains out, I don't even know my own name right now."
He pulls out of you slowly, your eyes shooting open at the loss of him with a sharp gasp. "Sorry," Simon hisses, "Didn't mean to be so rough."
You shake your head, grinning from ear to ear with a lazy smile, "Si', you're perfect. You know how I like it."
He huffs, then pats your thigh gently, "Come on then, y'gotta pee."
You bury yourself deeper into the pillows, sighing. "Too comfy."
"You'll regret that. Come on."
You groan as Simon wraps his arms around you, one under the bend in your knees and the other around your upper back, cradling you into his chest as he lifts you up. You can't be mad, even as his cool air of the house envelopes your naked skin and the warm bed feels miles away— he's only taking care of you.
You clean each other up, reverent and gentle, Simon ever so domestic with you.
In a moment you're both back in bed, covers drawn up and limbs entangled. You press your face into his neck, settling into the crook of his arm like you always do.
"Welcome home, Simon."
He grins at you brightly, the smug bastard that he is, and presses a loving kiss to your forehead.
"Thanks, love." He whispers, "Go to sleep."
—
idk what possessed me. my excuse is that i'm ovulating— please don't let this flop.
hope you enjoyed this as much as i did!!! i haven't proof read this yet, i basically blacked out, wrote the whole thing and now i'm posting it LOL
Can you do park reader who lives in his apartment building and has guide dog for whatever reason you want and the dog comes to his door when reader falls in the hallway thanks love your stories
You turn to your left and see your next-door neighbor.
Brendon Park.
He was stupidly handsome and such a nice guy.
You always see him at different times of the day because he’s a surgeon down the road at ptmc. It’s also a nice perk to live next door to a doctor, which he insisted you knock if you ever need him day or night.
“Hey Bren, going out or just getting back?”
He smiles as he leans against his door “Just getting back. A long nap is calling my name. Hopefully I’m up by lunch. Where are you and Meesh headed?”
Meesh, a nickname for Misha, is a 4 year old golden retriever. He’s also your service dog of almost three years now.
You had been diagnosed with POTS as a teenager and over the years it had gotten a little more intense. This had led to you passing out while out by yourself one day and had hit your head. Luckily a passerby called EMS and you were taken to the hospital and treated.
It happened more frequently after that and your parents decided a service dog was non-negotiable since you lived alone.
You’ve lived next to Brendon for about a year now and even though he’s a doctor, you’ve never told him of your condition. You just didn’t want to seem incapable or weak around him.
Obviously he knew you had some sort of medical condition as you had Misha but he’d never ask unless you were to bring it up first.
“We’re headed to the new farmer’s market downtown. I’ve heard good things and I've been dying to check it out.” you laugh
“Oooo there's a jam stand there that sells raspberry peach jam, here–” he pulls $40 from his wallet “Could you grab me two jars? I’ve not been able to go with my schedule lately.”
You shake your head with a smile “Bren, I’ll get them. You don’t have to pay me.”
He raises an eyebrow and holds the money out.
“Uh uh, take this and keep the rest for the troubles.”
You tap your chin dramatically “How about I’ll take it when I bring the jams back, fair deal?”
He tilts his head with a chuckle.
“You drive a hard bargain woman but okay, when you get back.”
You wave to him as you walk Meesh to the elevator.
Brendon watches you go even after the elevator doors close.
He bites his lip at the thought of seeing you again later.
Shaking his head he finally unlocks his door and walks in.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
After a whole day in the hot Pittsburgh heat, you’re finally making your way back to the apartment building.
You hold your tote bag on your shoulder, the two jars of jam securely tucked in it.
As you walk towards the elevator you notice a sign on the doors
‘Elevators out of service until tomorrow.”
“Fuck” you say quietly.
Guess you’ll be taking the stairs.
You’re on the sixth floor so it’s not terrible but the trek up there still won’t be easy.
After a few minutes you realize the air conditioning isn’t great in the stairwell and you’re starting to sweat a lot.
You end up stopping on the fourth floor to sit down for a few minutes.
You’re pretty out of breath and start to feel a little dizzy.
Just two more floors.
When you go to stand up Meesh is at your side and is trying to lay on your lap, keeping you sitting.
You then realize he’s alerting you to your fast heart rate. A potential episode starting.
Normally this is when you’d stay seated and rest a bit but you don’t. Gently you pet him while trying to catch your breath.
“I-It’s okay Meesh. Just t-two more and I’ll sit w-when we’re upstairs.”
You knew better than to ignore him and not immediately take it easy but you were almost home.
Meesh whines a little as he desperately tries to get you to stay sitting but you get up anyway and continue up the stairs.
Finally you’re only a set of stairs away from the sixth floor door. As you go to take a step, it feels like the ground is shifting. Your movements feel sluggish as you take another step.
Shit. I need to sit right now.
Your hands shake as you try to grab your phone from your purse. Meesh is back at your side nudging you and again trying to get you to sit.
Without looking you take another step but the dizziness throws you off balance, sending you tumbling down the few stairs to the platform below.
Your bag hits the ground, scattering all your belongings somewhere you can’t see.
“M-Meeshhh” you try to call for him. He looks torn to find something to help and staying to help comfort you.
Then in a split second he’s racing up the stairs to the hallway door. The inside of the door is one you push to open from both sides.
Luckily, in training Meesh, he had been taught how to open a few different types of door handles for retrieving water, medicines, and other things.
It doesn’t take long for him to figure this one out and as soon as it starts to open he’s squeezing through the opening and runs to your apartment door.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Brendon’s enjoying his post-shift nap when a noise pulls him from his sleep.
He looks up from the couch and listens quietly.
There’s a scratching sound.
Are there rats in the walls?
He goes to lay back down when he hears whining.
“What the f—“
Then there’s a loud bark that sounds close by.
He then moves from the couch and towards the front door.
Cracking it open he sees golden fur by your door.
Brendon opens the door wider and sees Meesh scratching at your door.
“Hey Meesh!” he stays where he is since he’s well aware to not touch working dogs.
Speaking of working, where were you?
He walks out further and doesn’t see you but he notices Meesh’s frantic behavior.
“Where’s your mommy buddy?”
Meesh runs to Brendon and frantically paws at Brendon and then runs down to the door leading to the stairwell.
Brendon’s eyebrows furrow as he observes the dog's behavior.
Then it hits him.
Shit.
In a training seminar he was taught that if a service dog is alone, to follow them. That some dogs were trained to find help if the handler was injured or suffering a medical emergency.
You could be in trouble.
He immediately runs to where Meesh is and pushes the door open.
Peering down the stairs, his heart stops.
You’re at the bottom of the stairs on your side looking like you passed out. Your stuff is everywhere and Meesh is trying to comfort you and lay on your chest.
“Sweetheart, hey!” He yells as he makes his way to you quickly.
