Got an ask to do "Love Through It All" but it is reader that cheats.
Yall I'm so sorry that this is just now being posted. I've been in such a rut and writers block lately that it's taken me a while to write this. But I wanted to put out something short because it's been asked about a couple of times.
I hope yall enjoy this!
This is also unedited so IF i continue this in the future, there will probably be a different version
Original Story
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In the beginning, he was everything you dreamed of. Strong, big, buff, and quiet. He was mysterious.... blatantly so when it took you six months to even see his face. But Simon was the love of your life. . . . .
Yet, his job was constantly in the way. He was either on base until late in the night, or sent off on mission for months on end.
It was.... depressing.
You felt like you barely even saw him, and when you did..... it was the same ole thing all the time - come home, shower, eat, then sleep.
Maybe.... just maybe he'd squeeze in a night or two of sex when his body and mind wasn't exhausted.
But you knew this. You knew what his job meant to him before you even said 'I do'. He gave it to you straight in the beginning, was even hesitant to let you in because he was never home. But it was something about you that crumbled his walls; that sneaked your way into his heart.
Five years went by quick... too quick. He hadn't had time to process anything except off to kill, come home for some time, then repeat. He didn't see the sadness in your eyes when you spoke to him, or the withdrawal of that sunshine personality you once had. He didn't even notice when you stopped leaping in his arms whenever he did come home from a mission.
But he did notice when you started coming home later than usual, and he did notice that you started texting him that you were going out with friends almost every weekend. That strange twisting in his stomach put him on edge, but he brushed it off with thinking you just needed some girl time.
He wasn't prepared for the texts that popped up on your phone. You were in the shower, having come in from another night out with the girls. A little tipsy, but not enough to think you'd wake him up, so you plugged your phone up on the charger and set it on the nightstand before tiptoeing your way to the bathroom.
Simon - who had been somewhat anxiously waiting for you to get home - had his eyes closed, but tried to go to sleep until he heard the vibration of your phone pinging. It was an honest reaction; he was just going to turn it on silent, but when he picked up the phone..... a text came through.
Michael: Miss you already. Can't wait to see you this week. I'll be thinking about those lips on mine tonight ;)
Then another. . .
Michael: Let me know when you make it home love
Simon read the texts over and over and over, eyes wide, his breathing almost labored.
Was this some fucking sick joke?
It couldn't be. It wasn't possible.
But it was clear as day right there in his face, and god did he want to chalk the phone across the room.
The shower water stopped, indicating you were finished, but he barely had registered it. He got out the bed, making his way to the dresser to grab a pair of jeans and a shirt. As he put them on, you opened the door, looking at him wide eyed when you realized he was awake.
"What are you doing up?" you questioned. He didn't respond. He didn't even look at you as he sat down on the bed and slid on a pair of socks, "Babe?" Still nothing, "Simon?" Nothing. You stood in front of him, trying to get him to look at you, but he refused, "Simon!" your voice raised a bit, making his eyes snap at you.
"Why don't y'go ask Michael?" he shot back at you, voice so low you barely heard it.
Your eyes widened, mouth dropped open before quickly shutting it. The brows above your eyes scrunched together so deeply, and all he did was look at you with most disgusting gaze before standing up and walking out of the room.
"Si..." you followed him, "S-Simon... please."
The tall man didn't even turn around to look at you when your voice softened into something that mimicked the sad tone you did whenever you were about to cry. He went straight to the foyer and grabbed his boots, kneeling down to put them on. As he stood up, you lunged yourself in front of the door, blocking him from trying to leave.
"Simon I'm sorry," you said, but all you got was the frown on his face as he grabbed the surgical mask off the side table, "Please..." voice cracking a bit as you tried stepping up to him. He stepped back like you were a burning flame that would hurt him if he didn't. He looked at you in a way that made your heart crush into a billion pieces.
"Move-"
Quickly shaking your head, you braced yourself in front of the door again, "No. Let me explain-"
He sighed, "M'serious y/n.. move"
He didn't even call you love or sweetheart
"S-Simon.. I-I'm sorry. Listen to me-"
"Why should i?" He blurted out, deep voice raising loudly making you flinch, "Wha' the fuck do y'wanna say? Tha' y'cheated on me?"
