The first time Simon sees you, youâre halfway up a mechanicâs chest and tearing him to pieces.
âYou had one job,â you snap, voice cutting through the hangar like a blade. âOne. And you still managed to screw it up so badly Iâm wondering if you did it on purpose.â
The manâbuilt, older, clearly outranking you in everything but nerveâdoesnât even try to argue.
Because you donât let him.
You step closer, boots loud against the concrete, chin tipped up like youâre staring down a giant instead of barely reaching his shoulder.
âI donât care what rank you think protects you,â you continue, quieter nowâworse, somehow. âIf that bird fails out of the air because of your laziness, I will personally make sure your career ends in a broom closet.â
Silence.
Thick.
Heavy.
A few heads turn. No one interferes.
From across the hangar, Ghost watches.
Still.
Silent.
Hooked.
Thereâs something wrong with him, he knows that. Always has been. What he endured growing up and years of war donât leave a man right. But thisâthis sharp-tongued, five-foot menace dressing down grown men like theyâre nothingâ
Christ.
His fingers twitch at his sides.
You donât even raise your voice again. You just look at the mechanic, unimpressed, like heâs already beneath you.
âFix it,â you say flatly. âOr get replaced.â
Then you turn on your heel and walk off like the entire world should part for you.
Ghost exhales slowly behind his mask.
âWhoâs that?â Soap mutters beside him, equal parts impressed and terrified.
Ghost doesnât answer right away.
Because heâs still watching you.
Every step. Every sharp movement. The way you donât hesitate, donât soften, donât care.
ââŠmine.â he says finally, voice low enough that Soap almost misses it.
Simon had a habit of manhandling you, to put it simply.
You'd be practicing your shooting when suddenly you'd feel large hands on your hips, shifting you into a better position. A low "Even out your weight." murmured into your ear.
Sometimes you'd go to Price's office only to be stopped just before you open the door, an arm around your waist pulling you back. "He's busy with Johnny, Love."
Countless occasions like this had your mind almost ditzy. The low tone in your ear sending shivers down your spine. The touching making your breath hitch. And you knew the large bastard got off on it.
Eventually it came to a head when Simon pulled you to his barracks one night. The two of you tugging at each other's clothing.
It shouldn't have surprised you when Simon grabbed your hips and pushed you to lie on your stomach, tugging your ass up so you were presenting yourself to him.
"Fuck" Simon drawls out as he takes in the sight of you. A deep chuckle rumbling in his chest as you wiggle your hips impatiently.
Finally Simon grabbed your hips and practically speared you onto his cock. Causing you to moan uncontrollably. Grabbing the sheets as he thrust into you.
"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck Simon!" You whine loudly. Simon groaning as you clamp around him. Cunt fluttering over and over.
You gasp as Simon grabs your waist, letting him flip you onto your back and push your legs up until your thighs were almost against your chest. Eyes rolling back as he presses even deeper into you.
"So fucking tight f'me." Simon huffs, nearly hammering into you now; reaching down to your clit and rubbing tight circles.
Your body attempts to squirm, but you were locked under Simons weight. It strangely aroused you, not being able to move because of how large Simon was.
Your breath then hitches as you suddenly reach your orgasm. The pleasure sparking up your spine as Simons hands squeeze the flesh of your ass, a sound you didn't know you were capable of ripping free from your vocal chords.
"That's it. Fuck fuck!" Simon moans, thrusting again and again before filling you with his cum. His hips moving slowly as he rides out his own orgasm. His head burying into your neck. His hot breaths fanning against your skin as he calmed down.
please PLEASE Can you write reader ovulating with Simon Riley, his dick would hurt by the end.
what happens to simon riley when you're ovulating
(his dick would fall off if it were me tbh)
your sex life with simon is already active as is, so the moment you start ovulating, he's in trouble. serious trouble. you can barely keep yourself off of him. everything he does sends a throbbing want to your pussy.
manspreading? you're already on top of him, tugging his jeans down just enough to ride his heavy cock. his big hands find purchase on your hips, grunting lowly.
