Pls pls pls pls more best friend Simon Riley x Reader. I am gnawwwing, I need it. I. AM. FERAL. FOR. IT. HrrggrgrhehhehhrrrrrHhrrgrrgrgrr * Shaking my head and scattering foam all over the place *
I didn’t see this!!! :’0 ty ty ty !!
best friend!simon riley x reader who doesn’t quite get it…
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Being best friends with Simon meant you never had to worry about finding a seat when you arrived at group functions. Without fail, there was always a space next to Simon. It got to the point where your other friends knew better than to even ask if the seat next him was free. But he was just being a good friend, right? Good friends make you feel included. That must be it.
This time was no different.
The bell above the door to the cafe jingled as you entered the establishment. The warmth hit you first, the smell of coffee second, and the anticipation from seeing Simon, your best friend, completed this trio of senses. Breathe. You’re friends. Don’t ruin this by making it weird.
“Bon!” The sound of Johnny’s voice broke through your mantra. Your eyes found his as he waved you over to the table. Smile. Be normal. DO NOT look at the back of Simon’s head. DO NOT imagine yourself running your fingers through his blond strands again. It’s not healthy.
You quickly averted your eyes at the first sign of Simon turning around, your heart practically leaping into your throat. You could feel his heavy gaze as you approached. Keep your eyes firmly locked on Johnny’s.
The Scot—ever affectionate—pulled you into a bear hug before squeezing back into the booth next to Kyle and his girlfriend. Both offered you a warm smile despite being squished by Soap.
“You lot look cozy,” you teased, doing anything to delay acknowledging the other side of the booth—nerves not yet ready.
”Blame ‘im.” Johnny grumbled gesturing towards Simon who hadn’t taken his eyes off you, ever patient for his turn for your attention. There was no more delaying it. You peeked in his direction meeting his eyes as Johnny continued complaining in the background.
“Richt bastard. Wouldnae let me sit doon. Said ‘e was savin’ it for ya.”
Simon said nothing, just watched your reaction. He was allowing himself to be relaxed in the booth, aiming to appear casual as he leaned back, knees spread and arm slung across the back of the booth. That was friendly, right? Of course it was. Relax.
You willed yourself to slide into the booth like your mind wasn’t running a mile a minute with thoughts that were detrimental to friendship. Sit. Scooch. But not too close. Well…maybe close enough to smell him. In a casual way of course.
And smell him you did. The heady, intoxicating combination of woods and smoke with undertones of metal did very little to ease your anxiety. Quite the opposite.
Even at a respectful distance, you could still feel his body heat. Could still sense a solidness to the presence next to you. Something sturdy and strong. Something to lean into or wrap around on a winter night.
As always, Simon was a furnace. Simply sitting next to him increased the temperature a few degrees—not that you were complaining as the weather got colder. Times like these, restraint from crossing the line felt more difficult.
Chatter from the group continued all around you. This was a typical outing with your friends which usually brought you peace. But not tonight. All thanks to the one friend in particular who started feeling less and less like a friend in your mind. And no doubt, in your mind only.
The other side of the booth was wrapped up in an intense debate about something you lost track of a while back. You dared to spare a glance at Simon. As if feeling your attention immediately, his eyes slid to yours, slightly questioning.
“Thanks for saving me a seat, Si.” This was his favorite part unbeknownst to you who couldn’t see anything past your own insecurities. He saved you a seat, you smiled at him sweetly in appreciation, and he got to be close to you for a few hours. All under the guise of being a good ‘friend.’
Simon shifted slightly under the pretense of hearing you better. His thigh lightly bumped into yours and like a perfectly inelastic collision, remained in contact after he settled.
If you were warm before, you were on fire now. Your knees were touching. Hell, your thighs were touching. You didn’t want to read too deeply into this, but this seemed to be happening a lot more recently. Most probable reason for tonight’s occurrence: he was cold. It was winter after all.
“S’no trouble, love.” Love??? No wait. Calm down. If Soap can call you ‘Bon’ and still be your friend, Simon could call you ‘love’ and feel the same. It’s just British people being British, right?
Simon seemed to be watching your internal monologue play out, the corner of his mouth slightly quirked up.
You zeroed in on it immediately. “What’s so funny?”
Simon shrugged lazily in response. “I can’t jus’ be chuffed ta see ya?” His deep voice was laced with teasing, but his eyes held a startling sincerity.
Your eyes darted across his features over analyzing at hyperspeed. Pupils blown: most likely from the low lighting of the cafe. Ears tinged pink: probably from the cold weather. Nevermind he’d now been indoors for a solid hour. If his legs were cold and seeking warmth from yours, no doubt his ears could still be cold too.
Simon waited for you to draw your conclusions wondering if you would actually be correct this time. You decided to get a confirmation—gather more data. A choice that was normal for you, cute to him. Not that you’d let yourself entertain such an idea.
“You are?” Your voice was hesitant, eyes searching his.
”Said so, didn’ I?” His deep brown eyes searched yours right back. His voice was steady. Cue intense stomach flipflopping. He was happy to see you…No big deal. Friends are happy to see each other all the time. Of course he’s happy to see you.
“I’m happy to see you too.” Said as a friend, meant as something else.
“Didn’t seem like it earlier,” he huffed. “Could barely look at me.” He was being a bit unkind in his teasing and he relished in the fact. He knew why you couldn’t look at him. Same reason why he couldn’t take his eyes off you. He was just biding his time.
The back of your neck felt painfully hot as he called you out. It took everything in you to maintain eye contact and play it off.
“You paying that much attention to me?” You joked.
”Yes.” No hesitation. Simon tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Not exactly wot mates do, is it?”
Your eyes widened on instinct—mouth opened to verbalize anything your brain could conjure up in that moment of confusion. Blank.
Someone asked Simon a question. He kept his eyes on you for a few long moments before lazily sliding them in the direction of the other booth.
Another best friend!Simon blurb straight from the drafts :D Just y’all teasin’ and flirtin’ a bit bc why not in these trying times?
cw: dark/morbid joke (that I found on the internet…oof. sorry) delivered by best friend!Simon, use of y/n once, rando character who is not apart of tf141 included briefly.
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”How did you not find that funny?” You asked in astonishment. Your eyes were locked onto your best friend’s as your laughter at Kyle and your coworker—Mira’s—shenanigans died down.
“‘M not immature,” Simon answered gruffly. The slight upward turn of his mouth betrayed his amusement.
You pursed your lips in response and shot him a playful glare, grumbling under your breath. “More like you lack a sense of humor…”
Simon leaned forward, forearms on the table as he stared into your soul. “What was tha’ ‘bout my sense of humor?” He challenged, the conversations of your other friends fading into the background as you zeroed in on him.
”I said,” you started, leaning in to match his energy. “It’s lacking, love.”
He didn’t bother trying to hide his smirk that time. “You like my jokes.” He said it like a statement, fully confident in his ability to make you laugh.
”I don’t.” Liar.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Tha’ right?”
You perked up at the hint of a challenge and leaned even closer. The distinction between his warm brown irises and slightly blown pupils even more clear at this proximity.
“Go on then. Make me laugh.”
At this point, the rest of the table was watching with interest. They were used to the antics of you two. Simon and you had quickly grown close after your introduction to the group a few months back. It was hard to find one of you without the other in a group. Simon going as far as leaving a hangout when he heard you were sick. You both knew you’d do the same for him.
He was locked in on you now, eyes never wavering. ”Alrigh’.” A thoughtful pause. “How do you stop a baby from chokin’?”
“What?” This felt less like the start of a joke and more like the end of a CPR certification exam. But this was Simon you were talking to…There had to be something—
”Let go of its neck.” There was another pause before you heard the deep chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Heh heh heh.”
The group looked at him in horror. You pretended to also be appalled before the urge to laugh overcame your efforts. It was his delivery and that wheeze of his. Got you every time. You couldn’t help it as you burst out laughing—even harder than before, causing the group to now look at you crazy.
“Y/N!” Kyle protested at your outburst. You tried to cover your mouth to quell your laughter when Simon’s hand shot out to stop you. His grip was firm on your wrist. “Don’t shy away now, love. Let me hear ye.”
You glanced at his large hand on your arm—vision blurred by tears. Your other hand found its way on top of his hand as you unsuccessfully tried to ground yourself and stop laughing. As per usual, Simon’s knuckles were rough under your fingers.
“Dry ass hands,” you managed to wheeze out between laughs. “Nice and warm, but dry as hell.”
Simon just rolled his eyes, still smirking and pleased from making you laugh harder than Gaz and Mira had.
“Don’t you ‘ave tha’ greasy shite wi’ ye?” He huffed out, looking at you expectantly like a properly trained young man used to your lectures on proper skincare.
“It’s not greasy. It’s moisturizing.” You corrected with a smile, using your free hand to dig the lotion out of your bag and apply some to his knuckles. As much as he liked to complain, you had a feeling he secretly enjoyed it. If his half lidded eyes and small grunts of approval had anything to say about it.
“Anyone else want any?” You offered while rubbing it in on his hand—your fingers slipping over his skin and between his fingers until the cream was all worked in.
As if on autopilot, Simon proffered his other hand to you like a good boy. Didn’t even have to ask him to. He definitely enjoyed it.
You pretended not to see it and went to put the lotion away.
“Oi.” Simon looked offended.
You shot him an innocent look. “What?”
“Wot ‘bout my other hand?”
You played dumb. “Oh. My bad, Si. Here. Hold out your other hand, I’ll give you some more and you can rub it in yourself.”
He slid the hand you just moisturized under the table out of sight. “Can’t you do it?”
“Why? Can’t you?”
Simon shot you a look that said ‘quit playing.’ A warning. You almost broke but remained strong and waited for a verbal response.
He sighed. “C’mon love. Don’t wanna do it m’self.”
“Why not?” You responded, pulling another frustrated look from him.
“Like it better when you do it. You know tha’” He stared you down until you took his other hand in yours and did it for him. He had the audacity to grin as you massaged his hand. Content and borderline smug.
”Aye. I’ll take some if it also comes with the massage.” Johnny piped up, holding out his hands. Simon swatted them away.
“Jus’ f’me.”
A teasing smile settled on your lips. Your turn to be content and borderline smug. “Think you’re special or something?”
His eyes held yours intensely as you felt your skin grow warm.
”Tell me ‘m not. I dare you.”
You opened and closed your mouth a few times, caught all the way off guard as the rest of the table snickered at your facial expression.
He chuckled to himself—a knowing smirk on his face—before flicking your nose, suspiciously affectionate. “S’cute. Like a fish ou’ of water.”
You recovered from being stunned to flip him off before sitting back with an indignant huff.
Simon chuckled again. “Real mature, swee’eart.” The sarcasm was thick.
”Yea well, if you want mature, talk to Kyle.” You quipped back.
Kyle put his hands up in surrender, wanting no part in whatever this was. Simon’s stare didn’t falter from your face. “Never said I wanted it.”
You flicked your eyes back to his, a soft smile on your lips. His eyes briefly darted to clock the action before meeting your eyes again. You spoke up, “Yea?”
Looking for Simon Riley fic where reader doesn’t like him but he refers to her as his wife. They’re at a party with 141 and they argue upstairs and reader is like “you’ll have to catch me first” and so Simon basically chases her home. 😭
previous - next
pairing: simon riley x fem!reader
✶ 4.7k+ words, smut, breeding kink, light predator/prey
price’s dinner party is in full swing when you arrive at clover and kyle’s place with your gift in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. there’s music playing, drinks being poured, and hors d’oeuvres being passed around. you exchange pleasantries with the couple when they meet you at the door.
“oh! this is the good shit,” clover laughs, examining the bottle of wine and thinking about how you have a knack for choosing the best wine. “girl, you know you didn’t have to bring anything.”
“true, but i was taught to never show up to a function empty handed.” you pass your coat over to kyle in exchange for the glass of wine he’s offering.
you take the glass with a small laugh when he says, “the hard stuff is in the kitchen.”
you take a sip of your red wine as you step further into the room, preparing to make your rounds when you spot a few familiar faces. you greet price first, wishing him a happy birthday and laughing when he asks you about his gift. next up is johnny, who nearly squeezes you to death when he pulls you into a bear hug.
someone clears their throat when johnny releases you.
when you turn towards the sound to greet the person who’s joined your little group, your smile slips off your face. it’s simon. you really should have known who it was before you even turned around.
“lieutenant riley.” you don’t mean for your words to be stiff and uninviting, but they are.
simon pretends he doesn’t hear the attitude in your voice. “long time no see, wife.”
when he says it, you’re not sure who you want to smother first. simon has a shit-eating grin on his face while johnny is standing behind you laughing like a damn hyena. you go for johnny first. he’s close enough for you to elbow him in the gut. when you shift your attention back to simon, there’s a smile tugging at his lips. for a second, you picture yourself reaching out to wipe that smile off his face with your fist.
it would serve him right.
but instead of letting simon provoke you into causing a scene, you flee to the kitchen, practically begging for clover and kyle to let you help. they decline of course. you’re a guest in their home and they don’t plan on letting you lift a finger, no matter how much you want to, if only to avoid another interaction with simon.
“dinner is just about ready.” clover shoos you out of the kitchen before you get the chance to object. “have you seen simon yet? go mingle.”
“that’s what i’m afraid of,” you mutter on your way out of the kitchen, in search of a hiding spot to stay in until dinner is served.
dinner goes the way you expect it to. great food and great conversation. when it’s over, you expect for simon to seek you out since he refused take his eyes off of you the entire time. it was clover’s fault for having the blonde sit across from you at the table. you find it odd that he isn’t all up in your personal space since he has no problem tracking your movements and keeping you in his line of sight.
even when he’s talking to his team, simon has his eyes on you. the staring should make you feel uneasy, but it doesn’t. you’ve been taking note of the way simon’s body language changes whenever one of his fellow soldiers approaches you for a chat. at one point it gets so bad, you have to tell kyle to get his lieutenant under control.
“and tell him to stop glaring at everyone,” you hiss at kyle, who won’t stop laughing at your predicament.
he hears you mutter something about stupid men while on your way up the stairs. thinking now would be the perfect time to stir the pot, he turns right to simon and points a finger upstairs. he considers his job done when simon slips off the couch and out of the room.
when simon makes it to the top of the landing, you’re still occupying the bathroom. he can hear the water running, accompanied by your soft murmuring.
“talking to yourself is a sign of insanity,” are the first words out simon’s mouth when you step out of the bathroom. he almost feels sorry for scaring you when he notices the hand over your heart.
“you’d know all about insanity, wouldn’t you lieutenant? seeing as though you’re the number one nutcase.” simon laughs right in your face. you roll your eyes, tilting your head slightly to ask, “what do you want simon?”
“you.” he lets you shove him into the wall across from the bathroom. he’ll do just about anything to have your hands on him.
“goodbye, lieutenant riley.” not in the mood for simon and his games, you put some distance between you two.
impulsive as ever, simon grabs you before you can make it to the stairs. he ignores your whining and shoves you into the guest room. he makes sure to put his back at the door to prevent you from escaping. knowing it’s a waste of time, you try to leave anyway. when simon doesn’t budge, you let out a frustrated growl.
simon’s mouth twitches when you start pouting. “i just wanna talk, sweetheart,” he explains in a placating tone. “that’s all, i promise.”
but you’re not having any of it. “oh, so now you want to have a civilized conversation. well i don’t.” you would rather risk climbing out of the window to escape, than to speak to him about anything.
“that’s not what clover said.”
you bury your face in your hands with a groan. fucking clover. it’s a well known fact that your friend is incapable of minding her own business. you glare at simon briefly before taking a seat on the bed. “what else did that meddlesome woman tell you?”
“she said, and i quote, i’m doing entirely too much, and that i’ll lose you before i can even have you.”
you can’t help but to tense slightly when simon moves away from the door and takes a seat next you. his closeness gives you a chance to get a good look at him. you try to remember a time you’ve seen simon dressed like this. on base, he’s usually walking around in hoodies, sweatpants, jeans, or his tactical gear. today, he’s dressed in all black. black slacks, a black turtleneck, and a pair of boots. the simple gold chain around his neck, along with the rings on his fingers are what surprises you the most.
he looks so fucking good, you fear you’ll ruin your panties if you don’t find something else to look at.
shifting on the bed slightly, you look away when simon acknowledges your staring, by asking you if you see something you like. “not sure yet. did clover say anything else?” you sure hope she didn’t.
“some shit about respecting your boundaries.”
like that’s ever going to happen.
you know simon isn’t the type of man to respect anyone’s boundaries, so you don’t really expect for him to listen to clover’s words. you tell him just as much, to which he disagrees. in return, you list every single time he didn’t have a care in the world when he crossed the line with you.
“just recently, you put me down as your emergency contact without informing me.”
“fuckin’ hell, woman. i get it,” simon huffs, having heard enough about his own war crimes.
“i don’t think you do. simon you can be a goddamn brute sometimes. you use your size to intimidate people. you’re rude as hell. and you definitely don’t know what personal space is.” you’re standing now, pacing back and forth in front of simon. you turn to him with a look that’s close to being one of exasperation, but not quite. “you piss me off on a daily basis, constantly stressing me out and barking out orders like i’m supposed to do what you say.”
“dove–” simon snaps his mouth shut when you scowl at him.
“shut up, simon!” you hiss at him, before sighing tiredly. not only are you starting to become agitated, but you’re done with this conversation. “you know what, i’m going back downstairs to the party. i need a fucking drink.”
you’ve barely made it to the door, when simon stops you. he pulls you into his arms, snorting when you insist on struggling and demanding to be let go. he’s not letting you go until you’ve calmed down, which only upsets you even more.
“let me go, you bastard!”
and maybe that was the wrong thing to say, because your heart is damn near in your throat when simon wraps a hand around your neck. he hears your sharp inhale when he applies a small amount of pressure in warning, before loosening his hold.
“please let me go.” it’s comes out a little weaker this time. the hand around your neck is starting to make you question if you really want him to let you go.
“not until we’re done talking.” simon rolls his eyes when you hiss at him like a damn cat.
“what else is there to talk about, simon? i said what i had to say. take your hands off of me.” the look you give him is one full of irritation mixed with something simon can’t comprehend.
fix your face or he’ll find out just what his hand around your neck is doing to you.
“exactly, you had your chance to talk. can i have mine, sweetheart?” you hate how soft his voice is when he asks.
“fine, speak,” you sigh out. when the apology comes, you’re not prepared for it.
“i’m sorry.” it’s soft and sincere.
“what?” you choke out, not believing your ears. this is the first time you’ve heard an apology from simon.
“you heard me. don’t make me repeat it,” he grunts.
his apology is genuine, you know. simon knows when he’s at fault and he acknowledges that. for weeks, he’s been trying to bully his way into your heart, and your pants, without stopping to think about you.
deep down, there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to accept his apology. this is some sort of trick. for as long as you’ve known simon, you’ve never seen him show an ounce of remorse for the shit he puts you through on the daily. it’s always obsession and pure want from him. there was nothing soft about the way simon chased you down.
“whatever this is, i don’t like it,” you whisper, not looking at him.
simon just sighs and drags a hand down his face. you’re so goddamn stubborn. “c’mon, dove. what’s it gonna take for you to get the stick out of your ass and accept my apology?”
there he is. fucking asshole.
you laugh but there’s no humor to it. “fuck you, riley.”
“is that what you want?” simon asks, voice dangerously soft, his breath mingling with yours when he tilts your head up so he’s looking directly into your eyes.
being this close, you can smell his cologne and the faint hint of whiskey he’d been drinking before he decided to take it upon himself and disturb your peace. “simon–”
“i could fuck you right here and let everyone listen to you cry on my cock.” he smirks at the wide-eyed stare on your face.
simon doesn’t expect for his words to result in you slapping the shit out of him. he should’ve known it was the wrong thing to say while you were in a bad mood. it’s what he deserves for being a menace. clutching his stinging cheek and watching you dart out of the bedroom after giving him a sharp you gotta catch me first, simon thinks he’s even more in love with you than he was before.
downstairs, kyle groans loudly when he sees you descend the stairs and head straight for the front door, slamming it shut behind you. he frowns at simon who’s not far behind. “man, what the fuck did you do?” he ask, rolling his eyes when his lieutenant doesn’t acknowledge him and follows you outside.
you’re almost halfway down the block—you can see your car in your driveway—when you hear your name being called. instead of turning around, you pick up speed. you probably look crazy sprinting down the sidewalk in a tight ass dress and a pair of heels, but you don’t care.
you can ignore simon calling your name all you want, but he loves to chase. he loves to hunt.
how long does it take to get to the damn door? you think through while the jaws theme song plays in your head. you’re panicking like you’re not the one who initiated the chase.
“you gotta catch me first? what the fuck was i thinking?”
when you turn your head to glance over your shoulder, simon is closer than you originally thought. he’s not even running, and that’s what scares you the most. you have half a mind to take your heels off, but you know he’ll try to use that to his advantage.
“slow down, dove. wouldn’t want you trip or anything.”simon’s words are full of glee when he says it, making your pulse quicken. he barks out a laugh when you start fumbling with your purse under the lamppost. he follows you with no sense of urgency, just walking and watching you lose your shit as you search for your house keys. “you find what you’re looking for?”
