When you gave your coworker your address, you expected it to be used in emergencies. Not...whatever this is.
"Sir...what the actual fuck?" You grimace, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.
You're still stood in your ratty, oversized pajamas you alwayd wear. Blanket wrapped around you, the pink bunny slipped ghost bought you the only thing keeping your toes from freezing. Blearily, you look at the clock "it's one in the morning. On a weekend. On my leave."
Stood in the middle of your living room, cloaked in shadows without bothering to turn the lights on. Gaz tilts his head, then goes right back to very loudly sweeping the floor.
"....right. awesome. Glad you're happy, kyle." You huff, turning into the kitchen to flick on the light.
It's not...unusual for gaz to get like this. You've seen it maybe twice before on base. Once he spent the entire night running laps, the other you found him after dark in the gym.
You learned that he gets restless. Enough so that he breaks in to your apartment to clean the place.
You brew some coffee for you and tea for him, hoping to level out the playing fields a bit. You emerg with two warm cups, mumbling "tea, kyle. With honey, the kind you like."
He doesn't respond, of course, so you tuck yourself into the corner of your couch and wait. Kyle has moved on to dusting the walls. Vaguely, you wonder if he ever cleans anyone else's apartments.
"Come sit with me," you croon when he finally pauses to sip at the drink. Gaz stares blankly for a moment, and you watch as he slowly slips back into his body, eyes wrinkling in that subtle smile. "You've worked hard enough."
You wouldn't know it, but just being close to you helps him feel better, helps ground him. Your presence on the couch while he cleaned...it helped more than he'd admit.
Kyle falls asleep with his face mushed into your shoulder, and through the curtains you watch the sunrise. It's...nice.
Kyle Garrick isn't your boyfriend. He's your teammate, your colleague and your friend. But you aren't dating him. He isn't yours.
So there's really no reason for you to feel so fucking jealous right now.
The new recruit is pretty, the kind of girl guys dream of. She's a blonde with blue eyes, tits that are barely contained in her uniform. And she's flirting with Kyle so hard that it hurts. Flicking her hair, fluttering her eyelashes, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm... she clearly wants him. You get it. Kyle is, well, Kyle - handsome, charming and funny. He's perfect.
You stand across the training yard, next to Price and Ghost. They're talking, but you can't hear a word they say. All you can focus on is Kyle and that woman, anger flowing through your veins. If you clench your jaw any harder, it might break.
You could kill her. Okay, maybe that's a little extreme. You could certainly smack her, though. Really hard. She's embarrassing herself, and you. You're ashamed of how you feel for a man who isn't even yours. A man you didn't even realise you wanted to be yours until this moment.
Before you can think twice, your feet are moving, walking you towards the pair of them. What's your plan? You aren't sure. Hopefully you won't hit her. You can't afford another disciplinary action against you…
"Oh, hi love," Kyle says as you reach the two of them, his eyes lighting up like they always do when you're around. "What're you—" you cut off his words with a grunt, cupping his face in your hands and pulling his lips to yours. It's a kiss that's hard and claiming, meant to let this bitch know that he's yours. Even though he technically isn't.
Your tongue plunges in his mouth as his breath catches in his throat. His hands hover in the air for a moment before settling on your waist, gripping you tight enough to almost lift you off the floor. After a minute, you pull away, leaving Kyle panting with darkened eyes, his dick already hard in his pants as you turn your attention to the blonde.
"Hi!" you chirp with mock kindness, your eyes glaring daggers at her. "I'm not sure we've been introduced..."
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
Pornstar!Simon who has to have his face between your ass cheeks when he eats you out.
cw: +18 mdni, cunnilíngǔs, booty eating.
This is so vulgar, just keep up! Run with me
A man who got addicted to the feeling the first time you sucked his soul out of his throbbing cock. And maybe Heaven just had to be between those plush thighs no? But this— this wasn’t just sitting that perfect glossy pussy on his mouth.
No this is what enlightenment was.
That exact moment he wrapped his arms arms around your waist all your waist down on him, leaving hungry stripe after stripe through your sensitive heat to your budding clit and sucking it, your back arching in ecstasy just enough that your his nose meets your perfect little hole back there and his can’t fucking breath. Is makes him harder, munching on that soaking little box of you’re as he drowns. The man is intoxicated by the whole ordeal, your scent, that tangy sweet taste of your cunt on his tongue.
The way your hole tightens when he dips his tongue inside you, swirling it around your gummy hole that has you trembling, keening so loudly. You try to escape him but Simon only drags you back, his words fucking slurring as he breathlessly drawls out, “Hold on swee’art, hmm- hold on.”
Only makes him easy at you fast, flattened tongue sliding their your messy arousal and to your ass hole. Flicking at it and groping your ass till he goes back down, repeating the action.
“Simoon!” You gasp out, letting him left you to get a better angle, your thighs over his broad shoulders and you can only hold onto his torso for deal life. He groans, that sloshing sound mixing with your moans as the man eats you faster. Hungrier, suffocated as he feels the curve of your ass cheeks on his face, a heavy hand coming down that makes your ass sting and pussy clench so prettily tight. Probably a done deal as her feels them jiggle against him. “Bloody hell, ‘s good baby, fuck me- ‘s so good,” he whines against you, hand sliding to your sensitive Pearl and rolls it between his fingers. “Been needing this puss m’whole life princess, shit.” He’s french kissing your cunt, sloppy and messy, spitting down on asshole before rimming you, rubbing your clit fast as he sloppy laps at both of your holes till your screaming his name and cumming all over his damp face.
Pornstar!Simons member ripples out cum as he sets you down on the bed, cock still blushing red and throbbing for you. His fingers dance on your sensitive pussys hairy folds, a finger sliding into your hole that’s still pulsing.
“F-fuck, wait Si-“
But his pretty brown eyes are glazed over, staring into your matching ones as he licks his pink lips that still have your syrupy cum on them. He gulps down, panting, longing watching the way your body jolts at he curls his thick digit inside you, “You think- you think you can squirt in my mouth dovie?”
a/n: this pussy grip and this pussy fight back, ass fat he wanna—
— cw: established & unestablished relationships; smut and fluff; light dom/sub; domesticity; wc: 5.1 k
you might also want to read ⤷ SHAVING.
— S. RILEY:
It starts as a punishment.
Simon's been gone for three weeks—classified, no contact, the usual—and he comes home expecting the hero's welcome he'll never admit he wants. What he gets is you, cross-legged on the sofa in one of his shirts and nothing else, not even looking up from your phone.
"Hey," he greets, dropping his bag.
"Mm."
He knows that mm. That mm means trouble. That mm means he did something—or specifically didn't do something—and now he's going to pay for it in ways that make waterboarding look straightforward.
He showers and changes; comes back to find you in the same spot, still on your phone, legs stretched out now so the shirt rides up just enough to show the curve where your thigh meets your arse. Calculated. Everything about you is calculated when you're angry.
"You gonna tell me what I did?" He sits beside you, arm over the back of the sofa.
His hand nearly touches you and you shift away deliberately. "Nothing."
"Right." His eyes flash as he watches you for a moment. Then his brawny hand lands on your knee—warm and heavy. "C’mere."
"No."
He clicks his tongue. "Wasn't askin’."
You put your phone down and look at him—finally—and there it is. Not anger. Worse. That look that says I missed you so much it scared me and I'd rather die than admit it. He knows it because he fucking invented it.
"Three weeks," you say, swallowing. "Not a word."
"Couldn't—"
"I know you couldn't." You shrug his hand off, pouting. "Doesn't mean I'm not pissed off."
Fair enough. He can work with pissed off.
He sighs, then pulls you onto his lap—or tries to. You resist like a cat going liquid, then give in, but on your terms, straddling him with your hands on his shoulders and a look that says he’s not forgiven yet.
"What do y’want?" he asks roughly. Quiet and direct.
You’re still pouting. "I want you to suffer."
His mouth twitches, he huffs half a laugh through his crooked nose. "Dramatic."
"Three. Weeks." You poke his chest and it flexes under your touch.
"I heard you the first time."
You shift in his lap—deliberate, rolling your hips once—and his jaw tightens. You're bare under the shirt. He can feel the heat of you through his joggers, and his hands move to your hips on instinct.
"No," you hiss, lifting his hands off and pinning them to the back of the sofa. "You don't get to touch."
His eyes darken. "That so?"
"That's so."
You roll your hips again—slower this time, grinding down against the hardening length of him through the thin fabric. His cock twitches against you and you feel it, the thick ridge of him pressing right between your folds, and the friction sends a jolt through you that you must fight to keep off your face.
"You're playin’ a dangerous game," he growls, voice low.
"I know."
And you set a rhythm—slow and torturous rolls of your hips, dragging your bare cunt along the length of him through his joggers. The fabric's already damp. You can feel yourself getting wetter with every pass, coating the outline of his cock through the cotton, and his breathing is getting heavier even though his expression hasn't changed.
Almost hasn't changed. His jaw is clenched tight enough to cut glass.
"Pull them down," you demand breathlessly.
He lifts his hips without a word and shoves his joggers down just enough for his cock to spring free—thick and hard, flushed dark at the head when his foreskin slides back. You resettle over him, and when your bare cunt meets bare skin you both hiss.
"Still no touching," you remind him.
"You're goin’ to fuckin’ kill me, bunny."
"That's the idea."
You slide forward, letting his cock drag through your folds; hot and slick, the head catching against your clit on every pass. Your wetness coats him in seconds, making the glide obscene. Wet sounds fill the living room, and Simon's hands are white-knuckling the sofa cushions, veins standing out in his forearms, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of not grabbing you.
"Fuck," he breathes. Barely audible. "You're soakin’ me."
"Mm-hm." You press down harder, trapping his cock between his stomach and your cunt, and grind. The underside of his shaft drags against your clit and your thighs clench around him. "Three weeks' worth."
"I can feel it." His head drops back against the sofa, eyes half-closed, watching you from under his lashes. "You're fuckin’ drippin’ all over my cock and you won't even let me inside."
"No."
"Cruel woman."
"Learned from the best."
He huffs another short laugh while you pick up the pace—faster, wetter, chasing the friction against your clit while his cock slides through your folds in long, slick strokes. He's leaking too, pre-come mixing with your slick, and the sound of it—the obscene, wet sound of skin on skin—is filthy enough to make heat coil tight in your belly.
"Can I touch you," he says, and it's not quite a question. Not quite begging. Simon Riley doesn't beg. But it's close. Closer than you've ever heard him.
"No."
"Please." Gritted through his teeth. His hips jerk up involuntarily, his cock pressing harder against your clit, and you gasp.
"Hands on the sofa, Si."
He swears low and vicious under his breath, but he obeys. His strong fingers dig into the cushions hard enough to tear fabric while you use him, sliding your pussy along his cock in tight, deliberate rolls, chasing the pressure building between your legs.
"'M close," he warns, teeth gritting. "If y’don't stop—"
"Don't stop what?" You grind down hard, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance without slipping in, and he makes a sound you've never heard before. Broken and raw. "This?"
"Fuckin’—Christ—"
You come first—barely, by seconds—your swollen clit twitches against the underside of his shaft as your whole body goes rigid and shakes. He follows you over the edge with a rough groan, cock jerking between your folds, cum spilling hot and thick over his own taut stomach and your cunt in messy pulses.
You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, and his arms finally come up—wrapping around you, pulling you in tight, hands spread wide across your back.
"Punishment's over," you mumble against his neck, nipping the pale skin there.
"Good." His voice is wrecked. His hand slides into your hair, holding you against him. "Because if you ever do that to me again, 'm goin’ to lose my fuckin’ mind."
"Promise?"
He doesn't answer. Just holds you tighter, inhaling your scent shamelessly.
— K. GARRICK:
It's your first night together.
Properly together, not the almost-kisses in the corridor or the loaded looks across the briefing room, and of course, of course, neither of you has a condom.
"I can go! There's a shop on the corner—" Kyle's already reaching for his jeans.
"Kyle." You catch his hand. "It's two in the morning."
"I'll be five minutes—"
"Kyle. Stay."
Kyle looks at you—all soft brown eyes and swollen mouth and his shirt already on the floor—and the fight goes out of him. He climbs back onto the bed, kneeling between your legs, and his hands settle on your thighs with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.
"I want to do this right," he says quietly. "For you."