"fuckin' eager, huh?" he's only half hard by the time you're bouncing on him, and you don't get off until either of you can't speak, and you've ruined yet another pair of his jeans from the amount of slick and cum that stains the fabric.
rolling up his sleeves, seeing the way his forearms and veins flex? you're begging him to finger you, and he gladly listens.
"need me t'fuckin' fill ya full, don't ya?" bent over whatever surface of your house, stuffed full of his fingers knuckle deep as your walls clench around him. one orgasm isn't enough, two, three, four, five until you're babbling incoherently and spraying the front of his shirt with your release.
the thing men do when they reverse, placing one hand behind the passenger seat? belt, GONE. you make hasty work of his jeans just so you can suck his dick as he drivesâbonus points if he's still reversing. half-way laid across the center console with a face-full of his throbbing cock, already leaking pre. he's a mess, whimpers spilling from his lips as he bites down on the plush flesh. he's pulling your panties to the side, burying three fingers deep in your cunt with ease at the sheer wetness of your pussy.
him, reading with glasses? you bet he isn't taking his eyes off a single page as he ruts into you from behind, book laid across your back slick with sweat. he might be a little mean, make you fuck yourself back on his dick, balls slightly slapping your clit enough to make your eyes roll back into your head. get a drop of cum on his book, and he'll punish you.
getting passionate about his interests? fuck in missionary so he can continue yapping as he toys with your clit and pounds into your throbbing cunt. his words are long lost on youâyou don't even notice when his words start getting condescending.
"always gettin' in m'pants..." he grunts, the sound of skin slapping and mindless whimpers and mewls fill the room, "fuckin' slut, you tryin' to get pregnant? want me t'fill you? dirty whore..."
by the end of your ovulation phase, you might've definitely gotten knocked up, and his dick is no longer with us. (he still has his hands and face, ladies...)
âyâwanna know what stupid looks like?â he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. âyou, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.â
repost from my old deleted account tobeholyistobeempty - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
ââââ-
itâs honestly not even your fault.
youâll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - heâs the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now youâre blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simonâs arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because heâs the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, heâs used to this by now. used to the way youâve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesnât say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesnât complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if heâs a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
heâs tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
âjesussiâyouâre big.â itâs slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. âlike, industrial grade. military-issued big.â
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober youâd see the smirk heâs biting back.
âtha right?â
âmmm. like a fuckin tank,â you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. itâs involuntary - just like itâs involuntary when he twitches. âor an armoured vehicle. yâshould come with airbags.â
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe heâs not as used to this as he thought - because this isnât just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
âyouâre drunk,â he breathes.
you grin. âsoâre you.â
ânot even half as much as you.â
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. itâs quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like heâs checking to make sure you havenât stripped mid-hallway. itâs just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
âmânot that drunk,â you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. âi meanâi am, but not likeâŠmemory loss drunk. iâm still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.â
itâs only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
â..and how insanely big your hands are,â you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. âlikeâbiblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell yâthat?â
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth youâre beginning to feed.
âdonât.â he says, and itâs torn. ânot now.â
heâs all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesnât break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
âyâever choke a girl out with them?â you press, unfettered. ânot like, unconscious, but like. in bed?â
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
âjesus. stop talkinâ.â
âwhy?â you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone whoâs very much not being innocent. âam i makinâ you nervouuus?â
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
âno,â he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. âyouâre makinâ me hard.â
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply wonât let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
âfuckinâ finally.â you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. âthought iâd have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit thatââ
he doesnât let you finish that thought.
âfuckâs sake, yâlittle minx.â heâs dragging you now, as if heâs realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point heâs half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. âyâneed to stop talkin.â
âyou like it,â you slur between unsteady steps. âyâlike me like this cause youâre a freakkkââ
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
âiâd like you more if yâwere unconscious.â he huffs, hard. âor duct-taped.â
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
âwas that supposed tâbe a threat?â you ask, lips glistening. âcause if so, itâs workingggg.â
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. âbloody hell.â
by the time you make it to your door, heâs breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize youâve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
âfuck, simon.â you canât stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. âiâve been into you for ages, yâknow.â
he pauses. boot in hand.