Tears began to trickle down your cheeks, but you refused to move, "I... I-I..." You couldn't even respond. But what would you even say? He sighed again and tried walking to the living room, but once again, you jumped in front of him, "I fucked up. I'm so sorry Simon. I just.... fuck- I wanted to talk to you."
"When?" he voice lowered even deeper, "When the fuck were y'gonna fuckin' tell me?" His eyes darkened, something you'd only seen one other time in your life.
Silence.
You had no goddamn response.
"Why?" he asked, eyes flickering between yours.
Biting your bottom lip nervously, you lowered your head a bit before meeting his angry, yet saddened gaze, "You're never here Simon. I feel like I only see you a few times a year because you're so focused on that stupid job of yours," a sob escaped your mouth, "It's like we don't even know each other anymore Simon."
His gaze hardened slightly before it became soft. While what you said wasn't completely untrue, it still didn't change the fact that he would have never thought you'd cheat on him. He stared at you for a moment, the world seemed to pause as he just felt his mind zoning out at the thought of what you did.
You tried stepping to him again, "Simon-"
"We should get a divorce," he uttered the words you dreaded that would come, but still didn't want to hear.
Panic set in as you grabbed his hands, "No.. please. I'm sorry Simon. I swear. Please..."
By now your face was stained full of tears, skin pink from crying so hard, and all he did was look at you with an expression that made you feel like he had crushed your heard into more pieces with his thick boot.
How selfish of you to think that he was the one that had ruined your marriage.
"M'not askin'" he replied, stepping away from you before quickly turning around and storming out the front door, leaving you in shambles as you crumbled to the floor.
Here are the types of bodies I think the 141 have ✨
TF141 x Female Reader
Tags: cum eating, blow jobs, oral (fem receiving), cumming in pants, multiple orgasms
Warning: NSFW imagery beneath cut
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
As far as sheer beauty goes, Gaz might top them all. I head canon Kyle as being pretty lean, body composed of sculpted, sheer muscle. He's got a slim frame, like a runner or boxer.
Graceful. Strong. Built for endurance and agility.
What's more? It's fucking effortlessssss. Like, legitimately. When he was a middle schooler, he might have been told he was skinny once or twice. But the minute he hit his growth spur and shot up like a bean stalk, no one could say shit.
Why?
Because Gaz looks like a goddamn male model and he doesn't even have to do anything to maintain it.
Perfect skin? Yep. He uses five dollar lotion.
Legs like a ballerina? Uh-huh. The only training he does is for work.
Sculpted, mouth-watering abs? Check. They were built by McDonald's fries, Netflix, and the grace of God himself.
Let's face it. Gaz looks like he walked off the cover of a magazine purely because the lord has favorites. Let's move on.
Now, Gaz might only go the extra mile when it comes to work training...
But those muscles didn't just come from anywhere.
And the first time Gaz gets you underneath him, cock pounding into you for what feels like hours, you finally fucking understand.
Gaz's body—slick, strong, and slim—is built for agility. For endurance.
It's built for trapping you beneath the length of his covetous frame until you're too exhausted to struggle. For holding you down until he's dripping with sweat, until every muscle in his shaking body screams for a break.
Until his long, aching cock is slowly dripping semen onto the flat of your stomach.....for the third time in the past hour.
Gaz might loathe running the track, but he'll have you fucking like bunnies until you manage to buck him off.
The man has stamina that could rival a racehorse, and god help any woman that found herself in his grasp.
"Sit still, baby," he pants loudly, wrenching the globes of your ass in two of his model-esque hands, "M'not fuckin' done yet. One more...I just—need one more."
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish
Now Soap? probably the exact opposite of Gaz.
When body building became popular online, Soap jumped right on the bandwagon. Perhaps he grew up as the youngest brother in a horde of boys...or perhaps he was just tired of being the shortest boy on the football team...
But the minute he was old enough to afford a gym subscription, he was there. From dusk 'til dawn, practically. To Johnny, the gym is more than just a hobby. It's a lifestyle, and one that he enjoys immensely.
Soap is bulky, built of bulging muscle, broad shoulders, and thin hips. Every inch of it, from his plush chest to his cut abs, was painstakingly earned by hours of pumping iron.