"We don't need—" You sit up, pull your top over your head, and his eyes drop to your bare chest. His throat bobs. "There are other things we can do."
"Yeah?"
You guide him down, flat on his back, and straddle his hips. He's hard. You can feel him through his boxers. The thick shape of him pressing up against you, and when you roll your hips experimentally, his hands fly to your waist.
"Like this," you breathe, tugging at his waistband. He lifts his hips and you pull his boxers down, and his cock springs up against his belly—flushed, hard, a bead of clear pre-come already gathered at the tip. You shimmy out of your underwear and resettle over him, and when your bare cunt meets the length of him, he makes a sound like you've knocked the air out of his lungs.
"Oh fuck," he whispers.
"Good?"
"You have—You have no idea." His voice is strained, his long fingers flexing on your hips. "You're so warm. Shit."
You start to move—slow, lazy rolls, letting your folds part around his throbbing shaft. He's thick enough that you can feel every inch, the ridge of his uncut head catching against your clit on every forward slide. You brace your hands on his chest, and he watches you with an expression caught somewhere between reverence and total ruin.
"Tell me what feels good," he murmurs, because he's Kyle and even with his cock sliding through your pussy he's still thinking about you first.
"This. Just—this." You press down harder, grinding, and the wet sound makes his eyes flutter shut. "You feel so good between my legs."
"You can't just—say things like that—" His buff chest heaves.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm trying really hard not to embarrass myself and you're making it—" You shift your angle and his cock slides through a particularly slick patch and his whole body tenses. "Difficult! You're making it difficult!"
You grin down at him. He catches it and groans, covering his face with one hand.
"Don't bloody laugh at me—"
"I'm not laughing. I think it's sweet."
"I don't want to be sweet right now! I want to be—" He cuts himself off with a sharp breath as you grind forward again. His hand drops from his face, and both palms grip your thighs, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. "You're so wet. Fucking hell, you're dripping."
"That's what you do to me."
"Stop." But he's grinning now, that devastating Kyle Garrick grin, even as his hips start canting up to meet your rhythm. "You're going to make me—"
"That's the point."
His composure is fraying; his head tips back against the pillow. You can see it—the way his jaw clenches, the way his stomach muscles flutter under your hands, the way his breathing goes ragged when the head of his cock nudges against your clit and slides through slick heat. His thumbs have found the crease of your thighs and he's pressing in, holding you open, making the contact tighter.
"Can I—" He swallows hard. "Can I hold it against you? I want to feel—"
"Yeah. Whatever you want."
He wraps a hand around himself, pressing his cock flat against his stomach so you're grinding directly against the underside—root to tip, your clit dragging along the thick vein, and the new angle makes both of you moan. He's staring at where your bodies meet, almost in a daze, watching your pussy slide over his cock, and his expression is gone. Completely gone.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever—" His voice cracks. "Baby, I'm not gonna last."
"Then don't."
"Not without you." He reaches between you with his free hand, finds your clit with his thumb, and starts rubbing in quick, tight circles while you grind against his shaft. The dual sensation—his cock against your folds, his thumb on your clit—makes your rhythm falter and your thighs shake.
"Kyle—God—!"
"That's it. Come on. Come with me, yeah?" His voice is wrecked, desperate, his hips thrusting up to meet you, cock sliding through your soaked pussy while his thumb works your clit. "Wanna feel you. Please."
You shatter with a broken cry; cunt pulsing against his cock, and he follows seconds later—groaning your name, long and low, as he spills in hot streaks across his own stomach and the underside of your thighs. His hips stutter through it, cock and balls twitching between your folds, and his thumb doesn't stop until you're whimpering and pushing his hand away.
Silence. Heavy breathing. The sound of the city outside.
"So," he says eventually, chest heaving. "That was…"
"Yeah."
"First thing tomorrow. I'm buying a box of condoms."
One eyebrow quirks. "One box?"
He laughs. bright and breathless, and pulls you down against his chest, not caring about the mess between you. His arms wrap around you, his lips find your forehead, and you can feel his heart hammering under your cheek.
"You're right," he murmurs against your hair. "Gonna make it two."
— J. PRICE:
He tells you to lie down.
Not asks. Not suggests. He tells you the same way he tells his men to hold position or his bartender to pour another. That low, gravel-and-whiskey voice that doesn't leave room for negotiation.
"On your back. Legs apart. Hands above your head."
You're already naked. He made sure of that twenty minutes ago, undressing you piece by piece in the bedroom with the patience of a man disarming ordnance. Now you're spread out on the bed like something he's laid out for his own inspection, and he's standing at the foot of it, still fully dressed from the waist up.
His belt is already undone. Trousers open. Fat cock in his hand—thick, heavy, half-hard and getting harder as he looks at you—and he strokes himself with a slow, idle grip. Like he's got nowhere to be, and the sight of you spread open and waiting is something he wants to savour before he touches it.
"John," you mewl.
"Quiet."
His thumb rolls over the head of his cock, pulling the foreskin forward and back, exposing the flushed, ruddy tip. Pre-come beads at the slit, and he catches it with his thumb, smearing it in slow circles. Unhurried. Almost meditative.
"Look at you," he says, voice low. His eyes move over your body the way they move over terrain—systematic, thorough, missing nothing. They settle between your legs and stay there. "Already wet and I haven't even touched you yet."
"Because you're staring—" you whine.
"I'm appreciating." He kneels on the end of the bed. Doesn't climb up. Just kneels there, cock in hand, and reaches forward with his free hand to press your thighs wider apart. "There's a difference."
He shuffles closer on his knees until he's between your legs, and you feel the heat of him. Close but not touching. He keeps stroking himself, that same measured rhythm, his foreskin sliding over the head in a way that makes your mouth go dry.
"Please," you whisper.
"Please what?"
"Touch me, John."
"I will." John leans forward and drags the head of his cock along your slit—one slow, devastating pass from entrance to clit. Your back arches off the bed and he watches with dark, steady eyes. "When I'm ready."
He does it again.
And again.
Long, lazy drags through your folds, using the head of his cock like a tool—nudging your clit, sliding through the slick, pressing against your entrance just enough for you to feel it before pulling back. His hand keeps working his shaft in that slow grip, the other fondling his heavy balls; foreskin rolling over the head between every stroke, and the combination—the wet slide of his tip through your pussy, the obscene sound of his hand on himself—has you digging your nails into the pillow above your head.
"Stay still," he orders, the same way he'd say hold position. His cock drags through your folds and catches on your clit, and he presses—holds—watching your thighs tremble. "Good girl."
"John, I need—"
"I know what you need." He angles himself lower, lets the head press against your entrance, and your body opens for him instinctively—slick and ready and aching. But he doesn't push in. Just rests there, thick mushroom tip nudging your opening, and strokes himself with a patience that borders on cruelty.
"You want it?" he asks, and there's something almost conversational about it. Like he's offering you tea.
"Yes—"
"Not tonight." He pulls back, drags himself through your folds again, and the wet sound echoes in the quiet bedroom. "Tonight I want to see you like this. Wanting. Pretty cunt all swollen and open for me and nothing inside it."
The filth of it—coming from him, from that composed, authoritative mouth—makes your pussy clench around nothing. He sees it. Of course he does.
"Greedy," he murmurs, almost fond.
He picks up the pace—still controlled, still deliberate, but faster now. The head of his cock slides through your folds in tight, focused strokes, dragging over your clit on every pass. His fist works his shaft in a rhythm that matches, foreskin pulling back on the downstroke so the bare, swollen head meets your clit with nothing between them.
"Getting close," he mutters, and his voice has roughened. Just slightly. Just enough for you to know the composure is costing him. "Where do you want it?"
"On me. Right there—on my—"
"Say it properly."
"On my pussy. Please, John."
"That's better." His breathing fractures. His strokes shorten, his cock jerking in his fist, the head pressed against your clit now—rubbing, grinding, slick with your wetness and his pre-come. "Going to make a mess of you."
He comes with a low groan that he bites back behind clenched teeth—controlled even now, even at the end—and you feel it land hot and thick on your cunt. He strokes himself through it, painting you with it, smearing his come through your folds with the head of his cock in slow, deliberate passes. Mixing his mess with yours until you're dripping with it—slick and filthy and his. Always his.
He sits back. Studies his work. Tucks himself away with steady hands, does up his belt, and looks at you like a man satisfied with a job well done.
"Don't clean up," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. Tender. Almost chaste. A stark contrast to the filthy mess between your thighs. "I want you like that when I come back to bed."
"You're a bastard, John Price."
"Mm." He straightens his collar. "I'll put the kettle on, love."
— J. MACTAVISH:
"Don't move."
Johnny stares at you. Blue eyes wide, pupils blown, a vein ticking in his jaw beneath the stubble.
He's kneeling between your legs on your bed—shirtless, dog tags hanging, joggers shoved halfway down his meaty thighs—and his cock is in his hand, hard and leaking, and he looks like a man who has been told he can look at the sun but not blink.
"Are ye serious?" His voice cracks.
"Dead serious." You settle back against the pillows, legs spread wide, and click the clit vibrator on. Low setting. The hum fills the room, and his eyes drop between your legs like they're magnetised. "You can touch. Just the tip. Nothing else."
He makes a pathetic sound in the back of his throat. "That's fuckin' cruel, hen—"
"And?" Your eyebrow quirks arrogantly.
He swallows. Hard. His throat works and his cock twitches in his hand and he's already wrecked—has been since you answered the door in a towel and told him you'd been thinking about him. Which is the truth.
You've been thinking about him. For months. Through every loaded joke and every lingering touch and every time he's looked at you like you're the answer to a question he hasn't worked up the nerve to ask.
Tonight you got tired of waiting.
"Just the tip," he repeats, strangled.
"Just the tip."
He shuffles forward on his knees, and you press the vibrator to your clit. The first buzz making your thighs twitch. And he watches, transfixed, as you start working yourself in slow, lazy circles. His cock is so close to your pussy you can feel the heat radiating off it.
"Go on then," you coo. "Touch."
He guides himself forward with a shaking hand—actually shaking, Johnny MacTavish, steadiest hands on the task force—and drags the tip of his cock through your folds. Just the head. Just the fat, flushed head sliding through slick, bumping against where the vibrator sits on your clit, and the sound he makes is wrecked.
"Oh, Jesus fuckin' Christ—" His head drops forward, chin to chest, dog tags swinging. "Ye're so wet. Fuck. Fuck, ye're so fuckin’ wet."
"Mm-hm." You press the vibrator harder against your clit and let your eyes fall half-closed. "Keep going, MacTavish."
He drags himself through your folds again, agonisingly slow; the head of his cock parting your lips and sliding through the slick. He gets to your entrance and stops, the tip just barely pressing in, and you see his whole body tense with the effort of not pushing forward.
"Can I—"
"No."
"Just the tip—the actual tip—jus’ lemme—"
"I said no, Johnny."
He swears—a string of Glaswegian filth that would make his mother weep—and pulls back. His cock is shining wet, coated in your syrupy arousal, and his fist squeezes the base like he's trying to keep himself from blowing his load too quickly.
"You're pathetic," you snicker, and you don't mean it—not really—but his cock jumps and his breath stutters and oh. Oh. "You like that?"
"Shut up—"
"Look at you. Shaking. Can't even handle a little bit of my pussy without falling apart." You circle your clit with the vibrator, letting him watch, and roll your hips up so his cock slides through your folds again. "Big, tough soldier. On his knees. Begging."
He shudders, balls twitching. "I'm no' beggin’—"
"You will be." You reach down and wrap your free hand around his shaft—just for a second, guiding him—and drag his tip from your clit to your entrance and back again. Slow. Deliberate. He whimpers. Whimpers. "There. Like that. Stay right there."
"Ye're gonna fuckin' kill me, lass—"
"Don't be dramatic. Just keep rubbing." You click the vibrator up a setting and your breath catches. "And don't you dare come until I say."
He obeys—barely. His hips move in short, desperate thrusts, the head of his cock sliding through your pussy in a rhythm that's falling apart at the edges, foreskin pulled back taut. His abs are clenched under the hair, his thighs are shaking, and there's a flush creeping up his chest and throat that makes him look almost feverish. Pre-come leaks from the tip in a steady dribble, mixing with your slick, and every pass through your folds produces a sound so obscene it makes your cunt clench.