“fuck off,” you huff out, amused and determined to ignore simon’s taunting laugh and the way it echoes all around you.
you manage to make it up the walkway leading to your house, gripping the wooden railing for dear life so you won’t bust your ass on the way up the stairs. when simon’s foot lands on your bottom step, you slip the key into the keyhole.
you’ve just unlocked the door when a big warm hand grips the back of your neck and guides you inside the house. as soon as simon closes the door behind him, his tongue is in your mouth and his hands are gripping your ass.
you jerk away from him, breathless and a little dazed. “wait! can we–we need to talk.”
simon tugs your purse and keys out of your trembling hands and tosses them onto the sideboard up against the wall. “i’m done talking.” and then he’s back on you, pressing you up against the front door and trailing soft kisses along your jaw.
you tilt your head to the side, giving him better access to drag his tongue and teeth across the soft skin of your neck. “my shoes,” you manage to gasp out.
simon pulls away with a grunt, looking down at your feet. “don’t know why you wear this shit when you’re constantly complaining about your feet.”
he sinks down to his knees and grabs you by the ankle to remove your heels, while muttering something about them being death traps. you try to focus on the big gentle hands rubbing your feet once they’re bare, but all you can think about is your pussy being directly in simon’s face. you think about how all he has to do is lean forward and–
you jump slightly when simon’s hands slowly trail up your thighs until they catch the hem of your dress. when simon doesn’t move any further, you ask him what’s the holdup. but he just raises a blonde brow and waits.
he’s asking for permission.
for a man who only knows how to take, this surprises you. you reach out to run a hand through his soft blonde curls, your eyes softening when he leans into your touch. you then cover his hands with yours, bunching your dress up over your hips, a soft please dripping from your lips.
“christ,” simon murmurs when your lace thong comes into view after draping your leg over his shoulder. the fabric is soaked with slick and clinging to your pussy. “it doesn’t take much to get you wet huh?”
you open your mouth to deny it, but the words get stuck in your throat when simon presses his nose to your core and takes a whiff. your knee almost buckles when he grabs your ass and shoves your thong to the side and presses your drenched pussy into his mouth, sucking the slick out of your hole. you think you might have died and gone to heaven when simon drags his tongue from your sopping wet hole up to your clit, before giving you a hard suck that has you seeing stars.
“simon,” you whimper when his teeth grazes your clit, your body jerking in his hold when it becomes too much.
when simon pulls away, his mouth and chin are glistening with slick. you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed at how wet your pussy is. “you good?”
“yes,” you breathe out. “definitely good. great even.”
simon dives back in without another word, sucking your pussy lips into his mouth and swirling his tongue around your clit. he laughs silently into your pussy when you start panting and grinding against his face. good girl, he thinks before moving to stand.
you let out a wounded noise when he’s back at his full height and towering over you. “why did you stop?” you hate the way your voice wobbles with emotion. you will not start crying over this.
“i want you to sit on my face, sweetheart. not doing it down here.”
simon chuckles when you drag him upstairs and into your bedroom. you’re barely in the door
when he reaches for the zipper on the back of your dress. he lets out a low frustrated noise when the zipper doesn’t budge.
“stupid fucking–“
when you feel simon’s grip tightening on your dress, you know what’s coming next. “if you rip my dress, i’ll kill you.” you try to no avail to escape his hold so you can save the dress.
“too late.” simon uses both of hands to rip the dress right off of you.
you wince at the sound of fabric tearing and dropping to the floor, sighing mournfully at the thought of you having to toss the dress into the trash only after one wear.
“stop pouting,” simon murmurs while tugging his shirt over his head and tossing it onto the armchair in the corner of your room. “i’ll buy you another fucking dress.”
you fix him with a glare, your eyes lingering on him a little longer than intended when he starts shoving his pants off. “you better! i’ll have you know, that dress costs–”
“i’ll buy you whatever you want if it’ll get you to shut up and put your pussy in my mouth.”
you blink at simon in surprise, laughter spilling from your lips at his audacity. he’s standing in front of you naked as hell, arms folded across his chest and he’s sporting the biggest dick you’ve ever seen. you feel yourself get slicker between your thighs.
“you see something you want?”
“get on the bed,” you hiss at him, before shoving his annoying ass onto your bed and straddling his torso.
simon grins at the trail of slick you’ve managed to smear all over him. “leaking like a goddamn faucet,” he groans, hands flying up to your hips when you start dragging your pussy up and down his abdomen, marking your territory. “thought i told you to sit on my face.”
he’s trying to drown in some pussy and you’re playing. with an annoyed huff, he hauls you off his chest then yanks you forward to hover over his face. you steady yourself by grabbing the headboard before lowering your pussy onto simon’s mouth.
the first drag of simon’s tongue almost sends you careening off the bed, his mouth hot, wet and downright sinful as he curls his tongue up into your dripping hole. you have to tighten your grip on the headboard to keep yourself upright, your free hand sliding down to grip blonde curls for more leverage when your hips start moving of their own accord.
your soft cries and the filthy wet sounds of simon eating your pussy like a man starved bounces off your bedroom walls. simon’s looking up at you with hearts in his fucking eyes, just enjoying the view of you whining and fucking yourself on his tongue.
“fuck, simon….please.” a moan slips out when your hips start to move in tandem with the way simon spears you with his tongue.
you can feel your pussy gushing out an obscene amount of slick when simon’s nose brushes up against your clit over and over again, the electrifying sensation making you keen high in your throat as your pleasure increases.
the pressure of simon’s nose pressed up against your swollen clit and the way he licks at your walls is enough for you to warn him of you impending orgasm.
“g–gonna cum,” you choke out, tightening your grip on simon’s hair. he’s eating your pussy so good you feel yourself becoming teary eyed.
when you press your hips down on simon’s face, seeking more friction, he starts to guides your hips. you’re riding his tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you alive, your pleasure filled mewls growing louder by the second.
your orgasm takes you by surprise when your eyes meet simon’s. it hits you so hard, you lose your grip on the headboard and find yourself bent at the waist, shuddering and gasping for air. when you’ve fully regained your senses, you tip your body sideways onto the empty space next to simon.
“you okay, baby?” simon asks softly, bringing his hand up to caress the apple of your cheek.
“yes,” you reply, leaning into his touch, not correcting him when he calls you baby.
simon props himself up on his elbow and uses his free hand to place feather light touches down your abdomen until he’s cupping your mound and sliding his fingers through your slick. you breath hitches slightly when he says, “you think you can cum again for me?”
simon huffs out a laugh when you try to drag him on top of you in response to his question. when he settles between your legs, he presses a kiss to the soft skin on the inside of your thighs. he pulls away to admire you for a moment, his eyes low and full of hunger as they take in every inch of your naked body. when he’s had his fill, simon wastes no time feeding the tip of his leaking cock into your pussy.
you let out a soft gasp when he slips in even further into your drenched hole. “simon you’re too big.” you feel like you’re being split open.
“nah, you can take it.” to prove his point, simon buries himself to the hilt in your pussy, stuffing you full and making your thighs quake.
simon gives you a few seconds to adjust to his size, before he pulls out slowly then teases your clit with the tip of his cock. then he’s bullying his way back into your pussy, enjoying the way your back arches up off the bed as a broken moan spills from that pretty mouth of yours. he starts off slow with small thrusts, just teasing you to see how long he can get away with it.
not even a minute later, simon watches the way your brows furrow and your mouth slowly opens to tell him can you stop teasing and fuck me please. you sound so sweet and soft when you say it, he has to give you what you want.
simon wastes no time driving his cock in and out of your drooling pussy, laughing quietly when you start babbling incoherently and digging your manicured nails into his back. every moan you let out only motivates him to fuck you harder. he wants to see you fall apart on his cock as many times as you can.
“fuck, this is good practice for the honeymoon,” you hear him groan in your ear, his strokes getting deeper with every word, not caring if he’s pressing his luck with you. he’s on the verge of becoming pussy drunk.
honeymoon?
you avert your eyes, avoiding his gaze. it doesn’t stop you from trying to squeeze the life out his cock though. “t-there’s not going to be a honeymoon,” you respond, raking your nails down his back in retaliation.
“mmm is that right?” simon murmurs. he ignores the stinging in his back, giving you a dirty grind that has you crying out his name. “we’ll see.”
you choke out a whine when he slips his fingers between your legs and starts rubbing your swollen clit in sync with his thrusts. the constant waves of pleasure is all you can focus on, when your second orgasm of the night rips through you, punching the air out of your lungs.
simon moans when he feels your hole clenching and spasming around his cock. he fucks you through your orgasm, barely giving you a chance to gather air into your lungs. “i’m not gonna stop until you cum again.”
you shake your head frantically at his warning. “i can’t…too much. simon, please.”
simon takes one big hand, squishes your cheeks, then plants a soft kiss on your lips. “please what?” he coos mockingly, rutting into you like the beast that he is. when you fail to give an answer, he chuckles darkly.
it sends a jolt straight to your pussy. “oh god.”
“i thought asked you a question, sweetheart?”
“c-can’t,” you hiccup. he’s fucking you so good, you can feel your thoughts slowly disappearing from your mind.
“look at that, getting dumb for me already.“
you can’t bring yourself to respond the way you wish to. it’s not like simon will let you anyway. he just hooks your leg over his shoulder, muttering about filling you up to the brim until you leak cum from your ears. you feel yourself tighten around his cock in response to his filthy words.
you gasp softly when simon presses kisses to the column of your throat, his soft i love you filtering through the wet squelching sounds coming from between your thighs. he’s fucking into you with reckless abandon, whispering to you about how beautiful you look with his cock buried deep inside and how he wants to fuck a baby into his pretty wife. his words are enough to send you over the edge. you cum with a broken sob, your senses whiting out completely, toes curling and body trembling.
and simon’s no better. you’ve never seen a man so damn pussy drunk. he’s still fucking you like his life depends on it and all you can do is hold onto him for dear life. your pussy is so sensitive you’re afraid he’s going to make you cum again if he doesn’t finish quickly.
you almost breathe out a sigh of relief when simon’s hips start to stutter. when he cums, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, marking you as his. you whimper softly when he licks at the teeth marks and sinks further into your hold.
simon stays buried inside in your pussy wishing for his seed to take. he knows you’re on birth control. he’d seen the tablets on your nightstand when he first entered your bedroom.
when he finally pulls out and slips off the bed, simon tugs you along with him to the bathroom. you’re surprised at how gentle he is with the aftercare. he bathes you and helps you moisturize your body after you towel off. he ducks out the room and comes back with a bottle of water to keep you hydrated. he even grabs a set of fresh sheets, and when he’s done replacing the old sheets, simon drags you back to bed.
it doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep with your head on his chest and your legs tangled together.
but when you wake up in the morning, slightly freezing and patting around the blankets to seek warmth from your bedmate, simon is nowhere to be seen.
-
a/n: don’t jump me. the next chapter is coming soon.
MASTERLIST | SIMON’S MASTERLIST | AO3 - you’ll need to be a registered user
Simon Riley x fem!reader, neighbor!Simon Riley, neighbor!reader, baking, oral, slightly rough sex, unsafe sex (no condom/bc), come play, Simon has a staring problem (and it turns reader on), sweeter than these tags make it seem I realized
Jumping right off this cute post by @rawme-price and his tags because omg y'all...
Simon accepts the cookies you give him, in exchange for the eggs, and sits and watches as you process the raw ingredients into something new. It's all a bit mysterious- he's never been a cook, never paid attention to his mum as she scraped dinners together, but the little kitchen is full of the scents of sugar, cream, vanilla. Sweet enough for a toothache, and he munches away while you work, flatly answering your awkward small talk.
He's not good at this, not good at opening up to someone he hasn't bled and fought for, but it's nice, sitting somewhere warm and cozy, decorations on the walls instead of the flat paint of his own. You keep glancing at him and then away, cheeks burning, which is- cute. He thinks you're cute, fumbling your words even while your hands move sure and confident around the mess of sticky spatulas, whisks, bowls with sugar on the rims. He's trying to keep up a conversation but he's distracted with the way you move, watching as you lick your fingertips clean before remembering he's there and wiping them on your apron instead. His blood warms when you bend over and your ass curves right in his vision, full and round. He's never been this close to you this long, never had more than a few attempts at hello and a couple comments about the rain.
Simon accepts a sugar cookie warm from the oven and feels his heart turn over when you bite your lip, fingers lingering on his. Fuck.
"All these just for you?" He asks, and you startle a little. Maybe he'd gotten a bit quiet.
"Oh, no, most of it goes to the charity shop- they put them in with the Christmas dinner boxes, a little treat, you know?" Meringue stands in little puffy rounds on the parchment paper. "I just keep a few favorites for myself. Some for, uh, friends. Here. Taste this?"
A spoon appears in front of his face. He looks up from his seat, your eyes big and very nervous. He swears he hears your heartbeat pick up when he licks the edge, letting you hold the spoon, keeping his gaze on yours because he's shit at talking but you're the sweetest thing he's ever met-
Oh, oh thats fucking delicious. Creamy and, spicy? Not hot but rich, something dissolving on his tongue and going warm right down his throat, like liquor, brilliant and fresh and fuck is that lemon he's tasting?
He's pretty sure his cock got hard just from that, holy fuck.
He thinks about cream, and creampies, and the way you'd taste as a chaser, and yeah he's a goner. He wants warm hands and sugar on his tongue and to find out which of the piles of sweets are your favorites, what makes you blush and smile, if he could get away with a kiss or something more.
He stands up and you're stuck between him and the counter. "....do you like it?" You manage, whispery.
Taking your hand in his, he gets another lick of the spoon, that spicy-sweet burst of flavor on his tongue second to the way your pupils dilate, how your breathing picks up. "Yeah," he manages, and his whole body burns when you lick your lips.
Simon nearly falls over when you get up on your toes and kiss him, eyes fluttering closed, lips soft and warm. He thought he'd have to take the first step, instead you're right up against him, sticky fingers holding the side of his jaw and smelling like sweat and sugar. Soft at first, gentle, then his lips part and oh-
Oh-
Your tongue is slick and hot, slipping right inside, his head coming down and angling for you to get the best reach, his hands clutching at the counter behind you as the spoon goes clattering to the floor. Simon's kissed and been kissed but this is something else, sparks lighting up behind his eyes, and when you moan into his mouth and pull him down, a handful of his hair in your grip, a low heated "delicious," comes off your lips and goes right down his throat like the cream, slams into his belly, and Simon moans and comes in his pants right there in front of you, your hand in his hair and your tongue in his mouth, the beaten-in military discipline the only thing keeping him on his feet.
You break the kiss with a wet smack, breathing hard, your hand still in his hair, strands curling around your fingers. Simon's panting against your cheek, and the sound you make, god, it's enough to make his cock jump, start fattening up properly. He licks your cheek, cranes his neck to get at yours, smudged floury fingerprints where you'd rubbed it and the sweat gathering on your hairline.
"Is there anything," he grunts, "on this counter that needs to be saved?"
You swallow, and gasp when he gets his other hand down to your ass, groping and squeezing, feeling every soft inch. A quick turn to look means Simon gets his lips back under your ear, and you shudder, hips rolling; he files that spot away to remember later.
"Ah, no, just- mind the mixer-" Simon pushes the clunky machine over, an empty baking sheet crashing down, and sweeps the rest of the piles of parchment, icing bags, and other etceteras away. Your ass fits perfectly onto the counter, and as Simon pushes your apron up and spreads your legs- you're gasping again, hot and flushed- he sees the dark damp spot right in the center.
Your hands come back to his hair, both this time, and you moan full throated, loud, when Simon kneels and puts his nose right into you, inhaling. Richer than the cream and even more intoxicating, he tugs at your leggings, pulling them down with your panties as you helpfully lift your hips up.
You're so wet, all flushed and slick, and Simon rubs up and down your thighs as your bare ass settles back down, soft little pants and moans echoing in his ears when he puts his thumbs on either side of you and spreads them. Your hole clenches, winks at him, as a drop of slick oozes out, begging to be licked up.
"Is this all for me?" He rumbles, as if he didn't come himself from just a kiss. You tug at his hair.
"You just kept staring at me- I could feel you, watching- watching me- and I kept thinking about oh, oh fuck, Simon!"
He curls his tongue deeper into you, lapping, drawing out hot slick that he smears up across your clit before sucking at it wetly, swallowing. His thumbs keep holding you open, perfect to bury his face in, and you haul on his head to drag him up and down, clit rolling between his lips, your pussy squeezing down on his tongue every time it plunges in.
"Thinkin' 'bout this?" He pants, and bites the inside of your thigh to make you whine. Another suck to your clit, and your thighs try to close around him.
Simon releases your pussy to hold one open, the other working at his zipper, shoving his pants down to get his cock out. Hard and aching, a throb in his belly, and he strokes at it clumsily as he goes back to filling his stomach with you.
You whine, and actually hump his face when he gives you the flat of his tongue to grind on. Fucking hell, if he hadn't come already Simon would be losing it just from that. There's bursts of salt on his tongue, your pussy getting wetter and hotter, soft folds all puffing up and clit getting firmer. He looks up over your belly and sees your eyes squeeze shut as your mouth falls open, sugar at the corner of your lips, and as you start to come Simon releases your thigh to let them slam around his ears as you just- take it, take what you want from his tongue and mouth, groping your ass and dragging you forward until you're practically sitting on his face.
"Oh, oh god, oh fuck Simon don't stop, gonna come," you burst out, and Simon hums and sucks hard, not letting up as you moan and shake. "Ah, aaah, fuck!"
Your pussy floods his mouth, a hot thick gush, creamy and delicious, and Simon moans and soaks it up, swallowing thickly, his cock spurting pre over his palm. He keeps sucking until you groan and haul his head back, and Simon feels his cock throb at how eaten out you are, soft and sensitive and wet to the counter, slick and spit all over. There's creamy come smeared over your clit, and Simon pants after it, wanting another lick.
Instead you pull him up, knees creaking as he stands, cock bobbing freely, and there's more clattering as another set of pans go falling when you lay back as much as you can.
You're tugging at your apron ties, panting, thighs still quivering, and Simon catches what you're after and helps untangle the thing from around you. Your shirt is shoved up impatiently, and fuck but your tits are amazing, begging for their own attention- Simon bends down over you and sucks a nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, and the sound you make will haunt him forever.
God, what did he do right to get this.
Nipple wet and hard, Simon licks up your chest, finds your mouth, kisses the sugar still stubbornly clinging there. You kiss him back, wet, lush, and break away just to gasp when Simon's cock rubs across your pussy, leaking onto you.
"Its- I'm clean, promise," he pants, so close and so far. "Whatever you want, baby, please," and he swears and has to pinch his own thigh when you lock your legs around him and draw him in, head nudging inside, hot and tight and wet.
"Simon, fuck me," you tell him, and shift your grip to the back of his neck.
Simon does, head bowed, groaning as his cock slides in, pulling out just to look down and see that creamy come before fucking it back inside you. Your tits bounce as his hips smack into you, he'd be worried about being too rough but you dig your fingers into him and urge him harder, taking the brutal pounding with moans and shivery cries that make his balls tighten.
Simon pants hard against your cheek, your lips, catches you for kisses that break almost immediately with moans. The spot behind your ear gets sucked hard and your whole body clenches tight, like a violin string. Your pussy is flexing rhythmically, slicking him down to his balls, and Simon feels it from the inside when you snap and come again, finding your mouth to swallow it all down, bracing on the counter and groping your breasts with the other hand.
Your lashes flutter, clumped with sweat. Simon can't hold on, you're too wet, hot, all soft flesh and big eyes and demanding mouth, sugar and come on his tongue, and you drag his forehead down to meet yours as his hips stutter.
He can't look away, caught, whines building up in his throat. He wants to come but he can't bear to make this stop, to have to leave the soft wet hole you're giving him, but the choice is taken out of his hands when you reach out blindly, groping at a bowl, and shove your fingers into his mouth dripping with that spicy rich sweet cream - he tastes it on top of the musky flavor of your pussy and he was right, it's perfect, it's the best thing he's ever tasted, and Simon's eyes roll as he comes so hard it hurts, moaning around your fingers, spit and cream drooling off his lips and down your palm.
You shriek as he bucks into you, fucking you back up the counter, pussy clamping down as Simon's cock throbs and spurts deep into your belly, thick and creamy white, and you keep your fingers on his tongue as he sags, panting and shivering. Legs around his waist, you hold him there, pinning you, as he gets his breath back, slowly shifting his weight until he can step back, give you room to breathe.
Your pussy squeezes his cock, still inside, and you moan softly. An orgasm for each of you, but you're still craving, and Simon groans deep in his chest when he pulls out fully and sees the way your hole spurts out his come, thick milky drops sliding down the crease of your ass. He nips your fingertips and gets a giggle, smiling himself, suddenly lighter than meringue, surrounded by sugar and knocked-over kitchen supplies, his cock spent, his mouth and nose all full of spice and cream and you you you.
(He does help clean up the mess he made- both in the kitchen, and eating his come out of you in the shower.)
Nggggh, okay I promise to finish the Price series but first-
Gn!reader, soft smut, 18+
Simon who you expect to be rough with you when you sleep together for the first time.
......
Simon who has no desire to mix pain and pleasure and takes his time working you open.
Simon who's hands tremble with his barely there touches.
Simon who rut up into you from below with slow rocks, gliding in and out of you as he pants hot against your neck, pulling the weight of you back into him on low dipping couch.
Simon who when you try to bounce on him, desperate to feel -more, faster, deeper- gasps and pins you around the middle with soft little "No, fuck, please," and his shuddering arm.
Simon who resumes rocking into you with gentle pleas to just let him fuck you slow when really he's making love to you without realizing.
Simon who just wants to touch you with gentle hands because he never has the opportunity to touch anyone like that.
Simon who huffs little praises in your ear just for relaxing back against him, legs spread wide from being hooked on either side of his knees.
Simon who groans so fucking loud when the sound isn't the plop, plop, plop of his big balls against you but the wet squelch of every long, achingly slow stroke.