He goes lifting six days a week, tracks all of his nutrition down to the last calorie. Everything he puts into his body is tracked and monitored--and that's the way he likes it.
He'd never say it aloud, but if it were up to him, I think he'd be the type to participate in those fitness/body building competitions.
In simple terms though? Without all those fancy words? "Macros?" "BCAAS?" What the hell is that?
In layman's terms...
Johnny has arms like tree trunks and ass for fucking DAYS. With the bulk and cut cycle, he oscillates between beautifully fatty in the thighs....to shredded like a piece of paper.
You can't help but watch him go back and forth, mind reeling with the change.
In the winter, you rest your head against the soft plains of his stomach while you lap at the head of his cock, soft and squishy from holiday cookies and hot cocoa. You like him like this.
Full. Rosy cheeked. Cock leaking strings of slick in the dip of his belly button, semen thin and stringy in your mouth.
In the summer? God help you.
In the summer, Johnny's out more than he's in, running himself ragged between his diet, work, and the gym. When he comes home, he's grumpy and agitated, balls achingly full, and semen thick after months of careful water intake.
His caloric intake might be down...but he prefers a different type of eating, anyway.
Good thing he has all those muscles. All the better to hold you down while he fucks you on his tongue.
"Johnny—" you mewl, shoving at his head when his tongue curls around your clit again, "It's past five already—aren't you ready for dinner?"
His lips pop when he pulls off of your swollen clit, eyes glazed over while he watches the way your pussy leaks.
"M'not hungry, doll," he mutters, "Got more than enough to eat here, anyway..."
Simon “Ghost” Riley
Simon Riley....
Now, he's just a big fucking boy. Like, 6'4, over 250 lbs type of big.
Hear me out. Contrary to popular belief, I think Simon has more trouble keeping weight on than keeping it off. I wholeheartedly believe that when he was a teenager he was a thin guy.
Like, he'd fully grown into his height, but just didn't have the nutrition to support it. Simon doesn't cook, and...for lack of a better description, he's not great at taking care of himself. When he was a teenager, still trapped in his parents house, he probably skipped more meals than he ate. And before he joined the army, I think it's safe to say he was a lanky, underweight kid.
But the minute that man starts eating three meals a day?
GODDAMN DOES HE GROW. Like, I'm pretty sure by the end of basic training his drill sergeants were terrified of the monster they'd created.
Simon's fucking heavyyyyyy. Built equally of fat and muscle. He likes the gym, but his body isn't built for the magazine. It's built for utility. For war. For fucking blood. He doesn't care about appearances. He needs strength than can kill.
Barrel chest. Biceps bigger than your head. Stomach muscled and heaving. A trail of wispy, blonde hair leading down from his belly button into the hefty bulge at the front of his pants....
Simon's a behemoth, and anyone whose fought him on the mat knows better than to stand within his arms' reach.
Now, his weight fluctuates pretty heavily, too. A rough few months in the field could see his weight dropping quickly, in which case his hard earned muscle would show through.
But when he's on leave?
...homeboy sustains himself on granola bars and ramen noodles. He gets soft around the middle and also should probably drink more water but...good luck trying to get him to eat more than convenience store junk. He’ll set the kitchen on fire if he tries to boil some water.
Simon's big.
And he's big everywhere.
The zippers on his jeans are remarkably tight. His fatigues look almost like lingerie on his thick thighs. And if he's wearing grey sweatpants?Simon's a lethal fucking weapon at that point.
Why am I telling you this?
Because the first time you see him naked, you might be tempted to reconsider opening your legs for a man like him...your cervix will be bruised to hell and back--not to mention your ass and thighs, too. His hands aren't kind like Kyle's, nor are they careful like Johnny's.
He'll rough you up, pound into you like any reasonable woman could ever manage to take the full length of him without crying.
He'll bite his identity into your collarbones, burn his fingerprints into the fat of your ass cheeks. And when it's all said and done, he'll bully the fattened head of his ruddy cock between your lips and watch the tears drip from your eyes, swollen mouth quivering when you try to swallow his cum.
And if it's all too much to handle?