"Feels so good," he gasps, head still dropped forward. "Yer pussy—Christ—feels like fuckin' heaven and I'm no' even inside ye—"
"And you won't be." You press the vibrator directly against your clit and your back arches. "Not tonight. Tonight you just get this."
"Please—"
"There it is." You're getting close—the vibrator and the wet slide of his cock working you toward something bright and sharp. "There's the begging."
"Aye, fine, am beggin'—" His voice is raw. Desperate. Completely undone. "Please let me come. Please. I cannae—I'm no' gonna—fuck—please, hen, I need to—"
"Come on my pussy," you tell him, and your own voice is breathless now, the vibrator pushing you right to the edge, legs flexing and trembling. "Right on my clit. Now."
He breaks with a shattered groan—his cock jerking in his hand as he aims the tip right where you told him, cum pulsing hot and thick onto your clit, your folds, mixing with the vibration and the slick and your own orgasm that crashes into you half a second later. It’s a lot.
Your legs clamp around his hips and you shake through it, the vibrator still buzzing, his come dripping down your cunt, and Johnny's gasping above you like he's just run a marathon in full kit.
He collapses. Just crumples forward, catching himself on his corded forearms, forehead pressed to your collarbone. His dog tags are cold against your sternum, and his breathing is ragged and he's shaking all over.
"Ye," he pants, "are the most terrifying woman I've ever met."
You click the vibrator off and card your fingers through his mohawk. "You loved it."
"Aye." He turns his head, presses his mouth to your throat. "Ah did. Do it again."
— C. REED [ OC ]:
Morning light through thin curtains.
The mattress dips and you open one eye to find Callum propped on his elbow beside you, already awake, watching you with that quiet half-smile that makes his eyes crinkle.
"Morning," he says. Soft. Like he's trying not to spook you.
Last night was the first time. Dinner that turned into drinks that turned into his mouth on yours in the cab that turned into stumbling up the stairs with his hands under your shirt and his laugh in your ear. And then—slow, careful, both of you learning each other's sounds in the dark.
"Morning," you murmur back. Your voice is sleep-rough, your hair is a disaster, and the sheets are tangled around your waist. You should feel self-conscious. You don't.
"Been up a while," he admits His fingers trace the line of your shoulder, feather-light. "Didn't want to wake ya."
"So you just… watched me sleep?"
"Bit creepy, innit?" That grin—the devastating one, crooked and warm—and you feel something shift in your chest. Like a key turning. "Couldn't help it. You looked peaceful. Beautiful."
He leans in and kisses you. Morning breath and all, unhurried and warm, his hand coming up to cup your jaw with a tenderness that makes your throat tight. This isn't a man in a rush. This is a man who showed up last night and is still here this morning and doesn't seem remotely interested in leaving.
The kiss deepens. His hand slides from your jaw to your neck to your collarbone, slow and mapping, and when your leg hooks over his hip he makes a low sound against your mouth.
"Cal," you whisper.
"Mm."
"Again?"
He pulls back just enough to look at you. Those hazel eyes—warm amber in the morning light, still heavy with sleep—searching your face for something. He must find it, because his expression softens into something that makes your ribs ache.
"Yeah," he answers. "Again."
He rolls onto his back and pulls you with him, settling you on top, and the duvet falls away from both of you. He's hard—not urgently, not desperately, just the easy morning hardness of a man waking up next to someone he wants—and you can feel him against your inner thigh, warm skin on warm skin.
"We used the last condom," you remember.
"I know." His hands rest on your hips, thumbs drawing circles on your hip bones. "Don't care. Come here."
You lower yourself over him, and his cock settles between your folds like it belongs there. No guiding, no adjustment—just the easy slide of warm skin against warm skin, your wetness from the night before mixing with fresh slick as you shift your hips.
His eyes close. His head presses back into the pillow and he exhales—long, slow, like he's releasing something he's been carrying.
"Fuck, that's nice," he murmurs. Not performative. Not filthy. Just honest. "You feel incredible."
You start to move. Slow, lazy rocks of your hips, letting him slide through your folds in long, unhurried strokes. There's no urgency to it. No punishment, no desperation, no power play. Just the quiet, warm friction of two bodies that found each other last night and aren't ready to stop touching.
His hands explore while you move—running up your thighs, your waist, your ribs. Mapping you in the daylight the way he mapped you in the dark. He cups your breasts, thumbs your nipples gently, and smiles when your rhythm falters.
"Sensitive," he notes.
"You figured that out last night."
"Wanted to make sure it wasn't a fluke." He sits up—still inside the cradle of your hips, still sliding between your folds—and wraps his arms around you. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, the space behind your ear. Slow, warm, open-mouthed kisses that make you shiver.
"You're really good at this," you say, and you don't just mean the sex. You mean the morning. The staying. The way he holds you like this is exactly where he's supposed to be.
"At what?" he murmurs against your throat.
"Being here."
He pulls back. Looks at you. And there's something in his face—not surprise, but recognition. Like he knows what it cost you to say that. Like he knows you're not used to men who stay.
"I'm not going anywhere," he tells you, simple and steady. The way the tide doesn't explain itself.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, and his hips start moving with yours—rolling up to meet you, his cock sliding through your folds in a rhythm that builds slowly. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with a gentle precision that makes your breath catch.
"There?" he asks against your mouth.
You arch into his touch, lashes fluttering shut. "Yeah—right there—"
"I've got you, love."
It builds like the morning itself—gradually, gently, warmth spreading through you in slow waves. He rubs your clit in patient circles while his cock slides between your lips, and his mouth never leaves yours. You come quietly—a long, rolling shudder that he holds you through, his arms tight around you, his own hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge.
He spills between your bodies; warm, messy, neither of you caring, and buries his face in your neck with a soft groan that's half-laugh, half-relief. Like he wasn't sure this morning would happen, and he's glad it did.
You stay like that for a while. Tangled together, sticky, his heartbeat under your palm.
"So," he says eventually, voice muffled against your shoulder. "Breakfast?"
"You cook?"
"Full English. My one talent." He lifts his head, and that grin is back—warm, easy, the one that crinkles his whole face. "Well. One of two talents. As of last night."
You shove his chest, laughing, and he catches your hand and kisses your knuckles.
"Come on," he chuckles, pulling you out of bed with him. "Bacon's not going to fry itself." And he doesn't let go of your hand the whole way to the kitchen.
Was gonna b a short story about Simon buying you panties, turned into a 77 page fic about him being too emotionally immature to admit you're already his girlfriend.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader, smut, MDNI, 18+
You’d been at his flat for eight days
Eight days, which had not been the plan.
The plan had been one night. Maybe two. Three, if neither of you were feeling sensible.
Then three became five because it rained, and five became eight because Simon had this extremely annoying habit of making his flat feel safer than yours. Quiet. Warm. Uncomplicated. Like you could exist there without performing for anybody.
Which was dangerous.
Because you’d started leaving little pieces of yourself everywhere.
A hair clip on his bathroom counter.
Your ring by the kitchen sink.
Your boots by the door.
A half-empty bottle of shampoo in his shower.
And now you were standing in his bedroom wearing one of his black shirts, staring into your overnight bag like it had betrayed you personally.
“You alright?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
You pulled out a tiny black thong between two fingers and held it up.
“This is my last clean pair.”
His eyes went to the thong.
Then to you.
Then back to the thong.
“That the emergency?”
“Yes, Simon, that’s the emergency.”
He looked unconvinced. “I’ve got a wash.”
“I know.”
“And detergent.”
“I know that too.”
You shoved the thong back into your bag. “I have to go home.”
His expression shifted immediately, though barely. Just a small tightening around his mouth. A flicker in his eyes.
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You can wash them here.”
“No, that’s weird.”
Simon stared at you.
“Weird.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve been sleeping together for months.”
“Still weird.”
“I’ve eaten your ass.”
“Different category.”
“You wore my boxers to bed last night.”
“That was cute.”
“You’re afraid of my detergent?”
“I’m not afraid of your detergent.”
“Sounds like you are.”
You pointed at him. “Do not make this sound irrational.”
“It is irrational.”
“It’s intimate.”
“More intimate than my tongue in your bumhole?”
You blushed but stayed quiet.
He blinked.
“I literally could not give less of a fuck about the ten pence worth of detergent it takes to wash three thongs.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is…” You paused, irritated because the point sounded stupid even in your own head. “It’s domestic.”
Simon’s face changed again.
Still small.
Still barely there.
But you saw it.
Domestic.
That was the word you’d both been orbiting for days. Maybe weeks. Not sex. Not staying over. Not using his shower or eating cereal in his kitchen or falling asleep with your face against his chest.
Domestic.
That was the dangerous thing. The toothbrush in his cup. The socks mixed in with his laundry. The drawer that didn’t exist yet but could. Simon looked down for half a second, then back up at you. “I’m offering to wash your underwear,” he said, quieter now. “Not marry you over the rinse cycle.”
Your chest tightened. “Could’ve fooled me.” His mouth twitched. “You’re dramatic.” “You like it.” “A bit.” You looked away first, zipping the bag with too much force. “I’ll come back tomorrow.” He nodded once. “Alright.” You hated that. You hated how he accepted it too quickly. How he pulled himself back behind that neutral face like he’d never wanted anything in the first place. So you stepped closer and poked him in the chest. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Act like a sad divorced dad at a train station.” His brow lifted. “I’m not.” “You are. In your face.” “No face.” “Like someone just told you Christmas was cancelled.” That got him. Barely. A tiny exhale through his nose. “Christ.” “There he is,” you said softly. Simon looked at you for a long second, then reached down and picked up your bag. Not to unpack it. Just to carry it.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Yes. Tomorrow.” “And bring more of those little—” He glanced toward the bag. “Underpants.” “They’re thongs.” “Right.” “You can say thong, Simon.” “Can.” “But won’t?” “No.” You smacked his arm on the way out. The next time you stayed over, you did not bring enough underwear. That part was on you. A little on purpose. A little not. You told yourself you’d packed in a hurry, that you’d miscounted, that nobody could reasonably expect you to remember basic items while leaving the house. But some traitorous part of your brain had remembered Simon’s face when you’d said laundry was too domestic. And now you were back in his bedroom, dropping your bag beside the bed, when you noticed the matte black shopping bag sitting on top of his dresser. Folded tissue paper. No branding you recognized from the grocery shop.
You stared at it. Then at Simon. He was standing near the wardrobe, calm as anything, wearing a black T-shirt and looking very much like a man who had handled a situation. “What’s that?” “Yours.” “My what?” “Underwear.” You blinked. Then laughed once. “You bought me underwear?” “You ran out.” “Simon.” “What?” “That’s…” You paused. Because it was sweet. It was insane, obviously. But sweet.
He’d noticed. He’d remembered. He’d gone out and bought something so you could stay without having to turn it into a whole vulnerable conversation about detergent and intimacy and whatever domestic cliff edge you kept dancing around. You stepped closer, suspicious but warm. “How did you know my size?” He shrugged. Your eyes narrowed. “No, don’t shrug. How?” “Guessed.” “You guessed?” “Yeah.” “Simon, you cannot just guess women’s underwear sizes.” “Apparently I can.” “You don’t know that yet.” “Looked right.”
You stared at him. He stared back, annoyingly steady. No shame. No explanation. Just that deeply aggravating confidence of his, like he’d glanced at you once and mentally recorded all necessary measurements for future field use. “You’re weirdly good at that.” “At what?” “Knowing things you should not know.” His mouth twitched. “Observant.” “Creepy.” “Useful.” “Concerning.” “Still useful.” You looked back at the bag. Curiosity won. Obviously curiosity won. You opened it. The first piece was black lace. Pretty. Delicate. Expensive-looking. You held it up, pleasantly surprised despite yourself. “Okay,” you said slowly. “These are nice.” Simon’s eyes flicked over them, then to your face. “Told her black.” “Told who black?” “Woman in the shop.” Your head snapped up. “You spoke to someone?” “Had to.” “About my underwear?” “About buying underwear.” “For me?” “Yes.” You pressed a hand to your mouth, half horrified and half delighted. “What exactly did you say?” “Said I needed a few pairs.” “And?” “Your size.” “Which you guessed.” “Correctly.” “Allegedly.” “And I said black. Lace if they had it.” You stared. He was too calm. Far too calm. “Simon Riley, did you walk into a lingerie shop and request black lace underwear for me?” “Yes.” “Just like that?” “Wasn’t shouting it.” You laughed, genuinely now. “I’m obsessed with you.” “Mm.” “You menace.”