He notices your labored breathing and that your eyes are barely open.
“Hey sweet girl, what happened? Are you okay?”
He gently feels around your head and takes note of a bump on the side where you likely hit your head.
“B-Bren?” you slur out a little
His hand engulfs your face as he looks you over.
“It’s okay sweetheart, we’re gonna head to ptmc right now.”
You shake your head as you try to sit up.
“Sorry baby you can’t get up. Just stay still.”
“No Bren,” you mumble “no ambulance.”
He grabs your attention, looking into your eyes.
“Hey, hey I know but you’re hurt. So either the ambulance takes you or I do.”
You squint your eyes at the pounding headache and try to curl into him “Take me please.”
——
Brendon had quickly gotten his keys and then grabbed you and Meesh, making his way to ptmc.
He wished he had a picture of Dana’s face when he had come in with you in his arms and a dog glued to your side.
The three of you were a sight to see amongst his friends and colleagues.
Quickly Robby had been called down to your room to assess you.
Brendon stayed glued to your side with your hand in his as they evaluated you, taking in all the information Robby talked about.
You had POTS?
Fuck, he wish you would’ve told him so he could’ve helped better.
—--
About an hour later you were more coherent and able to register where you were.
“Bren?” you whisper as you see him to the side of you.
Your voice gets his attention and he looks over, his hand immediately stroking the side of your face gently.
“Hey sweetheart, you feelin better?”
You take a mental inventory of how you’re feeling.
“Yeah,” you nod “what hap—Meesh! Where is h-“
Brendon hushes you softly “He’s right here.”
He motions towards the dog that’s been attached to him and head in his lap since you guys arrived.
You nod shaky as you try to calm your racing heart.
“You had an episode, POTS. Guess you already knew but they think it was likely brought on by the heat and the exertion from climbing the stairs.”
You start to recall the events in your head.
“Yeah I-I remember it. Meesh alerted to the symptoms but I just wanted to make it to the apartment first. I should’ve listened to him. I’m sorry to drag you into all of this.”
Brendon squeezes your hand “Hey it’s okay. I’m glad I was home to help. But I’m gonna give you my number and next time the elevator is out or you don’t feel good, you use it and call me. I don’t care if I’m asleep or not home. You call me and I’ll come get you, okay?”
You shake your head “Bren, I can’t d-“
“Promise me sweetheart?” his face pleading with you.
You contemplate it and then nod, squeezing his hand.
“Okay, I promise “
He brings your hand to his mouth and places a kiss there.
“Perfect.”
You look around “Where’s my bag?”
Brendo turns and takes it off the back of his chair.
“I gathered what I saw on the stairs earlier but if something’s missing, tell me and I’ll go back and look for it baby.”
Rummaging through the bag you pull out what you were looking for, holding them out to him.
“You really got them?” his grin gets wider as he carefully takes the jars of raspberry peach jam from you.
bug reacting to Frank when he shaves his beard off
a cute little blurb based off my one-shot dinner date where Frank and you have a little daughter.
Maybe bug's a bit younger in this (inspired by those videos of babies being in shock when they see their usually bearded dad clean shaven)
No warnings, all fluff + a little heartbroken Frank :)
“Ughhhh fiiiiiiiinally she went down” you sigh, walking into the bathroom.
You hear it before you even look up
Bzzzzzz
You gasp “Francis.” freezing in place.
“What. Have. You. Done” hand on your heart like he just stabbed right through it.
“Wha?” Frank looks up at you through the mirror. Half of his jaw bare and half grizzly, with one palm stretching out the skin on his lower face as his shaver moves down it.
Your hands flail up as if the crime he's just committed isn't obvious
You pout walking up to him "why'd you get rid of it", your hand petting over the smooth freshly shaven skin. An almost foreign sensation you hadn't felt in a while.
"jesus christ baby i thought summn' happened" rolling his eyes at your dramatics as he continues the task at hand.
Your mouth opens in shock at his dismissal of your heartbreak.
"i looooooved your beard" you whine in a fake cry, literally nuzzling your face into the remainder of the coarse hair left on his face.
He huffs a chuckle, moving the shaver away "you gon divorce me now?"
You drop your hand from his face, giving him a deadpan look.
"never! but I am going to blow up your shaver!!" you call out as you walk out of the bathroom.
Almost an hour later, little bug wakes up from her nap.
"hiiii bubba" you coo at her, her arms reaching out for you and little chest hitching up and down, unsettled after waking up.
you pick her up dotting a little kiss on her cheek "i knowww sweetie, you're okay" you say softly bouncing her a little before sitting down in your feeding chair. You settle her onto your chest with small strokes down her back.
Just as her sniffles settle down you hear Frank's footsteps coming up the hall way - It was like he had an inbuilt baby monitor in his brain for her. Doesn't matter where he was in the house, he heard even her softest of cries.
"iiiiiii think thats dada" you say in a soft excited gasp, smiling at her.
that definitely piques her interest as she starts bouncing in your hold - such a daddy's girl.
"hii buggy" he walks in with a smile and then,
Oh… oh no-
You see the bobble of her head when she looks up at Frank and you feel her little body literally recoil as she burrows back into you.
“w-ooah its dada baby” you croon and she shakes her head furiously, peaking an eye out at the barefaced man from the crook of your neck.
Frank'd had a beard since the day she was born. So, understandably her poor brain was wondering "WHO the heck is this??"
He feels his heart drop
“H-hey it’s me bug-it's daddy” he tries to laugh it off softly but you see the confusion in his eyes mirroring the same confusion in his daughters.
He reaches his arms out, open palms in an attempt to hold her.
Bad move
His heart all but shatters at the sound of her wailing, pretty much trying to crawl into your skin - away from him.
He looks at you with the most adorable look of betrayal.
You pick her up and walk closer to Frank “look Bub it’s okay, I know he looks different but it’s just dada” you say softly before looking up at Franks frown and you give him a soft kiss on the bare skin off his cheek, in an attempt to show her he’s safe and familiar.
“See?” You hum lightly when she turns curiously to watch you get closer to this strange man.
Her face softens a little, cheeks still wet from her tears.
You bring her hand in yours, up to his jaw running her palm over his skin as her other hand clutches tightly to your shirt.
Frank stands there, frozen like a stone sculpture. Afraid if he breathes wrong it’ll set her off again.
“Feels funny doesn’t it bug?” You ask her
Laughing a little at the way her palms make that grabby motion at his cheek. Turning it towards herself - opening and closing her palm, confused when she can’t feel the scruffy beared she usually holds on to whenever she’s in Franks arms.
But Frank? No, Frank is not laughing.
Instead he’s thinking about how he would endure a hundred bullets through his chest. Easily, before he had to go through this pain again. The pain of seeing his little girl shy away from him.
“S-see? Just me bubba just dada” he says softly, almost pleading with his little one to recognise him. And she brings her palm up again rubbing it on his cheek.