ââŠwhat?â
he says it low. like a warning - like a donât you fuckin start. but youâre too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while youâre flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
âjus sayin- since, like. youâre in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.â you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. âthought yâshould know.â
he looks at you like youâve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. âused to think about itâyouâwhen i couldnât sleep.â
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip heâs got on your ankle could shatter bone.
ââŠ.you tellin me yâthink bout me when yâtouch yourself?â he asks.
âgod yes.â you donât even realize youâve said it. âyou. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behaveââ
ââfuck.â it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesnât blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, itâs like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. âdâyou think about it?â
he doesnât answer. not at first. thenâ
âonly when i breathe.â
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. âyou mean that?â
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. âi mean, if you donât stop talkin, mâgonna fuckinâ fold.â
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
âtell me.â you murmur. âyou think about fucking me? what iâd sound like moaning yourââ
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places â and he sees it.
âenough.â itâs barely a whisper. âchrist. fuck. youâre gonna make me do somethinâ stupid.â
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
âyâwanna know what stupid looks like?â he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. âyou, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.â
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. âplease.â
his eyes snap shut.
âyâdont know what youâre askin for, sweetâeart,â he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. âainât gonna wake up with you hatin me.â
even drunk you realize heâs a man of morals.
âyou think iâd regret it?â you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesnât respond. âsimon. i just told you iâve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if itâd hurtââ
his palm tightens over your lips again.
âone more fuckinâ word and iâll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldnât touch you right now.â he spits. âif yâeven remember this tomorrow, yâcome say it to me sober. promise on every grave iâve ever stood over iâll bend yâover on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.â
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
âguess iâll see you tomorrow.â
âmhm.â he hums, take a step or two toward the door. âfuckin hope you will.â
Simon who doesn't know how to ask for your affection!
It's not that he thinks it's stupid for a grown man like him to ask for something so...childish like cuddles and kisses. What is he? A five year old? He rarely got hugs and kisses from his own mum, he doesn't need it.
It's not like he'll die without it. He'll just wait for you to initiate, like you always do.
Except you're way too busy right now, too caught up in whatever you're doing to even notice he's been standing there and staring at you for the past five minutes.
He's been debating the whole time if he should just ask you for a kiss, but his feet and mouth refused to cooperate with him, leaving him hanging there to stare at you.
"Hm? Did you need anything?" You ask, finally noticing him as you wonder how long he's been there. Must've been a while.
He shook his head instinctively, but his lips formed a thin line and his face held a displeased look. It looked like his words were trapped in his throat.
Luckily for him, you could read him like a book now. It wasn't easy since it didn't come with some sort of manual or tutorial, but it was definitely worth it since you knew that this meant he wanted a kiss from you.
"Do you want a kiss?" You ask again, looking up at him expectantly.
God, you don't think you've seen anyone nod that fast.
(dis was written in like five minutes i havent written for cod in a good while i havent refreshed yet dis is bad)
you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just âŠhappened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you werenât entirely in control of.
youâd made a new yearâs resolution to get in shapeâ because health, discipline, all that crapâ and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasnât an option.
there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.
at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt⊠weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternativeâ going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.
midnight schedule it was.
it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.
the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other studentsâ dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.
and then there was him.
tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.
the first time you noticed him, youâd nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the nextâ there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.
(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)
he moved through his workout with terrifying
efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.
you developed aâ not a crushâ an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.
âitâs a crush,â your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.
you scoffed, flipping through your notes. âitâs not.â
âit is. iâm fit too, but i donât see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.â
you made a disgusted noise. âjesus, shut up.â
he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. âiâm just saying. the fact that you havenât even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"
âi do not know his entire workout routine.â
your friend raised a brow.
you sighed. ââŠhe does back and legs on tuesdays.â
his brow lifted higher.
ââŠand arms on thursdays.â
silence.
âright.â
âshut up.â
youâd considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didnât exactly radiate approachable.
the man looked like heâd rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.
and you? you werenât some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.
What the hell would you even say? âhey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?â heâd call the police on you.
so, you stayed quiet..
until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.
in your defense, it wasnât entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.