“Needed underwear.” “No, you bought lingerie.” His gaze flicked to the bag. Then back to you. “Thought you’d look good in it.” That shut you up for half a second. Not because it shocked you. Because it didn’t. Because of course he’d thought that. Because of course Simon, practical and blunt and quietly possessive in all the ways that made your knees stupid, had looked at black lace in a shop and pictured it on you.
The problem was that your brain liked that. A lot. You cleared your throat and looked back into the bag before he could clock the heat rising in your face. “So you bought these because I needed underwear?” “Yes.” “And because you thought I’d look hot?” “Yes.” No hesitation. No coy little smirk. Just yes. Your stomach did something deeply unhelpful. “Right,” you said. “Problem?” “No.” “Sounds like a problem.” “It’s not a problem. I’m processing.” You pulled out the next pair. More lace. A little strappier. Still fine. Then the next. Mesh. Thinner.
Less practical. Then you reached in again and pulled out something with tiny pearl beads. You froze. Simon’s eyes moved to it. You held it up between you. The room went very quiet. “Simon.” “Yeah.” “What the fuck is this?” He frowned slightly, studying it. “Underwear.” “No.” “No?” “This is not underwear. This is a threat.” His brow furrowed more. You lifted the pearls higher. “This is not something you wear to run errands.” “Didn’t buy them for errands.” You looked at him. He looked back. Your mouth opened. Closed. You reached into the bag again, because apparently you had chosen psychological warfare against yourself. The next pair was crotchless. You stared at it. Then blinked. Then stared harder, as if the missing fabric might reappear out of respect. Simon watched your face. You lifted the garment with two fingers. “Simon.” His eyes dropped to it. This time, something shifted in his expression. Not surprise exactly. More like recalibration. “Oh.”
“Oh?” “Right.” “Right?” He leaned a little closer, inspecting it with the seriousness of a man reviewing faulty equipment.
“That one’s more… direct.” A laugh burst out of you so hard you had to turn away. “Direct?” “What?” “You bought me crotchless panties and your review is ‘direct’?” “Accurate.” “You knew they were sexy underwear.” “Yes.” “But you didn’t know they were this sexy.” He paused. Then gave a small nod. “More or less.” You laughed again, still holding them up. “So what, you thought this was like… elevated date-night underwear?” “Something like that.” “Not tactical access wear?” His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say tactical.” “You thought it.” “Didn’t.” “You absolutely did.” He took a step closer. You did not step back. That was the problem, really. Because you were baffled. Entirely. Profoundly. But not offended. Not even close. The bag was ridiculous. The man had gone out to solve a domestic issue and somehow returned with a curated selection of black lace escalation. It should’ve been absurd. It was absurd. It was also hot. Annoyingly hot. And Simon knew you well enough to sense the difference between your actual discomfort and your theatrical outrage. His eyes stayed on your face. “Too much?” he asked. That softened something in you immediately. Because there it was. Not insecurity. Not embarrassment. Just a check. A real one. You lowered the crotchless pair slightly. “No,” you said. Then, because honesty apparently wanted you dead, you added, “Just… a lot.” He nodded once. “Can put them away.” “You already bought them.” “Doesn’t mean anything.” “It means you walked into a shop and somehow guessed my size perfectly.” “Mm.” “And asked for black lace.” “Mm.” “And came back with a bag of slutty little crimes.” His mouth twitched again. “Nice crimes?” You stared at him. Your grip tightened on the lace.
“I hate how well that line works on me.” Now he did smile. Barely. Infuriating. You shoved the crotchless pair against his chest. “Stop looking proud.” “Not proud.” “You’re extremely proud.” “I got the size right.” “You have no proof.” Simon’s eyes dropped to the lace in your hand. Then back to your face. “Try them on.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, calm as anything.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Accurate.”
“You bought me a drawer full of lingerie and now you’re acting like this was a public service.”
“You needed underwear.”
“I needed underwear. Not a full tactical seduction kit.”
His mouth twitched.
You lifted the crotchless pair between two fingers. “Especially not these.”
Simon looked at them.
Then at you.
“Wear those.”
You should’ve said no faster.
That was the problem.
You didn’t.
You looked at the lace, at the missing piece of it, at the absolute audacity of him standing there like this was a reasonable suggestion.
Then you looked back at him.
“To what, Tesco?”
“Dinner tonight.”
That threw you so completely you forgot about the underwear.
“What?”
“Dinner.”
“As in… out?”
“Yeah.”
You blinked.
The word moved through the room differently than the rest of it had.
Lingerie was easy. Lingerie was ridiculous. Lingerie was a joke you could hide behind, a dare you could pretend you were only considering because he was infuriating and hot and too calm about all of it.
Dinner was not that.
Dinner was shoes on, coat on, sitting across from each other with glasses and menus and candlelight and the awful social implication of being seen together on purpose.
Dinner was what people did when they were trying.
You stared at him. “You’re asking me on a date?”
Simon’s face gave away absolutely nothing.
“Foreplay.”
You laughed, but it came out a little too late. A little too breathless.
“Dinner is foreplay?”
“With you?” His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. “Everything is.”
That should’ve helped.
It did not.
It made the whole thing worse, actually, because he’d made it filthy enough to survive, but he hadn’t taken back the date.
You narrowed your eyes, trying to recover. “So this is not a date.”
“It’s dinner.”
“You just said foreplay.”
“It can be both.”
Your stomach did something small and stupid.
“Both,” you repeated.
“Yeah.”
“Dangerous wording.”
“Accurate wording.”
You looked down at the crotchless pair still dangling from your fingers.
That part, annoyingly, was not the problem anymore.
You could wear them. You probably would wear them, because apparently you had no respect for your own peace and because the idea of him knowing about them across a table had already started doing irreparable damage to your nervous system.
But dinner.
Dinner meant something.
Or it could.
And neither of you had been touching that with both hands.
You lifted the underwear slightly. “These I can work with.”
His brow rose.
You pointed at him. “Do not look pleased.”
“Wasn’t.”
“You were internally pleased.”
“Maybe.”
“But a date?”
Simon watched you for a second.
Then his voice came quieter, still blunt, still him.
“Just dinner.”
“That’s worse.”
“How?”
“Because you’re saying it like it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
There it was.
Small.
Plain.
Absolutely devastating.
You stopped moving.
Simon held your gaze, not pushing, not softening it into something easier. Just letting it sit there between you.
Then, because apparently mercy was not one of his stronger qualities, he added, “Still want you to wear those.”
You huffed a laugh and looked away, grateful for the escape.
“You are emotionally manipulative.”
“No.”
“You just followed an almost sincere moment with crotchless underwear.”
“Balance.”
“Psychological warfare.”
“Foreplay,” he said again.
You pointed at him with the lace.
“You are on very thin ice.”
“Still coming?”
You looked at him.
At the drawer.
At the lace.
At the man who had somehow made the underwear less frightening than being asked to dinner.
Then you sighed.
“Yes.”
His mouth barely moved.
“But,” you added quickly, “do not get smug.”
“Wouldn’t.”
“You already are.”
“Face did nothing.”
“Your face is a national security concern.”
Simon’s mouth barely moved again.
“Wear them.”
You looked down at the lace still hanging from your fingers.
The underwear, horrifyingly, was not the part making your stomach twist anymore.
That was the thing. That was the problem.
The underwear was ridiculous, yes. Criminal, probably. A garment with suspiciously little respect for public decency. But it was also just the kind of dare you could survive by pretending it was funny.
The date was the bit that had knocked the air sideways.
Dinner.
Outside.
Together.
On purpose.
You glanced back at him. “You’re very focused on the underwear for a man who just asked me on a date.”
“Foreplay,” he said again.
“Yes, I heard you the first time.”
“Then you understand.”
“I understand that you’re unwell.”
“Likely.”
You lifted the crotchless pair slightly, studying them like they might explain themselves if given enough eye contact.“They’re not exactly dinner underwear.”
“They are tonight.”
“That’s not how categories work.”
“Could be.”
“They are barely underwear.”
“Easy access.”
“Simon.”
“Practical.”
“That is not practical. That is deranged.”
“Efficient.”
“You sound like you’re planning a burglary.”
“Might be.”
You pointed at him with the lace. “You’re not slick.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Don’t need to be.”
There was a pause.
A bad pause.
A pause where your own imagination betrayed you completely, sprinted miles ahead, came back with notes, and then had the audacity to blush.
Simon saw it.
Of course he saw it.
His expression barely changed.
But you knew.
“Oh, shut up.”
“Haven’t said anything.”
“You thought loudly.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“What’d I think?”
“You know what you thought.”
His eyes stayed on yours, calm and unbearable.
Then he stepped closer, slow enough that you had every opportunity to move.
You did not move.
His hand settled lightly at your waist. Not pushing. Not grabbing. Just there, warm through the fabric of his shirt you were still wearing.
“You said yes to dinner.”
“I said yes to dinner because you made it weirdly sincere for half a second and I panicked.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
“And the underwear?”
You looked down at the lace again.
Then back at him.
The corner of his mouth threatened to move.
“Do not look pleased.”
“Wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“Face did nothing.”
“Your face is smug in spirit.”
His thumb moved once over your waist.
Tiny.
Barely anything.
Enough to make your spine remember it.
“Wear them,” he said, quieter.
You swallowed.
“Why?”
His eyes held yours.
“Because I want to know you’re wearing them.”
Oh.
That was worse.
That was so much worse than the jokes. Worse than easy access. Worse than efficient.
Because he said it plainly. No performance. No smug little grin. Just the truth, rough and simple and unfairly effective.
You looked away first.
“Mental illness.”
“Probably.”
“You need help.”
“Likely.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
You shoved the lace against his chest.
“Fine.”
Simon went still.
You pointed at him immediately. “Do not look victorious.”
“Wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
“Didn’t move.”
“You got quiet. That’s worse.”
His mouth twitched.
You snatched the lingerie back before he could say anything else and turned toward the bathroom.
Simon caught your wrist before you made it two steps.
Not hard.
Not even close.
Just enough to stop you.
You looked down at his hand, then back up at him. “What?”
“You can change here.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”
“In here.”
“Simon.”
“What?”
“I’m not putting on crotchless underwear in front of you like this is a fitting room.”
“Not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”
“That is not the point.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
His thumb shifted once against your wrist.
Slow.
Patient.
Infuriating.
You hated that he didn’t pull. Didn’t crowd you. Didn’t make it a command.
He just stood there, big and calm and warm-eyed, like he already knew you were thinking about it.
“Come on,” he said, quieter. “Let me see.”
Your stomach flipped so hard it was actually disrespectful.
You looked at him.
Then at the bathroom door.
Then back at him.
“You are so full of yourself.”
“Maybe.”
“You think all you have to do is stand there and ask?”
“No.”
A pause.
His eyes dropped briefly to the lace in your hand.
Then returned to your face.
“But it’s working.”
You scoffed, because murder was illegal and he was unfortunately correct.
“It is not working.”
“No?”
“No.”
His hand loosened around your wrist, giving you an easy out.
You did not take it.
That was the worst part.
Simon noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His mouth barely moved.
“Door’s right there.”
“I know where the door is.”
“Could use it.”
“I know.”
“You’re still here.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Quiet.
Certain.
Waiting.
You exhaled through your nose and held up the lace between you. “You say one stupid thing, I’m leaving.”
“Wouldn’t dare.”
“That was already a lie.”
His mouth twitched.
You rolled your eyes and stepped back toward the bed instead of the bathroom.
Simon’s gaze followed you.
Not rushing.
Not greedy.
Just focused in that way that made your skin feel too aware of itself.
You pointed at him. “Do not look victorious.”
“Wasn’t.”
“You look like you won a war.”
“Small skirmish.”
“Simon.”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
He did.
Which was worse.
You just sighed, pulling your jeans down.
“Stop staring.”
“Can’t. It’s my favourite view.”
You rolled your eyes and changed quickly, deliberately not giving him a show. Unfortunately, the crotchless panties did that for themselves.
He licked his lips slowly.
“There’s that perfect cunt.”
He said it while pinching your labia together, making you squirm.
“SIMON!”
“What? Got a problem with this?”