Good luck getting out from under him. Because once you're there, you're not leaving unless you can push him off, match his strength, or make him cum fast enough to leave before he's hard again.
Though, nobody's ever managed it before...not like they'd ever want to.
"Mm—Simon, you're—“
"Shhhh, love," he grunts, your body shoved flat to the mattress beneath his massive frame, "Don't move. Don't fuckin' move. I'm almost there, just....fuck, sit still and let me fill you up, yeah? Then I'll let you go...I promise this time."
Captain John Price
Now, if there is anyone in the 141 that actually enjoys the food they eat, it's Price.
HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT
okay so, Price, as a Captain, probably makes substantially more than the other three. That, and he's a good bit older too. He's past his prime (or so he thinks), and whether or not he has a perfect six pack when he looks in the mirror is the LAST thing he could ever care about.
Price isn't one for keeping up appearances--at least not as it concerns his body shape.
Is his beard trimmed and oiled? Always. He's damn near neurotic about it.
Is he always freshly showered, groomed, and cologne-d? Without a doubt. It's a point of pride.
Does the watch he's wearing compliment his clothing? he spends a STUPID amount of time thinking about it.
Will he gain another pound if he eats the Oreo cheesecake at the end of the night? Yep. And he'll enjoy every. Single. Second of it.
Price is as close to a foodie as a purebred military man can get. He loves cooking, and he recently remodeled his kitchen. He has GREAT taste in wine and spirits, and has spent a significant amount on amassing a good collection in his house.
If there's one word that describes Price, it's this: DECADENCE.
This man drinks, smokes, and eats as much as he pleases because he's lived long enough to learn the value of hedonism.
Why skip the cigs for the cigar when you could smoke both? Why stop at popping a just a single bottle bottle? Why not order the most expensive steak on the menu? Or the thickest slice of chocolate cake you've ever seen? What, like he'll regret it?
Price doesn't regret anything, and his body reflects that.
Of course, due to his profession, he never truly falls out of athletic shape (he's ready to be called away at a moments notice, after all). But he's LONG SINCE ditched his glory days. Like the others, his body fluctuates between highly cut to soft around the edges.
Price is thick around the ribs and plush in the chest. His weight settles around his hips and arms, making his biceps fluff up if he eats enough. His stomach is soft and sweet. So are his thighs.
The only thing that doesn't change?
The hair. Holy shit this man has a lot of chest hair.
All in all, Price likes a good meal, but he's still in elite fighting shape. Though, unlike the other three, his age stops him from being purely athletic. If anything, he looks more like a construction worker or landscaper. Someone who spent a long time building things with their hands instead of running laps around the track.
Now, what was that about decadence? Drinking, smoking, eating...
Price was indulgent in every sense of the word. Indulgent to himself, to his friends, and to his family.
But in bed?
The way Price fucks makes you understand why people let their teeth rot for another bite of Halloween candy.
Price wouldn't know moderation if it hit him in the face. And when it comes to your pleasure, to your body in and of itself, Price will be damned if you walk away without a smile on your face.
He's a service Dom through and through. Hell, just feeling your cunt clench around his fingers, your voice crying through another orgasm, is nearly enough to make him cum in his pants.
He'd done it before, too.
Was he embarrassed about it?
Not at all.
"John," you gasp, watching his length twitch rapidly beneath his jeans, a wet spot appearing at the top of his bulge, "Did you just..."
"Yeah," he groans between kisses, "So what?"
"It's—It's just that...isn't that a little—"
"Embarrassing?" he chuckles, "Hardly...Not if you'll go as red as I think you will when I let you lick me clean."
To John, watching you lap at his softening cock--and enjoy it too--is more than enough to get his blood pumping.
He'd always give you exactly what you want...even if you didn't have the guts to ask for it aloud.
Alrighty y’all THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BEARING WITH ME!! As per usual, my personal life is an absolute mess, but I refuse to let that get me down 😤 the universe can’t keep a bad bitch down ✨
ANYWAY~
I’ve been working slowly through the next chapter, and it will be out on Sunday (Nov. 3rd) 🙏 thank you guys so much for sticking with me even though my attention was needed elsewhere for a while! Hopefully we’re all ready to jump back into the story right where we left off 🫡❤️
Johnny calls you Ghosts work wife almost as a warning like he knows your going to be Ghosts actual wife in a matter of days.