“Was this more effective than blowing up your shaver?” you joke with another kiss on your heartbroken husbands cheek.
He looks back at you entirely unamused.
Not long after you see him fumbling away on his phone. Peeking over you see him searching.
calling brendon park ‘brenny’ while being absolutely railed by him is in fact my dream he wouldn’t even care if you called him that instead of ‘daddy’ — which he would if you called him ‘brendon’ — because it’s just the sweetest thing ever
Summary: Simon overhears you say his dick is small.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Consensual freeuse. Traffic light safe word system. Your boyfriend fucks you rough (but lovingly) while you’re on the phone.
Word count: 3.1k
You were being a good friend.
It really was as simple as that—a woman you’d known for over a decade now was going through the worst breakup of her life, and she needed your support. You’d offered that support without hesitation, thinking nothing of the fact that you were in the healthiest of relationships yourself. You sure as hell never would’ve imagined a conversation like that could lead to this.
“His dick was huge, too,” your friend groaned across the line. You heard a shuffling of pillows and a soft thump, and you pictured her punting one off the bed.
You were lying on your stomach in your own bed several hundred miles away, holding your phone to your ear and trying to bite back a slow-growing grin.
“Couldn’t have been that big,” you hummed.
Again, your best friend groaned as if she were in pain.
“No, I’m telling you, the guy was fucking massive, hon. Just hung like a…a goddamn horse. I’m gonna be sick.”
“You can find another monster cock someday.”
“I don’t want to, though! It was so good.”
“You know, a big dick isn’t everything.”
Now you were trailing a finger over the embroidered edge of a pillowcase, trying your hardest not to think of the man who’d just slipped out of your sheets thirty minutes prior. Right before your friend had called with her devastating news, before you had been obliged to join the I-Hate-All-Men tirade of the century, you’d been getting put through the mattress by your boyfriend—a man who didn’t lie, or cheat on you, or steal, or shatter your heart into a million pieces.
A man whose dick was considerably bigger than most.
Simon was probably already three beers deep with his buddies at the pub down the road, the same lopsided, happy-go-lucky smile on his face he always wore when you and him had just had a quickie before he left home
Suddenly, the tail-end of a sentence snapped you out of your reverie, your friend’s tone loud and a little shrill:
“—easy for you to say!”
You blinked. “Easy f—wait, what?”
“Simon Riley. Love of your life.” You could imagine the woman snapping fingers in front of your face if she had been with you then, as if to say, Ring a bell? “Don’t even try to act like he isn’t a crazy good lay. And huge.”
Your cheeks heated at the accusation. Hell, you’d probably mentioned to friends in passing that your boyfriend was an altogether generous lover, a caring man in every respect, along with a couple other vague intimations about his prowess that would leave a whole lot more to the imagination than not, but this? You hadn’t even touched on anything about his size.
Normally, you wouldn’t engage in that kind of talk—at least not to that level of detail, revealing intimate facts.
But your best friend was hurting, and it seemed like she needed something to feel better in the moment.
So, shortly, it slipped out before you could think better:
“Simon’s not even big.”
Your mouth clamped shut as soon as you said it.
Liar, every fiber of your being hissed at once.
(Shut the fuck up, I’m helping a friend out)
“No way. You’re full of shit,” she giggled.
(Well, yes)
“Nope.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
You swallowed hard. Already hating yourself as the silence across the line stretched on and you knew your friend expected you to elaborate, and then you did.
“Honestly, it’s pretty, um…small. And—And that’s OK! Like, nobody’s perfect. The sex with him is still so great, and if anything, it’s nice not having such a big dick to worry about, y’know? So don’t feel like dating a smaller guy is so bad. You can still have amazing sex.”
You tried to end it on a positive note—the message you meant to get across, which was that the girl could be happy with a guy of any size and she didn’t need to stay hung up on her stupid ex—but it fell flat, even to your own ears. Clearly, you’d dropped a bombshell.
“But he is just…such a big dude. You’d think—”
“No, I know, Simon’s tall,” you interrupted hastily. Wincing. “But like I was saying, you can still do a lot with an average-sized dick. Or—Or even a tiny one.”
“It’s tiny?!”
Fucking shit.
“No, no, no, not tiny! I mean, not that…tiny. He’s fine.”
Your pulse was pounding so loud in your ears you could hardly hear yourself think. Or breathe. Or lie. Or try to piece together the most incoherent string of words that came out a little something like, ‘Seriously, uh…Simon’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever dated, and um…dick size doesn’t even really matter. The big ones hurt. I mean, the guy’s not huge, but not tiny, and—’
“Well shit, lovie, how fuckin’ little are we talkin’ here?”
At the rumble of a voice by your other, phone-free ear, you nearly jumped and catapulted your device across the room. You would’ve yelped, too, had it not been for a big, broad palm clamping over your mouth. As a familiar weight and breadth and scent settled over your being—a body coming to lay on top of you from behind—your friend continued to chatter on the line, clueless.
“OK, OK, I get it. Love a guy of any size. And Simon’s not perfect—even though that fucker’s about as delectable as you can get in every other way…”
While the woman’s voice faded off into a far-distant hum rattling off Simon’s best qualities and lamenting the odds she’d ever find a man quite so wonderful, you were confronted with several of these same features at once: his wide, muscular chest blanketing the back of you entirely; his stubble tickling the cusp of your cheek as he leaned in close; his strength pinning you to the bed and only loosening the grip around your mouth a little; and of course, there was that voice again, lower—
“Too bad about my microdick, huh?” Simon chuckled.
“—and I bet he knows how to use it!” your friend went on, not hearing a word of what was going on with you.
“Hey, uh—hey, I’ve gotta go. I think I—” you started.
As soon as you did, though, you felt the pressure on your spine soar to new heights. You let out a low whine.
Simon was crushing you now.
Your friend cut in, “Yeah? You OK?”
Before you could attempt a reply, the hand that had once been covering your lips lowered to just underneath your chin; Simon squeezed your throat.
Playfully, he made clear by nipping at your earlobe.
“No need to stop on my account,” he murmured.
So, rushed and more than a little flustered now, you made up some excuse on the phone about mistakenly hearing the doorbell, and you let your friend forge on. You dropped the phone onto the bed by your pillow.
Then you turned your head, the rest of your body immobilized by the heft of your boyfriend’s weight on your back, and you finally, finally got to meet his gaze.
Behind you, Simon was smirking.
His whole demeanor betrayed amusement.
It wasn’t every day the man got to hear his dick was the size of something much smaller than it actually was, you reckoned. Still, he deserved an explanation.
“S-Si…” You tried to grit out a whisper, deflated by his weight and forced to hide your words from your friend.