His hand cupped you, his middle finger exploring your folds through the slick gathered there.
“See? You act all offended and dignified, but your body has different opinions.”
You bit your bottom lip, finally letting out a soft moan that he usually would’ve taken as a plea to keep going. Instead, he pulled his hand away and smacked your bum.
“Get ready for dinner.”
He got up and started changing his clothes, ignoring the growing bulge in his sweatpants.
You stared at him.
Actually stared.
Because apparently Simon Riley could just do that. Touch you like he’d been put on earth to ruin your nervous system, then pull away and start getting dressed like he hadn’t left you standing there in cursed underwear, breathing wrong.
“You’re evil,” you said.
He pulled a black shirt from the wardrobe. “Yeah.”
You watched him tug the shirt over his head, the fabric catching briefly over his shoulders before settling against him. It should not have been that distracting. It was a shirt. A normal black shirt. Buttons. Collar. Adult man clothing.
Unfortunately, it fit him like it had a personal vendetta against you.
He rolled the sleeves to his forearms with the same maddening calm, exposing ink and veins and the thick lines of his wrists, then reached for a pair of dark trousers like this was all very ordinary.
Like you were not still standing there trying to remember how knees worked.
“Oh,” you thought, traitorously.
He cleaned up nicely.
Painfully nicely.
Not polished in a pretty way. Of course not. Simon Riley didn’t do pretty.
Just sharp. Controlled. Broad shoulders under black fabric, belt pulled through loops, watch fastened around his wrist, jaw set like he could walk into a room and make every other man there suddenly remember an appointment elsewhere.
You hated it.
You loved it.
You wanted to bite him about it.
Simon glanced over and caught you looking.
“What?”
You blinked. “Nothing.”
His brow lifted.
“Stop staring,” he said.
You scoffed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is that annoying?”
“Distracting.”
“Good.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t bite. Bastard.
Instead, he reached past you toward the chair by the wardrobe.
Your dress was still there.
Small. Black. Folded over the back like it hadn’t been quietly living in his room since the other night.
Not left behind.
Not on purpose.
Just… not taken home.
Simon picked it up with one hand and held it out.
“Wear this.”
You looked at the dress.
Then at him.
“You have outfit requests now?”
“Suggestion.”
“That was not a suggestion. That was a command in a button-up.”
He shrugged, painfully nonchalant. “Looks good on you.”
Your brain tried very hard not to melt at that.
Failed.
“Makes your tits look like your bra’s overflowing.”
Ah.
There he was.
“What, I’m complimenting you.”
You rolled your eyes.
That was what you hated most about him. His ability to be all sweet for half a second, just long enough to make your stomach do something embarrassing, and then immediately follow it with something crude enough to make you want to throw the nearest object at his head.
Worse, he never even looked like he was trying.
He didn’t leer. Didn’t grin like some idiot who thought he was being clever. He just said things in that flat, calm voice, painfully uninterested in polishing the edges.
Like he wasn’t aware he’d just said something that would live in your head for the next several business days.
Simon held the dress out again. “Put it on.”
“Bossy.”
“Dinner.”
You looked at him.
Then at the dress.
Then back at him.
“Turn around.”
“No.”
“Simon.”
“I like seeing your tits,” he said, entirely too calm. “Don’t make a big deal of it. Just put it on.”
You stared at him for one full second.
Then you snatched the dress from his hand.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even pretend to look away. Just stood there in his button-up with his sleeves rolled, composed as anything, like watching you get dressed was the most reasonable thing in the world.
Which, unfortunately, made you feel very unreasonable.
You pulled his shirt over your head and reached for the dress.
“Stop staring.”
“No can do.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to step into the dress quickly, deliberately giving him as little performance as possible.
Simon, apparently, had other ideas.
He reached out and gave your left breast a squeeze.
You froze halfway into the dress.
“Simon.”
“What?”
“I am getting dressed.”
“Helping.”
“You are absolutely not helping.”
His hand lingered, warm and shameless, thumb brushing once like he was testing fabric he already knew he liked.
“You’re delaying me,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“At least pretend you’re sorry.”
“No.”
You looked at him over your shoulder, dress bunched at your waist, hair half-messy from pulling his shirt off.
He looked back at you like this was normal.
Like he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes making sure you’d be thinking about him all through dinner.
“You are impossible.”
“Still going?”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Yes.”
His hand dropped away.
Immediately.
Infuriatingly.
“Good.”
You finished pulling the dress into place, smoothing it down with more attitude than necessary.
He grabbed your hand, placing it on his crotch.
“See what you do to me?”
You felt his hard cock twitch beneath his trousers.
Unconsciously, you bit your bottom lip and tightened your hand around his bulge.
“…Fuck…”
“Yeah? You want it?”
You nodded brainlessly.
“You’ll have to wait until after dinner.”
Unfair. Completely unfair. You just wanted to pull his trousers down and suck on those perfectly shaved, heavy balls of his.
He moved your hand away, making you whine before you could swallow it down.
Simon’s mouth barely twitched.
“Thought so.”
You hated him. You hated him deeply. Religiously. With conviction.
Mostly because he was right.
You grabbed your bag, watching him tuck himself under his belt with the same infuriating calm he did everything else.
“Ready?” he asked.
You stared at him.
“At this point? No.”
His mouth twitched.
“Good.”
He grabbed his keys and led you out of his flat.
You thought he’d be a gentleman, at least this once. After the dress. The dinner. The whole “date” thing. So you waited beside the car, chin lifted, expecting him to open the door.
Instead, Simon got into the driver’s side, shut his door, and looked at you through the windscreen.
Then he sighed.
“You getting in or what?”
You stared at him and scoffed.
“Right. What was I thinking?”
Simon frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“I thought you’d be a gentleman.”
“Yeah. Nah.”
You nodded once.
The joke died too quickly.
Something small and tight formed low in your stomach, embarrassment crawling up the back of your neck before you could stop it.
Why am I putting up with this bullshit?
He was never this rude.
Blunt, yes. Dry, always. Occasionally impossible.
But not mean.
Not like this.
You looked at him through the windscreen, suddenly very aware of the dress, the underwear, the whole stupid date you’d let yourself get excited about.
The drive to the restaurant was quiet after that.
Simon kept his left hand on your thigh like nothing had happened.
That annoyed you more than the comment.
More than the door.
More than the way he’d looked at you through the windscreen and made you feel stupid for expecting something gentle from him.
You stared out the window, throat tight, suddenly too aware of everything: the dress, the underwear, the ridiculous date, the fact that you’d let yourself get excited about being asked.
His hand was warm.
You hated that too.
His thumb moved once against your leg.
You didn’t react.
Not even a little.
The movement stopped.
For a while, there was only the low hum of the engine, the passing lights sliding over the dashboard, the wet shine of the road ahead.
Then Simon glanced at you.
You saw it in the reflection on the window, though you pretended not to.
His eyes moved from your face to your hands, folded tightly in your lap. Then to the set of your jaw. Then back to the road.
Something shifted in him.
His fingers loosened on your thigh.
A second later, he moved his hand back to the steering wheel.
You didn’t look at him.
Good.
Let him sit with it.
Simon cleared his throat once.
You still didn’t look.
The car slowed at a red light.
He stopped fully, both hands on the wheel now, staring ahead.
“Didn’t mean it like that,” he said.
His voice was lower than before.
You blinked at the window.
“Mean what?”
You knew.
He knew you knew.
You looked down at your lap.
“Okay.”
The word was small. Too small. Annoyingly small.
Simon’s jaw shifted.
“That was shit.”
You finally turned your head a little. “Yeah.”
He took that without flinching.
The light turned green.
He drove on.
For a moment, you thought that would be it.
Simon and his one-line emotional triage. Say the thing, move on, pretend the wound was closed because he’d named it.
But then he spoke again.
“I was winding you up.”
“You tend to do that.”
“Yeah.” His jaw shifted. “Sorry.”
You looked at him.
For a second, you didn’t know what to do with that.
“Thanks.”
His brow pulled slightly. “For?”
“Apologizing.” You shrugged, looking back toward the window. “That’s very decent of you.”
Simon huffed once.
Not quite a laugh.
“Decent?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
“You absolutely were.”
He glanced at you, then back at the road.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Probably.”
That almost got you to smile.
The silence after that was different.
Still tense, but not sharp anymore. Not that horrible brittle kind where every breath felt too loud. Simon kept both hands on the wheel now, like he was making a point of not assuming he could touch you just because he’d apologized.
Which was irritating.
Because now you noticed the absence of his hand.
You looked out the window, watching the streetlights drag gold across the glass.
By the time he pulled up outside the restaurant, the knot in your stomach had softened into something less humiliating. Still tender. Still there. But manageable.
Simon parked, killed the engine, and got out before you could even reach for your door.
This time, he walked around.
Opened it.
Stood there with one hand on the top of the door and the other held out toward you.
You looked at his hand.
Then at him.
“Oh, wow.”
“Don’t.”
“Chivalry lives.”
“Get out.”
“You’re glowing with personal growth.”
“Out.”
You took his hand, letting him help you from the car.
He didn’t let go right away.
That was the problem with Simon. He could be blunt and foul and painfully nonchalant, then turn around and do something small with such quiet certainty that it knocked you sideways.
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles.
“Alright?” he asked.
You looked up at him.
“Yeah.”
His eyes searched yours for half a second longer.
Then he nodded.
“Good.”
The restaurant was nicer than you expected.
Nothing flashy, just low lights, dark wood, small tables, warm lamps, the kind of place where everyone spoke a little softer without being told to.
The host led you toward a booth near the back, tucked half out of sight by a wall of dark green tile and a row of small hanging plants.
You slid in first, expecting Simon to take the seat across from you.
He didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
He sat beside you.
Close.
Close enough that his thigh warmed yours immediately.
You looked at him.
He picked up the menu.
“What?”
“You’re sitting next to me?”
“Aye.”
“There is a whole other side.”
“Noticed.”
Which was irritating.
Because now you noticed the absence of his hand.
You looked out the window, watching the streetlights drag gold across the glass.
By the time he pulled up outside the restaurant, the knot in your stomach had softened into something less humiliating. Still tender. Still there. But manageable.
Simon parked, killed the engine, and got out before you could even reach for your door.
This time, he walked around.
Opened it.
Stood there with one hand on the top of the door and the other held out toward you.
You looked at his hand.
Then at him.
“Oh, wow.”
“Don’t.”
“Chivalry lives.”
“Get out.”
“You’re glowing with personal growth.”
“Out.”
You took his hand, letting him help you from the car.
He didn’t let go right away.
That was the problem with Simon. He could be blunt and foul and painfully nonchalant, then turn around and do something small with such quiet certainty that it knocked you sideways.
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles.
“Alright?” he asked.
You looked up at him.
“Yeah.”
His eyes searched yours for half a second longer.
Then he nodded.
“Good.”
The restaurant was nicer than you expected.
Nothing flashy, just low lights, dark wood, small tables, warm lamps, the kind of place where everyone spoke a little softer without being told to.
The host led you toward a booth near the back, tucked half out of sight by a wall of dark green tile and a row of small hanging plants.
You slid in first, expecting Simon to take the seat across from you.
He didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
He sat beside you.
Close.
Close enough that his thigh warmed yours immediately.
You looked at him.
He picked up the menu.
“What?”
“You’re sitting next to me?”
“Aye.”
“There is a whole other side.”
“Noticed.”
“And yet.”
He glanced at you over the menu. “Problem?”
You should’ve said yes.
You did not say yes.
Instead, you looked down at your own menu, very aware of his knee against yours.
“No.”
His mouth barely moved.
“Good.”
The dinner started nice.
Annoyingly nice.
Simon was charming.
He had this quiet, controlled kind of charm that was almost dangerous.
He ordered water for the table without making a production of it. Asked what wine you wanted and actually listened when you answered. When the waiter came back, Simon repeated your choice correctly, pronounced the name without stumbling, and gave one small nod like he’d done this a hundred times.
Classy bastard.
You looked at him over the menu. “You’re showing off.”
He didn’t look up. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Working?”
Unfortunately, yes.
“Barely.”
His mouth twitched.
From the outside, he looked perfect. Attentive. Composed. Jacket sitting sharp across his shoulders, voice low and even every time he spoke to the waiter. A man taking you to dinner properly. A man who knew how to behave.
He held the menu in one hand, eyes lowered like he was actually reading it.