BUT IMAGINE
Reader hardcore crushing on Ghost even though hes big an unsettling and all that. Johnny finds out and tells Ghost almost wanting Ghost to be throw off or annoyed but Ghost is like "ok, whatever." and then you find yourself always around him, freaking out internally because he's near you and you'r flustered. Ghost is just there enjoying watching reader twitch and be all flustered.
johnny saying it as fact like idk how you don't see it cuz he can see the ring on your finger already 🤷🏻♀️
or reverse it cuz it's crushing reader calling him their work husband and he at first is like (?) but then those rusted cogs in his head start turning and now he's going to want some of those work husband benefits like sitting with you during lunch so you can feed him or wait for you at your place (you're not asking how he found got in but instead if he fed the cat/watered your plants) and let you do your nightly routine before fucking you through the mattress 💅🏼
waking up in simon's riley bed, a one time meeting with a stranger in a bar that ended with a sex, a one time thing, after which you usually leave, but this morning is different in many ways from past similar situations, the absence of a man's body on your side, not even a note, an empty, wide bedroom without your belongings that you can't find anywhere, not even your underwear.
with your body aching, from the engraved imprints of his fingers on your skin, the ravenous dents his teeth's left, on the delicate curve of your neck, blossoming with freshly made bruises his mouth made, between your supple thighs, where everything strains at your little, stiff movements, muscles sore and your pussy swollen from being ravaged till the last drop.
you're too far deep in your thoughts, in the clouding confusion of where your things gone, that you don't notice the muffled wooden thud of the kitchen's cupboard outside the bedroom, before the door flings open, making you freeze In the middle of a room as bare as you are, meeting the dark pools of eyes in front of you, framed by the quiver of pale eyelashes.
he's a pretty man, under tawny eyes smudged violet, sunken into his skin all together, tuts of cropped hair still tousled after the sleep, sticking into different directions to meet the pale, filtering glow of sunshine from the window, and you only notice that he studies you as well when you meet his sunlighted gaze again, naked body shuddering from the depths of the rotting hunger you see there, the one that stretches it's feelers towards you.
simon croons hoarsely, about what a pretty sight you are, much more timid than the night before, and you see the scorching, crescent marks of your nails along the scarred expanse of his cast muscled chest, feel yourself grow more shy, the rising warmth of flush along your body, speckling with goosebumps, as he crosses the distance between you two in what seems like two steps.
you know you need to leave, ask him for your clothes, maybe tell that you're sorry, but there's nothing more to await, but his trained eyes burn a path up and down your legs, where your thighs meet together when you feel something leak out, oozing in glistening streaks down your skin, his fingers swooping down to collect the pearly drops, before smudging them against your puffy folds, meeting your hiccuping gasp with a low growl of his own.
his cum, he shoves it back in your already fluttering hole, embarrassingly wet, warm as you clench instinctively around the intrusioning, thick digits, your hands clawing their way up to grasp at his wide shoulders, sinking in the pale skin, knocking your forehead against his chest, before simon moves his hand away, fingers pulling out from your loose hole, smeared wet, as he scoops you up.
still naked, with your pussy now throbbing from the stretch, making your senses frizz at the ends, he cradles you against his burly form and carries you out of the room, there's an appetizing aromas wafting through the air, luring you into the kitchen he carries you in, where a fresh, hearty breakfast is already served on the dining table, waiting only for you, as simon settles you on the high stool.
in front of the filled plate and with a wet kiss pressed at your neck, he brings you closer to the table, plopping beside with a subtle squeeze at the curve of your waist, hands greedy, as he urges you to eat, as if you pick up your fork now and let yourself sink into this strange, morning routine, you wouldn't be able to leave anymore, and that's been simon's plan since that night at the bar.
You go to work after the weekend is over, smile at yourself in the mirror repeatedly to make sure nothing seems amiss, fix your hair, your makeup, your clothes until you appear collected- and cool.
It's much easier to shove it all down, to try to block it out, instead of really thinking about it. Dissecting it until it turns your stomach and makes you sick.