Never mind the fact that your boyfriend looked, smelled, and felt just as irresistible as he had when he left home less than an hour ago. A simple, all-black ensemble fit him like a second skin and accentuated every mouthwatering ridge of his body, most visible to you in the glimpse of his bicep you caught under your chin. He was warm. Solid. Drenched in that dizzyingly potent sandalwood aftershave that you liked so much.
You’d never tapped the ‘mute’ on your phone so fast.
“Shit, Si, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean— I only said it— she’s going through a breakup right now, and I just t—”
Simon hit ‘unmute,’ followed by ‘speakerphone.’
He leaned back.
“…but what reeeally fucked me up was how he acted after. Like, couldn’t even look me in the eye, the dick…”
Your friend prattled on—back to sinking neck-deep in a story of how shitty the dating scene was and how she should’ve given up ages ago—while you flitted your gaze to your phone. You stared in awe, wondering why the fuck Simon had decided to tap those buttons in a moment like this, and questions started to bubble up.
At the same time, you heard the clink of a belt buckle.
Simon knelt behind you. He straddled your ass, and when you tried to sit up, he pressed a palm to the center of your back. He moved about it all swiftly.
Finally, the quietest, quickest hiss, ‘Si, what the fu—’
“Spit.”
That part, he said too loud. But the man didn’t seem to care much at all as he reached with his other hand and stuck his upturned palm under your face, waiting for it.
“What did you say?” your friend cut in presently.
Your face stung with embarrassment—at just the prospect of being found out by someone who had no concept of what was going on—that you forced it out:
“N-Nothing. Keep going.”
You spit in Simon’s hand like he’d told you.
Your phone couldn’t have been resting more than two or three inches from your face on the bed, and the space in general was small. There wasn’t a lot to be done by way of masking your activity, other than to simply hang up the fucking phone, but it didn’t sound like discretion and decorum and being considerate were at the top of Simon’s list of priorities right now.
Still, you felt a press of his lips against the back of your neck before he mumbled, “Remember our safewords?”
You did.
‘Yellow’ to slow down, ‘red’ to stop.
It wasn’t often you had to use the words with Simon, but from time to time, in particularly heated and impassioned moments, you appreciated the safety net.
And freeuse was something relatively new to you both—just accepting him in and letting him have his way with you at random points during your day, casually.
It didn’t make it any less tricky, or jarring, when the man next pushed inside you, bottoming out in one go.
Your sleep shorts tugged to the side, lying facedown underneath this massive, hulking man, you had only to grit your teeth and feel yourself stretched to full capacity with the shove of Simon’s bare cock in you.
“Oh, fuck,” you let out, hoarse.
“No, right? It was so gross, honestly.”
Amidst the airing of your friend’s mile-long list of grievances against her ex, your boyfriend settled his full, thick, demonstrably larger than average dick in your body until it felt like he was scraping your lungs.
You clawed the sheets and squirmed under him.
“That feel tiny to you, sweetheart?” Simon’s mouth was right next to your ear now, whispering filth while your walls stretched and squeezed to accommodate him. Warmth leaked out from where you connected.
You shook your head weakly, barely able to breathe.
It somehow made it even wilder and more maddening to have your senses deprived—Simon behind you, restricting your movements, with you obliged not to make a sound at the pleasure he was inflicting on you.
Your hips pinned to those pretty, floral-patterned sheets and your pussy made to gape in a perfectly wide ‘o’ around Simon’s whole cock, you felt helpless.
Stretched.
Protected, still.
Simon hadn’t even withdrawn to get a full stroke in, and he was already caressing your cheek with the backs of his knuckles, giving you more time to adjust to him. His tip kissed your cervix, and a heat sank in.
“Sweet dove’s still sore from earlier, yeah?” he murmured. “Didn’t think I gave her that much…”
But he did, of course.
“—couldn’t even make me cum—” your friend went on
Simon always gave you enough.
Just as your walls preemptively clenched around that slick, hard length and the man started to stir, rolling his hips against your ass in the shallowest of movements, your lips parted on a half-moan. Your chest constricted
“—it must be so much better with Simon, isn’t it?”
Suddenly, your boyfriend took a fistful of your hair.
In a murmur again, close to your ear:
“Go on, then. Don’t be impolite.”
“S-So, so good,” you rushed out. Those thrusts finally picked up, and Simon fucked you quietly into the bed. You sucked in another strangled breath, and trying your hardest not to moan, “He’s fucking…incredible.”
“I bet,” your friend laughed.
More shit-talking of men ensued.
Simon returned to his original, dominant position blanketing your body completely with his own, forearms planted on either side of your head on the bed and your phone resting inches away from you both. His cock pounded a furious pace inside you, precum and spit and your shared fluids easing the repeated slide. You gripped the sheets tighter, and Simon did the same with his ironclad hold in your hair.
Then his cock slid in higher, a little to the left, and the tip of him hit that special, tender, mind-numbing spot.
You felt the grin against the side of your face before you heard him chuckle, quiet as anything but elated.
Simon was the only guy who’d hit your G-spot before.
He hit it again. And again. And again, shaking the whole bed frame with the force of his thrusts. He kissed your neck and let your head loll back on him. While your friend chattered on, he did what he did best
“That’s a good girl,” he praised. “Gonna come f’me?”
You nodded, head bobbing against his softly.
If there were any moment for retribution, now would be it. If Simon were even the slightest bit the spiteful, insecure type, he probably would’ve taken the opportunity to make you beg for him—tell him how huge his cock was and how lucky you were to get it; how terrible it was to lie about a thing like size. It was.
But Simon didn’t, opting instead to give you pleasure. And he got plenty from you, too, you could tell by the breaths that were growing more and more ragged against your neck and the frantic stutter of his hips.
He was so big it was as if you could feel him in your throat. With every thrust that pushed you closer and closer to the edge, and with every twitch of every inch stuffed inside you, you feared you might not be able to conceal the sounds from your friend for much longer.
Your jaw unhinged on another wide-open, noiseless moan that probably made it look like you were in pain, and at the same time, your friend carried on over the phone, laughing about this loser’s goofy fucking face.
“Yellow?” Simon panted into your ear.
In other words, did you want him to slow down?
You shook your head no. Let him pelt your insides with the force of those hard, merciless thrusts and carve a path clean through your body in a way that only he ever could. He molded you to him perfectly. Tenderly.
Crescents digging into your scalp from how tightly he held you to him, you felt Simon twitch and keep beating your G-spot while you writhed under him, “You wanted a big dick, yeah? Don’t run from it now.”
It was in those words—paired with the obvious stretch and the depths your boyfriend was able to reach with his cock, how lovingly he fucked you while controlling your pleasure—that you broke. You couldn’t hold it in.
At the last possible second, Simon offered you his free hand to cover your mouth, knowing how loud you were liable to get, and you let out a muffled shriek into his palm. You grit your teeth and whimpered and kind of despised how high-pitched and needy you sounded, but you knew Simon loved it, almost as much as he adored the slippery wet noises your body and his made when he was emptying the contents of his balls into your cunt and fucking you senseless through all of it.