And then his other hand found your knee under the table.
“Later.”
You hated that your first instinct was to laugh.
You hated even more that you couldn’t.
Not safely.
Not with the waiter still close enough to ask about specials, not with your wine glass untouched in front of you, not with Simon sitting beside you looking like the most composed man in the room while his hand stayed exactly where it should not have been.
Shamelessly, he slid his index and middle fingers into you, pumping slowly, a quiet groan catching in his throat as he felt you gush around him.
“Someone’s excited.”
You glared at him, holding your breath, trying not to make a sound that would give you away.
The waiter’s voice snapped you out of it. “Ready to order?”
Simon’s hand stilled instantly.
You inhaled too sharply, then covered it by reaching for your wine.
“Yes,” Simon said, calm as anything. “We’ll start with the baked smashed potatoes.”
You turned your head slowly.
His eyes stayed on the waiter.
“For her main, the pan-seared salmon,” he continued, voice low and even, like he wasn’t actively ruining your ability to sit still. “With the lemon butter, crispy capers, and whatever greens come with it.”
The waiter glanced at you for confirmation.
You forced a smile.
“That’s right.”
Your voice sounded almost normal.
A miracle, honestly.
“And for you, sir?”
Simon ordered his own meal without hesitation, asked one polite question about the sauce, and thanked the waiter when he took the menus.
Classy bastard.
Absolute criminal.
“Why did you order for me?”
“You seemed… occupied.”
He caught the annoyed little look you gave him and barely reacted.
“Did I get your order wrong?”
“No.” You looked away first. “Shut up. Just keep going.”
“Fair enough.”
He kept pumping his fingers in and out of you, curling them like he knew exactly what he was looking for, dragging over that soft, sensitive spot until your grip tightened around the edge of the booth.
You felt a moan trying to crawl up your throat and reached blindly for the bread basket, shoving a piece into your mouth like that had been your plan all along.
Simon’s mouth barely moved.
“Hungry?”
You glared at him while chewing.
“Starving,” you muttered.
His fingers curled again.
You nearly choked.
Simon’s hand stilled.
Not because of you.
Because both of you saw the waiter approaching at the same time, plates balanced neatly in his hands, expression politely blank as he made his way toward the booth.
Simon withdrew his hand beneath the tablecloth with maddening calm.
No rush.
No panic.
Just that same composed control, like he hadn’t spent the last several minutes committing crimes under white linen.
You stared straight ahead, face hot, one hand still wrapped around your glass like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.
Beside you, Simon shifted slightly.
You caught the movement in the corner of your eye.
The discreet lift of his hand.
The slow press of his fingers to his mouth.
Your entire body went still.
He licked them clean like it was nothing.
Like he was tasting sauce.
Like he was not trying to put you in an early grave in the middle of a perfectly nice restaurant.
The waiter set the plates down.
“Baked smashed potatoes to start.”
“Thank you,” Simon said, voice low and even.
You said nothing.
Couldn’t, actually.
The waiter placed the rest of the food down, said something about lemon butter and crispy capers, and disappeared again.
Simon picked up his fork.
You turned your head slowly.
He looked at you.
“What?”
You stared at him in disbelief.
He cut into his food like a man with no conscience.
“You’re disgusting,” you whispered.
His mouth barely moved.
“You liked it.”
You looked away first.
Because unfortunately, the evidence was becoming a problem.
The booth beneath you felt warm.
Maybe a little damp.
You were not going to think about, acknowledge, or examine in any way until you were safely out of public.
Dinner continued.
Somehow.
You ate. Barely. Enough to pretend you were a person with normal priorities.
Simon, to his credit or detriment, behaved after that.
Mostly.
He spoke to you like nothing had happened. Asked about your week. Made you laugh twice against your will. Listened when you complained. Answered when you asked him things, even the little things, even the questions he could’ve dodged with a grunt.
The way he could sit there beside you, warm and sharp and infuriatingly composed, giving you a real date after thoroughly proving he was capable of making you forget where you were.
The conversation was good.
Annoyingly good.
Comfortable in a way that made your chest ache if you looked at it too directly.
By the time the bill came, you were quieter.
Not upset anymore.
Just wound tight and soft around the edges, caught somewhere between wanting to throttle him and wanting to crawl into his lap.
Simon paid without comment.
You didn’t even pretend to argue.
Outside, the air hit your face cold enough to make you breathe properly for the first time in an hour.
Simon’s hand found the small of your back as he walked you to the car.
This time, he opened your door.
You looked at him.
“Learning.”
“Don’t push it.”
You smiled despite yourself and got in.
By the time you got back to Simon’s flat, the silence between you had changed again.
Thick enough to feel in your teeth.
He unlocked the door and let you walk in first.
You stepped inside, kicked off your boots, and dropped your bag on the nearest chair with more force than necessary.
Simon shut the door behind him.
The click of the lock sounded too loud.
For a second, neither of you moved.
“Dinner was good,” you said, stammering.
“Still hungry.”
“Really? Because I feel like I ate too mu—”
He swallowed the rest of your sentence, mouth crashing into yours, tongue pushing past your lips like he’d been waiting all night to stop pretending.
You gave in for one stupid, helpless second.
Then you broke the kiss, breathless.
“Simon.” Your voice came out weaker than intended. “What about no kissing?”
His eyes stayed on your mouth.
“Fuck that stupid rule.”
You stared at him.
No kissing meant no softness.
No kissing meant it was just sex. Just heat. Just bodies. Just the two of you getting exactly what you wanted without having to name any of it afterward.
No kissing meant it could still be nothing.
But Simon had kissed you like he was sick of pretending.
And now he was standing in front of you, jaw tight, eyes dark, looking at your mouth like he wanted to do it again and hated that you’d made him stop long enough to think.
You swallowed.
“So what is it, then?”
His gaze flicked up to yours.
“If it’s not nothing.”
There it was.
Out loud.
Ugly little question.
Dangerous little question.
The kind of question that could ruin a perfectly good arrangement.
Simon didn’t answer.
Of course he didn’t.
Before you could say anything else, his hands were on your waist, lifting you clean off your feet like the question weighed more than you did. You barely had time to grab his shoulders before he carried you into the living room and dropped you onto the couch.
Not rough.
Not gentle either.
Just enough to knock the air out of you.
Then he was over you.
One knee between yours, one hand braced beside your head, his mouth finding yours before you could gather the thought you’d been holding. It wasn’t careful this time. Wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t the controlled little crime of dinner, hidden under tablecloth and manners.
This was blunt.
Heavy.
Avoidant as hell.
And unfairly effective.
You should’ve pushed him back and asked again.
You didn’t.
Your hands went to his shirt instead, grabbing at the clean black fabric you’d been staring at all night, pulling him closer until his weight settled over you properly. He kissed you harder when you did, hips pressing down into yours with enough purpose to wipe the question clean out of your head for one stupid second.
Then another.
The couch dipped beneath you. His jacket came off somewhere between your fingers finding the buttons of his shirt and his mouth dragging down your jaw. Your dress rode higher under his hand.
He shifted over you, pressing his growing erection against your thigh, and your hand went straight to his belt.
Or tried to.
The angle was awful. His weight had you pinned to the couch, your wrist twisted awkwardly between your bodies, fingers slipping uselessly over the buckle while he kissed you like he had all night to watch you fail.
You made a frustrated sound into his mouth.
Simon finally reached down, covering your hand with his.
Still no words.
Just his fingers guiding yours to the clasp, slow enough to be cruel, steady enough to make your stomach flip all over again.
“Take them off,” you whispered.
“Not yet.”
He moved lower before you could argue, and suddenly your thighs were around his neck, his tongue delving deep into you like he’d been waiting all night for it.
“Oh…”
That was all you could let out as he moaned and lapped at your juices, soaking his face.
He pulled back to take a breath.
“Fuck, these panties were the best purchase I’ve ever made.”
You smiled, running your fingers over the short blond hair at the crown of his head.
“Don’t stop.”
He followed that instruction, keeping you there until you were shaking, whining at every stroke of his tongue.
If there was one thing this asshole was incredible at, it was making you jizz and squirt all over his perfect face.
“You’re so fucking sweet,” he said between breaths, looking up at you with those big brown eyes. You tugged at his hair, pulling him up before he could lower his mouth again.
Simon came willingly, crawling back over you with his shirt open and his mouth still wet, one hand braced beside your head while the other found your thigh.
Your dress was still bunched uselessly around your waist.
He looked down at it for half a second, then tugged it upward.
“Off,” he muttered.
You lifted your hips just enough to help him, and he dragged it up your body with none of the patience he’d had at dinner. The fabric caught briefly at your shoulders before he pulled it free and tossed it somewhere behind him.
Then his mouth was on yours again.
Hard.
Messy.
You tasted yourself on him — salt, heat, something faintly metallic and sweet — and it made your fingers tighten in his open shirt.
Simon made a low sound against your mouth, his hand moving to your chest like he was trying to decide which breast to give attention to first.
“They’re both so fucking nice.”
You answered with nothing but a soft moan.
You reached between you for his trousers.
The belt was already open, but the button fought you this time, your fingers clumsy from the rush of it, slipping once before you finally got it free.
Simon kissed you through it.
No words.
No room for them.
Just his weight over you, his shirt hanging open, your dress gone, his hand on you, and your fingers finally working his trousers loose.
The second his cock sprang free, he entered you with a deep, punishing thrust that made your eyes roll back.
You swore you could feel every ridge, every vein, however unrealistic that might sound.
Each time he pounded into you, he removed one item of clothing he was still wearing, until there was nothing but skin against skin.
He kept going until you were a sobbing, panting mess.
“Simon!” you screamed as you reached the edge.
He didn’t slow down. Didn’t gloat. He just quickened the pace, determined to make you spray your sweet juices all over his living room.
He felt you come apart beneath him.
That was what did it.
Not the noise. Not the way your nails dug into his back. Not even the mess of it, though his breath caught hard when he realized exactly what he’d done to you.
It was the way you clung to him afterward.
Like you still wanted him closer.
Simon’s control faltered.
For the first time all night, the careful, composed thing he’d been wearing cracked completely. His pace turned rougher, less precise, his breath coming hard against your neck as his hand tightened at your hip.
You felt it happen. The shift. The loss of restraint.
Your fingers slid into the short hair at the back of his head, holding him there.
“Simon,” you breathed again, softer this time.
His whole body tensed over yours, warmth spilling deep inside you.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The flat was quiet except for both of you trying to breathe.
Simon stayed over you, heavy and warm, his face pressed into your neck like he wasn’t ready to look at you yet.
Which was fine.
You weren’t sure you were ready to look at him either.
Because the question was still there.
You finally caught your breath.
“…So.” Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “Nothing?”
Simon went still.
Not much.
Just enough for you to feel it.
His breathing changed against your neck, and for one stupid second, you thought he might answer. Actually answer.
Then he pulled out.
The absence of him made you shiver.
He sat back on his heels, looking down at you, shirt open, chest flushed, mouth still swollen from kissing you. His eyes moved over you slowly, taking in the mess of you beneath him, completely wrecked across his couch.
For half a second, he looked proud.
Then your question caught up with him.
The little curve of his mouth faded.
His jaw shifted.
You watched him close up in real time.
“Simon.”
He got up.
He pulled his trousers back into place, fastened his belt, and ran one hand over the short hair at the back of his head.
Then he walked toward the kitchen.
“Tea?”
You stared at the ceiling.
A laugh almost came out.
It didn’t.
Of course.
Of course he’d do that.
Leave the question sitting there between the couch cushions and go put the kettle on like he hadn’t just dodged the only part of the night that mattered.
Your throat tightened.
“Yeah,” you said quietly.
In the kitchen, the kettle clicked on.
And the question stayed exactly where he’d left it.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex
Word count: 2.1k
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.
You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.
By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.
That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.
And things had only been official for a week.
You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.
He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.
Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move
Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.
You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.
“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.
You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.
“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.
Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”
He slid deeper for emphasis.
You didn’t.
You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.
“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.
Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.
This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.
Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.
“Better?” The man’s question was simple.
Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.
You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.
Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.
“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”
“I—I know, I just can’t—”
At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.
You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.
“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”
The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.
“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”
“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”
“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”
But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.
Maybe you’d never found that place after all.
This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.
You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.
Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”
“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.
Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.
With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.
You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.
“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”
Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.