Simon who just pants and huffs heavily against your shoulder as he strokes soft hands down the length of you, weakly squeeze any where he can touch.
Simon who pushes your hand down to touch yourself because 'got 'ands like fuckin' sand paper, love' never mind that your craving that friction.
Simon who finally does relent when you beg but his touch is still so infuriatingly careful.
Simon who just keeps shuddering behind you, spilling cum into you but it's all so delicate you don't notice, especially when he just starts up qgain.
Simon who just mouths eagerly at your neck while you let him indulge.
Simon who whimpers when you crane back to kiss him.
summary: price/reader bear shifter fic. PART 4. (read the whole thing on ao3 here)
tags: light daddy kink, breeding kink, very nsfw, she/her pronouns for reader
-
He starts showing up at your house at odd hours.
You’re fixing coffee in the morning, still fuzzy and warm from sleep, only to hear the sounds of hammering outside. Wrapping yourself in just a housecoat, you find John fixing the loose step on your stairs, barely sparing enough time to greet you before returning to the task at hand. When he finishes, he brushes off your attempts to pay him for the job, just loading his tools back in the car and driving off.
You sip your coffee and wonder. Odd.
The next day, you find him raking the leaves in your lawn. Two days later, he shows up at the grocers when you’re picking up produce, and helps you carry all your bags to the car. He also adds a peculiar amount of canned goods to your order and when you fret and try to tell him that you don’t need the pickles and sauerkraut and beans and all of that stuff, he just lays a hand flat on your head and drags it down your hair until you go quiet.
He pays for the whole order.
You’ve never had to wonder about a man’s actions. Men are largely inscrutable to you, ever-shifting. They say one thing and mean another. They look at you like one might look at an oil painting, entitled something like Virgin Meeting Her Lover’s Eyes From The Top Of The Staircase or Landscape With Virgin. They speak to you as though an answer were entirely antithetical to their purpose in conversing with you.
John listens to you with a focus that borders on intimidating, like he wants to hear each word enunciated exactly how you might enunciate it. It has the sharp clarity of respect, of a mutual acknowledgement of humanity. He also comes over to fix your sink without you having to ask. The world of men is still largely confusing to you.
John grows surlier as the days grow shorter though. He doesn’t snap or snarl at you the way he does sometimes with his recruits (you rarely see him interact with them, but sometimes you’ll drop him off his lunch on the days when you’re feeling particularly generous and that’s when you’ll have the rare pleasure of hearing him shout at a trembling twenty-three year old for littering on the trail like a military captain), but it’s a near thing.
The worst is when he catches you on a jog one morning on his drive to work. You see his truck with the faded red paint pass you by and you give a short wave that he returns. He passes you by about half a yard before coming to a full stop and reversing. You stare at him as the window rolls down, brows furrowed.
“Hi Jo—” you start.
“Get in the car,” John growls. You hear the doors unlock.
“…My uh…my shift’s in two hours, John, I can’t just—”
“Get in the car.”
“This is my only time to exercise!”
“If I have to get out of this car and drag you inside, honey, I will. Don’t play with me. Get in.”
You get in the car. Probably wisely. Still dripping sweat and shivering from the cold—you’re not used to jogging in the winter, or at all for that matter, but it seemed like as good a time as any to start—you glance over to stare at the side of John’s face. His jaw is set, almost as if in anger. His knuckles are white over the steering wheel as he makes a U-turn and drives back into town. The cab of his truck smells like flannel pulled out from the back of a closet, almost musty, but comforting in the way that old clothes can sometimes smell. There’s a cigarette ashed out in the dish in front of the centre console.
He takes you to the nearest bakery for coffee and a breakfast muffin and stares you down until you eat the whole thing. You feel like you have to scarf it down. Customers bustle into the bakery to order coffee to-go and fresh cookies and scones in waxy paper bags; everyone in town knows each other so you try to avoid the more curious stares when they’re turned on you.
“This is weird,” you say, staring down at the crumbs on your plate. “This is really weird.”
“This is what you get for exercising before winter,” John says, flagging down the barista for another muffin and a refill on your coffee. “Waste of calories.” The last part is said derisively, almost with a scoff.
You frown. “Lots of people exercise. Even when it snows.”
“Winter is a time for hibernating. Not…sweat,” he says with a grimace, like the very thought is anathema to him.
"Hibernating?" you repeat skeptically, scrunching up your nose. "I mean, I spend a lot of time indoors, but I wouldn't say I'm hibernating."
John stares at you until you look away, flushed. "Finish your breakfast."
The barista returns with another blueberry muffin and a fresh cup of coffee. At least John's the one paying. When he finally seems satisfied, he hustles you home and leaves you off at the door with a stern warning.
“You gonna be good for me this time?” he asks, a finger curled under your chin, tilting your head up. One of his hands curls around the doorframe and your heart jumps when you hear the wood creak under his grip. This close, you can see the faintest silver streaks at his temples and the flecks of it in his beard.
“It was just a light jog,” you mumble, looking away.
“Not a light anything,” he warns, ducking closer until you feel like shrinking back, like disappearing into your house. “Bake a cake if you have to burn off energy so bad. I’ll be over around seven, alright?”
You mumble something, the words getting lost in themselves. It’s impossible to think with John in your space like this. It’s only when he finally pulls away and ambles back to his truck that you rock back on your heels, let go of whatever spell he had you under.
The first week of December hits town like a truck.
You’re trudging home alone after your shift when you make the decision to cut through the forest because you missed the last bus and you don’t want to spend an hour walking home. The first snow of the season has caught you off guard, clad in boots too autumnal and a sweater too thin for the biting cold. The flakes fall in thick chunks that stick for a brief moment before melting into the skin.
It’s not the first time you’ve travelled through the forest alone. The town is surrounded by pockets of the forest, like it can’t help enveloping whatever space is left for it. Oftentimes it’s easier just to cut through the woods rather than travel the long way around. You wouldn’t even call this the forest proper, not like the acres of trees sprouting over the mountains just off in the distance.
A bush rustles. Your eyes flick over for a second, breath hovering in your chest before you decide that it’s just a squirrel. Nothing ever happens in a town like this. The man from the other day notwithstanding, nothing truly bad ever happens. You keep walking down the partially demarcated path, lit only by the full moon overhead. It’s so dark that the snow around you is almost blue.
The bush rustles again. You stop this time, feet staying planted in the snow long enough for your feet to grow cold. You stare at the dark shoots covered in a layer of snow; it stripes the branches like candy from a time ago, licorice twisted with white bark, and it doesn’t move when you look at it. The bushes and trees are dense, impossible to peer through. Even walking through the forest doesn’t make you feel immersed in it. You follow a barely marked path, hard to see through the recent snowfall, and stare out into the dark woods with a kind of animal sense. Not sure whether you’re alone, whether something’s there with you, and whether it’s sensed you or if you’ve sensed it first.
You start walking again when your feet go numb. Better to just get home.
It comes behind you again as a slightly louder rustle. It’s harder to shake off the fear this time, harder to say that it’s just the wind. The snow crunches under more than one set of feet, branches cracking under the weight of something larger than you.
You don’t want to turn around, but the sound of something chuffing makes your stomach drop. The first thing that emerges when you turn to face it is its massive head, a white frosted muzzle, and the visible hump on its back. The wispy smoke of its breath puffs out when it breathes. Its eyes are dark, hardly reflecting any light at all. Then the rest of it emerges, the saplings bending out of its way as it clambers out of the woods and onto the path, staring you down all the while.
You’ve never seen a bear before. Not this close. Not so close that you know it’s been stalking you, know that it didn’t come upon you by accident. You’re staring down at your own body from somewhere else, fear displacing you. Rending you from your own body. There’s no way to guess its weight at a glance, but it’s easily twice the size of you, easily more than that.
When it takes a step forward, everything goes dark.
You wake up snuggled under the warmth of a thick blanket. Sleep is creamy thick, engulfing you on all sides, only the faintest prickle of awareness letting you know that you’re awake.
It’s unpleasant to leave the cotton miasma of sleep, you think. Your nose scrunches up and you let out a tired huff, trying to will yourself back into it. The harder you try to force yourself back into it though, the farther away it floats.
Still it weighs you down. It takes an age to work up the energy to so much as twitch a finger. Even your eyelids insist on staying shut. Yet, the prickle of consciousness needles at you as if to say hello, wake up, you need to get up. You sigh and try to shimmy up onto your elbows.
A hand shoves you back down. The breath rushes out of you.
“Get…back down,” a rough voice grunts from over you and then the full weight of a man settles on top of you, pressing you deep into the mattress.
Consciousness snaps back into you, elastic sharp. The weight of him pins you to the bed, makes you sink into the plushness of—and this is gradually coalescing in your mind—an unfamiliar place. All four corners of your body are trapped under him. The voice is familiar though. Ragged, brutal. A saw taken to the trunk of an old, thick tree, too many interior rings to count. You whisper John’s name and he grunts, making you flinch from how the sound reverberates through the side of your head.
Exhaustion is thick though and it leaves you heavy, even when John slowly lifts himself to his elbows from behind you. You feel him drag his body down the length of the bed, beard scratching into your skin with every petal soft kiss dropped along your spine during his descent.
“John?” you whisper, only just able to turn your head, not even able to struggle up to your elbows. “J-John?”
He doesn’t answer you. The room is near pitch black, only a window on the other end of the room with the curtain pulled back the smallest amount enough to let the moonlight in. Even the moonlight isn’t enough. You know from the shape of the window that this isn’t your house, that it must be somewhere else. You can only surmise from John’s presence that it’s his, but that thought passes over you like a rock skipping over water.
“Wher’m’I?” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut when his lips press over the small of your back. Sensitive there.
Rough hands with callused fingertips smooth over your ass, pressing into the flesh. His fingers pry your cheeks apart, thumbs dipping into the space between and pressing over your hole, making you burn all over. You’re too far gone to worry about any hair on your legs or anything about your body other than John’s hands undulating over your ass and thighs. You flinch violently when his teeth sink into the meat on the underside of your ass, so tender that even exhausted to the bone your body lashes out.
Big hands pry your legs apart. You flinch at the sudden hot breath over your sex, a whine tickling your throat. His face hovers so close to your centre that the tip of his nose presses on the tender skin near your entrance.
“Wha’ d’you…think you’re doin’...” you ask breathlessly. Your brain tries to order your leg to kick, but it stays flat and limp on the bed.
The first touch of John’s tongue along your slit makes you melt, the flat of his tongue lapping upward and making your hips tilt up with it. It almost makes your mind go blank again, almost tips you back into the unconscious world because the synapses in your brain stop firing the second you remember that it’s John between your legs licking hungrily at your cunt. John from the grocery store, John from the ranger’s station in the mountains—the John you’ve been crushing on and coveting for months now, content to just be friends with the gruff, handsome man in the house next to yours. Now sucking one of your nether lips into his mouth and tracing his tongue up the inside, gliding it over the supple flesh.
“Yer in the den,” John mumbles into your pussy and it’s like he sears the words into your brain. “‘N I’m takin’ care of you, honey.”
“The…the den…?” It’s so hard to keep your thoughts in order. Each flick of his tongue makes you gasp, pussy growing wetter and hips grinding languidly down on his face.
He hums instead of answering.
“Why’m’I so tired?” you slur.
His tongue saws over your clit from behind. It tears a broken whimper from you. You feel every textured ridge, the way it flicks around in a circle and then up and down again.
“Winter season,” John says, sucking your clit into his mouth until you whine at the top of your lungs. “Bear’s sleep in winter.”
“Tha’s silly. M’not a bear,” you moan.
“No,” he agrees, humming into your sex. “Jus’ mated to one. Makes you sleepy too, honey.”
“Mated?” you repeat back, but it’s lost in the way you moan when he eats your pussy from the back, licking into you with renewed vigour. Hungry like a bear. Grunting like a satisfied man, slurping loud enough to make your face heat up.
Words and old memories about bears hardly matter when the handsome man from next door spreads your legs wide, almost to the point of pain, and sinks his tongue into your hole again. You never would’ve expected John to be vocal, but he’s noisy behind you, groaning into your cunt. He keeps mumbling things under his breath that you can’t catch.
“John—” you gasp, biting your lip when he sucks your clit into his mouth again. “John—John—”
He only has to give you a single finger to tip you over the edge, feeds it in nice and slow. Your cunt clenches down at the intrusion, teeth nearly breaking through the skin of your lip.
When he crawls back over you, anticipation makes you shudder. You hear something faint in the background that grows steadily louder as John rests his elbows on either side of your head, until you realize that it’s your own voice murmuring, “Put it in, put it in, put it in—”
He obliges. A thick, steady plunge that hardly manages more than a handful of inches before you’re crying, and it’s too much, too much, too much. Pleasure not a limpid pool anymore but something cavernous and deep-dwelling, pulling you in or trying to make a home inside of you for it. John’s biceps tense with the strain of holding himself back.
You balance on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. There’s a single thought in your head that it might burn you up from the inside; it runs a jagged hole through you.
His nose drags through your hair. “Never expected you. Thought I’d go another season alone ‘till I started smellin’ you around town.”
You hiccup. “Y’never—never paid me any attention ‘for— before, ah—”
“‘Course I paid attention to’ya, honey,” John says into your ear, grunting when he drives deeper into your pussy, still just a languid grind of his hips, so mind-numbingly slow that your thoughts sizzle out of your head. He keeps dragging his hips back and plunging in, barely pulling away from you, all skin on slick skin. “Made a home for m’self in your house. Made sure we had ‘nough to eat for the winter.”
“The winter?”
“Won’t be goin’ anywhere for a few months.” He brushes your hair out of the way to kiss down your neck, giving in to the urge to bite just a little. His body stays pressed tight to yours, hardly an inch of space between the two of you. “Wasn’ sure at first if it’d be here or in your house so… fuck, I had to get ready. Make sure you’d be safe when it hit.”
“Don’ even…know wha’ that means,” you mumble into the mattress, then squeal and fist the fists when John shoves a hand under you to grope your chest.
“Don’t worry about it,” he shushes you. “All y’have to do now is lie there ‘n take my cock, okay, honey? Can’ya do that for me? I’ll get some food in you after we’re done, then send ya back to bed.”
Only a whine comes out when you open your mouth. John’s arm by your head forces you to breathe in the scent of him, musky and rich. You stare at the hair on his knuckles and his thick fingers gripping the sheets as well, old nicks and scars decorating his hand. You can’t stop staring at his fingers and thinking that he had one of those in you before, that he’s felt you from the inside.
He never pulls away, never changes positions, just fucks you on your tummy in his bed. You’ve never been in John’s bedroom before, but this has to be his room—even the pillowcase smells like him, pine needles and cigar smoke. He keeps up a steady pounding into your cunt, rutting like a wild animal. Has to be close. Gets so close to you that you feel smothered, trapped in place. Like if you struggled, he wouldn’t let up. You want to test it, see if you could, but the heaviness is still in your limbs, keeping you docile. Convenient. A little convenient thing for him to use, like a doll to get himself off with.
“Never coulda imagined such a pretty girl f’r me,” John groans, getting a grip in your hair to twist your head, tugging you into a kiss. Your whole body sparks to life, so shocked that you can’t even kiss him back at first. You wait until he pulls back, staring into his half-lidded eyes through the mess of your hair all tangled up around you. “Gave up on thinkin’ there was anyone out there. Thank fuck I found you first, honey. Can start workin’ on all the good stuff now. Get you to give daddy a baby.”
“D-daddy?” you gasp back, almost scandalized.
He pants into your shoulder, worked up now. “Yeah, honey. Don’ I take care of you? Buy y’r food, fix y’r house? Give you someplace nice ‘n warm to sleep?”
You feel soaked with sweat, twitchy, on the verge of something dangerous. Vision all fogged up, heart beating so fast that your skin buzzes. Stretched out on a fat cock and pinned in a man’s bed, nowhere to run or hide.
“Y-yeah,” you stutter when John gets a bit rougher, his breathing getting more staggered, laboured.
Magma bubbles up from deep inside of you. Rockslides off in the distance beat against the ground. When you cry out, it gets lost in the rubble.
You stumble into the living room maybe hours later after using the washroom across the hall. Maybe a day later. It’s hard to say how many times the sun has risen and fallen behind the mountains. The clock face stares back at you uncomprehendingly.
Come drips out of you onto the floor. Thick droplets run down your inner thighs. John is still sleeping in the bed where you left him, snoring like a chainsaw. It must’ve been what woke you up. There’s no way of knowing how long it’s been since he first brought you home, since he left a mess in your pussy, which is still puffy and sore from rough use. You walk with halting little steps to try to minimize the ache.
You stare bleary-eyed around the room. It feels somehow different than the previous times John’s had you over; there are more throws and blankets draped over the couch, candles scattered around the living room with a lighter on the mantle.
There’s a fire roaring in the fireplace, blanketing the house in a layer of warmth. It makes you sluggish, stumbling forward only a handful of steps before the shaggy rug in front of the fire drags you back down to the floor.
“What’re you doing out of bed, pretty girl?” someone rumbles from behind you.
“Had t’pee,” you say, blinking. You try to rub the sleep out of your eyes unsuccessfully. “Why’m’I still so tired? It’s been…I slept so long…”
“C’mon, honey,” John says, coming up behind you and curling his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Told you it was gonna be a long winter. Maybe just one more and then somethin’ to eat, okay?”
It’s easy to sink to the floor, so easy. Especially with the fluffy rug under your feet. Especially with the fireplace toasting you from the outside in, the tinder crackling in the hearth. Everything in the house is dark and warm, only the fire giving you any light at all. Outside the window, the moon is still heavy in the sky.
Something about the humidity of the den makes you suddenly so tired, boneless, pliable when he goes to move you, when John curves himself around you in the furs and reaches down to slide a hand between your thighs.
He grunts when he finds you wet and wanting, sinking a couple fingers in and palming your clit. He doesn’t talk much still, but he says good girl when he cants your hips and slowly stretches you out on his cock. Feeds it into you achingly slow, like molasses. Like nothing’s due for another few months, so why rush it? He’ll take his time so you’re nice and happy and sweet come spring for cubs.
You’re not sure what that means. The pace is slow and deep, like before but less intentional. Like he just wants to savour the warmth of your body.
When he finally comes deep inside you, your body goes limp, collapsing in a heap onto the rug. You expect John to pull out and turn over, maybe pull you onto his chest so you have somewhere to rest. Instead, he sighs all tired and content, and stays in you, still plugged up in your cunt, his spend only just starting to leak out into a pool beneath you.
“Are we gonna eat?” you mumble, already half-asleep.
Somewhere behind you, he laughs; it’s soft like a snowfall in winter. “Yeah, honey. After a nap, we can eat.”
cw. fluff, innuendo, cunnilingus, lovemaking, hurt-comfort, mom! reader in kyle's bit, female reader, reader is a bit insufferable but she means well. SMUT
synopsis. price, simon, kyle and johnny with very naggy wives who show them love and care they've never experienced before
john price
john is the typical gruff, stern guy who knows when to be serious, calm, or regulated, but around his wife, all he is is soft. he spends all day gritting his teeth during combat, pushing through with wounds the size of golf balls and scolding recruits when they fuck up, and so when he's on leave for a few days to see you, all he wants to do is relax, make love to you, eat your cooking, and maybe go fishing or do some home renovations. you, however, have a different plan. you're on his ass the second he gets home. not that he minds too much. you're too beautiful to be annoyed at.
he's sitting on the couch trying to eat a biscuit, and you gently pry it out of his hands mid bite. "john, did you take your omega-3s today?"
he signs, hand grazing your hip as you stand in front of him. "no, love. not today. but i used that nicotine patch you told me to use to help with the smokin'."
your eyes light up. "you're using them, darling?"
his heart thuds pridefully at your reaction, like it usually does when you call him darling in that dreamy little tone of voice.
"wore 'em everyday for ya, m'love," he murmurs, reaching for your hips so he can tug you gently to stand between his knees. "damn if i don't like a good smoke, but i like my woman's happiness a little more."
you giggle, nuzzling your nose into his hair, relishing in the pleasant, clean scent. "just a little?"
he laughs, bringing you into a sitting position on his knee. "a lot, love. y'said it's no good for m'lungs, and i wanna be around long enough to see our grandbabies. can't have that if 'm coughin' up ash everyday."
your lip wobbles. "oh john," you coo, lacing you arms around his neck tightly. you're so proud of him that you feel your eyes start to well up. you nuzzle your face into his neck to hide the way you're getting so emotional. you're so proud of him. "there there..." he bounces you in his lap a little to soothe you. "you're the sweetest lil' thing, aren't ya? takin' care of me so good. wouldn't know what to do without you."
you sniffle and snuggle into him so tight that you're nearly suffocating.
he tries to act like the fussing annoys him most times, but really, he relishes in it. he rarely smokes unless he's very stressed and isn't a heavy drinker. after all, you told him, "don't drink if you're looking for an escape from your problems, m'kay? 's what i'm here for."
his health's never been better.
what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?
he's been on edge all morning. one of the younger dogs knocked the sheep pen open early this morning and let half a dozen of them loose, and price has been running around like his head's on fire trying to corral them back inside and soothe the other distressed sheep. he just got back in all sweaty and stressed, drinking a large mug of coffee. then a second. third. on the fourth, you stepped in, suggesting that he might wanna slow down, and he snapped. "god's sake woman, d'you ever let up? i don't need a bloody nanny all the time. enough with the naggin' "
you shut up immediately, drawing your hand back with your brows scrunched.
slowly, you stop asking about his vitamins. stop shoveling extra greens on his plate. stop massaging rosemary oil into his hair at night. you stop. it's relieving for about fifteen minutes. then, he's disturbed. the silence brings him no peace whatsoever. he lasts until the evening of the same day, and he corners you while you're making dinner, hugging you from behind. "darlin'," he murmurs into your ear, mouthing at the lobe.
no answer. he huffs, dragging you against him and pressing soft, open mouthed kisses down your ear, along your jaw, to your throat, where he licks a broad stripe back up to your sweet spot. "c'mon darlin', 'm sorry. you know i get heated fast, hm?" his big hands travel along your body, his left now splaying on your breast, and the right squeezing your hip. "just had a terrible morning, nearly lost our sheep, had to run around like an idiot for an hour... 'n i lost my cool with you. 's not okay, i know."