You finished as close as you were when you’d started, Simon’s chest glued onto your back. You both were breathing heavily, senses reeling from your highs. Simon’s cum stayed plugged in you with his thick cock holding it there, and the heat burrowed to your core.
You blinked, and you smiled contentedly at the warmth
Simon planted kisses wherever he could find bare skin for them to go, along your jaw and on your cheek and over your ear, like he always did after you two had sex.
“Wasn’t too far, was it?” he whispered. “Know I’m—”
“—big,” you giggled, barely louder than a breath after his hand had slid from your lips and cupped your face.
Then you went on, as the haze in your mind was starting to clear the slightest bit, and you remembered why you were here in the first place, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about your size, Si. I’m—”
“—going to bed!” your friend announced suddenly.
Your attention and Simon’s snapped back to the phone
With all that had been going on over the last couple minutes, you’d almost forgotten the woman was still on the line at all. She’d been talking before that, right?
“I— OK. Yeah, no, that’s fine,” you said, stupidly. Then, regaining a bit more of your composure, “I’m so sorry about everything that’s been going on with…him. You deserve so much better, and you will find better, OK?”
That sounded coherent enough.
You would call again tomorrow. Really listen and be there to offer more helpful advice than you’d done tonight—this was more about letting her vent, anyway.
So, reaching for the phone and expecting to hear your best friend chirp a quick, simple good-bye at any second, you lifted your hips back against Simon. You angled his still-hard dick inside you and pushed him deeper through the sticky warm mess he’d just coated your walls with, and you bit back a smile when he grunted. You met his eyes over your shoulder, and you felt his grip on your chin flex. His gaze sharpened.
But, before he could smirk and murmur in your ear something like, ‘Round three can be arranged if you really want it,’ your friend cut in again over the line.
Her voice rang louder, and a little lighter, too, this time.
“Goooooodniiiiiiiiiight, hon, I love you so, so much!”
“I love you, too. Night!” you answered reflexively.
Then, your friend added, as swift as anything:
“And goodnight to you, too, Simon! Glad to hear that microdick’s being put to good use, happy for you two!”
Before you could say a word, she laughed and hung up.
I think about mean!Simon not wanting you to leave his place after staying at his place for too so long.
He’s very good at playing house with you, from cooking dinner and you washing dishes, hours spent in his arms and laughing at his corny jokes, trying your best to kick him out the bathroom while you go to the bathroom or do your hair. Your little conversations to yourself as he passes the room you might be in, finding you blasting music and going through photos. Whisky brown eyes glued to your thighs in his shirt that you’re wearing. The man likes the fact that he can come home to you, let you talk his head off or vice versa. Slugger, his dog, is more than happy to have two parents rather than one.
So when it’s time for you to go home— why is that even a thought that crossed you mind?
Simons mid bite of his sandwich when his ears catch the ‘thud’ of one of your duffle bags full of clothes is dropinh to the door.
His eyebrows are knitted together when he sees you coming down the stairs with another duffle, “Tho’ y’were jokin about leavin kitty.”
You bite back a smile, cheeks growing warm, “I can’t stay here forever Si, I gotta wash my clothes!”
“‘Ve got a washer ‘nd dryer.”
“I can’t wear the same clothes for ever! My closet is calling me.”
“Shops callin us then, yeah? Can get ya new clothes.”
You giggle through a groan, “Simon!” 
The rugged man is already pulling you by the waist and into his chest, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. He can’t say it, won’t say the words ‘don’t go’ or ‘I’ll miss you’ formally. But it bleeds through everything so blatantly, you can’t help but let out a chuckle. Rubbing his broad and scared back. Your fingers glide through his blonde locks of hair, scratching his scalp. “Why’re you bein cute, huh? so big ‘n bein cute.“
It’s got his heart pounding so loud, he lets out an incoherent grumble, as to quiet his own heart. Such a baffling yet peculiar feeling that the man has only groan more and more fond of with each passing day with you. Before you can even realize it, you’re being thrown over Simons shoulder that makes you yelp out. Slapping at his back to put you down, which he does, on the couch, not hesitating to lay atop of you and inhale your scent.
“You’re bein a fucking brat Simon, come on!” You giggle, it’s exactly how you ended up staying another week. Simon lifting you off your feet and taking back to bed because, ‘it’s too late to drive at night’ when it was only 6pm, and then in the morning, ‘it’s rainin too much’ when it was only drizzling.
Today’s no different, now, sandwiched between his chest and and the couch, head resting on his bicep. Letting him wrap his strong arms around you, so easily leaning into the soft touch of his calloused fingers at the back of your nape, your eyes closing.
“Is this how you usually treat the other girls around you?” You tease ever so lightly, not even expecting an answer.
He gruffly answers, distinct, “Why would I want anyone else ‘ere but you?”
And oh, how that alone shouldnt make your stomach flip like that, shouldn’t make you hide your face in his chest to hide a silly smile, wanting to run into an open field laughing.
“This is your answer then,” he hums, soft pink lips pressing to your temple, “you’ll stay.”
“That doesn’t sound like a question.” You say, another kiss falling to the apple of your cheek, your nose, your other cheek.
“ ‘S not.”
You hold onto him tighter, letting out a soft giggle between his kisses, “Agh, then I don’t know, got shit to do—“
“—Don’t be a bloody pain kitten, just stay.”
You feign contemplation for a moment, making the brute of a man fucking pout. Nuzzling his face into between the crook of your neck.
“…One more night couldn’t hurt, I guess.”
One more night, my ass. Simon thinks.
How about ‘move in.’
a/n: I could stare at your back allll dayyyyyyy, I could stare at your baAAack all DAAAAAAAYYYYYY
contains smut, minors & ageless blogs dni pretty please.
john price would have an independent gf, miss “it’s already been handled, actually” with a genuine smile, someone educated, calm, cool, and collected much like john is himself. she probably grew up pressured by her parents and peers to do better; and to be better. and or; she learned at a young age that if she wanted something done, she’d have to do it herself.
she doesn’t fight, argue, yell, pout, or bitch. she simply acts then explains her actions with a level voice. john learned very quickly that trying to dominate and boss her around first hand was not the right move. she didn’t make him earn her respect per se, but her submission. her willingness. her complete and undivided attention. she’s a very busy woman, so spending hours spread eagle for the older man much less even agreeing to spend a night with him makes him feel honored.