It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.
“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.
“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”
Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.
Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.
He still held onto your other hand tight.
Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.
Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:
“Higher.”
“Higher?”
“Um, to the…to the left.”
Simon tilted his hips left.
Yes.
That was just it. So close.
Almost…
Or, maybe…
“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”
Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.
Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…
“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”
The grin above you stretched even wider.
“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.
“Right there.” You nodded furiously.
A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.
“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.
“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”
Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.
The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.
Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.
You realized as much when he whispered it to you.
“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”
Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”
Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.
“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.
“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”
The ones that you’d been with before.
You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.
Simon was back inside you in a blink.
Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.
He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.
Vindicated.
“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”
You nodded in agreement.
You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.
“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”
When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.
And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.
Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.
“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.
His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.
You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”
“Feel good when I hit it?”
“Fucking perfect, Si.”
You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.
“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”
“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”
“Go on then, love.”
And, shortly, you did.
Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.
Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.
It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”
You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.
He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.
when your stupid ex boyfriend kicks you out of the flat, he forgets to give you your cat back. you find the meanest looking guy in the bar to help you get her back.
type: one-shot (3.4k), ao3
cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+
There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.
You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.
You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.
You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.
A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.
The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.
It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.
There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.
That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.
You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.
"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"
He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.
"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."
His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."
"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."
The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.
"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"
"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"
He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.
"Suppose."
"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"
He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.
"Wot's tha' include?"
"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."
"Tha's my specialty, love."
"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."
"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."
"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."
A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.
"'m Simon."
The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.
You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.
"Olright, love. Lead the way."
Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.
"This wot he stole?"
You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.
"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."
The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.
You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.
"What the fuck is this?"
You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.
"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."
"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."
"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."
Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.
"Who the bloody hell is that?"
You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.
"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"
Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.
"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"
Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.
"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."
Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—
Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.
He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.
"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."
"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"
"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"
"Please…"
"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.
"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"
"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.
"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."
He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.
"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.
The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.
"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.
"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—
Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.
"Ahh—fuck."
You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.
You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.
"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"
It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.
"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"
"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."
You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.
"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.
"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.
"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"
"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."
"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"
Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.
The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.
Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.
Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.
Nothing at all.
He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.
"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.
"Never better."
Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.
Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.
It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.
She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.
"Yeah," Simon takes another sip of his tea. "This'll do."
warnings: not proofread, maybe a wee bit ooc, reader is a tiny bit bratty, all smut no plot, thank you and goodnight
———
“please, ‘m sorry,” you slur for the hundredth time. tears wet your cheeks, soaking the mattress that your face is currently pressed into.
“i know, lovie. heard it the first time,” simon grunts, white-knuckle grip on your hips as he thrusts into you over and over.
you’d royally pissed him off during dinner by wearing that pretty little dress he begged you not to wear.
that one that made it impossible for him to be a civil human being. the one that had him palming his erection in the car on the way to the restaurant while you were sitting pretty in the passenger seat, teasing him my tugging the front down until he could see the lace of you bra.
you refused to touch him the car.
and under the table when he slipped into the booth beside you.
and in the car again after dinner.
you’ve never heard the man beg so much, so you gave him mercy the second his car pulled onto your street. you simply slid his hand that had been resting on your thigh under the hem of your dress.
simon took the olive branch, immediately slipping your panties to the side.
but the road was short, and before either of you could do anything more, simon was pulling into the driveway.
as he parked, he leaned over the center console, attacking your mouth with his and you let him. you leaned into the kiss, letting him have his fill until you started giggling into it.
then, you had pulled away and rushed into the house, leaving simon with a raging hard on and out of breath.
he chased after you, up the stairs and through the hall. heavy boots echoing behind you as you approached your shared bedroom. swinging the door open, you squealed when simon’s hand landed on your waist from behind.
he wasted no time in pushing you down onto the bed, shoving your pretty dress up and over your hips when all you could do was giggle.
it was short lived as simon dropped to his knees behind you, shoving his face into your panties. his nose bumped against your clothed clit, and you let out a whimper, shifting back into him.
your mind shifts back to the present, body jerking forward with each thrust of simon’s hips.
“simon!” you whimper, clutching at the linens. he lets out a laugh behind you, making your stomach flip when he sinks his cock impossibly deeper.
“use your words,” he mocks.
moaning, you try. you really really do.
but all that comes out is a strangled—
“jesus, fuck.”
simon snorts, driving his hips harder. “not quite, lovie, but it’ll do.” he reaches down, thrumming your clit under his thumb. with trembling thighs and airless lungs, you manage to choke out an exhausted plea.
“come on, lovie. i’ll be nice. let it out,” he teases, angling his hips until the delicious drag of his thick cock sends you reeling.
burying your face further into the mattress, you groan, pussy spasming around him as you come.
simon works you through it, finally relenting when you start crawling away from him.
“not gonna gimme the silent treatment anymore, right?”
“okay,” you pant out, eyes closed as you try to catch your breath. chuckling, simon pats your thigh and slips away to get a soft towel to clean you up.
coworker!simon x cybersecurity!reader hcs (mdni, 18+)
coworker!simon who likes to pretend he’s going into the tech lounge for a cup of coffee (he prefers tea) when really he just wants to see if you’re in there taking a break.
“u techies ain’t doin anythin all day?” is what you hear as bootstraps come into your line of sight. you raise a brow and look up at him from where you’re brewing a fresh cup of coffee. “don’t you soldiers have your own break room to bother people in??” you uttered with barely hidden distaste. he was glad for his mask covering that small smirk-your attitude went straight to his dick. “this place ‘as got the good coffee” he looks down at you, his voice gravelly in your ears. “soap said u hate coffee.” you call him out with a slow sip from the mug. he mentally curses the scott. “must be confused.”
coworker!simon who enjoys teasing you even though the man barely utters more than 5 words per conversation most of the time. he just loooves being in your space, not even to make fun of you, but just to see what you’re up to.
“whaddya even do when there’s no missions on schedule aye?” he comes up behind you and asks in that low scratchy accent you only hear in the mornings..hot. but that doesn’t matter. “do you always bother people who are trying to work” you grumble out as your eyes focus on the code at hand, fingers typing rapidly. he lets out a gruff …laugh? you’re not entirely sure. “too pretty to be wasting your time behind that screen.” you freeze, he doesn’t compliment you usually, just the annoying comment here and there. “well i enjoy my job.” “yeah?” you could hear the smirk in his voice. “what if i convinced you to look away from that g’damn screen. this weekend. dinner?” you tilted your head, a smug look crossing your face as you look up at him. he raised a brow, waiting.he’d never let on, but fuck was he nervous. “sure.” one short word from you lit him up.
coworker!simon who loomed gravely outside your comparatively cute and dainty house as he waited for you to open the door. you did, in a number that did crazy shit to his heart ..and dick.
“knew you’d look even more beautiful when you’re not behind that desk.” his mask was off, wanted to be real with you-not ghost but simon. you smiled slightly and stepped out. “thank you simon.” his following grin should indicate how the date went. a fancy restaurant followed by a dinner full of laughs, longing looks, and simon trying his fucking best to hide how much he wanted you. safe to say it went well on both sides.
coworker!simon who really really liked you. and he may not be great with words and that sappy bullshit but his mouth did wonders on its own.
he currently had tremendous amounts of blood rushing south in this moment. why? cus you were sitting on his face currently gripping the headboard for dear life as he dug his tongue deeper in your pussy. “si-simon wait” you breathed rapidly, knot forming fast in your stomach. he shook his head, groaning as he bucked his hips up into the air desperate for his own release. but he was too focused on you. “cum for me pretty, i wanna taste it.” he slurred into your flesh as he ate like you both didn’t just have dinner. “soo sweet” he panted. your high reached its peak and u tried to get off but he didn’t let you, fingers plunging in as you came hard, shivering and whimpering his name.
“oh my god..” you covered your face as the high wore off and you looked at the mess on his face “simon im so-“ he cut you off immediately “nah none of that. fuckin loved it, yeah?” he grinned, handsome face covered in you “never knew nerds could squirt” “don’t ruin this for yourself.” you bite back, covering his mouth while he smirks. little did you know he came in his pants a moment ago, all because of you.
He knew the clean, hollow ache of missed meals and long deployments. Knew what it was to ration, to wait, to tell the body it could survive on less.
This was nothing like that.
She lay groggy beside him in the quiet of their bedroom, all warm skin and black ink, and he looked at her like a man who had been starved deliberately.
Her tattoos climbed and curled over her body in dark, thorned shapes—sharp little declarations against skin soft enough to make him question every hard thing he had ever known. He traced one line with the pad of his thumb, following it over her hip until it disappeared beneath the hem of his shirt.
She watched him watching her.
“What?” she whispered.
“Nothing.”
Her lips curved into a tiny, smug smile.
“Liar.”
He kissed her before she could say more.
She tasted faintly sweet, warm with tea and sleep, and she opened for him with a sigh that made something low in his chest tighten. Simon kissed her slowly, though every instinct in him wanted to devour.
He had learned that hunger did not always have to mean haste.
Sometimes it meant taking the time to taste everything.
Her mouth first.
Then her cheek, soft beneath his lips.
The delicate place beneath her jaw, where her pulse trembled against him.
He kissed the freckles scattered there one by one—constellations so carelessly beautiful they would have made the heavens jealous. The universe had spent billions of years arranging its stars and still had not learned to place them as perfectly as they rested across Liv’s shoulders.
Her fingers slid into his hair.
“Si—mon.”
There was music in the way she said his name.
He knew her voice in every form: sharp over comms, bright with laughter, low and vicious when anger took her. But this was a song reserved for him alone, one that began in broken breaths and unfinished words.
His hands slipped beneath the shirt that had always looked better on her than it ever had on him, finding the familiar warmth of her waist.
She arched toward him.
Barely.
Enough.
He lifted the fabric slowly, giving her every chance to stop him. She raised her arms instead, eyes never leaving his.
The light found her body.
Simon went still.
For a moment, he only looked.
Her breasts rose softly with every breath, pale skin crossed by black ink and scattered freckles. Then his hands came up to cradle them, his thumbs moving gently over the silk of her skin.
She let out a small breathless chuckle.
“You’ve seen them before.”
“Not today.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Aye.”
He lowered his head, kissing first one curve and then the other. His mouth lingered over the tender pink of her nipples with the slow reverence of a man permitted inside a chapel after believing himself beyond salvation.
Her breath caught above him.
Simon knew every curve and still treated each one like revelation. The faint stretch marks. The tiny scars. The black shapes of her tattoos cutting beautifully across pale skin. Every place she had ever called imperfect, as though perfection had ever interested him.
There was no part of her he wanted corrected.
No mark he wished erased.
He did not love her despite any of it.
He loved her entire.
His mouth traveled lower, following the center of her body and pausing wherever she tended to grow self-conscious. Her stomach softened beneath his cheek. One tattoo sharpened over her hip like the edge of a blade, and he kissed along it until her fingers tightened in his hair.
“Sweet boy,” she murmured.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Yours.”
Her smile was audible.
He kissed the inside of her knee, then higher, and felt the teasing slowly disappear from her breath.
There.
That change.
That was what he listened for.
Simon looked up once more.
She was luminous above him, hair loose across the pillows, cheeks warm, strawberry mouth parted. Her knees opened for him with a trust so simple it nearly hurt.
“All right?” he asked.
Her fingers brushed over his face.
“Yes.”
One word.
A door opening.
He lowered his face to the black lace between them and paused there, close enough to feel her warmth through the delicate fabric.
Then he breathed her in.
The scent was faint and private: clean skin warmed beneath lace, touched by something bright and sweet. A trace of citrus beneath honey, like ripe fruit split open beneath the summer sun.
Unmistakably hers.
Hunger tightened through him.
Her breath caught when his mouth brushed the lace, and Simon let that first fragile note hang between them. His fingers found the delicate edges and began to draw them down.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His lips followed their path, kissing each newly bared inch as though familiarity had done nothing to lessen wonder.
When he settled between her thighs, he began everywhere except the place they both knew he was heading. The curve of her hip. The tender skin beside it. The soft inside of one thigh, then the other.
Patient reverence from a man who looked starved enough to devour her, yet loved her too deeply to rush.
Above him, her breathing changed again.
There was the first note of her song.
His hands held her gently, one thumb moving with slow precision over the place that made her tremble. When his mouth finally found her needy cunt, the sound she made was small and startled.