"hate it when you raise your voice at me, john." you say softly, and his heart just about breaks. he didn't mean to, really. he loves when you're bossy with him. it shows you care and it's incredibly sexy. he'd just been very irate this particular morning. he's been with you years and hasn't complained seriously about the nagging ever, and he's not about to start now.
he squeezes your tit in his palm and kisses your cheek. "i know beautiful, i know. i love you s'much, hm? gonna make it up to you..."
he's on his knees behind you soon after, eating your pussy under your dress while you try to cook. his tongue laps at your soaked hole, causing his beard to get soaked with your juices. the thick hair scratches pleasantly against your folds while the spoon you're holding clatters onto the counter, your eyes fluttering shut and hands scrabbling forwards for something to hold - you settle on the heavy stand mixer ahead of you.
he's apologizing with a mouthful of your pussy, hands squeezing your ass and giving your thighs a little pinch any time you try to close 'em.
" 'm sorry. need you fussin', darling, alright? don't ever stop." your breath hilts each time his tongue drags upwards and flattens over your clit. his nose keeps nudging your ass because his big hands keep you spread wide for him.
you sway a little, thighs trembling with the overwhelming amount of pleasure he's inflicting on you, but all he does is grunt and pull you back against his face harder. "this what it takes t'get you talkin' to me again?" he rasps against your cunt. "fine, i'll eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy 'til you forgive me."
you gasp when he sucks on your clit and tips you forward so you're fully presented for him, tongue fucking in and out of your sloppy hole. the food you were tying to make is long forgotten at this point, but he doesn't care at all. all he wants to stuff his face with anyway is your sloppy cunt.
"john, mmh!" you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, but he smacks your ass hard and shoves your thighs wide once more.
"no, no, you'll take it," he grunts. "this is my apology, yeah? let me make it right an' show you how much i love your fussin'. "
you cream onto his face with a loud whine. grinding against his chin and into his mouth, and even then, he continues for a second round, mouthing at your folds and mumbling, "couple more, wife. apology's not done."
૮꒰ྀི ୨ ៸៸៸ ୧ ྀི꒱ა
johnny mactavish
johnny's a firecracker and a wildcard. he lives on the edge and likes the unknown that comes with being reckless and unprepared. but when he met, dated, and then married you, he did have to learn to exert some degree of control over himself and his life, because damn you're a very meticulous, bossy little thing. not that he minds. having his woman fuss over him and baby him and give him extra special treatment all day, every day doesn't really feel punishing. your fussing is basically foreplay for him.
you'll tell him, "johnny, you're not going on a run with a level 6 UV outside with no sunscreen on. cmere so i can put it all on you."
"...whatever tha' means."
you frown. "johnny, you're not funny. a level 6 is dangerous. cancerous without protection."
he chuckles. "you just want an excuse to rub y'lil hands all over me, ain' that right?"
"johnny!"
you literally have to tackle him onto the living room floor sometimes to rub sunscreen on his face, because he keeps dodging you and laughing. squirming like a kid while you try to get his ears and nose. "you won't wanna shag me if i've got white goo all over m'cheeks, lass, 'm not havin' it."
"you'll thank me when you don't have skin cancer in twenty years," you huff, massaging the liquid into his cheeks while you straddle him. it's the only way he'll ever sit still anyway. his hands reach up to paw at your hips, and he tilts his head, smiling up at you.
"y'look s'cute on top o' me, don't ya?" he coos, giving your ass a playful slap. you roll you eyes and squeeze his cheek in retaliation, and he laughs and continues. "do y'love me more now that i've been properly slathered?" he teases, raising his brows as you finish rubbing in the last bit of cream.
you kiss his forehead. "only a little."
he smiles. "hm. maybe i should scald myself in the sun so you can love me up more."
"johnny."
"…right, right. responsible. m'havin' a growth arc for m'wife,"
"are you?"
"…no. but m'health has improved dramatically since y'started bullyin' me into slatherin' my skin twice a day."
you lean in so your lips brush his "that's cause i want you around forever, dummy."
johnny smiles softer at your words, tugging you down so your forehead rests on his and his beefy arms wrap around you. "i know," he hums, kissing your lips softly. " 'm not goin' anywhere, bonnie. not if i can help it."
what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?
he'd got home only yesterday from being deployed for several weeks. he hadn't seen his loving wife in ages, and the distance didn't do to well on him mentally. he's really not in the mood for fussing. he just needs to eat, fill you up with his cum a few times tonight, and go to bed.
you, however, had been nagging him the minute he came home. needing a breather, he offered to go grab groceries and run errands, hoping that the little break would help him cool off so he didn't snap at you. he's never raised his voice at you, and he doesn't plan on it today.
but when he got back with a dark bottle of bourbon...
"baby? did you only offer to go so you could buy that nonsense? i told you i hate when you drink-"
he interrupts you. "for fuck's sake, can I breathe without you hoverin'? you're not my mum."
you glare at him. not the sweet glare when you're admiring him, or the shy one, or the deadpan one when he does something dumb and you pretend to be mad at him, the angry wife one. oh, he is not a big fan of this look.
weirdly, though, instead of telling him how rude that was and that he knows you're just trying to look out for him, you turn and walk away in an eerie, icy silence. fuck, this isn't good. "bonnie, c'mon. i didnae mean that. c'mere,"
you swat his hand away lightly, deciding you won't be "mothering" him anymore. and so in the following days, you don't tell him to put on sunscreen. you don't pout when he only sleeps four hours. you barely touch him or look at him.
he tries to charm you at first, knowing how much of a sucker you are for his flirting and pretty words, but it doesn't work this time. you don't bite or get on his case or boss him in the way that makes him hard as hell. no shoving his chest when he gets too close or mewling "johnny please," when he teases you. none of it.
you've been eerily polite, and it's driving him mental. on the second day of this, he tries to nuzzle into your neck while you're folding laundry, whispering, "miss you s'much baby, 'm gonna make it up to you properly tonight."
you pull away and hand him rolled up socks. "drawer." he watches you for a moment, hands slack by his sides, socks limp in his grip.
you're distant. johnny's not good with distance from you. the next day, he's extremely restless, wandering around you like a lost puppy in only a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips, hoping you'll come put that greasy spf you always fuss about all over him. he even lies out on the balcony chair for a full twenty minutes in the sun just to bait you, but you give him nothing. you do spare him a glance periodically through the glass door, but you say nothing. he ends up with a sunburn on his chest and the bridge of his nose.
that night, when you dont wiggle into his chest like normal or ask if he had a vitamin after he ate dinner, he turns to his side to face you, needing to put an end to your stonewalling. "bon."
you hum. he can't tell if it's acknowledgement or just the sound you make when you're falling asleep.
"c'mon," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you into his chest. "i wasn't nice to you, i know that. didn' mean to be a dick. just been so stressed 'n on edge 'n i spoke outta turn."
while you're deciding whether or not to believe him, he gets closer, forehead nudging yours. "i'll pour the bourbon down the sink tomorrow," he says quietly. "swear it."
your fingers toy with the hem of his sleep shirt. it's the first time in days you've touched him without pushing him away. "you can drink if you want to." you murmur, twisting the fabric in your hands. " 'm sorry if i'm being overbearing."
"y'not, baby." he kisses your cheek. "just wanna do whatever makes you happy. you're the boss, aren't you?"
you wake up the next morning with his head between your legs, slow and steady, taking his time kissing down your body, from your tummy, to your hip, down to your inner thigh, and then your tender core.
his big palms wrap around the backs of your thighs and pull them over his shoulders, locking you in place while his mouth sucks and works at your pussy. he's so focused that he's making pleased little groans, crotch rutting absentmindedly against the mattress. he's grateful to have you back in his arms and your pussy, dripping and sweet as nectar, accessible to him once more, but he needs to make you cum to really feel forgiven.
he's slow and paced, kissing on you like he's starved. the slow drag of his tongue through your folds and the way his lips close over your clit and suck just softly enough to make your thighs tremble is euphoric, and you find yourself blanking on why you were mad at him to begin with.
his arms are wrapped around your thighs so firm you can barely move. and every time you try to squirm, he groans low and pulls you right back down, nose buried, face flushed and mouth messy. you can feel his beard brushing you, scratchy and warm, and your fingers automatically slide into his hair. "that's it, baby," he mumbles between pussy kisses. "lemme say sorry proper."
you whimper, back arching when he flattens his tongue against your clit and gives it a slow, firm swirl. he just groans again with enjoyment when you close your thighs around his head. he loves being smothered. he doesn't even care if he breathes, as long as you're happy and in love with him. when your pleasure crests and you cum on his face, he licks at your folds firmer, dragging that orgasm out of you. he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now. just soft licks and little kisses, tongue soothing over your puffy folds while his big hands rub slow circles into your thighs.
he doesn't stop until your hand in his hair goes limp. you sigh, letting him kiss back up your body to give you a little break before he goes back for more. he rests on your chest, nuzzling into your flesh gently. "you're forgiven, johnny." you huff, a little tired.
he grins, mouth still wet, eyes gleaming with relief. "thank fuck. boss me all you want, love. swear it gets me hard, anyway."
૮꒰ྀི ୨ ៸៸៸ ୧ ྀི꒱ა
simon riley
simon riley is commanding. he’s the most domineering presence in any room he walks in. makes the greatest of men lower their gaze when he approaches. he's taken down large enemy groups all on his own, has killed men with his bare hands, and… he comes home to you telling him "you can't eat that, baby. it's got monosodium glutamate in it. that makes you sick, remember?" and listens every time.
"…right," he'll say after a pause. "forgot abou' that. what d’you want me to eat then?"
he'd drop the bag of crisps he picked up on his way home with the god forsaken MSG in it the second you mentioned it and would nod. "mm. wouldn' wan' to spoil my dinner anyway, right love?" while gently taking you into his arms and pressing his lips to yours.
you're not controlling, either. the fussing is very particular. typically just a soft, offhand reminder from the only person in the world who really knows and prioritizes him before anything else. you love him so much and this is part of the way you show it. how could he complain?
you know everything about him, which is huge, considering he is a man of few words and is dreadful at being vulnerable. you know what wrecks his stomach, what gives him headaches, how he gets irritable and loopy when he doesn't sleep at least six hours in the night. you know his favorite clothing fabric and how he just wants to hold you when he's upset.
your voice is so warm and quietly certain that he has to listen every time. once you advise him not to do something, everything in him short circuits. his brute force logic disappears. because you say no, or "you shouldn't si, take this instead," and it's a done deal.
you don't even realize what it does to him, how something as simple as your concern twists itself into a soft knot in his stomach, how it makes him ache, not because you're bossing him, but because you're taking car and watching over him in a way no one else does.
he often glares at you and raises a brow ever so slightly at the way you, a tiny thing with big, expressive eyes and pouty lips just told a tank of a man what to do and expected him to listen.
he does though. listens to your bossy ass every time. and for all his stoicism, the man melts under your fussing.
he's in the shower with you brought that annoying cleanser you insist he needs to use every night and wash it off after thirty seconds because he's got sensitive skin.
"love. this shit's greasy."
"it's hydrating, si. good for your skin. protects the barrier."
"don't wan' hydrating."
you rub into his cheekbones anyway while his eyes are locked on you and his breath comes out slow and heavy. you're standing between his legs in the steam, having him lower his head slightly so you can reach your hands into his short hair once you've finished with the cleanser. you're squinting up at him, so serious as you massage something into his scalp like you're not both bare, soaked, and pressed up against each other.
simon has both massive hands holding your waist while he backs you into a corner of the shower, letting you fuss about exfoliants and scalp health with your tits smushed against his body and your eyes fixed on his face and not his cock nudging against your body, aching and swollen from the sight of you. he's trying to focus but he's so distracted by your body, the way you smell, and how soft you are in his hands.
you tilt your head up, rub a little cream into his hair, mumbling, "gotta keep your scalp health up to par, si", and he loses it.
simon grabs your face in both hands and pushes his mouth against yours, catching you off guard. you squeak into his mouth, and he groans and takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, water pouring down both of you, beard scratchy on your chin.
"god," he mutters hoarsely between kisses, "you fuss over me like I’m your bloody housepet."
you let out another noise in his mouth, not knowing if that means he hates it or not, but he nips your lower lip, trails his lips along your jaw and up to your ear. " 's a good thing, love. don't pout."
you moan softly, tilting your head to give him more access to your neck and jaw. the reassurance felt great, and you find yourself melting into his touch.
" 'm gonna fuck you," he mutters, voice cracked with need, hand already sliding down your back to grip your ass. "righ' now. can't take it anymore." you look up through your lashes, lashes wet, lip caught in your teeth.
"but you still have conditioner in," you stare up at him coyly.
"finish after. s'not like 'm goin' anywhere."
what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?
simon didn't mean to snap at you. the harsh tone came out by itself. it's just that he's so tired and sore, joints in his body stiff with exhaustion. all he needs is a breather for five minutes, but you're there by the kitchen counter when he gets home. "hi baby! why don't you start with some of the stir fry i made! dunno if drinking black tea on an empty stomach is the best idea."
normally, he'd melt for your nagging and let you tug the tea bag and mug out of his hands and shove a plate of the lunch you made and a cup of water in his hands instead, and then kiss you stupid for giving a shit, but today, he bristles.
"jesus christ, can i just eat what i want for once?" his voice comes out sharp and cold in a tone he's never used on you before.
you blink, lips parting as you stand frozen in place with the wooden spoon you were using to cook laying limply in your hand. your mouth opens and then closes, and you give him a faint little nod and turn away.
he immediately notices your silence. you're never silent like this, so when you give him a faint little nod and walk off, he knows he screwed up bad. he stews on his stupidity for hours, up until you're laying in bed beside him and not once have you reminded him to put on that charcoal mask you always insist "draws out toxins."
you're just sitting beside him. not even sulking, just indifferent. you know what you're doing, of course. and it's working. he stares at the ceiling for a while, grinding his molars, heart pounding in his chest. he clears his throat in hopes of getting your attention and fails.
"not g'na remind me about the mask tonight?"
you flip a page. "no. thought you didn't want to be nagged."
he winces.
"didn’ mean it like that, sweetheart."
"right." you're still not looking at him or touching him.
he can't survive without your fussing much longer. he doesn't have your eyes on him or your little giggles or your hands all over him and sweet night routines and it's making him crazy.
he sits up and breathes in deeply, before reaching for you quietly. you glance over with confusion just as he peels your book out of your hands. "what are you..?"
he's already tugging you across the bed, laying you down on the bed before peeling off your clothes. "simon! wh-what are you doing?" you glare up at him with confusion, squirming under him as he shimmies your panties down your legs and tossing it to the floor.
"apologizin' to m'wife."
he scoops you up and places you on his face with no warning, your pussy lined up with his mouth. he holds you there, palms spread over your ass, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, before diving in.
he groans like a starved man the second he licks into you. his tongue is slow at first, sliding between your folds, and lapping at your soft, juicy pussy. you're still half mad but you can't stop the way your head tips back as he sucks your clit into his mouth and holds it there. you squeal, bucking your hips to try and get away from the overwhelming amount of pleasure, but he doesn't let up, tilting you hips up a little so he can slip his tongue into your soaked hole.
he tongues your entrance and licks you open messily, making you squirm into his mouth. you pull at his hair and try to lift yourself off, whining. "s-simon... s'too much..!"
he slaps your ass. "you don't get to leave me like that, love. won't let you be mad at me."
૮꒰ྀི ୨ ៸៸៸ ୧ ྀི꒱ა
kyle garrick
kyle has a heart of gold and the patience of a saint with you. after years of coordinating teams, keeping his cool under pressure, and guiding others, that taking orders from his sweet little wife is a welcome adjustment to his life spent leading people.
he's good at letting people talk. and when that person is you, fussing over him with that soft, serious look on your face, he listens even harder because you care. and he has never, ever taken that for granted.
you notice everything about him. "ky, you skipped breakfast again."
he's halfway out the door tying his boots to take your child out to the lake for a morning swim when you catch him, arms crossed in the kitchen doorway. he bites back a smirk at the knowing look on your face, giving you a little once over in your sundress while your little one tugs at his hand impatiently. "sorry love, got all caught up this morning and this little lady hasn't given me a break since."
you sigh and tip your chin downward, unimpressed. he'd actually been too busy munching your pussy all morning to eat, having been pawing at you the entire time you'd been cooking and trying to have a bite yourself. your post partum body has driven him up the wall, and it's nearly impossible for him to keep his hands off you these days. then your kid came downstairs and wanted to go for a swim and he'd had no time to eat some real food aside from your cunt.
"you still need breakfast. especially if you're going to go swim, you'll have no energy otherwise."
he laughs at you, looking down at you as you approach him. "i had a liquid breakfast, honey. 's the same thing, really." he says cheekily, referring to him practically drinking the cum out of you and how he'd been downing some of your breastmilk earlier.
your face heats up and you waste no time in swatting him for his crude innuendo. "kyle!" you shriek as he bursts into more laughter.
"alright, alright. i'm coming back. don't get all worked up."
he tugs your child to sit with him at the table while you slide a plate toward him and lecture him about being gross, watching you move around the kitchen like a tiny commander giving orders.
"eat."
"yes, mrs. garrick." he grins at you, dimples indenting into his brown cheeks.
you narrow your eyes. "don't get cheeky." he grins around his fork and moans as a burst of flavour hits his tongue.
“tastes nearly as good as you.”
“kyle!”
truth is, he loves it.
all your little reminders, the way you tug his sleeves when he forgets water, how you adjust the collar of his jacket before he goes out and remind him to get at least eight hours of sleep every night to keep his brain sharp. all your worrying about him makes warmth settle in his chest every time you do it.
no one’s ever looked after him the way you do., so he lets you baby him to death if it’s what’ll make you happy.
“you’re turning me into a well-maintained man,” he once joked while you tried to force him to take vitamins.
“yeah, and you need me to.”
“of course i do, hon. would be lost entirely without you.”
what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?
sometimes he’s tired. it’s been a rough week filled with long calls, endless radio chatter, things that didn’t go right that landed all on him as he'd been in charge of a whole squad today. he walks through the door after fourteen hours on the road with no sleep and no breaks because he'd wanted to come straight home to you, his kid, and his bed. he kicks off his shoes with his shoulders tight and exhaustion written all over his face, and you’re there immediately.
"ky! you're home already! we've been waiting for you. oh, you look so tired, sweetie. did you eat enough today? don't tell me you drove here the whole time without a break, you know that's not safe to do without a full belly and a decent night of sleep-"
“sweetheart, please.”
the words come out sharper than he means it to. a nicer way of telling you to shut up and lay off him for a minute. he just wants you and his child in his arms for a few minutes so he can decompress and realign himself with the feeling of being at home safe. the scents, the feel of your body against his, the meals after eating soggy MRE's all week, but you'd come at him immediately with your fussing.
you stop mid-sentence.
“i’m fine,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “can we not do the checklist routine right now? where's my child?”
you blink, hands dropping slowly to your sides. you don't even want to hug him right now. you try to understand his exhaustion, but you thought he'd at least be a little excited to see you and understand why you're so worried about him. just a little reassurance would have been lovely to hear, but it felt like he silenced you. "up in their room, kyle. i'm sure they'll be very happy to see you."
he sighs and shakes his head softly, seeing that you'll be a little adverse to touch right now. so he just kicks off his boots and drops his kit, making his way upstairs to see his sleeping toddler while your face scrunches up with the effort to hold back tears.
it takes kyle a few minutes of playing with his little one and tucking them in to realize he screwed up. he goes downstairs to apologize and give you a million kisses, but you're gone, having left the table set for him to have dinner on his own tonight. he sighs and trudges back upstairs, finding you in your shared bed with the blanket over your head.
"hi baby." he says softly, sitting beside you. "can i see your face?"
he watches you shake your head under the duvet and lightly peels back the covers anyway, his heart breaking when he sees your eyes, puffy and red from crying. your lip wobbles as he stares at you too long.
"oh baby..." he croons, tugging you out from under the covers and onto his lap instead as you start crying again. he bounces you on him soothingly, rubbing firm circles on your back while his other hand cradles your head. "i'm so sorry. i didn't mean to get short with you, you know that, don't you? it wasn't fair to you. i know you're just looking after me."
he holds you close and lets you cry into his neck. "i know you worry, love. you just want to make sure i'm okay. it's my favorite. makes me feel like i'm the most loved man in the world. i just got ahead of myself down there, is all. didn't mean to snap at you."
you hiccup, pressing your face into him and inhaling his scent. that, and the feel of his body and hands on you lulls you back into a calm frighteningly quick. "i just… i want to take care of you, ky. i don't want you to hurt yourself."