âyouâre paying for a full gym membership,â he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, âand youâre not even using the weight room?â
âi use it,â you protested.
âyou walk through it.â
okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.
youâd done your researchâ watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.
you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, andâ nothing.
the bar didnât budge.
you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.
okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heavedâ
"yâneed a spotter?"
you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. closeâ heâs close, and jesus, heâs even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like heâs already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but thereâs something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.
you swallow. "uh."
his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"
"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."
he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.
your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it liftsâ barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but youâre stubborn. you have it. almost.
"youâre about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.
you falterâ just for a secondâ but thatâs all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!
he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. heâs strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesnât step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.
"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that youâve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"
you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"
"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is⊠fair, you suppose.
you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."
you and simonâ you learn his name by the third day!â slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadnât expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.
he doesnât know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, youâre there. always. not in an overbearing way. you donât talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, youâre surprisingly easy to be around. and worseâ comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.
a routine starts forming. he hadnât expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to⊠this. hadnât expected that youâd still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at armâs length, really, he does.
but youâre not loud. you donât force yourself on him. you donât pry or try to push past his wallsâ you just exist, alongside him, like itâs a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesnât even notice heâs talking until heâs already halfway into answering.
"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"
he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like heâd forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."
you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?
he hesitates. "depends."
"on?"
"the day."
you narrow your eyes. "thatâs not an answer."
"sure it is."
you mutter something under your breath about how âeveryone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,â but drop itâ he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. youâre content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.
itâs little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when youâre sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesnât. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of itâs alright." you just shake your head at him like heâs beyond saving.)
you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("whenâd you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.
"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "sânot a fuckinâ fashion show."
and thenâ of courseâ you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. âokay, but why?â you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. âyou know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?â
he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. âtheyâre my only pair.â
you freeze. your face twists, and thereâs this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. âsimon... are you... homeless?â your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like youâre afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.
"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."
you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. âwell, i donât know,â you mumble.
âyou wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-â
âdrop it.â
â-you donât even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-â
âdrop it.â
some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesnât want to talk. doesnât want to be seen. and youâ you notice. you donât come up to him, donât pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.
itâs unbearable.
like an itch under his skin that wonât go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, heâs groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. âfor fuckâs sake, just get over here already.â
you grin like youâve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.
you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesnât know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like itâs some kind of foreign object. he doesnât even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.
the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "sâonly fair."
you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. âwhatâs in it?â
he scoffs. "fuckinâ cyanide."
you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. âsmells like peanut butter.â
his eye twitches. âjust drink it.â
and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other somethingâ coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell heâs running on fumes.
one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.
youâre exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but youâre pushing for one more rep. just one.
simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.
"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.
you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. âi got it.â
he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesnât argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.
"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.
you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slippingâ
his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.
"fix that grip, sweetheart."
you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesnât let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.
"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. iâve got you."
your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.
his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."
you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.
you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.
and thenâ "good girl."
barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.
your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.
you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.
and heâs right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, heâs all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.
"donât-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "donât do that."
simonâs brow lifts, lazy. "donât do what, sweetheart?"
your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."
his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you youâre doing good?"
"yes."
he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."
you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, thereâs nowhere to go.
"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."
your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.
"you like hearing that, donât you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing iâm right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."
low, warm, approvingâ
"bet thatâs why you pushed so hard," he continues, like heâs musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."
simonâs eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.
"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.â
âplease.â
the rest of the gym is a blur. you donât even register leaving, donât remember how you end up outside, only that simonâs hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simonâs truck parked just underneath a street lamp.
simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.
his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.
his hips roll up.
you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everythingâ the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.
he does it again.
your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.
"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."
his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.
his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.
you glance downâ and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.
"fuck-"
he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.
"thatâs it." heâs almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckinâ wet..."
your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.
"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"
you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.
his patience snaps.
one moment youâre grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.
simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.
heâs big. not just in lengthâ though fuck, heâs long enough to make your stomach clenchâ but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess youâve already made on him.
the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.
simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew youâd like that.â
he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch youâre about to takeâ
he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.