They didn't choose you. Get over it.
Still, a piece of your heart latches onto the bouquet. The look on Johnny's face. The way he begged.
Maybe...
No.
You're fine, and you don't need them, and you're unaffected.
You're dead on your feet by the time you get home. The entire day was a slog, slow and heavy, and you spent most of it wading through paperwork and numbers, lines of spreadsheets blurring together in your head until they became a jumbled mess.
You need a glass of wine.
Or a bottle.
It doesn't take anyone much convincing. You manage to wrangle two friends into meeting up at the bar down the street, the one that has half priced bottles on Monday night. It's a match made in heaven, for your sanity and your wallet, and it feels good to let go a little bit. Try to let them go, even.
One bottle turns to two, and you hardly bat an eye. The misery you're doomed to experience because of this is a tomorrow problem.
You're stuck on the sidewalk.
Tab paid, friends gone, and you're still here, back against a brick wall, staring at the street, watching cars and people pass by.
You're frozen in time. Trapped inside this moment, turning yourself over and over in your mind.
Maybe you'll end up alone. Maybe it just won't happen for you. You'll always be a secret, a casual fuck, a nothing to no one.
A nothing to them.
The idea, the thought of being alone for the rest of your life washes a cold chill over your skin.
It's a breezy night, comfortable by all standards, but still, you shiver, trying to maintain your balance in the sloshing sea of your equilibrium, overpowered by too many glasses of Malbec.
You stare at your phone. It feels like you're not in the driver's seat, in this moment, like you're not in your body. You're watching yourself scroll through you contacts, watching yourself open Johnny's, click the icon for a phone call-
and then you're silent when he answers on the first ring, your name cracking from his mouth like a thunderclap. Panicked. Excited.
But you say nothing. There's noise in the background, people out on the patio, on the sidewalk, talking, laughing, carrying on. Spilling out from the mouth of the bar like a flood.
"Can ye hear me?"
"Yeah." you whisper, like it's a secret.
"What're ye doin'?"
"I'm drunk." you blurt, eyeing a group of guys. "Think 'm gonna take someone home." What? What are you saying? Stop talking.
"Where are you?" It's Simon now, keyed up, rough and impatient.
"At a bar."
"It's Monday." You never go out on Monday. You know that, and they know too. You're always in bed by ten, ready to get up at the crack of dawn to head into work.
"It's Monday." You repeat, steel edge of your phone digging in the skin of your palm.
"Where are you?" He demands, again, and you shake your head.
"Dunno-" the denial is interrupted by a hiccup. "At a bar, like I said." What're you doing? You're antagonizing them.
"Love, tell us where ye are, we'll come-" You press the big red button to end the call. Cutting him off, cutting them both off, shutting them out.
You go to work after the weekend is over, smile at yourself in the mirror repeatedly to make sure nothing seems amiss, fix your hair, your makeup, your clothes until you appear collected- and cool.
It's much easier to shove it all down, to try to block it out, instead of really thinking about it. Dissecting it until it turns your stomach and makes you sick.
They didn't choose you. Get over it.
Still, a piece of your heart latches onto the bouquet. The look on Johnny's face. The way he begged.
Maybe...
No.
You're fine, and you don't need them, and you're unaffected.
You're dead on your feet by the time you get home. The entire day was a slog, slow and heavy, and you spent most of it wading through paperwork and numbers, lines of spreadsheets blurring together in your head until they became a jumbled mess.
You need a glass of wine.
Or a bottle.
It doesn't take anyone much convincing. You manage to wrangle two friends into meeting up at the bar down the street, the one that has half priced bottles on Monday night. It's a match made in heaven, for your sanity and your wallet, and it feels good to let go a little bit. Try to let them go, even.
One bottle turns to two, and you hardly bat an eye. The misery you're doomed to experience because of this is a tomorrow problem.
You're stuck on the sidewalk.
Tab paid, friends gone, and you're still here, back against a brick wall, staring at the street, watching cars and people pass by.
You're frozen in time. Trapped inside this moment, turning yourself over and over in your mind.
Maybe you'll end up alone. Maybe it just won't happen for you. You'll always be a secret, a casual fuck, a nothing to no one.
A nothing to them.