"i know, sweetheart. i know." he whispers, tilting your chin up so he can look into your eyes. "and i love that you care. but i gotta look after myself sometimes as well, hm? or i'll get all caught up and not know what to do with myself when im off on duty without you. and i want to take care of you sometimes too."
you sniffle and nod against him, finally letting some of the tension drain out of your body. kyle leans his forehead against yours, breathing deep and letting the quiet fill the room. "gonna take care of you right now."
he starts with placing soft kiss to your throat, then more as he starts to brush his lips down your soft skin, reaching the valley of your breasts before easing you onto your back into the soft mattress, undressing you quickly with those skilled hands of his.
kyle makes you come on his fingers and tongue three times before shrugging off his trousers and his boxers, his thick cock hitting his toned stomach before he grabs it in his fist with a soft groan, trying not to lose his cool with how fucked out you look already. he rubs his tip along your puffy folds
he takes his time rubbing the swollen head of his cock against you, feeling the juices oozing out of you coat him and mix with his pre-cum, creating a mess between you. leaning over you, he presses a gentle kiss to your mouth, sliding into you simultaneously.
as he slides into you, he does so with excruciating gentleness, inch by hard, throbbing inch. your walls stretch around him, molding to the shape of his cock. it's as if you're made for him.
he moves with deep, slow thrusts, rolling his hips into yours and bottoming out each thrust. "you feel better, sweetheart?" he says softly to you, brushing some sweat off your forehead as he fucks into you gently. you nod quickly, so overcome from pleasure that you can't muster words right now.
with each push of his cock into you, he grinds his pelvis against yours, stimulating your clit in a way that sets off sparks behind your eyes.
his hand traces the curve of your hip, squeezing the soft flesh appreciatively. your slick walls begin fluttering and clenching as your pleasure builds, your pussy drawing him in deeper and milking him each time he pulls back. "fuck..." he curses, moaning into your mouth. he kisses you between words, "you keep sucking me in like that and i'll give you another baby. you want that?"
with a final, deep push of his hips, he pushes you over the edge, burying himself to the hilt as your orgasm crashes through you at the same time as him. with a final, shuddering thrust, he lets go, painting your insides with thick ropes of his hot, sticky cum.
you can't find it in yourself to remember why you were mad at him.
lowkey obsessed with the idea of a usually quiet simon ‘ghost’ riley who's loud during sex. saw something which was like ‘fucking louder than the voices in our heads’ and like, yeaaaah. that's a vibe. also just… men that actually make noise when fucking you. ungff.
the first time you get him under the covers with you you're prepared for him to be one of those blokes that breathes heavily in your ear and let's out a little grunt when he cums. he's not exactly chatty - usually the most you get is a grunt or eye roll or dry comment.
but you were very, very pleasantly surprised.
he whimpers as your nails drag down his back; arching into the touch like he's chasing the pain. moans into your cunt as you grind against his tongue - actual moans that start in his chest and drag themselves out of his throat unbidden. soft, tiny gasps when you wrap your hand around his cock and stroke him slowly.
when he sinks inside you he growls; hips stuttering as your walls clamp down around him. even whilst he's fucking you he's letting words fall from his mouth and into the skin of your neck; practically narrating the entire experience like you're not also actively participating in it.
“fuck, ya feel so good love. so tight fer me. reckon if heaven fuckin' existed it's this.”
“could fucking stay here forever, yer fuckin’ perfect love.”
“yer gonna make me cum if you keep doin’ that. want that love? want me to fill yer pretty little cunt up? ‘ave me leakin’ out of you all night?”
at some point the words stop and shift into unintelligible gasps and curses; moans of your name and of a god's he doesn't believe in.
and when he actually does cum it's with a noise that you feel as much as you hear. pressing his hips flush against yours so he spills deep inside you as a cry claws its way out of him; something semi-feral that you'd think was pain if it wasn't for the way he's looking down at you with glassy brown eyes rimmed with blonde lashed and an expression of utter peace.
When you break up with John Price but you didn’t break up with his mom.
You’re still over Mary Price’s (yes that’s her name) house for noon day tea, right after mass and she always goes all out for you because you were the favorite daughter in law that got away. A tray full of Macaroons, biscuits, little cheese cakes, croissants and taking out the China set that probably cost a shit ton, passed down from her mother, just to have a good catch up with you.
You coupon together, review cookbooks together, dinner dates at your favorite restaurant. You’re even bundled up under the same blanket on the living room couch during your once a month movie night, whispering and giggling like little girls while her husband (Charles) shushes you two from the recliner for disturbing his favorite movie. You bring her youth back, and besides your break up with John, she loves you like her own.
Now, John already is a little irritated that you and his mom— hell— the whole damn family still likes you. John knows you still baby sit his nieces and nephews, still out partying with his cousin, still playing Mario cart with his older sister and older brother— everyone loved you. He tries so desperately to get you off his mind, he goes on dates, he goes out with his friends, works himself to the bone, but when he has to drop something off at his parents, coincidentally you’re getting out your car. Still gorgeous as ever, stray curls that were supposed to be in a high bun blowing in the wind, taking in that cold sea air. And you freeze once you see him on the front steps of his parents house, watching you with your own bag of groceries his parents asked for.
And he huffs, “Just come on then. Can’t stop you two from seein each other now, can I?”
Does John hate when he hears from his sister that you brought over a new man to meet his parents? Something in his brain ticks.
Well that just won’t do. You can’t go deciding you’d be with another man when you’ve spent half the year since you’d broken up galavanting with his own mother. You were a Price.
That’s final.
He waits till the family dinner on Friday, he knows you’ll attend, body growing more and more tense with irritation as he waits for you to enter through the front door right behind his older brother just as you always do.
“Let’s have a chat [+].” His voice tight, lips in a thin line. You gulp as John guide you upstairs to his old bedroom, his hand firm on your lower back. Locking you both in as soon as you get there. And you’re so sure this is when John wants you to break up with his mother. You were sweet to the woman, but you admittedly were pushed the boundaries farther than anyone who was genuinely trying to get over a breakup should. But before you could even stifle out some random scrambled words, Johns fucking railing his veiny cock into you poor cunt against his childhood desk.
“The audacity,” he breaths through his nose, hand pressing on your lower back, forcing an arch to get more of your greedy pussy onto him. “For you to bring another man here? As if you’d move on- Jesus- from me? Don’t think you were thinking sweetheart.”
“Jooooohn, w-we can’t- your parents!“ you’re a mewling mess, toes curling in their socks as you try to knock some sense into the bearded man.
“—what about them?” He’s ignoring you, letting his tip kiss your g-spot with every thrust. Admittedly, ignoring your concerns was part of the reason you two broke up. When John didn’t want to hear what her deemed as nonsensical chatter, he’d close his mind off from you.
“That fuckin muppet wouldn’t understand you swee’art, wouldn’t understand what we have. You ‘nd me-“
“—At least he listens!” You bite and there’s just enough behind it because John knows it’s true. Knows he isn’t the perfect man and he knows he’s fucked up along the way, fighting off demons constantly. But he’d do it ten times over just to get to you, to be with you, become the perfect man for you.
“You don’t think I listen?” He curses, slapping a hand over your mouth and pulling up for your back to meet his chest. John grunts, his other hand finding your perfect tit and groping it, getting a loud moan out of you.
“Shhhh, baby you have to listen too.”
It’s fucking heinous, the sounds you two are making together the squelching of your mixed fluids while John slowly drags himself out of you before ramming back in, the thunk, thunk, thunk of the desk meeting the wall with every thrust.
“Can’t help but need to listen to you baby. Haaa, is that what you want? A good husband that listens? Talk it it out? Tell you everything that’s on my mind? Then I’ll just have to be that man, huh?”
John curses, resting his hand on your shoulder and kissing it. So sweet, simply devine, his baby, his lover- his future spouse. Your ears are ringing when you cum, pretty cunt sucking the daylights out of his aching tip. The man whimpers, snatching your lips onto his, slipping his tongue in your agape mouth, pumping you full with every bit of cum that’s been stuck in his balls since your two broke up. Waiting to give it to you.
You two are a panting mess, John pulls out and quickly pulls your panties up. The idea of you being around his family while stuffed full makes his heart and his dick swell.
“John- this- I don’t want this to be a one off thing.” And you’re looking at him with those pretty brown eyes, bottom lip that was painted dark red trembling.
“Lovie, of course this isn’t a one time thing. I want to be back together with you. Always.” His words are stern but so soft, he’s handing you the gun. If he were to ever mess up again, you’d be the one to pull the trigger to his heart.
Till death till you part.
John doesn’t have to say another word, wrapping you in his arms. Oh, how you missed him. He almost can’t let you go, smothering your face in kisses, making you giggle, “John, your family!” You whisper yell, smacking at his back.
“Right, them. We should tell them later, okay? Not have them yelling and squealing all night.”
Mary grins as you two reemerge from upstairs, just as dinner hit the table, her hands clasped, and blushing — along with half of the other adults at the table.
“So,” she breaths, a knowing look on her face, “when will the wedding be?”
a/n: this has been sitting since forever. Cheers to you and John getting back together!!!
simon 'ghost' riley x reader in which !reader makes him better in bed. because chances are? he's probably not great, no matter what we all like to collectively think. but he can be taught. and reader is not suffering through mediocre sex (promise).
for all the times you'd heard ghost fucking through your shared barracks wall you thought he'd be at least okay in bed.
wrong.
turns out all those whimpers and moans you'd heard from his… partners were award winning acting on their parts. if they ever needed a new job, porn would be more than happy to have them.
because now, with ghost’s body hovering over yours after a few too many drinks at the pub off base, all you can think is “christ, this shit is terrible”.
okay there's a modicum of effort there. it's not like he didn't try to prep you - if a few kitten licks of your clit and some fingering so bad you feel like you're fifteen and behind the bike sheds again could be counted as prep.
you hoped the penetrative sex would be better. his cock was beautiful - thick but not long enough to feel like it was spearing your diaphragm, curved in a way that meant the head of it dragged over the squishy spot on the front wall of your cunt that made your breath hitch - but no. he’s fucking you like a dog; erratic, rhythmless and sloppy.
you can't even bring yourself to fake a moan. you're just lying there almost limp, mind wandering to all the other things you could be doing with your time rather than suffering through less than mediocre sex.
when he snakes his hand between you to rub your clit - trying, at least - you finally snap.
“fucking hell simon, not like that. are you trying to friction burn my clit off, you complete prick?” you hiss at him, shoving your palms into his chest to get him to back off.
he looks shocked. like no one has ever called him out for his lack of sexual prowess before.
“wha’?” he sounds genuinely confused, “the fuck love? thought you were enjoyin’ yourself.”
he slides out of you with a slick pop, eyebrows knitted together in disbelief. you roll your eyes. “what gave you the idea i was enjoying myself, ghost? my utter silence?” it's dry, deadpan.
he looks halfway between dejected and pissed. like no one has ever even hinted that he's anything less than jaw dropping in the sack.
“well ge’ the fuck out of my bed then.” he snaps, defences immediately in place. you roll your eyes again at the fragile masculinity, completely unperturbed by the tension in his voice.
“nah.” you reply, eyes narrowing. “lie the fuck down. i'm gonna do you a fucking favour and show you where you're going wrong.”
so that's how you end up straddling him, hands on his broad chest as you grind down against him; not letting him slip inside yet.
“first of all? fucking ask what people like ghost.” you murmur, throwing your head back and whining as the ridge of his head catches your clit. “some of us like it rough. some soft. just…ask.” you grind against him again, his cock slipping through your now slick folds, “and for the love of christ don't ever just choke someone without asking. last guy who tried that with me ended up with a broken nose.”
ghost nods slightly, eyes flicking between your very serious face and the way you're simply using him to get yourself off.
“if you're eating someone out - get the fuck up in there. make out with their cunt. little flicks of your tongue are just… tickly.” you add thoughtfully, slipping a hand between you to guide his throbbing head to your entrance. “and if you're using your fingers? don't just fucking ram them up there, that shit is just painful. have a bit of technique to it - some people like a crook, some prefer more of an in and out. communicate ghost. and i know you can do that because you're pretty fucking clear over comms.”
he actually groans when you sink down onto him, head tipping back against the headboard; brown eyes fluttering shut.
you flick him in the forehead. hard.
his eyes slam back open, wide and vaguely shocked at your audacity.
“pay attention.” you snap out, as you take him all the way to the base, clit rubbing against the wiry blonde hairs on his pelvis as you move your hips in little circles. “look, i’ve got a rhythm, right?” you add, shifting from your knees to your toes. “i’m not just moving, i’m purposeful.”
you demonstrate with controlled bounces, dragging your walls up and down his length, chasing the pleasure he couldn't give you himself.
“righ’, righ’.” he mutters back, “so wha’ was i doin’?”
you level him with a look that would turn a lesser man to a crying pile on the floor. “you were fucking me like we were in a shitty porn film. no rhythm. no consideration. just… poking at my insides.”
ghost actually blushes slightly. he has the sense to look vaguely embarrassed under your glare.
“and don't get me wrong - there are people that like that. probably. but I'm not one of them.” you continue, unbothered. “so find a rhythm that works for both of you.”
you demonstrate again, a controlled movement that has you both gasping slightly; cunt clenching onto him for dear life as he drags through your walls.
you lean forward, changing the angle slightly, dropping your forehead to his and whining against his mouth. “see? that's what someone sounds like when they're actually having fun, simon. can you hear the difference?”
and ghost hates to admit it, but he can. he can hear the real pleasure in your noises in comparison to the breathy, high pitched whimpers he usually gets. “yeah. yeah. can ‘ear it love.”
“you try.” it's an order rather than a suggestion, body stilling on top of him. his hands find your waist, fingers digging into the flesh there as he bucks up once, tentatively - immediately reassured when you let out a low groan. so he does it again. and again. settling into a rhythm that has you both gasping.
“tha’ better?” and this time he doesn't sound disgruntled, he sounds almost hopeful.
“mm, much better simon.” you grin at him, catching his lower lip between your teeth just to hear the way his breath catches in his throat. “just keep doing that. same pace, same depth.”
so he does. he's good at following clear, specific instructions - not that you expected any different.
you keep your chest pressed against his, face tucked in his neck whilst he fucks up into you; letting the feeling wash over you now it's actually good.
“i need you to play with my clit if i'm gonna cum.” you murmur into his ear, dragging one of his hands between you. “use two fingers to spread the pressure. firm but not fast.” you demonstrate for a moment, hand guiding his until you're sure he's got it. and oh. turns out with guidance ghost can be good in bed. “oh - fuck - okay ghost, keep doing that.”
and he does. he moves exactly as you've told him to - deep, steady thrusts of his cock inside you as the pads of his fingers circle your clit.
“fuck - yer gettin’ tighter love. fuckin' squeezin’ the life outta me. am not gonna last. the fuck?” he manages to hiss out just as you tumble over the edge he's dragged you to with a low moan; forehead dropping to his again as you gasp into his mouth. it's a wave that starts at your cunt and travels up your thighs and stomach, rippling through your nervous system as you go rigid on top of him before just melting into a puddle of flesh shaped like a human being.
ghost tips over the edge right after, hips stuttering as he spills into your still fluttering cunt with a hiss of your name and a flick of his brown eyes into his skull.
there's nothing but trembling breaths for a moment, no sound other than the two of you coming down from a shared high.
when you're settled next to him, arm slung over his waist as he rests his chin on the top of your head he takes a deep breath, before asking almost hesitantly, “why was yer cunt doin’ that? squeezin' me?”
you sigh, glancing up at him. “congratulations simon, you've just given someone an orgasm. apparently for the first time.”
the expression on his face is priceless.
there's a beat of silence and then, “can… can we do tha’ again? for the… practice.”
reader making simon ‘ghost’ riley better in bed: edition three: lessons in giving up control (and getting head). subby simon.
“you called me good boy.” ghost’s voice is low, rough as the concrete floor you're both sitting on, barely cutting through the quiet of the night.
he doesn’t look at you. his eyes stay fixed on the floor between his boots, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers.
you take a slow drag of your own cigarette, letting the smoke curl towards the stars before answering. “yeah… i did, ghost. didn’t really think about it at the time.”
silence stretches between you, heavy but not awkward. like something important is finally being dragged into the open.
he clears his throat. “didn’t hate it.” the admission sounds like it costs him something, something deeply personal. “didn’t hate… not bein’ in control for once.” his gloved hand flexes around the cigarette. “spend enough time barkin’ orders. tellin’ people where to go, what to do, how to stay alive. felt… good. to just take ‘em. all of this. you tellin' me how to be... different. in bed. it's good."
he finally tugs the skull mask up and off, folding it roughly before shoving it into his back pocket.
the pale scars across his jaw catch the light of the moon; expression is guarded, braced for you to immediately start taking the piss.
“guess now’s the part where you laugh an’ call me a pussy,” he mutters, jaw locked so hard the muscle jumps. “just… never fucked anyone who gave me that option before. didn't realise it was one.”
you don’t laugh.
you just stub your cigarette out on the ground, the ember dying with a soft hiss. then you look at him - really look at him. the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his massive shoulders are drawn up like he’s waiting for a blow to land.
“not gonna laugh at you, ghost.” you say with more tenderness than you mean to, chest splitting wide open at the embarrassment you can see written all over his face. “makes sense. sometimes it’s nice to… not have to think.”
you stand, unfurling yourself from the floor, brushing ash from your thighs, extending a hand toward him.
“c’mon. let’s turn that brain of yours off for a bit, yeah? want to try something.”
that’s how you end up flat on your stomach between his spread thighs, lamplight catching on the scars littering his torso. simon’s back against the headboard, one arm draped behind his head, the other clenched at his side like he’s fighting every instinct he has.
his cock is heavy, flushed; curving up toward his stomach. you’ve got both hands wrapped around the thick base, holding him steady while your tongue drags slow, wet stripes over the swollen, sensitive head.
every flick of your tongue makes him twitch, a low, broken sound rumbling in his chest.
his hips jerk, trying to buck up into your mouth - pure muscle memory, the need to take, to be in control.
you pull back just enough to glare up at him, eyes narrowed.
“simon.” it's a quiet warning, but it lands like a command in the air between you.
his hips immediately still.
“fuck…” he mutters, voice rough. “sorry. habit.”
you just hum, pressing a deliberately slow, open-mouthed kiss right beneath the head. “i know. but tonight you don’t get to do that. you're just taking what I give you."
he swallows visibly, hand behind his head curling into a fist, fingernails digging into his palm as a reminder to himself.
he nods.
“alrigh’.”
you reward him immediately, tongue swirling around his swollen head, lapping at the salty beads of pre cum before you wrap your mouth around him; lips stretching around the sheer size of him. you suck hard, cheeks hollowing, before pulling back to press another open mouthed kiss under his head, “good boy.”
simon's head drops back against the headboard, free hand twitching like he wants to reach for your hair.
he doesn't.
you take your time with him. licking long, wet stripes up the length of him, tracing the vein that pulses under your tongue, circling the head of his cock whilst he leaks pre onto your tongue.
you part your lips again, sinking down, taking the first few inches of him into the wet heat of you mouth, hands tight around the base of him, stroking what you can't fit yet, twisting just enough to make him gasp.
“fuckin' hell.” it a broken rasp, voice fraying at the edges already, head tipping back and eyes on the cracked ceiling.
you pull off him with a wet pop, fluttering your lashes as you look up at him. “eyes on me. watch.”
his gaze snaps to yours immediately, brown eyes dark, pupils blowing wide as he catches sight of your swollen, slick lips.
you slide back down, eyes on his, slower this time, deeper. relaxing your throat until your nose brushes the curls at the base of his cock, swallowing around him.
he breath hitches in his chest before a broken sound claws it's way out - a moan wrapped in a desperate plea.
his hips twitch once, instinctive, habitual, before he catches himself and forces them still.
you make a low noise of approval that vibrates around him.
you set a slow rhythm, down until your throat constricts around him, up until only the head of his cock rests on your tongue; hands working in perfect tandem with your mouth in steady, twisting strokes, slick with spit and pre cum.
every time he starts to chase your mouth you stop, pull off, glare at him until he remembers himself and relaxes again.
and each and every time you praise him for it.
a carousel of “good boy.” and “well done baby.” and “so good letting me take care of you.” that makes his cock throb in your hands, groans spilling from his throat.
his chest is heaving, sweat beading at his temples, hand behind his head gripping the headboard hard enough it looks like his knuckles might break through the skin - like it's the only thing stopping him from grabbing your hair and fucking himself down your throat like his instincts are screaming at him too.
but he still doesn't.
he's practically trembling with the effort of staying still; lips parted, eyes glassy but still focussed on you with an intensity that makes it feel like you're the only thing left in his world right now.
and maybe, you are.
you hollow your cheeks on the next upstroke, sucking hard, one hand sliding lower to cup his balls, rolling them gently.
and that's what breaks him.
“fuck - gonna - fuck -” he manages to hiss out as a warning.
you don't pull off.
you just nod as much as you can with his cock in your throat.
simon cums with a snarl, a shattered noise that sounds like he's breaking in two. hips jerking once - and only once - until he locks every tensing muscle. thick, hot pulses of cum fill your mouth and you swallow around him, milking him for every last drop whilst he twitches and moans and curses.
when he's finally spilled every last drop across your tongue you swallow, pull off, press one last kiss to the sensitive skin on the underside of his head just to hear him whimper before resting your cheek on his thigh, stroking your hands up his trembling legs.
for a long, long moment the only sound is simon’s ragged breathing.
his hand reaches down - shaky, careful - and drops to your hair. not gripping. just running his fingers through the strands.
“fuckin’ hell.” it's barely more than a breath from him, “didn't know it could be like that.”
you let out a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to the skin of his thigh. “yeah. well. that's what happens when you let someone who knows what they're fucking doing actually do it."
he tugs you up, pulling you against his chest, arms wrapping round you, holding you against his still racing heart.