"look at that..â simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"
"yes- yes, please-"
"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."
he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.
the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.
"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"
you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.
his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.
âlook at that,â he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. âgonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?â
your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.
simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. âstill want it?â
you canât nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. âyes-â
he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesnât take his time, doesnât teaseâ just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like theyâre nothing.
your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.
his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. âhow long have you been sittinâ here all wet for me, huh?â
then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.
you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.
simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. âfeel that?â he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. âsoaked for me. filthy girl.â
he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.
his voice drops lower, almost awed. âyou always this wet?â
you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. itâs obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.
his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.
âjust for me then?â he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything youâve given him. âi kind of like that.â
he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.
then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.
his eyes flick back to yours. âgonna let me in now, yeah?â
the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where theyâre spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches youâ just the tip, barely an inchâ and your body locks up, refusing to take more.
simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but youâre too tight, squeezing around him like youâre trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where itâs barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.
he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, andâ
he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.
"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. youâre not gonna take me like this."
your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "iâm sorry-"
"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"
you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"
"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? donât want you cryinâ when i finally get this cock in you."
you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."
he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckinâ hell."
then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.
you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.
"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"
you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.
"sânot fair," you mumble.
"lifeâs not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.
"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "donât want you breakinâ on me just yet."
you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.
"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"
you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until youâre loose, slick, ready.
when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.
then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes inâ
you take him.
the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.
"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckinâ tight."
you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deepâ then he stops.
breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"
"baby," his voice is almost pained. "mâpressing right up against your cervix. canât go any deeper."
but itâs not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."
his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you donât know what youâre askin."
"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"
he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."
then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.
"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.
simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckinâ christ."
the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around himâ the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.
"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takinâ me all the way? filthy fuckinâ thing-"
he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.
itâs slow at firstâ just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.
but youâre already gone.
your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though heâs holding you down, even though youâre already stuffed so fucking full.
"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where heâs so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckinâ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"
you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.
he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.
"canât even talk, can you? too fuckinâ dumb to think straight."
"s-simon-"
"what, love? too far gone already?"
his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.
you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"
"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "thereâs my good girl."
he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.
"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.
"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckinâ mess youâre makin."
he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sightâ your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.
"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckinâ leaking all over me- ruininâ my fuckinâ truck-"
"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.
"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. donât need you thinkin."
After the life Simon Riley has had, itâs really not surprising that he just canât get it up anymore. Heâs tried, time and time again, but the blood doesnât pump through him the same way it did. And it isnât that he doesnât have a sex drive, god no, one look at you and he wishes he could fuck you into the mattress until your tears stain the pillows and the only sounds falling from your mouth are screams of pleasure.
You walk around the apartment, his big t-shirt on, no panties underneath, and it drives him insane. Youâre an entire decade younger than him, young and sexy, and he canât help but feel guilty for letting you stay with him knowing that he canât give you what you want in bed.
It doesnât stop him from eating you out until your clit is puffy and your walls are rubbed raw by his calloused fingers. When his head is between your legs, he tries, he really does. He gets so worked up, grinding his soft cock against the bed, willing it to get hard so he can fuck you right after, but it never does.
All it ends in is you cumming on his face one too many times and him walking out of the room without saying a word in pure humiliation.
You donât take it to heart, you know he beats himself up for it, saying he isnât good enough, that you should find someone who can actually give you what you want and keep up with you at that. Every time you reassure him, that he does satisfy you, that he never fails to make you feel good regardless of how he does it, but it seems to go in one ear and out the other.
But tonight, tonight is different and you will find a way to fuck your man.
You lay naked on the bed, legs spread, juices glistening off your folds while Simon hovers above you. His arms cage your head in as he kisses you rough, his tongue sliding over your soft lips, yours entering to explore the expanse of his mouth. He kisses the length of your jaw, down your neck where he licks the salty-sweet skin, bites just hard enough for you to writhe beneath him, and sucks until purple bruises are left to ache in the best way possible.