they work so well together however because john is a provider. this man is in charge of three grown men in life threatening situations- on top of knowing their personal backgrounds and today struggles. he’s a natural leader and giver. so when miss “i can do it myself” meets mister “i’m aware, but let me do it for you,” john naturally takes control in this regard too. and he loves it. cherishes it. hell, he praises the idea with the way he slurps and sucks on her needy pussy every night. he knows his focused, driven, confident young missus even needs her fix. even on the nights where she gently pecks his cheek with a small, “not tonight, baby. ‘v gotta long day t’morrow,” she somehow ends up knees to chest with john’s hands harshly gripping the back of her calves as his teeth graze her swollen clit when his tongue prods deep inside her hole.
john price loves a strong, independent woman. better yet- breaking said strong, independent women.
kyle “gaz” garrick would probably have a similar type but more in a punk, “fuck this country and fuck you” way. oh, poor girl hated kyle’s guts when they first met. his cocky, charmingly boyish grin with his perfect shiny white teeth, smooth movements in his body, and his stupidly pretty, harmonious face. and don’t even get her started on how much she hated his voice. that fucking voice of his- high enough to crack jokes and pull smiles from people but deep enough to make anyone stand at full attention, undergarments slightly damp from his authority. so, yeah, it was fuck kyle garrick until he managed to somehow get his bratty girl whiny and snotty sitting on a bathroom counter in some sketchy club after weeks of non stop teasing, testing, and genuinely bratting the hell out with him.
luckily for the both of them, kyle has a lot of patience. especially with pretty girls that obviously are only so angry because they’re so pent up. probably years of celibacy, rejecting partners due to insecurity, lack of trust, toxic feminism- whatever it was, kyle was determined to figure it out and set her straight. she too made her soldier work for her will but only because she was horrified and caught off guard by his interest in her. boys have spent the majority of her life avoiding her, and after maybe experiencing her own heartbreak or watching someone else’s, she genuinely quizzed kyle’s intentions.
again either way, kyle makes sure there isn’t any question or confusion about his adoration for her. he takes very good care of her in all ways, listens to her, and plays into her bitchy behavior before always reminding her that this ‘little attitude’ is a ‘cute act’ but isn’t necessary when her man, her protector, her everything is right here. she definitely gets her pussy ate more than she deserves, but kyle knows to follow through by fucking his thick cock down her throat or dragging her cum-stained face up and down his shaft and heavy balls, sometimes simultaneously.
much like his boss, kyle enjoys ruining a pretty girl with a tough exterior. especially when they truly believe they run things. not with sergeant garrick, princess.
john “soap” mactavish is a proud pervert with a personal preference for innocent, naive women. the type to wear a body fit milkmaid dress, tits all out on display just begging for his mouth to suck them dry, on the first date and call it her “special occasion dress.” he gets a deep pounding in his throat when watching his little lass smile and wave at babies, his mind (and dick) desperately craving to make some of his own. he can’t help it, his pretty princess his just too sweet, too kind, and definitely too fucking cute for her own good. god only knows how many times the scot’s nearly killed a man with his bare hands because they were “eye’n ya up” or flat out flirting with her, and his poor, gentle, soft, sweetness is too shy to get stern with the brave fucker.
never in front of his girl, no, he wouldn’t dare corrupt her beautiful mind like that. it’s a dirty secret he keeps to himself- one that makes him smirk when his rough hands slide down her soft plump waist, humming in satisfaction while he toys with her pink lace. his bunny, his fairy, his literal princess. she’s his everything, and it makes his cock so impossibly hard watching her walk about unconcerned and so unaware of her surroundings- all because she knows her big, strong, man is looking out for her wellbeing.
with all this being said, john takes a lot of pride in this fact. with him, it’s his money she spends, his lap she sits on, his shoulder to cry into, his cock she slobbers and suckles on. he’s obsessed with the idea of impregnating her, stuffing her stupid with his hot seed, and being viciously protective and nurturing over her for the next nine months. it’s grossly animalistic how feral he is about it, and it’s even worse when she’s reaching up for him, begging for a kiss with a tiny, high pitched “please, johnny!” it makes him crack every. single. time.
john soap mactavish is a pervert especially for sweet girls who trust and look to him like he’s the fucking king of the world. oh, and he’d totally never forget about the milfs he’s slept with.
simon ghost riley secretly gets boners for crybabies. his gf full on sobs over drama films, stray animals, and anything inspirational or cute. to most people, she’s childish, needs to grow up, act her age, etc etc. to simon, she’s empathetic, emotional, in tune, sensitive, and most importantly kind. she’s his sweet little crybaby who tugs on his sleeve when words can’t seem to formulate, who sits at his heavy boots when he’s occupied because she knows “si’s busy, but never too busy for me,”, who goes to her man before absolutely anyone else for everything, who cries in his neck more times than not because the world is just too cruel and she can’t do anything to fix it.
she’s a pouter and has her bratty moments- sure, but that’s all quickly ended once simon gives her that one look, the one that groans “come ‘ere, lovie. come to y’man and let ‘im fix it. tell y’si what’s wrong so he can make it better.” and it works. she’s immediately on him in seconds, eyes flushing with emotion as she tells him everything- instead of bratting out and getting roughly pounded like kyle’s gf. if anything, simon has his doll on her back, her holes stuffed full of himself as he softly but fast when he fucks into her cunt. he isn’t much of a talker during sex, but that flips entirely when his babygirl has so much to say and it’s only coming out in tear form. suddenly he feels the need to tell her how beautiful and brave she is, how sweet and sensitive she is, how perfect and broken she looks under him, lips swollen from her own doing and out of breath from simon’s nonstop motions.
simon is a hard, cold man who grew up in a hard, cold environment. his soft little doll makes him quieter, more stable, more here. he’s been so focused on surviving himself, he feels extreme relief in servicing someone else in such an intimate, slow pace manner. she can truly relax and let go around him, and he can comfortably slip into the role of being human again.
summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds
cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)
John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.
He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour.
On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.
John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.
Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.
He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.
It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.
"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.
Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—
"Y'need'a get laid, boss."
John's hands immediately froze.
That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.
His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.
"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."
Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.
The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.
And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.
Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.
And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.
His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.
"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."
Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.
"I jus' think—"
"OUT."
The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.
Then he squared the stacks again.
——
Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.
"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"
"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."
"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.
"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.
Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.
Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.
"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.
"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"
"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"
"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"
Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.
His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.
The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.
"That's my phone."
"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.
Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"
"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.
"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"
"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles.
"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"
"Christ," Johnny snickers.
John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.
"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.
"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.
John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.
"Think I'll stand."
"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.
Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.
"What's Hinge?"
"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.
A dating app….
Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.
Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.
There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.
"This is you, then?"
"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.
"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"
"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."
Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"
"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."
John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen.
"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"
"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.
"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.
"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."
Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."
John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.
"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."
It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.
Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace.
So… he pulls out a chair.
Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.
"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross.
Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.
The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.
"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."
"I smoke cigars," John protests.
"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"
"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.
"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.
"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."
Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"
That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.
"Consultant," Simon offers.
"Civil servant," Kyle tries.
"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.
Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.
"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.
Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.