“yeah i fuckin’ know that now, don't need to point out the obvious.” it's gruff, borderline rude, but then his whole body softens, tone with it . “... glad you told me i was shite. now can i try what you showed me last week? make sure i've still got it down.”
Looking for Simon Riley fic where reader doesn’t like him but he refers to her as his wife. They’re at a party with 141 and they argue upstairs and reader is like “you’ll have to catch me first” and so Simon basically chases her home. 😭
CW: angst, break-up, hurt/comfort, smut (the definition of missionary so we can keep arguing), dubcon, little fluff, lots of fire imagery I fucking apologize
wc: 10k
Masterlist 🦊
When you first met Simon, the first thing you felt was anger.
It wasn’t entirely new. Long before that day, anger had been a constant companion, shadowing the sadness that gnawed at your stomach. Together, they thrived, stripping your bones bare beneath the skin, leaving raw, sizzling flesh exposed to the world.
Even though, rationally, his only crime had been to approach you, the moment he spoke and shattered your quiet, the fire inside you grew. It flared, ready to consume him where he stood.
What you hadn’t anticipated, however, was to find a fire even fiercer than your own. One that seemed to blaze within him, reckless and consuming, almost engulfing him whole. You saw it reflected in his eyes, traced in the tension of his ragged features.
Anger leaves its mark, always: the wrinkles stemming from his nose, the scythe between his brows. Unmistakable even as he forced his face into neutrality.
They matched yours.
Fire burns. Fire destroys. Fire, also, welds. Strengthens. Builds. Warms.
And ever since he touched your hand, that same fire has become something else entirely—a saving grace. A light in the darkness, a hearth in the frost. The heat for a meal, the alcove of a home.
Until—
“You leavin’?”
Breath lodges in your throat. A hand still hovering in the air, on its way to grab your last belongings. Honestly, Simon’s question does not need an answer, if the two suitcases standing by the door are anything to go by.
It hadn’t been a last-minute thing. It hadn’t been an idea you’d concocted overnight. No, God no. You wish it were that simple. Breakups are never a walk in the park, but sometimes they just happen—people fall out of love, and it’s no one’s fault, really. It’s just life rolling by.
You wish this were the case. You wish you didn’t love him anymore.
It wouldn’t hurt like a stab wound, wouldn’t force you to clench your fist around a heart that’s breaking apart, as if the bruises he left on it weren’t already enough.
But there are so many things you can’t digest. So many pieces of this puzzle don’t fit into place anymore, and the picture’s left incomplete.
You look over your shoulder and meet him at the doorway. He’s turned himself into impenetrable stone, arms straight down his sides. Shoulders of steel, ice-cold eyes. There it is. That look—no, that wall. A towering fortress of pure titanium that secludes him so that he can’t be touched, not even a scratch.
In turn, it isolates you, too.
Cautiously, you turn on your heels to face his way.
“Wasn’t just gonna leave,” you reply. “Just getting my things. I would’ve waited for you to come home first. So, uh—so we could talk.”
Your shoulders tighten; a hug you wish you could give yourself, but you’re not ready to show that much vulnerability yet. Especially when he doesn’t say anything back, when he doesn’t add his thoughts to your statement—just stares at you, lips pursed in a tight line. Disappointment perhaps, or heartache—you know he feels it too, though unable to show it.
Does it make you a bad person to wish to see him cry? To wish for him to show his anger, his fear, his pain?
Does it make you evil, or does it make you human?
His arms curl in front of his chest, legs in a wide stance. He’s blocking the doorway, but you know he’ll move the moment you snap your fingers to say so. Always obedient, your Simon. Always loyal to a fault.
Would he cry if you ordered him so? Would he scream, yell, beg? Is that the only way to know he’s hurting, the only way to know he’s afraid? Should you have ordered him to love you more plainly, to show it to you daily instead of droplets scattered throughout a lifetime?
Should you have been his handler instead of his partner?
“M’home now.” He nods at you with his jaw. “Go on then. Talk.”
You have to assert yourself. You have to look bigger, find the strength in your hands to scoop out the feelings in your chest and offer them to him. Make him see the rot he caused, sucking the life out of you like a parasite would.
You dry your palms on your shirt.
“Do you think this works? Do you—” You clear your throat. “Do you still love me?”
His face changes. Something twitching on his brow, a curl of his lip downward. Realization, maybe. Surprise, more likely. You might have hallucinated it, or perhaps it’s a trick of light created by the shafts of sunset slicing through the curtains, some shadows at play.
“Where does that come from, now.”
You shrug one shoulder. “Just answer will you?”
“’Course I do.” He flats out. “Show ya every day, don’t I?”
No. No, that’s a lie. A cleverly veiled one, but a lie, nonetheless. He says it. Murmurs it right before closing his eyes in bed, an afterthought to one of his many long days. And then it stays like that, hangs in the air like it’s a chore and not a feeling. Snores away his fatigue without even listening to whether you’re saying it back.
He cooks dinner and holds you at night with the same heaviness in his limbs. Answers his phone calls and tells you he loves you with the same weary tongue. Part of his to-do list, part of his routine.
You sigh. Your muscles uncoil, but not in relief: you’re so tired already, and the talk hasn’t even begun yet. You can only imagine how dreadful it’ll be by the end of it, how unbelievably drained it’ll leave you.
“I don’t know, do you?”
“I tell you.” He corrects himself.
You thumb the space between your brows to soothe the tension building there.
“Yeah, you do,” you sigh.
“Then what.”
Cold. Sharp. Lieutenant Riley at his finest, not your Simon anymore. You wonder when you’ll see him again, if you ever saw him at all, or if it all was just a ruse: a mask to hide behind, not so different from the hard skull he wears at work. Something to separate him from the violence he sows, and something to separate him from the love you give—both sharp to the touch from his perspective.
“I don’t feel it,” you reply plainly.
Simon rolls his jaw. You can see him fighting to let you in, forcing his tongue to shape the words trapped inside. That’s how Simon works, how he’s built: there’s a strength within him that’s always at war. You have to give him that, although rarely, he does try to fight it, like he is now.
But it’s a battle he never wins. The words never make it past the threshold of his heart. It’s the same struggle that brought him here, on the verge of losing you, too.
“I—” he hesitates. “I ain’t good at this, whatever this is we have—”
You recoil.
“Whatever this is?” You blink. “Well, what do you think this is, then?”
His eyes flicker. He took a wrong step, and he knows it. “That ain’t what I mea—”
“Are we in a relationship?” You interject, anger bubbling fiercely in your stomach. “No, please answer me—I’d like to know if I’ve been fucking delusional for the past few years.”
“Yes we are in a relationship,” he growls. The finality in his voice is so thick it pours down your ears like cement, settling the statement there.
His chest stutters with the same fire ravaging your guts, the only thing you two ever matched. He’s the dark side of your moon, yet you share a comparable rage born from different lives. Just as furious, just as hungry to devour, to flatten the earth and turn it to ashes in a fair trade for what it’s done to you.
It’s what united you that first night, finding an akin spirit. What brought you together, and together you snuffed each other’s flame, bringing peace.
Tonight, you can feel it burn alight again. Thrilling. Terrifying.
“An' I didn’t mean that,” he adds curtly. “You know I didn’t.”
His voice is thunder. It crackles in the room and leaves it quiet, tense, like a storm about to rage.
“I told you I was a lot to deal with,” he breaks the silence first. “I warned you.”
“And I tried. For years, I tried.” You grit your teeth. “Have you?”
Has he?
You know he’s repeating your question in his head. You know he has the truth on the tip of his tongue, easy to spill and to give you your reluctant triumph—that no, he hasn’t tried. That no, he hasn’t even considered it. That he thought you’d take him as is without an ounce of effort on his part.
And you did, for a while.
You took his swinging moods and his absence; you took his distance and his frigidity. You took it all like a good girl and gave tenfold of the opposite. You gave warmth and understanding, you gave such an abundance of love that in the end you were left with none of it for yourself.
He spares you a lie. An act of kindness.
Simon moves to the side, leaning his back against the doorframe. He doesn’t look as imposing as before: his shoulders have hunched over, arms now loosely folded in front of his chest. His eyes are still cold, but he’s not looking at you anymore. He fixes on a spot in the hallway, one you can’t see from where you are.
He nods his head to the side.
“Go.”
You blink. Swallow.
That’s it, then. He gave you the green light to just… leave. You should be grateful that he’s not putting up a fight; instead, you’re even more heartbroken. How many years have you wasted on this? How much of yourself have you lost on something so precious, only to be discarded like you meant nothing?
You own a house with him. It’s littered with life and turned into a home. You have shared plans. You have the groceries to do, the dishwasher to start, the laundry to fix. You have that collection of DVDs under the telly, a movie still paused on the streaming service. Short-term and long-term plans.
You have, have, have nothing. And you had all of it. Had.
He’s letting it go—letting you go. He isn’t fighting for it; he isn’t fighting for anything. He’ll face the consequences in the same unhealthy ways he always does, surrendering control and letting life happen to him, not because of him.
It makes you rage.
“No.” You breathe.
Simon stiffens.
“No, you don’t get to do that.” Your voice wavers, crackles with anger. “To-to get away with it so easily. You answer me now—have you ever tried?”
His head lolls back and rests against the doorframe, eyes to the ceiling. Perhaps you’ll see it today, something other than indifference. A frown instead of impassive eyes, a tear instead of a cold gaze. Perhaps.
“Never had to try to love ya,” he says. “Came easy as anything.”
That’s not what you meant, and he knows it.
You don’t push him. He knows your words as much as he knows your silences, so you give him those.
You let his words linger in the air, you let them sit on the bed you made a last time, touch the floors you’ll never walk again with the same purpose. You let him listen to the heaviness this stillness brings—a house without you in it, what it would mean, what it would feel like to come home and find the lights off, coldness seeping through the walls.
The clock ticks on his nightstand. A car rushes past the windows of your flat. Your breath echoes softly, yet it’s the loudest sound in the room.
“You want me to apologise?” He asks, finally.
“No.”
“Then what is it.”
“I want you to answer me.”
“I did. Told ya I never had to try—”
You take a step forward. Your fingers bite into your palms. “Don’t act like I’m stupid and answer me.”
His neck tenses. Muscles coil tight, kinks and knots that build from his shoulder down to his spine. Stiffly his head turns your way.
“M’not a good partner.”
“Answer me for fuck’s sake!”
His eyes flash red.
“No.” He barks.
He pushes himself off the doorframe and marches your way. The floor is carpeted, but his boots still thud loudly against it, as if breaking the sound barrier. A drop of water could wreck it as of now, tension so thick yet so brittle—built over the years and now finally ready to collapse.
“No I haven’t tried.” His face is tilted down to look straight at yours. A fire in his eyes you only saw once, when the two of you still weren’t tied. “That what you want to hear?”
“The fucking truth for once! Was it that bloody hard?!”
“Think yer easy? You think you’re a fucking walk in the park?”
The gall of him makes your hackles rise.
“Now it’s on me? Are you fucking serious?”
“No matter what I do s’never enough—”
“And what have you done, uh?!”
“—‘S always more, an’ more, an’ more. ‘M never enough—”
“Are you serious, Si—”
“—Yer never fuckin’ happy.”
“You’re never fucking home!”
He goes still.
Fucking bullseye.
His absence, his distance—when he can’t manage to draw the line emotionally, he draws it physically. Takes off for deployments longer than needed, cuts off communications, disappears—the Ghost.
One call a week if you’re lucky, one text a month at worst times. You know about his well-being because John gives you a heads up, and when you ask to talk to Simon, he says he’s gotta go dark, sweetheart. He’ll be back soon, cross my heart.
But you know he’s just covering for his subordinate’s mishaps, wouldn’t dare lose the grip on the leash he has on his dog. Treats him right, respects his wishes in exchange for unclouded loyalty.
Simon's jaw jumps, teeth tight. You see the corner of his lips sink under a bite—go on, Si. Don’t chew on it. Say it.
But he deflates. A sigh escapes his nostrils, a tug on his lips in the semblance of a frown. But instead of turning just as mellow, you harden. Your rage grows and flowers bright red. And so, as he bottles it in, you spill it all out.
“You are never fucking home.”
“Job keeps me out, y’know—”
“Nah, don’t even. Johnny’s got kids, Kyle’s partner’s on fucking cloud nine, even John manages to handle a bloody marriage—but you’ve got the job in the way?” You scoff. “Spare me. I know you take on more than fucking necessary.”
Simon’s eyes harbour a murkiness, thickly bubbling at the surface like lava underwater: miry and coagulated. Heartache, sadness, regret, surrender.
He’s ready to lose you like he lost everything else, and how you desperately wish he'd fight for it this time, tear the world asunder, instead of hiding in his fortress.
“You know what the truth is,” you coax him, but he doesn’t give you the satisfaction of saying what you want him to say.
“And wha' would that be,” he answers instead, voice steady and just above a breath.
If this has to end, let it end with the truth clinging to his bones.
“That you live with the constant fear of me stabbing your back. Fucking—fucking walking on eggshells for some bloody reason.”
He doesn’t react. Barely blinks. It’s just you and your words, and the cologne he wore that morning mixed with the sweat of a sweltering day spent in HQ. His smell is overpowering and familiar and yet so distant, like something you can only enjoy when it lingers on the bedsheets and ever so rarely when it clings to him.
“And that it’s so much easier to be out there, wherever the fuck you’re deployed, because you don’t need to trust those that end up on the other side of your rifle.”
It’ll hurt. It’ll hurt him more than it’s hurting you, probably. Simon’s not a man who gives himself easily, and you’re almost sure you were the last chance he gave life.
“But here—” You gesture around the bedroom. “Here you gotta trust me—and you’ve never done that fully. S’why you leave. You always leave.”
His throat bobs.
You exhale, cheeks hot and eyes red. “Guess it’s my turn now.”
If only to hide tears, you turn on your heels and march to the dresser where you snatch your phone and pocket it.
Suddenly, the room is only his. There is nothing of you in it anymore: no pictures or clothes. No makeup by the mirror, no jewellery on the dresser. Maybe a hair tie or two lost under the bed, your hair furled around the bristles of a brush in the bathroom cabinet. Nothing else, nothing more.
It’s Simon’s house now, and you’re a host who’s overstayed her welcome.
You march to your suitcase and grab it by the handle, your duffel from the floor now thrown over one shoulder. Simon doesn’t help.
Eyes ahead, you walk past him into the hallway. Your eyes fall on the same spot he was staring at before and—
You forgot to grab that.
A picture of you holding flowers. Simon’s not in it; he’s on the other side of the camera, holding his phone your way. There’s a neon sign behind you, red and blue with small white dots blinking in the middle.
That place is a dive: the beer is subpar, and the patrons are sleazy. Beady eyes and grabby hands. Surrounded by alleys that smell of piss and might as well be a health hazard. It’s disgusting, and you have no clue how it is still standing.
And yet, it’s so cherished.
Where you met him, at your lowest, burning with the darkest of sadness and the brightest of fury. He challenged your wit with his own, bought you a drink, and you took him home. He fucked you that night, fucked you so good you forgot your sorrows, and only knew his name.
He left his number scribbled on a napkin in your kitchen under a cup of (by the time you woke up) lukewarm coffee. Kissed you feverishly when you met again, and you remembered that life could taste of surprise and excitement and of someone else’s toothpaste.
Until that toothpaste found place on your bathroom sink. His mug in the same cupboard as yours. Two forks and two knives, two glasses and two pillows, and two, two, two, until loneliness felt like a distant memory, anger like a fire sizzling out under the splash of clear water.
And then it came back, full force, like a punch to the gut given with spite.
You were unsure when it happened, when he started pulling away and hiding from you; you have ideas about it, perhaps when you moved in, or maybe when the years started to roll on by and people around you were having children and putting rings on their spouse’s finger.
Likely, it started when love turned constant, safe and healthy. That’s when Simon pulled away because he felt like wearing a tight fit.
But still, in that picture, you were happy.
You remember it like it happened yesterday: the drizzle of rain in your hair, glossy drops on each petal clutched in your hands. Smile of a thousand suns as the flash from the camera made you squint. Simon grinning behind the phone, his kiss on your forehead right afterwards.
You stand frozen stock still in front of it, as a younger version of you stares back. Your eyes intensely regard her, too. They burn and spill over, tears tracking down your cheeks unbidden.
Polar opposites, true, and yet she’s still you.
“I saw it, y’know.”
His voice travels in a rumble from one end of the hallway to you. Raucously soft, just like the wind that night.
Gingerly, you turn your head, looking right above your shoulder. Simon is standing in front of the doorway of the bedroom, seemingly unfazed. Same strict posture, same straight back, and those thick arms folded neatly in front of him.
A soldier, not your Simon. Or maybe just apparently, because there’s a whisper to his voice, a quiet breeze that’s gone unused for a long time and has been suddenly awakened.
“Saw how you changed. How I changed ya.” He gulps. “An’ when I noticed, you were already drifting away—didn’t have a clue how to keep ya.”
He rubs his nose. Sniffs. “Knew you’d leave. Just thought I’d hang on while I could.”
Of course.
Palm to your cheek, you rub away the dampness collected there and turn to face him.
“We could’ve talked.” You tell him. "Dealt with it. It's what people do, you know?"
“We could’ve.”
“We didn’t.”
“No,” he breathes. “We didn’t.”
You swallow thickly. It hurts like barbed wire is clawing at your throat.
“We can do it now,” he says, taking a step forward. “We are doin’ it now.”
“It’s late.” You step backwards, hitting the wall. You flatten against it, dropping the duffel bag on the floor.
“S'not.” He moves closer, boots softened. A soldier’s stance—measured, silent, like approaching something skittish. “No' if we say so.”
Instinctively, your head tilts to meet his eye.
A clink. Glass and wood knocking together against harder cement. It’s that photo, sliding against the wall as you pull back.
“It’s late.” You reiterate quietly.
Simon grabs your jaw to hold you still. It’s not a forceful grasp; you could easily shake your head away. You don’t.
He’s captivating like that, fiercely pinning you in place with his eyes. He looks tired, doesn’t he? You look tired too, you reckon. At least you feel it, deep inside your bones, dripping liquor thick in your stomach.
“Or maybe we’re right on time,” he murmurs.
Slowly, Simon leans in to kiss your lips, and it’s mere muscle memory guiding you to meet him halfway.
His hand trembles faintly when it lands on your hip, but the squeeze he gives there is as covetous as his eyes—lids fallen heavy, his pupils blown wide already, and there’s that tinge of pink on his cheeks that makes him more endearing even in his subtle desperation.
It’s the most you’ve seen from him, probably the greatest show of emotion he’s displayed in a while. Feelings that should’ve bubbled at the surface in an even spread of time, but Simon works oppositely to what’s convenient, and he’s vomiting it all out in one instance only.
His fingers dimple your cheek, keeping your face in place as his kiss turns hungry and open, still slow. His tongue breaches the threshold of your lips, but thankfully there’s still some common sense left in your head, which prompts you to pull away just enough to break apart from him.
Simon’s breath is heavy, close. You can feel it catch in your lungs, his pulse climbing inside your own ribcage.
Though still panting, you nod with your chin his way. “You think we’re just in time? Talk, then.”
His throat bobs, but he never breaks his focus. His gaze dances between your eyes, lashes fluttering in a veiled show of nervousness. The hand around your jaw relents softly, palm dampened by your tears and his anxiety, and slides down your throat to settle on your chest.
“Talk, Simon, since you think we’re fucking alright.”
His jaw jumps when your voice hardens.
You feel anger bubble again, rising up your throat like bile: if he won’t fight for you, then you’ll fight for yourself. For the person in the photo right behind your head.
“You thought you could fuck it out of me? That it?” You yell. “Thought you could soften me up like that and my bags would magically unpack?”
You push against his chest, and he barely flinches. A small concession on his part, to show you that he’s willing to take the brunt of your violence if you feel like punching the nose off his face. He’s telling you with his eyes, an invitation to release your anger on his body instead of his heart.
He can patch flesh wounds easily, doesn’t know how to mend deeper ones.
“Talk.”
But still, he keeps quiet. His shoulders unroll and straighten: he’s taller, broader, bigger than you, and yet ever so fragile. You use that, use it to your advantage, and push him again.
“Fucking say something!”
Palms flat to his chest, you shove him back. He stumbles but ultimately returns to his spot, eyes unreadable as he regards you down the crooked slope of his nose.
“Fucking speak!”
Hauntingly, his silence stretches and reaches inside you, cracking the shell made of patient kindness and strenuous understanding. A dome viciously protecting months of heartbreak and pure, unadulterated rage—one that you’d been harbouring for longer than humanly bearable.
You break, finally, because he doesn’t. And to build up something again, you must start from rubbles.
“I hate this!” Your bellows rattle the quiet hallway. “I hate what you did to me!”
And as your hands land flat against him, wrapped in gauzes of guilt and rage unleashed, you barely notice the mist in your eyes growing thicker, the croak in your voice turning fierce.
“You—” Hit. “Made me—” Hit. “Hate you!”
Simon takes each shove like he was meant to, brickhouse that he is, and if you weren’t so lost in your own breakdown, you would’ve seen his own too. So unrestrained, etched in the wrinkles of his face, how they deepen for each blow he takes.
And he takes them all, the tears and the yells and the I hate yous and the merciless hands. Until he can’t anymore, until your relentless shoves become too weak to shroud the searing pain festering inside him.
He lunges forward and grabs your wrists. One hand is all he needs to secure them both in place, pinning your arms to your chest.