The idea, the thought of being alone for the rest of your life washes a cold chill over your skin.
It's a breezy night, comfortable by all standards, but still, you shiver, trying to maintain your balance in the sloshing sea of your equilibrium, overpowered by too many glasses of Malbec.
You stare at your phone. It feels like you're not in the driver's seat, in this moment, like you're not in your body. You're watching yourself scroll through you contacts, watching yourself open Johnny's, click the icon for a phone call-
and then you're silent when he answers on the first ring, your name cracking from his mouth like a thunderclap. Panicked. Excited.
But you say nothing. There's noise in the background, people out on the patio, on the sidewalk, talking, laughing, carrying on. Spilling out from the mouth of the bar like a flood.
"Can ye hear me?"
"Yeah." you whisper, like it's a secret.
"What're ye doin'?"
"I'm drunk." you blurt, eyeing a group of guys. "Think 'm gonna take someone home." What? What are you saying? Stop talking.
"Where are you?" It's Simon now, keyed up, rough and impatient.
"At a bar."
"It's Monday." You never go out on Monday. You know that, and they know too. You're always in bed by ten, ready to get up at the crack of dawn to head into work.
"It's Monday." You repeat, steel edge of your phone digging in the skin of your palm.
"Where are you?" He demands, again, and you shake your head.
"Dunno-" the denial is interrupted by a hiccup. "At a bar, like I said." What're you doing? You're antagonizing them.
"Love, tell us where ye are, we'll come-" You press the big red button to end the call. Cutting him off, cutting them both off, shutting them out.
simon knew it was over the moment he realized just how freaky you are.
simon knew he was massive—he always had.
it was a quiet fear that followed him, the thought that if he lost control for even a moment, he might hurt you. his touch was always careful, deliberate.
his hands were wrapped around your neck, not tight, but gentle—just enough to feel the pulse beneath your skin. his thumbs rested softly against your throat, his grip light, careful not to leave a mark. but when you started frantically grinding your hips against his, rolling your body in desperate need, everything shifted.
a low, guttural noise rumbled from his throat as his body responded on instinct. without meaning to, his hands tightened, gripping your neck for leverage as you moved against him. he froze for a second, startled by his own strength. but then—
it happened.
you clenched tighter around him, your head falling back as a broken moan escaped your lips. you were crying out, completely undone, lost in the moment. your hips bucked harder, desperate for more, and it hit him like a bolt of lightning:
you liked it rough.
you, his innocent, angelic girl — the one with soft smiles and bright eyes, the one who blushed at the smallest touch — had been hiding it all along.
he stared at you, stunned, as you begged with your body, your innocent exterior cracking to reveal the wicked, burning desire beneath. his angel wasn't just soft and sweet
—you were freaky.
a low growl rumbled in his chest as he leaned in, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “you've been holding out on me, haven't you, lovie?” he murmured, his voice dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.
simon knew it was over the moment he realized just how freaky you are.
simon knew he was massive—he always had.
it was a quiet fear that followed him, the thought that if he lost control for even a moment, he might hurt you. his touch was always careful, deliberate.
his hands were wrapped around your neck, not tight, but gentle—just enough to feel the pulse beneath your skin. his thumbs rested softly against your throat, his grip light, careful not to leave a mark. but when you started frantically grinding your hips against his, rolling your body in desperate need, everything shifted.
a low, guttural noise rumbled from his throat as his body responded on instinct. without meaning to, his hands tightened, gripping your neck for leverage as you moved against him. he froze for a second, startled by his own strength. but then—
it happened.
you clenched tighter around him, your head falling back as a broken moan escaped your lips. you were crying out, completely undone, lost in the moment. your hips bucked harder, desperate for more, and it hit him like a bolt of lightning:
you liked it rough.
you, his innocent, angelic girl — the one with soft smiles and bright eyes, the one who blushed at the smallest touch — had been hiding it all along.
he stared at you, stunned, as you begged with your body, your innocent exterior cracking to reveal the wicked, burning desire beneath. his angel wasn't just soft and sweet
—you were freaky.
a low growl rumbled in his chest as he leaned in, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “you've been holding out on me, haven't you, lovie?” he murmured, his voice dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.
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