Before he can lower himself between your legs, you let your fingertips brush just under the waistband of his sweatpants, and his mouth stills against yours.
âSi⊠just let me try something tonight. I really want to,â you say breathlessly, pulling away from the kiss, gazing up at him with a look that is more of a beg than anything.
He kisses your forehead, moving his hand down to pull yours away, but before he can you reach in deeper, squeezing the base of him and earning a rumbling groan from him instead. His fingers wrap around your wrist, not moving you, just simply holding on like he has to steady himself.
âLovie, please. Donât embarrass me now,â he whispers, voice rough and low, wavering ever so slightly when your hand begins to trail further up his limp cock.
You donât reply, but you do run your thumb against his tip, swiping the precum beading from his slit, evidence of his arousal despite him remaining soft. Lips meeting him again, heâs reluctant, but eventually he finds your rhythm.
Pushing his sweatpants down, you pull his cock out, stroking it gently and your warm, soft palm against him feels like you're touching his raw nerves. Even if he couldnât get it up, it is still incredibly sensitive from months and months of pent-up need and no sex. Not that you hadnât tried before, because you have, and every time he gets frustrated.
Thereâs not much you can say to convince him to try again on the same night.
Nonetheless, you focus on his tip, gliding your thumb under the ridge, rubbing against his slit, and you feel his cock twitch barely in your hand. You pull his body closer to yours, resting his cock on your folds, and he hisses from the sheer pleasure of that alone. Your body heat, your slick, the thought of him touching your aching clit like this has him beyond needy.
âJust slide against me. Itâll feel good, yeah,â you say, nodding your head slowly in encouragement.
His hips roll against you, his cock sliding underneath your palm and through your folds, and he bites back a whimper while shivers run down his spine. Simon can feel his cock hardening, just barely, just enough that he might actually be able to feel your walls wrap around him, so he wastes no time in finding out.
âPlease, please,â he says under his breath, begging his body to let him pleasure you in ways he usually canât, just for tonight if thatâs what it takes.
He grabs the base of his cock, positioning at your entrance, and it takes a few tries but his semi-hard tip pushes through your entrance. You gasp softly, the feeling foreign and orgasmic, and your walls clench hard around him. A guttural groan rips from his chest when he begins to rock into you, his eyes meet yours, passion and desire swirling around as his pupils dilate from the sight of you taking him regardless of the conditions.
âYou feel so good, Si,â you moan, lifting your hips to give him easier access, glancing down every few seconds to watch the way his impossibly large and yet still soft cock rubs through your walls.
âYou feel like a dream,â is all he can get out before his eyes are shutting tight and his fingers are tangling in your hair.
Your body meets his, helping him through it, helping him get to where he needs to be so that just for tonight, he can feel man enough for you. And when he cums deep inside of you, his tip pulsing with long, thick ropes of warm cum, âthank youâsâ fall from him repeatedly before he kisses you with a newfound confidence.
âAgain Si, donât stop.â
He doesnât. He stays rocking inside you, cumming again and again until his cock is too raw, until your pussy is full of his cum, and you feel every last bit of him. When heâs done, he lowers himself between your legs, cleaning his mess and sucking your clit, watching you cry from pleasure, watching you squirm away, but there is nothing he could give you that would ever come close to the feeling of showing him that he is enough for you.
âMasterlistâ
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A/N: since someone had an issue with the fact that i said the reader is a decade younger than simon and "young and sexy" let me clarify that i never specified an age anywhere in the fic lmao the reader could be 24 and simon be 37 the reader could be 35 and simon be 50 for all i care thats for you to decide and that is why i dont specify certain aspects of the reader i simply wanted to emphasize an age gap to make the guilt simon feels more profound simon finds the reader sexy and shes younger than him there is nothing to read in between the lines or imply about that literally at all
simon riley who grunts every time you shift on the bed. its late at night and you cant seem to get comfy. he lets out an annoyed huff and throws an arm over your waist. "stop moving, dove." he mumbles into your shoulder. he pulls you against his chest and gently squishes your tummy with his big hand. it never fails to amaze you how quickly you can fall asleep in his arms.