“You said we’re just in time, and still you’re not fucking talking,” you seethe. “Proving once again that I’m alone in this! Proving that you’ll never fucking fight, that you’ll let life happen to you instead of doing something about it—about us!”
Words rush out of your mouth unbidden, a force that he can’t stop by simply pinning your hands. You’re a wildfire, and water, if he wants to be it, is powerless against its magnitude.
“You said you noticed, and still you did nothing to change it! Nothing!”
Unexpectedly, his voice crackles in the darkness—a flame coming to life.
“Wan’ me to fight?”
Fire against fire can only sow destruction. Perhaps that’s what you two were meant to bring from the very beginning, when that same twisted rage united you at first.
“I’ll fight.”
You glower, red-eyed and furious. In turn, Simon crashes his lips to yours.
The kiss from before was a way to quell your fears; it was gentle and slow, a kiss meant to placate the torment written in your eyes—a kiss made to give.
Now, there is no build-up to hunger: he’s already there, devouring you whole, biting your mouth to open it for him, sliding his tongue inside to taste you and your tears.
A kiss made to take.
And you, this time, won’t relent: you won’t give back. You twist and pull, push him away, and knock back your head. The photo hanging on the wall behind you rattles and unlatches from its nail, falling down.
Abruptly, Simon reaches forward with his free hand, catching it on his palm—incredible reflexes, ones you almost forgot he had.
He breaks the kiss only to carefully hang the picture back in place. His cheeks are a furious red, and his mouth is glossy of spit, parted as he heaves. Still, he caresses the glass mounted on the frame gently, tracing your smile printed on paper.
It’s tender for a second, air tense and unmoving, but you’re feeling jittery and restless, so you try to free your wrist from the shackle of his hand.
Swiftly, his eyes return to you, and still there’s nothing you can clearly read in them—there’s sadness in his crow’s feet, frustration in the wrinkle of his mouth, wistfulness in his eyes.
Like he misses you, but you’re right there, unchanged: he’s the one who’s turned himself inside out, a man you don’t recognize.
Before you can speak, however, he returns on you.
Simon’s kiss is ravenous, this time using his hand to grab the back of your neck and lock you in place. His thigh lodges between your legs, and you’re powerless against the strength of such a man. However, he must’ve underestimated your stubbornness, so you drown every moan threatening to escape behind a tight set of teeth.
“Never brought it up either, have ya?” He growls.
You can feel the warmth of his palm envelop your breast before tightening in a grip that drips with lust and fury—a passion you rarely saw from him, if ever. He doesn’t bother teasing your nipple or circling it with his thumb; he just squeezes the fat in his hand, making a statement—you’re not leaving, not now.
You’re mine.
“It’s not about me,” you bark back.
He dips down your neck, alternating bites and a soothing tongue.
“It is,” he rumbles. “It’s the two of us, yeah?”
You close your eyes shut, because perhaps if you deprive yourself of one of your senses, the goosebumps will abate. Though the opposite happens, because your body decides that it needs to be aware, and so it focuses on his smell, on his touch, on his stupid tongue, taking away the sting from each bite.
Hands to his chest, you curl your fists around the fabric of his shirt and try to push him away, but it’s fruitless. His fingers tangle in the hair at the base of your neck and pull back, until your head once again knocks against the frame behind you.
“Why don’t you start, swee’heart?” He growls. You’re ashamed and frustrated to admit that it goes straight to your cunt. “Talk.”
“Fuck off, Simon.”
His mouth parts in a grin against your neck. His teeth are smooth to your skin, gliding up and down your pulse. He must feel it rise against his tongue, against the enamel of his canines: you’re sure that he could draw blood if he wanted to, if he could.
To your dismay, the thought only excites you.
“Nah,” he tuts. “That ain’t constructive.”
There, he unrolls his shoulders until he’s standing straight again. Briefly, his eyes land on the markings left on the side of your neck, slick with spit and dented by his teeth. Glorious pride flashes in his eyes, twinkles like a promise—a promise to do so much more.
You’ve seen so much of him tonight—raw, burning passion. The thrill of fighting for something. Fighting to win.
How much more could you have witnessed through the years, if only he’d allowed it? You'd have worn the burns of his fire proudly.
It makes you angrier. And apparently, that’s what fuels him.
He unlatches his hand from your breast and goes downward, steadily unbuttoning your jeans like it’s second nature. You don’t stop him, instead focusing on holding his eyes out of spite.
“Talk,” he orders.
Your mouth curls. “You’re never home.”
“Uh uh,” he hums.
His fingers don’t bother with pleasantries and find their way inside your knickers, as the band snaps against his knuckles.
He finds you dry and seems upset by it. Still, he traces the pad of his middle finger around your clit, dragging the skin of your folds to make it sting a little—subtle ways to deliver his idea of a punishment. However, it’s not there that he lingers. He journeys downwards, lining your slit until he reaches your hole.
He tilts his head. “I got a job.”
And you tighten your brows angrily. “I told you already—it’s not that."
Mercilessly, he plunges. Almost in second nature, your mouth parts. It burns, for you weren’t necessarily prepared for it—but those sparks are sometimes pleasurable, and with the trust you’ve always placed in him, you’ve only ever associated it with good times.
Thus it’s hard to school your body to respond any differently, after years of having taught it that Simon equals good, that Simon equals orgasm.
He mimics you, opening his mouth like you do with yours—perhaps a bit mocking in nature, or maybe he’s enamoured and is experiencing his own sense of bliss.
Still, you’re undeterred, even as you feel wetness collect at your entrance and coating his finger.
“You’re never home because you don’t want to be. The job doesn’t cut it.”
“Know it doesn’t,” he rumbles.
His finger prods around, looking for a patch of flesh that feels coarser and thicker. Easily, he finds it—years of practice. When your breath hitches just right, Simon starts moving.
Your jaw jumps, teeth ground to dust.
“Why, then?” You seethe.
But he clicks his tongue. “You talk now. I’ll talk after.”
“It’s not how it wo—fuck.”
Knowing you’d talk back, contest his rules, he leaves your hole empty and returns upward, where your clit’s engorged and welcomes his touch more pliantly than before.
His movements are slow and steady, wet with your arousal and drawing perfect circles that steal your breath and your reason.
“Talk,” he thunders. “What else.”
As if to ground yourself, your hand flies to his forearm and your nails dig deep, finding corded muscles flexing each time he moves his finger.
“I’m an afterthought to your day,” you say through gritted teeth. “You take me for granted. Even when you’re here it’s like you aren’t.”
Simon tongues his cheek. Narrows his eyes, though that malice you saw before it’s shrouded by a certain gravity, like he’s truly taking in your words and not just coaxing an orgasm out of you. An orgasm that feels impending, just about to breach—but you stave it off, focus on that furious fire that’s slowly moulding with the lit-up flame of lust. You try to keep them separate, but it’s obvious, even to you, that they’ll eventually merge.
“I fell in love with a man who used to run back to me after deployments, and now—” your voice cracks, “—now you’d rather be fucking anywhere but home.”
Simon’s fingers slide over your clit with purpose, causing the knot of your stomach to tighten uncomfortably. Your chest burns with the lack of air, breaths sharp and shallow. Instinctively, your neck gives out in abandon, but Simon’s not there for it.
His hand fastens around a fistful of hair, and he tugs your head back. The sting is begrudgingly delicious, and you naturally revel in the control he has on you now.
Control he never exerted, always passive and waiting for you to take the lead. This is new and exciting, and how you wish you could’ve basked in it earlier instead of now that everything’s crumbling.
“Why the fuck did you ask me to move in, uh?” You yell. Your fist lands on his chest. “You don’t want me here! You don’t want to share—”
His eye twitches.
“Fuck, c’mere.”
Simon’s hand slips out of your pants way too easily, leaving you with a feeling of unfulfillment and an annoying throb between your legs—one that’s suddenly forgotten when your feet are lifted off the floor, and your stomach is bent over his shoulder.
“What the f—put me down!”
The first instinct is to punch his back, though you’re sure it’s all just a scratch to him.
You’ve seen the skin there, thickened by scars whose story he only ever hinted at. They look like they were unimaginably painful once, when they still bled and stung. Whippings, perhaps, or knives—what happened in Mexico never left his lips, but specks of that story sometimes spill out of him when he’s drunk, or asleep.
Now he's determined, walking a straight line back to the bedroom, where you’re unceremoniously tossed on the bed.
Your back bounces on the mattress, and the world turning around before your eyes leaves you disoriented. Before you can prop yourself on your elbows, he’s on you again. Mouth to mouth, and you respond.
Perhaps because it feels good and you want to be selfish after years of selflessness. Perhaps because this rage has to go somewhere, and since thrashing the house or screaming your throat raw aren’t viable options, a good fuck might be it.
Whatever the reason, your hands fly to the back of his head, pulling him in. Fingers grab his hair and tug, hoping it’d pass as a punishment. Simon’s groan says otherwise.
Your pants come off, his shirt soon after, until you’re both naked and warm, skin moulding into one.
Simon’s hand reaches between your bodies to grab his cock. Gives it a few quick pumps to coat it with precum and make it more bearable for the two of you. Then, you feel it prod at your entrance, as he angles his hips to find a comfortable position.
“Said you hate me.” He pants in your mouth.
You’re holding onto him like a lifeline—from your arms curling around his shoulders, to your legs spread open at his waist.
“You made me.” You grunt through your teeth. “You fucking did this, I tried my best every ti—”
He starts entering you, and while you’re wet, it’s not enough to accommodate the size of him. No, not the size—the girth. Simon isn’t long as much as he’s thick, which has led to a lot of money being splurged on lubes and a lot of time spent riding his fingers.
He’s a few inches in, and all you can feel is your hamstrings collapsing under his weight and a burning stretch that ripples up your spine. Uncomfortable pleasure, ripping you open at his whim.
His head drops to your clavicle, lips to your chest, leaving slow kisses wherever they manage to land.
“Don’t stop on my account.”
“Fuck you,” you croak. “You didn’t prep me.”
“Well,” he huffs into your neck. “You didn’t look thrilled about me eating ya out.”
“Yeah, ‘cause we didn’t have to fuck, Simon.”
He pushes in deeper, and your teeth clamp down on his shoulder, tightening with every slide. His groans meet your bite—taut, pained, and edged with lust.
It’s with heavy guilt that you realize how cathartic it is to know you’re hurting him.
When he finally bottoms out, you can barely breathe because of how stuffed you feel. Pressure grows in your stomach as he fills it, and on your chest as he collapses onto it. The coarse hairs on his pelvis are flush to your clit, and he knows all it takes is the roll of his hips and you’ll unravel under him.
It’s why he doesn’t do it. Keeps you dithering, toeing the line between pleasure and pain, and makes the scale tip towards the latter.
You feel like you’re going insane.
“No, we had ta,” he replies, breath uneven. “’Cause you don’t hold back when we do. Go on, then. Ou' with it.”
It’s different from the previous times you’ve had sex, in which you were lax and wet and open. In which love overflowed and drowned you both. Simon now seems to have as his personal goal to punch the words out of you.
Every thrust is deliberately harsh. Your nails drag down his back, red lines threading the contours of his spine, until they find purchase where his muscles fold and harden.
“Fucking—” Thrust. “Selfish—” Thrust. “Bastard.”
His mouth draws the line of your jaw. Sucks your skin between his teeth on the slope of your neck. Tingles follow the burn, rippling in waves of goosebumps down your arms.
Simon sucks in a breath. His hips falter, trembling in the cradle of your thighs. Swiftly, he pistons into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. It’s so jarring and sudden that, for a moment, you don’t know how to breathe.
He falls still, panting right into your mouth.
“Go on,” he croaks.
“You took, and took, and took it all,” you groan. “And gave fucking nothing!”
He pushes himself flush to you. Words die on your tongue; only a raucous moan remains strangled in your throat. His hips roll, finally stimulating your clit again. Stars are all you see as your eyes fall shut.
It feels like you’re breathing in a plastic bag: air short and unbearably hot, condensation building inside your lungs.
“You—You made me feel so—” A breath, ragged and closing down your windpipe. “—so fucking lonely.”
When you open your eyes, his brows are pinched, focused. You don’t know what he finds on your face that has him so rattled—must be heartbreaking though, because his forehead wrinkles, the corners of his eyes soften.
“Lonely?” He echoes, tasting the word like one he knows best already.
Your mouth wobbles, pulled by anger and sadness alike.
“So fucking lonely,” you pant.
Simon kisses your cheek in a private, quiet reverence. Regret drawn in the lines of his face.
“I’m sorry,” he mouths to your skin.
You clench your jaw. Your nose stings, eyes full, and you sniffle. “It doesn’t cut it.”
“I know,” he croaks, looking back at your face. “Think y’ deserve to hear it anyway.”
His mouth wrinkles, the scar that crosses it tightens with bitterness. You almost want to touch it, and your hand regrettably acts before your mind can even conceive the thought itself. The pads of your fingers trace his lips, journeying to the stretch of thicker flesh that runs pale across them.
“Say it,” he breathes.
You blink your focus back to his eyes, hand frozen to his mouth.
He starts again with a slow pace. Tears trickle down your temples into your hair.
You bite your cheek, iron floods your tongue.
“I hate you.”
He bottoms out.
“I hate you.”
Pulls back. Your pussy clenches around his tip, wants him back, so you hook your heels at his tailbone and force him to plunge inside you again.
“I hate you.”
“I love you,” he whispers.
He holds your eyes. They’re blurry, glossy with bottomless sadness, with remorse, with dark, glutinous shame.
“I hate you,” you croak instead.
“I love you.”
Simon’s hand travels down the valley of your breasts, brushing fingertips clinging to the sweat beading your skin.
Your chest heaves, your lungs tighten. You cry, wail so loud it breaks you like fine porcelain. His arm snakes beneath the curve of your spine, holding you close to himself, as he props his weight on his elbow by your head.
“I love you,” he murmurs. “Fuck—I love you so much—”
Every single thrust is deep, as if he’s trying to fill you completely to remind you of easier times, when this wasn’t a way to say goodbye.
You don’t think it’s a habit anymore when you wrap your arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder. You think it’s survival, your raft in this restless tide.
Simon kisses your shoulder fervently, each touch long and wet. “My perfect girl—my girl—”
You protest, but your hatred dies down your throat and translates into another cry.
The creases in his tone hint at his distress, how hard he’s trying to tell you what’s inside his head, even though it’s against this code he’s got for himself. How hard he’s trying to keep a clear mind, even though he’s got you wrapped around him tight and soft, like you’re made of silk.
He slams his hips flush to yours. His lungs fill with shallow breaths.
You feel your fire dim. You feel it reach out. Touch his, mingle. Bloom.
“Easiest thing,” he rumbles, rolling his hips until your sobs turn moans. “To fuckin’ love ya.”
Two angry fires can only sow destruction once they merge. Perhaps that’s what you two were meant to bring from the very beginning.
Alas, ashes fertilize the earth, and maybe life can grow back if one takes care of it. Quietly, two hearts instead of one can deal with the consequences of the devastation they brought. Patiently, four hands instead of two can carefully work the soil to see it prosper.
Simon fucks you softly, now. Collects your tears on his fingers, never leaves your mouth unattended, kissing each sob you yield, drinking it in. Then, his arm reaches between your bodies, and he finds the knot of your clit.
You feel your orgasm rear its head again. Still unwanted, still out of place. You try to stave it off as it wraps around you like vines, constricting your throat.
“You can—fuck—you can go if tha’s what you want—”
The knot in your stomach coils, stiffens.
“But fuck—oh, fuck swee’heart—"
Your legs tremble around his waist, locked knees digging into his hips, and cramps stinging your calves.
“Stay. Please.”
You come around him, squeezing him with everything you have. You hold him to you, grit your teeth through an orgasm that doesn’t have the catharsis you hoped it would bring.
You feel full and empty, unfathomably sad and drenched in ecstasy. It feels wrong and right, impossible and real, happening to you against your will, and still, you welcome it wholly.
“That’s it,” he rumbles to your mouth, licking the tears that stream on your tongue. “Fuckin’ hell—take it, pet—“
He fills you up, slams his hips, and spills inside. You feel it hot and wet, running in your belly and around his shaft. Flooding you entirely, clogging your throat with moans that blend with your sobs.
Simon holds you there. You don’t move, dropping your legs wide open in pure exhaustion. The silence breaks with your breaths, cracks with haunting cries and the clicks of his kisses down your throat—helpless attempts to soothe your heart.
His chest stutters, perhaps in a goodbye, perhaps in a plea. Whatever it is, it stains you wet down your neck.
Did you have to scream to make him cry? Did you have to break his heart, be cruel, turn into the person you’ve been trying to suppress?
All that rage, you’d managed to chain it in your chest. You’d found a balance, both of you. You’d found a way to turn it into your prisoner, so it would let you live peacefully. Did you have to unleash that beast for him to show you the heart he so viciously protects?
When your breathing evens out, Simon lifts himself off of you enough to look into your eyes. His cheeks are ferociously red, his pupils glossy.
You’ve never seen him cry. You wish you had.
Does it make you a bad person, or does it make you human?
“Were you happy?” He asks.
You sniffle. “I was.”
“Are you happy?”
A beat.
“No.”
Something inside him crumbles. It flashes rapid and bright, a meteorite wrecking the earth, and then vanishes. But he doesn’t restore himself. He makes no move to carve his face back into the cold mask you knew—the one he wore when he came home before.
He stays broken like that, before you, and doesn’t plead.
“I want to be,” you add. “But I’m so tired.”
His mouth curls. His forehead to yours, diving down. He holds you there, cups your jaw firmly so you couldn’t stray away even if you wanted to.
“S’alright,” he murmurs. “S’alright.”
A deep breath. He sucks it from you, taking it with a kiss.
“Jus’ stay for tonight?”
Too exhausted to fight it, you fall asleep swaddled in his arms. Naked, skin to skin, wrapped in a comfortable duvet and in the smell of him—one you haven’t had touch you in so long.
Briefly, you think how nice it is to bury your nose in his chest instead of cold bedsheets.
When you wake up, the sun is not even in the sky. The light peeking through the curtains is pale, that of a moon just shy of falling asleep herself.
Your eyes are puffy, but you manage to focus on his shape as he sleeps peacefully on his back.
He looks vulnerably soft, mouth parted to breathe because his nose was broken more than a couple of times and was set back all wrong. Only scars on his face: a thick curve on his cheekbone, one crossing his brow, a jagged line down his lips. No wrinkles, skin blessed with rest.
Anger leaves its mark, always. But for now, it seems absent. You catch yourself wondering if you look the same, too.
But he’s still Simon Riley, and he must feel the weight of your eyes on him. Without even opening his own, he sighs blissfully and shifts in bed, using the arm he had underneath your neck to pull you in closer.
You find yourselves face to face, sharing the same pillow. Usually, he’d kiss you and turn the other way, pretending to sleep until he’d hear your breathing even out. Now his knuckles brush the raw skin of your cheek. The flesh is still tender from tears and slumber, wrinkled in places by the folds of the pillowcase.
You close your eyes.
“Alrigh’?” He asks
Quietly you hum, because you’re much too tired to string a sentence that would explain the turmoil inside.
You just want this piece of normality to last a second longer—even a minute or two, because you deserve to be greedy. And Simon seems to agree, because his chest rumbles, pleased, and your skin becomes his playground.
Nails draw gently down your back, cheeky fingers pinch the fat of your hips, stealing a sleepy smile from your mouth.
You sink into that bubble, a gentle space that carries the faint taste of those early days together—when everything was clumsy, uncertain, and yet inexplicably comfortable.
Time stretches with your head in his arms. All that rage withers, dissipates, and it’s replaced by a silence that holds its breath. You both know it’s time. Simon keeps his promise, and breaks it first.
“Y’know me,” he starts. “Wasn’t made for this. Didn’t know what love was till you. Still didn’t get it, not really. Was a bit lost, eh?”
The bubble around you pops. He sighs. “Knew deep down I’d be bad at this. Us. Never trusted myself to commit properly. Not like you deserve. But fuck, I wanted to try.”
You open your eyes. Blink your focus back to him.
“An' I did. Tried everythin’ till I found my footin’. I learned from ya,” he breathes. “Said what you said. Did what you did. You smiled, so I thought—yeah. That’ll do.”
His breath is staggered for a moment; that fight against his tongue that wants to stay tied. Gulping, he uncoils the knot, softens its tightness, and goes on.
“Didn’t think for myself. You looked happy an’ tha’ was enough, eh? Woulda done anything not to lose ya. But it was never ‘bout trust—trusted you from day one. Still do.”
He sighs. “Don’t ever think I don’t.”
“Were you happy?” You ask him back.
Simon’s brows tighten questioningly, as if you just asked something completely irrelevant to the argument he’s making.
“You were,” he replies simply, like it’s obvious. “So I was.”
The question rolls off your tongue easily, prompted by his words.
“Are you happy?”
His answer is smooth and delivered rapidly, as if ready to be uttered finally.
“Not if you go.”
Tears track down your cheeks. You feel disoriented, nauseous like you’re being tossed around at sea.
“Do you love me, Si?” You croak. “Or do you love me just because I love you?”
Smart man, him. Brilliant, you correct yourself. Still this concept seems foreign to him, and your question leaves him stumped. And as he frowns in thought, he takes note of the deeper wrinkles creasing your brow, the crow’s feet clawing out of your eyes, the saddened curve of your mouth.
His hand comes to cup your jaw again, failing in the intent to mitigate the soft hiccups you’re drowning behind tight lips.