"What've you lot got on yours, then?"
The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.
"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.
"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.
"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.
"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"
"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"
"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.
When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—
"What's Feeld?" John asks.
"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."
"It's not for you," Simon adds.
"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."
"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.
The rest goes quicker.
"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."
"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.
Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.
His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).
He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out.
There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.
After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.
"I'll do these myself."
This time, Kyle hands the phone over.
The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night.
Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.
John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.
When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.
"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."
The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.
"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"
"No."
The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.
So is the one after. X.
A woman in her work scrubs. X.
A woman holding a child. X.
A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.
It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.
"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"
"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.
"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"
"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.
"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."
"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."
Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—
His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.
Huh.
There you are.
Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.
John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.
You're very pretty.
For the first time, John taps the profile open.
30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out.
There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.
Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.
And at the bottom:
The best way to ask me out is by: using words.
I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.
John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.
Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.
John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:
IT'S A MATCH!
"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.
"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.
"Careful," John warns mildly.
Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.
John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.
Better in person.
Yeah. He'd bet you are.
"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."
"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.
"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."
John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.
"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"
Silence.
"I mean, when you put it like that…"
"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.
He's already typing, screen tipped away.
"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."
"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."
He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.
——
Four miles away, a phone lights up…
——
Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.
Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.
The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.
Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore.
A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.
A man whose photos are all group shots. X.
A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.
Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.
The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.
He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.
John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.
Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.
You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.
His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.
The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.
Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.
You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.
It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.
But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.
You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.
On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.
Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!
HINGE: You and John matched!
HINGE: 1 New Message
You open it.
Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?
You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.
i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.
friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?
You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.
Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.
you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.
They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.
What movie are you watching?
You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.
You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.
you're not allowed to judge me.
Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.
You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.
it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.
The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.
Twelve times? Must be decent.
it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol
Dead?
it's a twist. it's festive!
You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.
You smile.
so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?
Not a thing.
hours in freezing water for zero fish?!
The fish aren't the point.
do tell, what's the point?
The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.
It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months.
You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.
that actually sounds really peaceful.
i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.
That the trail from your photo?
it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.
Doesn't show.
Good photo of you.
Beautiful, actually.
You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow.
Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.
oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol
No it didn't.
— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.
well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.
Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending.
how long have you been on hinge?
It's my first night, actually.
first night???
Profile's about two hours old.
yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?
Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.
——
John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.
He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.
What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.
"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.
"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."
He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.
"Need another, Cap?"
"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.
A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."
"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."
Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"
John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.
"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."
"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.
"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."
They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.
Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.
He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.
did the football finish? who won?
He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue.
Couldn't tell you.
omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!
I got distracted.
by what? 😇
I think you know by what.
Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.
anyway!
Anyway.
He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.
The cat in your photo. Yours?
yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.
Good name.
she prefers men that ignore her.
Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.
It goes on just like that: easy.
You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.
He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself.
How's the average Friday held up?
certainly improved
Mine too.
He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.
——
The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.
He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.
He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.
He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.
He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic.
By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.
He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.
He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is.
It's a stupid fuckin' rule.
The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.
The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.
By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.
That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.
spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.
thought of you on the tube home
He reads the second message again.
Thought of you.
He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.
are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.
And there's the sarcasm.
Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.
Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.
Thought about you as well.
He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.
I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.
lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.
don't really see myself getting married anyway.
the dresses were stunning though!
He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction.
Nothing wrong with that.
Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?
successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.
what about you, how was your saturday?
He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.
Quiet. Nothing worth typing.
hm. sounds like you should ring me then…
He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.
For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.
Could do.
Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.
Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.
Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.
Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.
for logistics.
He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.
He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.
——
You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown Number. Local.
“John?”
“Evenin’.”
Fuck.
His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.
You set the bottle down before you drop it.
“So you actually do ring,” you manage.
“Said so on the profile, I think.”
“I half thought it was a bit.”
“I don’t really do bits.”
“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”
The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.
“That meant to be me?”
“It’s uncanny, I know.”
The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.
“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”
“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”
“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”
“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”
“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”
The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.
“No?” you tease.
“I had imagined I’d see your face.”
“Been imagining, have you?”
You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns
“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”
“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”
“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”
“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”
You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.
“Is that what it’s come to?”
“Unfortunately.”
There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.
“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”
Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.
“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.
“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”
Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.
“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”
“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
“I could do a weeknight? After work?”
There’s a pause on his end.
“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”
You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.
“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”
“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.
“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”
“It is,” he agrees, smiling.
The conversation should end there but it doesn't.
You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.
Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.
Eventually, you yawn.
“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”
“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”
“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”
“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”
“Lie-in, according to my profile.”
“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”
A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.
“Night, John.”
You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.
——
Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.
good morning. how was the lie-in?
Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.
the lie confirmed!
He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.
The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.
survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.
Regards received. Sleep well.
——
Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it.
good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?
[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]
You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.
His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.
Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.
His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.
Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.
“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.
“Fine.”
“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”
It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.
Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”
John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.
"Have a date Friday. Drinks."
Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.
"That's great. Same woman or…?"
"The same."
“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.
“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.
"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words.
He turns the phone back over.
Promote you, he types.
You look lovely.
Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.
well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x
He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.
——
The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.
Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.
———
You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.
The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.
The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels.
You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.
“It’s just a pub,” you tell her.
She doesn’t seem convinced.
———
The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.
You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties.
The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait.
You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.
It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling.
You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.
You don’t have to wait much longer for him.
He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.
He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” you smile.
He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.
“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.
“So are you.”
“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”
You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”
The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.
“What’ll you have?”
“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.
He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.
“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.
You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.
He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.
The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.
“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.
“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.
“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”
“Not at all.”
You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”
“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.
Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.
“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”
“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.
You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.
“That’s it? That’s your answer?”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”
“The lads — your guys from work?”
“Yeah.”
“They what, talked you into it?”
“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”
“And what made them do that?”
He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.
“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”
“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.
“Their exact words were a bit different.”
“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”
“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”
Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”
He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.
“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”
He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”
“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”
“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”
“Away?”
“Away.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Doing…?”
“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”
“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”
“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”
“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”
“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”
You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.
“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”
He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it.
“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”
You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.
The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.
The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together.
“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”
It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.
The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.
“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”
“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”
His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.
“No—I know. I just—”
“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”
“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.
“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”
“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”
And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.
The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.
It’s going well.
It’s going suspiciously well.
And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.
He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.
You look at the seat opposite.
Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.
You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.
“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.
“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.
The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—
“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”
He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”
“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.
“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it.
“Say it out loud anyway.”
“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”
“Ten.”
“Mm.”
“A whole decade.”
“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”
“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”
“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”
“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”
“Mm.”
“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug.
“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.
“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.
The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.
“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”
“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue.
You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face.
“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”
“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”
“Yeah? And what was the answer?”
“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”
Something in your chest slides sideways.