“Not a poet, love,” he breathes a self-deprecating laugh. “I dunno how to make it better, not with all these doubts you’ve got. I’ve been rubbish at this—really have.”
He takes in a deep breath. Steadies himself.
His eyes fall to your mouth, tracing the line of your nose—he’s not studying you, not trying to pluck thoughts and feelings from your tells. He’s finding comfort in what he knows, what he cherishes. You give him strength, always have: from the picture he keeps in his wallet, to the ring hanging from the chain around his neck, beating against his heart for each step he takes.
Whether he’s stroking his thumb over it or burning your image behind his eyelids, Simon feels his resolve harden into steel—unbreakable, polished, resilient.
He does that now: finds strength in the shape of you. Strength to speak his mind, his heart—shed the lieutenant’s robe and leave the man beneath it naked and vulnerable.
“Ran off when I saw I wasn’t enough,” he says low. “Didn’t have it in me to make it better—didn’t know how. Took jobs instead.”
His voice steadies. Quiets. It’s like a breeze, brushing on your mouth for every word he speaks.
“Thought if I made myself scarce, you’d miss me and that’d do it.”
“Not how it works,” you croak.
“I know,” he offers. “Saw my plan fuckin’ crumble each time I saw ya cry. But I was helpless, love. Didn’t know where to start.”
Gently, he inches closer. He’s cautious, like he’s lost the right to kiss you. His nose tips to yours, and he sways his head, skin kissing skin.
“But s’you,” he whispers, thumb tracing the line of your lip. “Them little things you do when you think I ain’t lookin’. Tha’s when I feel it most.”
He swallows thick, lips soft. “I’d love ya even if you hated me. Know I do now. Wasn’t takin’ the piss when I said I never had to try.”
He’s so close he could kiss you, and you wouldn’t even bat an eye if he did. You’d kiss him back, most likely. Truthfully, you’d probably end up fucking again. But Simon doesn’t; he just touches your cheek, breathes your air, skims his nose to yours.
“Don’t got the right to ask,” he whispers. “But gimme ‘nother chance to make it right.”
“Sim—”
“Jus’ another chance to see ya like tha’ night.”
The argument dies on your tongue. Questioningly, you frown.
“Tha’ picture,” he replies quietly. “S’my favourite. Glad you forgot to grab it.”
Your brows flutter to your forehead, mouth softened in muted smile.
“Fancy goin’ to tha’ pub tonight?”
You shake your head softly, sighing from your nose. “It’s in fucking Leeds.”
“I’ll drive.”
The corner of his mouth hooks up. His eyes find yours, soft but failing to hide the anticipation—a look you’ve rarely seen, if ever.
It’s hard to tell at this point whether this is him or if it’s just another mask. It’s hard to say if you’re falling into another trap, or if he’s trying. Finally, finally fighting for the life he wants, not the one he has.
You bite the corner of your lip. It’s a crossroads, really. There’s no middle ground: you either leave or you give him another chance. Not one of those roads seems easy; none of them seems to come without pain.
Reasonably, you should leave. Leave, and start anew. Maybe far away from him, where his influence cannot be felt. Cut off communications and mend your heart intimately, your hands alone. Reasonably, that is the right thing to do.
But you know reason has no claim here—not a single, bleeding say.
Your stomach uncoils. Your eyes soften, lips curling and wrinkling your cheeks.
You snort, trying to hide the sniffle your tears bring. “I’d never get in a car if you’re at the wheel—Christ—”
And at that, Simon blooms.
His smile is wide, lovely, and unprecedented, cracking his face in two asymmetrical halves.
One cheek wears a dimple, the other only scars; his eyes wrinkle, but only one folds more tightly. His teeth are uneven, the angle of his left incisor chipped. He’s imperfect and ragged. Imprecise and beautiful.
He laughs openly and boisterous, bit too loud considering the criminally early hours of the morning.
You shush him, as your lips surrender to his infectious laughter, and crack a chuckle too.
You palm his face, covering his mouth. There you feel it, each vibration of his happiness, each breath he takes, tinged with hope and subtle relief, as it tiptoes on your fingers—treading lightly, like he’s still cautious about it but God, oh God, is it hard not to hope big.
You understand. It’s hard for you, too.
So, you give in when he kisses your palm. You soften, against better judgment, and slide your hand off his face.
“I’ll drive,” you say.
He huffs, smirking. “Mh. You drive. Alrigh’.”
His hand lands on your cheek, and then Simon kisses you.
Intimate and quiet, like it’s the first time he’s ever done it, but with unmatched confidence. Inhales, breathes you in, and lets go.
His forehead rests on yours. You sigh.
It’s useless to build this on hope exclusively. On dreams of a rose-tinted future, on mutual, unbreakable trust.
Truth is, trust has been broken already, dreams are evanescent things, and feelings are overwhelmingly complicated. The best thing you both can do is be truthful, transparent.
“I’m not sure how much will change,” you whisper. “I can’t promise it’ll go smoothly, okay?”
You see him swallow. Tongue his cheek. But his nod is confident, precise.
“I know,” he says. “Wouldn’t expect it t’be easy, eh?”
You hear the sizzling embers of a fire that’s scorched you both. The rising sun twinkles on the cinders littering the floors, ashes falling like snow. It’s warm, it’s burnt.
It’ll take strength, patience, and the willingness to build everything from scratch side by side, to repair what’s been lost.
Brick by brick, layered one on top of the other.
“C’mere,” he says.
You shuffle around until your back hits his chest. Simon drapes his arm over you, and your fingers intertwine loosely, natural instinct to bind once more.
A muted thud. The red and golden crackle of sparks flying off the burnt soil. Smoke billows from underneath.
The first brick hits the ground. Four hands hold it firmly and push it down, dig it in, stabilize it. Fingers brush in thankfulness, smear each other’s skin with soot and ashes.
Can’t decide if I want to make this a full length one shot or not but I can’t get the idea of you and Ghost hating each other and then getting amnesia out of my head.
Not the light kind of hate that lived in insults or sharp looks. No, this was the biblical sort of hate. The kind that seared bone deep every time Ghost opened his mouth to correct you, to condescend, to remind you how expendable you were compared to his experience. Your arguments weren’t just fights, they were battles that left the rest of 141 watching like shell shocked bystanders. And for reasons only Price understood, he always paired you together. A punishment. A test. A cruel joke in a get-along shirt.
And every mission only sharpened the loathing.
Until the lab.
The breach had been messy, the kind of op that went wrong before it started. Smoke and alarms, gunfire echoing down sterile corridors, steel walls that sang with ricochets. You had the mask in your hand, almost on, when the canister rolled under your boots. Yellow haze hissed, curling into your lungs before you could fit the straps. The world lurched sideways. Ghost’s voice barked your name, angry and cutting as always, before it cracked. Then black.
Can’t get the idea of you waking to nothing.
No name, no place, no history. Just a rotting safehouse that smells of mildew and rust, a radio with a dead channel, and across the room is a man in a skull mask.
For one heartbeat you think you’ve been taken. Who the hell wears a mask like that? But then he groans low, human, head tilting back against the wall like gravity owns him. Instinct, something you don’t have words for, makes you crawl to his side, steady his shoulder, whisper fractured words you barely understand yourself:
“Easy now. It’s okay. I-I think. I don’t know where we are. To be honest, I don’t even know who I am.”
The mask turns toward you. He studies you too long. Then, with a voice that’s gravel dragged across steel, he says, “All right. Then we figure it out together.”
Thinking about how the weeks are a blur. He takes charge, because someone has to. He forces food into your hands, patches the cut on your thigh, steadies you when your legs refuse. He builds a life out of scraps; tin mugs, ration cans, a bed of stolen blankets, and makes it look like a fortress.
And you learn him in pieces.
The way he tilts his head when listening. How careful his hands are when wrapping a bandage, even when his words are still hard. His voice at night when the storm gnaws the roof, it lowers, softer, like he’s speaking only to keep you tethered.
Something inside you stutters. You don’t remember who you were before, but you know who you are now: someone who leans toward him, who watches the shape of his mouth under the mask, who wants.
And one night, with rain rattling against the boards and lightning clawing the walls, want wins.
You kiss him.
It’s reckless. Thoughtless. Raw.
But he doesn’t stop you.
He groans low and tears the mask off with one hand. The other is already in your hair, pulling you forward, dragging you into his lap. His mouth is heat and salt and desperate fury, biting into yours with teeth and tongue. He kisses like a man starved, like he’s been choking on silence since the day you woke up here.
Clothes don’t come off so much as rip, shirts pulled overhead, buttons popped, pants shoved down just enough. You’re grinding in his lap before either of you can think, his cock hard and hot against your thigh, and you’re so fucking wet it’s shameful. But there’s no time for shame. Only instinct.
He pushes your panties aside, fingers dragging through slick folds before he’s lining himself up and sinking into you with a groan that rips through your spine.
“Fuck- ”
You choke on it. On the stretch. On the heat.
You cling to him as he thrusts up into you, every movement rough, deep, possessive. Like he’s trying to burn himself into your body so you’ll remember him, even if you forget everything else. His hands are everywhere, spanning your back, gripping your hips, sliding between your thighs to rub your clit in harsh, wet circles until you’re trembling against his chest.
You come with your mouth open, forehead pressed to his, sobbing and wishing you had a name to moan into his skin.
And he follows with a growl, his teeth in your shoulder, his cum spilling deep as your nails drag down his back.
After, you collapse against him. Still trembling. Still joined.
He doesn’t speak.
But he holds you.
And that’s the beginning of the end.
After that, there’s no pretending.
Days bleed into nights, your body learning him as if it had always known how. You find yourself laughing once, forehead pressed to his throat. You find yourself aching when he pulls away to check the perimeter. You fall in love without even knowing your own name.
Just thinking about being rescued.
Rotor wash, rifles, a man in a hat barked commands. A Scotsman grinning like he’s been waiting, another soldier with sharp eyes and steadier hands. They call you soldier. They call you part of 141. They call Ghost by a name that isn’t his name.
Back at base, everything unravels. You’re pulled from him, sent to testing. CT scans. Neuro checks. Questions you can’t answer. And for the first time in weeks, the absence of him makes you cold.
They keep Ghost separate. He sits with Price, Soap, and Gaz. The others press him with questions, with silence, with looks that are heavier than threats, giving him knowing looks because they can read him more than any open book.
Price leans forward, voice quiet. “When did your memory come back?”
There’s a long pause. Ghost’s eyes flick to the door you disappeared through. The corner of his mouth pulls under the mask, barely a smirk, but enough.
Bartender Simon, who cuts of a drunk costumer. The costumer is angry and begins insulting Simon, particularly his looks. It doesn't bother Simon but how does Waitress!Reader react?
Alas... the much-awaited ktih
Warnings: making out, groping, dry-humping
It was only seven pm, and Cole was already drunk. Simon knew this would happen - it usually does, at least every Friday night. He comes in, drinks for a solid two hours, until Simon finally has to cut him off and steer him in the direction of his apartment. The man at least lets him add twenty percent auto gratuity if he has to be sent home like that - and, more often than not, it's every week.
Today, however, is a different story.
Cole had come in at four, right when the pub opened. He gave you his usual, tight-lipped smile, making his way to the seat he took every Friday evening. Simon was already pouring his beer by the time he removed his coat. The conversation continues (mostly one-sided on Cole's part), as does the night, and he never ceases to tip the beers back - rattling on about how much money he makes, only getting louder when a group of women walks by.
Around nine at night is when he began to get drunk enough that the numbers on his tab begin to blend together. "A'aight- 'nother one for good fortune." He smacks his empty glass against the bartop, making you jump slightly as you did your tips at the end of the.
"Not tonight." Simon says, hovering over the POS and punching buttons on the screen. "You got 'nuff for good fortune. You can pick it back up next week."
"Bahhh, c'mon - I'll pay double." Cole slurs, leaning over the bar.
"What's your wife's name?" Simon asks, turning back around and leaning against the liquor shelf.
"... Sharon."
"Ya not even married, Cole."
He laughs, eyes glassy as he smacks the bartop and wheezes. "Tha's good! Real good- ya got me. Can't keep a woman 'f I tried."
Simon doesn't comment. He slides Cole's receipt across the bar, before promptly turning back and grabbing a glass.
Cole sighs, crumpling the receipt in his fist. "Y' don't want business?"
"Don't want you gettin' lost findin' your Uber." Simon replies, polishing a glass.
"Y'know..." Cole leans back in his seat, very adamantly refusing to leave, "I know you're strugglin' t' bring in the money with... whatever ya got goin' on behind the mask."
Maybe when he was a lieutenant, constantly dealing with jabs and stabs towards his ego, it would have gotten to him. But Simon just huffs in annoyance. "This what you resort to when you can't get a beer?"
"Defensive much?" Cole bites back. "You could use the money to fix y'r fuckin' face. Should stop bein' such a cunt n' worryin' 'bout me like you're my mum."
"Hardly - your mom probably wishes she'd swallowed you instead."
Simon nearly drops the glass - it takes him a moment to realize that you had spoken, and another one to process just what exactly you had said. He turns around to find you, staring Cole down with the most disgusted, angry expression he's ever seen you display. He's speechless - mostly because he didn't know you had an arsenal of insults, ready to fire off like this.
Cole chuckles drunkenly, turning in his seat to face you from down the bar. "Don' like it when I insult y'r bank account, do ya?"
"Aren't you supposed to be dumpster diving or something?" You snap, getting up out of your seat - Simon's never seen such a look in your eyes, and he quickly steps out from behind the bar to jog over to you. He places a hand on your shoulder, but you don't back down.
"You realize who you're talkin' to, little girl?"
"Draco Malfoy if he'd gone into British Parliament."
"Oi-" Simon snaps, fingers digging into your shoulder - surprisingly, you swat his hand away. You're fuming at this overgrown cabbage, running his mouth like he actually means something to anyone in this pub.
Cole purses his lips; your insults are getting to him. "You gonna do somethin' with this chick?" he asks Simon - who nearly blows a cap, but you beat him to it.
"Y'know, maybe you should spend your money on fixing those fucking teeth - because I see they're still social distancing - instead of wasting our time here, you grey, fucking sprinkle on a rainbow cupcake-"
"Hey- stairwell. Go." Simon gives you a gentle shove towards the stairs, and you throw your hands up and storm off. He stares after you, wide-eyed and tense, watching as you disappear behind the stairwell door. He's quickly growing hard, concerningly, after witnessing you fire off at Cole with a loaded gun full of wit and anger - it was quite possibly the most attractive thing he's seen you do.
Cole huffs, breaking Simon's focus. "Women - sticking their noses where they don't belong." he looks at him, expecting the bartender to agree.
Simon's holding back the urge to drive his fist into the man's skull. He grabs Cole's jacket from the back of the chair and shoves it into his chest so hard he nearly falls from his seat. "If you're not gone in the next ten minutes, Soap 'n I will make you leave, you understand?" he doesn't even wait for a reply, turning on his heel and stalking towards the stairwell, boots thudding heavily against the ground.
He's got bigger priorities at the moment.
You're standing in the stairwell, chewing the edge of your sweater as you stare at the dustpan and broom. Simon can surely fight his own battles - he didn't seem irritated in the slightest by Cole, why did you step in? Simon isn't yours (unfortunately), you don't need to defend him. You don't have the right to defend him other than the fact that he's your coworker. Manager. And you were definitely doing it based on other, unspoken reasons. It was obvious. Is it obvious to him? Forget possibly losing your job, is he going to be mad that you lost your shit like that? That you put your foot where it doesn't belong? That-
The door to the stairwell swings open, and you stop your pacing. His eyes are lidded. Angry? You can't tell. He looks rather intimidating, tall and tense as the door swings shut behind him, mask bunched into his fist as he shoves it into his back pocket.
You think he's about to let you have it, to chew you out for your outburst. "Simon, I'm-"
His rough hands are around your face before you know it - right as you open your mouth to yelp in shock, he leans down and kisses you.
Your eyes force themselves shut. You don't have a chance to pull away, not with his hand cradling the back of your head. He won't let you; you don't want to. His breath fans across your face, fingers calloused yet gentle as they relax around you, and you sigh into his touch, tilting your head to let him get closer. Your arms rest against his shoulders, squeezing the muscle as you feel months of worry and anticipation melt away-
And then, as quickly as it had begun, Simon has the audacity to stop and pull his head back.
His eyes find yours, still cupping your face in his hands. He looks breathless - good. At least you know he's just as riled up as you are, now. There's a hint of pink on his cheeks, and a need for reassurance in his hazy stare. He needs to know he was right, despite the months of flirting and the little chase you've been leading him in; now that he's finally caught up, caught you in his grasp, he needs you to tell him you want this. Though he doesn't know how he'll survive if you don't.
"You ok?" He pants, brow creased with uncertainty.
You let out a noise of frustration - threading your fingers behind his neck, you pull him back down, sealing your lips against his once again.
He exhales through his nose in relief. His hands find your waist as you part your lips, letting him slip inside and explore your mouth. Your fingernails dig crescents into his skin - he lets out a rather needy-sounding groan, backing you up until you hit the wall. You whine; your tongue flicking across his lower lip sends a shiver down his spine, heat building and twisting and tangling in his gut until you break away for a moment, nipping your teeth into his lip.
His mind short-circuits; he grunts, all the blood in his head rushing south to his cock, where it's getting uncomfortably warm and tight. He grabs you underneath your ass and hoists you up, and you squeak, instinctively locking your legs around his hips. You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he kisses you feverishly, desire brewing in your stomach as he presses you into the wall, tongues and teeth clashing, the both of you unable to satisfy the ever-growing blaze. It threatens to burn up the stairwell until there's nothing left but a sweaty, naked mess.
Simon breaks away to latch onto your neck, taking the thin flesh and rolling it between his teeth You bite back a whimper, carding your fingers through his hair; he bucks his hips in response, albeit involuntarily. You can sense the knot in your pelvis tightening, underwear growing slick as you feel the size of his erection with each thrust. Even through his clothes, you can tell it would be a challenge, but you've never been one to back down.
Fingers slide under his shirt, feeling the solid wall of muscle and fat beneath - his retracts a hand and drags it up your stomach, kneading and groping your tit through your shirt, silencing your moan with another searing, wet kiss. He's grinding into you now, hips rolling, cock twitching through his pants as you lock your ankles behind his back, and fuck he's ready to strip you bare right here and fuck you against the wall, ready to get back at you for teasing him for so long, ready to listen to your cries as you take each and every rung of his piercing-
He catches himself, lips moving away from yours to kiss along your chin, all the way up to your jaw. He sighs as he stills his hips, letting his head fall against your shoulder as he leans his weight into you. You feel him relaxing, wondering if he's worried about you again, but you so desperately want this to continue where it's heading.
"I'm alright, I'm alright-"
"I know..." he mumbles, his hand sliding back to your thigh and squeezing the flesh there, fingers barely slipping past the hem of your shorts. He wants to go further, to feel the hem of your panties snap against his fingers, but he forces back the urge.
"What's wrong?" you pant, craning your neck to the side to look at him.
"'M not..." he huffs, pulling his head back and gazing down at you. "Not fuckin' you in the stairwell, dove. 'S filthy back here."
Your face heats up even more - the fact that he had to hold himself back from disheveling you right now is an unspoken compliment. "Can we take it upstairs?"
He chuckles and gently sets you down, much to your disdain. "No. Got a bar to run." He says, preening at the way you pout at that. "And I'm takin' you out, first."
"Out?"
"Yea, for lunch."
"Wh- where?"
"You decide. Monday."
Monday - that's deep-clean day. "Don't we have to be here at noon?"
He chuckles. Always worrying about losing your job. "I'll make an exception. Won't fire ya for goin' on a date with me."
Date. God, you could scream. "But what if Price-"
"If that man ever threatens your position at this pub," Simon leans down, gently grabbing your chin between his fingers, "you come to me, n' I'll knock some sense into 'im. Sound good?"
You're too starstruck to register half of what he's said. Simon Riley's just kissed you. AND admitted to wanting to fuck you. Now, he's taking you on a date on Monday. Did you have any plans? Doesn't matter. If you do, they're cancelled.
"Uh huh..." you say, absentmindedly leaning into his touch.
Looking down at you: you, you... god, can he call you his? Is that too soon? The stars in your eyes while you're staring at him, the struggle within himself to avoid both adoration and getting hard(er)... He takes another deep breath, thumb running down the blossoming hickey on your neck.
"Right." he taps your cheek softly, then goes to tuck his shirt back in from where you'd torn it from the waistband. "Go ahead n' take a minute. Come to the bar 'fore you leave."
He grabs the handle to leave, hesitating only for a moment. Both of you seem to have the same idea, sharing a hive mind with each other. You quickly move forward and he leans down as you both kiss again, slower, trying to savor this one. Honey drips from your brain into your chest, every cell in your body screaming in relief, satisfaction, and pure joy...
He breaks away again, laying a kiss to the crown of your head. You sit down on the stairs as he walks back onto the pub floor. He's still hard, and it's plain as day - but he could care less right now. He's got you just as much as you've had him. There's a lightness in his shoulders, a voice in his head that you've finally plucked free and thrown into the abyss, only to be replaced by your own being.
You're still sitting on the stairs, massaging your tits through your shirt as you try to smooth your nipples out. Your mind is racing a million miles a minute. What should I wear? Will Price be upset? Should we try to hide this? Will anyone care? Should I wear perfume or just body spray? Is work going to be weird now? He's not going to treat me differently, is he?
You sigh, biting your lip and trudging up the stairs. Your fingers run over the hickey on your neck. I need to find a whisk.
Ramblings & Writings @tastefully-depressed - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