“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.
“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”
You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.
“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”
You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.
Neither of you leans back.
And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.
You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—
“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you grin.
“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”
“I suppose I could be patient.”
“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.
Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.
His jaw shifts.
“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.
And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.
You two make it out the door.
The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.
Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.
He moves you.
One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.
Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.
He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.
“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.
“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.
You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.
“Walk me home?” you ask.
“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”
You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”
“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”
He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth.
——
The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.
The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth.
The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he—
You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.
He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.
The dashboard glow makes everything blue.
You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?
"So," you say.
"So…”
You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.
"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says.
"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"
"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"
"Keen?"
"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.
And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.
"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."
“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.
"I want to ask you up."
"Mm."
"And I'm having a whole debate about it."
"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."
"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."
He's quiet for a second, lips pursing.
“Can I look at you now?” he tries.
“Yeah.”
"You want to know where I'm actually at?"
"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."
“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”
The badly goes straight between your thighs.
“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”
“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”
“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”
“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”
“When you put it like that…”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”
And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you.
“Would you like to come up?”
——
The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.
John is a gentleman.
John has been a gentleman all night.
John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.
Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.
"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."
"Sensible."
And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:
"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"
"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side.
"Water? I'm gonna have water."
"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering.
He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean.
So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.
Your pace. Your move.
You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.
“You’re nervous,” he says.
“Not at all.”
“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”
He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.
He likes that.
He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.
Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.
When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you.
You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.
In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.
Good.
You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.
“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”
“Mm?”
“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”
“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.
“Definitely not.”
The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.
“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”
“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”
You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.
He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.
Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.
“Can I?”
“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”
His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.
You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.
“Oh my god— okay— okay—”
“Mm.”
“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.
“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.
“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”
He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—
"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."
"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"
He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."
"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.
He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.
"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"
"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"
"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”
"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"
John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.
Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.
He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you.
"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"
"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”
"—okay maybe move a little—"
He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts.
“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek.
“Don’t think, then.”
It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.
He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.
You don’t think.
He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—
“Harder?” he asks against your ear.
"Yes, please."
He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.
He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.
"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob.
"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."
He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves — it takes you under, and you pull him with you.
He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—
How good—
How gorgeous—
You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—
It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.
When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.
Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.
He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going.
He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.
"John?" Small, against his throat.
"Mm?"
"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."
He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.
You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.
He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.
"You're staring," he says, not looking up.
"You're tidying me."
"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."
"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."
He huffs into your hair.
Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.
There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.
She stares at John.
John stares back.
"We have an audience," he says.
You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."
Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.
"That went well," you say, overly pleased.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
"Well, consider me chuffed."
Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak.
"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."
And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside.
He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.
"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.
“No?” you ask.
"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."
You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it.
“Alright," you agree.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”
"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.
At the door he stops.
"C'mere."
You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts.
"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.
"Goodnight."
"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."
——
The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.
Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares.
“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”
﹙ ¹⁸⁺ ﹚ ₊ ❜୧ A QUICKIE WITH YOUR HUSBAND SIMON.
you're sorting through what feels like the millionth tiny sock when simon comes up behind you, large hands settling on your hips. "kids are occupied," he murmurs against your neck, and you can hear the suggestion in his voice.
"si, i have to get this done," you protest weakly, but you're already leaning back into him. wash day waits for no one with three kids, and you're drowning in tiny clothes. "and they won't stay distracted for long."
"exactly why we should be quick about it." his hands slide around to your stomach, pulling you flush against him. you can feel he's already hard, and your resolve wavers. "been thinking about you all morning, luv. watching you bend over sortin’ laundry..."
"you're terrible," you breathe, but you're already turning in his arms. seven years of marriage and three kids later, and he still looks at you like he wants to devour you. "we have maybe ten minutes before someone needs something."
"can work with that." he's already lifting you onto the washing machine, hands pushing up his sweatshirt that you wore around the house. "fuck, no panties? you trying t’kill me?"
"it's wash day, baby," you remind him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "everything's in the dirty hamper." but your explanation dissolves into a moan as his fingers find you already wet.
"fuckin' convenient," he growls, working you open with practiced efficiency. there's no time for slow and sweet; not with three kids in the house. "always ready for me, aren't you, swee'eart?"
you bite your lip to keep quiet as he replaces his fingers with his cock, pushing in with one smooth thrust. "simon," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. "fuck—w-we have to be quiet."
"then you'd better keep that pretty mouth o’yours shut," he says, setting a punishing pace immediately. the washing machine rocks with the force of it, and you have to brace yourself against the wall. "can't have the little ones hearing what daddy does to mummy."
the filthy words in his rough accent make you clench around him. he notices, of course he does, and smirks against your neck. "like that, do you? knowing i'm fuckin’ you while our babies play down the hall?"
before you can respond, there's a loud bang on the door. "mommy! mommy, open!" your five-year-old's voice cuts through your haze of pleasure. "need you!"
simon doesn't stop, if anything going harder. "mummy's busy, swee'eart," he calls out, voice impressively steady for someone currently railing you against major appliances. "go play with yer sister."
"but mommy!" another bang. "daisy took my doll!"
you try to answer but simon chooses that moment to hit that perfect spongy spot inside you, and all that comes out is a strangled sound. he covers your mouth with his hand, eyes dark with amusement and lust.
"mummy's folding clothes," he lies smoothly. "she'll be out in a minute, go tell daisy t'share."
"don't want to!" your daughter whines, and you can hear her stomping her little feet. "want mommy now!"
"ella." simon's voice drops into what you call his lieutenant voice — gentle but brooking no argument. "go play. we'll be out soon."
there's a moment of silence, then you hear her stomp away muttering about simon being unfair. the second she's gone, simon removes his hand from your mouth.
"such a good girl," he praises, but you're not sure if he means you or ella. "keeping quiet while i fuck you senseless. though i bet y’wanted to scream, didn't you?"
"simon, fuck, please," you gasp, feeling your orgasm building embarrassingly fast. the combination of his cock and the thrill of almost getting caught has you on edge. "i'm gonna-"
"i know, luv. she's fuckin’ squeezin’ me." his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles. "c'mon then. cum all over my cock before another one starts bangin’ on the door."
as if on cue, you hear your two-year-old calling from somewhere in the house. "mama?"
the use of your married name plus the perfect pressure on your clit sends you over. you bite his shoulder to muffle your cry as you cum all over his cock, whole body shaking with the force of it. he follows right after, groaning low in your ear as he fills you.
"mama!" your toddler's voice is getting closer.
"shit," simon pants, pulling out and quickly fixing his clothes. he helps you down, steadying you when your legs wobble. "y’good?"
"just peachy," you breathe, smoothing down his sweatshirt. you can feel his cum starting to leak and clench your thighs together.
"though i'm going to need to shower before i finish this laundry."