Simon closed his eyes.
He drank from her like a man who had crossed a desert.
She opened beneath his mouth like ripe fruit under pressure—the first bite into a mango in season, soft flesh yielding, sweetness and juice spilling freely over his tongue. The taste of her drew sound after sound from him; low, helpless things that vibrated against her skin. He had spent a lifetime learning how to suffer in silence, yet here, with her sweetness on his tongue, silence became impossible. Every breath left him as another moan, another broken note joining the song she made above him.
He couldn’t help himself.
He wanted every drop.
Not greedily.
Gratefully.
As though she had placed something precious against his lips and trusted him to receive it properly.
Her song grew beneath his attention: a breath catching sharply in her throat, his name dissolving into a whisper, then breaking apart into something without words. Each note drew him closer, guiding his hunger until there was nothing left in the room but her warmth, her taste, and the music she made for him.
Her fingers tightened in his hair. Her body shifted toward him without thought, following the rhythm he found for her.
He listened.
That was the secret.
Listening.
Every tremor changed the melody. Every breath told him whether to stay, whether to soften, whether to give her more. He followed the music her body made for him, patient and starving all at once.
She tried to speak.
“Simon, I—”
He held her through the unfinished sentence.
The song climbed.
Her heel pressed into his back. Her thighs trembled beneath his hands, her pussy pulsing against his mouth, sweetness spilling freely over his tongue. His name broke from her again—no longer warning or request, only proof that she was there with him.
Simon stayed.
The final note tore free of her in a sharp breath, her entire body drawing taut before softening in waves beneath him.
He held her through every one.
Only when her grip loosened did he lift his head.
Liv lay boneless against the bed, one arm over her eyes, chest rising and falling beneath constellations and ink.
Simon kissed the nearest tattoo, then rested his cheek against her thigh.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Liv moved her arm enough to look at him.
“You look very pleased with yourself.”
“Aye.”
“Starving bastard.”
“Was.”
Her fingers drifted through his hair, tender now.
“And now?”
Simon looked at her—strawberry lips, silk skin, freckles that put the stars to shame, tattoos dark against the warmth of her.
“Could eat again.”
She laughed, weak and breathless.
“You’re impossible.”
He climbed back over her and let her pull him into a kiss.
When she pulled back, her lips curved against his.
Simon was such a heavy sleeper, which honestly made no sense. With the kind of work he did, you would have thought he had developed insomnia years ago. It was something you secretly envied. The way he could fall asleep so effortlessly felt almost unfair. The second his head touched the pillow, he was gone.
Actually, he could sleep pretty much anywhere, and waking him up was another story. It usually took a few gentle nudges and a couple of soft kisses pressed against his jaw before those pretty, sleepy eyes finally blinked open. And he snored, too. Not loudly, just a low, rhythmic rumble against your ear. It secretly became your own little lullaby, a sound that meant you were safe, he was home, and the rest of the world could not reach you here.
When he slept, he was basically a human weighted blanket. He was so big you often felt like you disappeared between the sheets and his massive frame, but you did not mind. You loved the way his hands always knew exactly where to find you. An arm draped heavy across your waist, his face in your tits or tucked into the crook of your neck, his chest a solid wall of warmth against your back or legs tangled up with yours.
He had this subconscious reflex: even in his deepest sleep, if you shifted or shivered, his arm would instinctively tighten, pulling you flush against him as if his body was wired to protect you from the very air around you. Seeing the man who could stare down a threat without flinching melt into a puddle of softness just because you were near? That was a sight that never failed to make your belly swim.
You used to be a notoriously light sleeper, tossing and turning for hours. Nothing helped. You tried everything. Different pillows, white noise, herbal teas, sleep schedules. It always ended the same way: staring at the ceiling at some ungodly hour while everyone else seemed to be asleep.
That was until you started sleeping next to Simon.
The moment you curled up against his warmth, your eyes would begin to drift shut on their own. It felt like your body had finally found something it trusted enough to let its guard down around. There was a profound, quiet magic in his steady breathing, and the way his raspy voice would whisper "g'night, luvie" or "c'mere, sweetheart, it's time to sleep" right before he drifted off.
And the mornings? Those were the best. He would wake up slow, his eyes heavy and hazy, and before he even fully registered the daylight, he would seek out your hand, lacing his thick fingers through yours. He would pull you back down for lazy, lingering morning kisses that tasted so sweet you could melt right there on the spot.
Somehow, between his snoring, his death grip on your waist, and the way he would steal almost all your blanket which you hated the most, Simon had become the only thing in the world that could keep you grounded. He was your home, your warmth, and the best part of every single day.
It all started one night after Simon got home from the bar. The only thing he wanted was to be surrounded by you. So he took u right there on the kitchen counter. And it was particularly rough. back arching, voice high, and nails deep into the soft flesh of his back. The pain of the bright red welts forming in his skin only diving him harder into u. And that night after a long evening in a sweaty dance of love, he look in the mirror to find scratches splayed across his pale back.
After that he was more aware of the pain u inflicted on him. Your playful hits that didn’t hurt, or the random times you’d bite him. And he liked it. Every time he’d feel his cock slightly firm in his pants.
After weeks of denial he finally confessed. It was early in the morning, right after your shower and his run as you both were sipping coffee in the tiny kitchen that he blurted out “I like when you hurt me.”
It took u by surprise, almost choking on your coffee as he said it.
“I like when u run your fingers down my back till I bleed, and I like when you bite me, and when you hit me, in that playful way. It, it just makes me wanna fuck you so hard. Till you’re screaming and I’m bleeding from your nails scraping my back.”
You look up at him with surprise. “You have a pain kink?”
“Yea, yea I think so.”
You hum in response as u put down your coffee cup. “Ok, let’s go find out.” You giggle as you take his hand and lead him to the bedroom.
oh yeah. god forbid johnny is a little curious after hearing your unyielding cries and moans through the wall last night. it’s not his fault he wants to know what all the fuss is about. it can’t be as great as you’re advertising.
and of course he’s rummaging through your drawers to find yours. no he isn’t buying his own when yours is just waiting for him, tucked beneath your nearly folded underwear. it’s already charged up and everything!
it doesn’t take him long to get hard, not when he’s surrounded by all of your things, your smell, your sheets, the underwear he dug through to find your toy. he’s sporting a stiffy in no time at all.
he starts as usual, stroking up and down, gripping harder at the base and thrusting his hips up into his palm. standard procedure.
when he’s nearly halfway there, that’s when he turns the toy on. studying the mechanics before positioning it directly above his tip.
he’s cumming instantly, and harder than he’s ever cum before. he bucks his hips involuntarily, rubbing his bare ass all over your nice, clean sheets.
he doesn’t have time to do anything about it, though, because you’ve just opened the front door, ready to unwind after a terrible day at work.
he does what he can to conceal the evidence, giving the toy a sloppy wipe against his shirt before running to greet you like nothing happened at all.
breathless and a bit red, he asks you about your day.
“you’re being weird, johnny...”
and god if the disgusted look you give him doesn’t make him hard all over again.
“….i’m going to my room.”
you pull your toy out of your drawer and immediately throw it back down. johnny’s cum glistens on the red silicone.
and maybe you smear the leftover cum all over your clit, and maybe you moan extra loud, just to make sure he can hear you.
You’d been with the 141 long enough that the team felt like home—Price’s cigars, Soap’s endless jokes, Gaz’s easy laugh, and Ghost… well, Ghost was Ghost. Silent, broad-shouldered, always layered in black long sleeves and that damn mask. You’d never seen an inch of skin. Not once.
Well, until today.
You’d caught him in the gym, sleeves pushed up while he wiped down equipment. And oh God—Ink. A full sleeve on his left arm—dark, intricate, covered from wrist to bicep—maybe even higher— in sharp lines and shadows. Skulls, barbed wire, something that looked like a grim reaper. It suited him perfectly, and the sight hit you low in the gut.
You couldn’t stop staring. When he noticed, he tilted his head, that masked stare pinning you.
“Something wrong, love?”
You swallowed. “Your arm. I didn’t know you had any tattoos. They’re… really fucking cool.”
Ghost paused. “You want a closer look?” His voice dropped, low and rough, a warning but.. you didn’t catch it. “Might not be able to unsee it.”
You nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I want to see.”
You not catching that warning was more blessing than curse— now you’re in his quarters, door locked, the only light a sad lamp casting shadows across the room. Your back is pressed to his chest, legs spread over his thighs as he fucks up into you from behind—slow, deep, relentless. The thick, tattooed arm hooked around you, and he’s got three fingers shoved deep in your mouth, stretching your lips, pressing down on your tongue, keeping you quiet.
You can see every inch of the ink.
The sleeve is even more detailed up close—black and gray, textured, the designs shifting with every flex of his forearm as he works his fingers in and out of your mouth in time with his cock. Saliva slicks his fingers, dripping down your chin, but you don’t care. You moan around them, eyes locked on the tattoos, on the way his muscles move, on how hot the contrast is between the deadly ink and the way he’s using that hand to keep you quiet and full.
“Fuckin’ asked if you were sure..” he growls against your ear, accent thick, breath hot through the mask he won’t remove. “Now look at you. Mouth stuffed with my fingers, cunt clenching every time you see somethin’ new. Dirty girl.”
He thrusts harder, hips snapping up, the wet sounds were obscene. His tattooed arm stays exactly where you can see it—fingers hooked in your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as he makes you take them deeper. You gag softly and he chuckles, low and dark, never slowing.
“That’s it. Keep your eyes on it while I ruin you.”
Your hands grip his forearm, fingers tracing the lines of the tattoos as your orgasm builds fast and sharp. Ghost doesn’t let up—he fucks you through it, fingers muffling your cries, the full sleeve on display just for you like he promised.
When he finally pulls his fingers free, strings of spit connecting them to your lips, he drags the wet digits down your throat, over your chest, and presses the tattooed palm flat against your stomach so you can feel every inch of him still buried inside.
“Next time..” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “you’ll trace every line while I’m balls deep. Yeah?”
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
A/N: ….I’ve been going feral since the sleeve reveal guys..
You look up, already annoyed because it’s Johnny soap mactavish, your roommates best friend that you find to be more of a pest than anything else.
“Excuse me? Why are you even here? Kyle’s out.”
He ignores the latter question. “That guy last night? Fakest moans I’ve heard in a long time.”
You throw your pillow at him “piss off.”
He chuckles, grabbing the pillow from you, “maybe you wouldn’t be so uptight if you just got a good lay in ya.”
Which is how you end up sprawled on your bed with two of soaps fingers sunken into your pussy. “T-this is only happening once by the way.”
He rolls his eyes, curling his fingers upwards at a nasty angle that causes your hips to buck. “Dinnae worry, Princess. I got the message the last four times ya said it.”
His fingers are thick and his palm is calloused as it slams against your clit with each pump of his fingers. You grit your teeth, refusing to believe that Johnny might be right and he in fact might be the best lay you’ll ever have.
“Tell me, doll. What was it like? Did’ya ride his face since he can’t eat ya out properly or is he not enough for a pillow princess like you?”
The scowl on your face tells him you have some choice words as a response but he quickly cuts you off. “Oh please, we all know you’re definitely a pillow princess.”
He leans down, blowing against your tender clit before suckling at it lightly. Your legs tremble, threatening to close but a gentle spank followed by a large palm pressing against your thigh keeps you open.
The build up comes quicker than you’d like to admit. Your shallow breathes don’t do anything to hide the fact that you’re about to cum.
oh god- you’re cumming…cumming, cum-
You gasp at the sudden removal of his presence. You look up in shock, finding a smug Johnny between your legs. By the look on his face, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Fuck him.
“Beg for me, doll. Tell me you’re sorry for being such a brat all the time.”
You refuse. You might be teetering the edge of an orgasm but you still have your pride.
However, your refusal doesn’t put him off, instead he inches closer, fingers playing with your folds as if they were pages of a book. “It would be no fun if you were compliant anyways.”
You learn Johnny is a stubborn man- ruining orgasm after orgasm. He brings you to your high quickly, reckless demeanor contrasting with his precise movements.
Even when your pussy is squeezing his cock like it doesn’t want to let go, he finds the will to pull out and leave you shamefully pulsing around nothing.
He does this over and over and over- until you’re a sobbing mess. His name sounds so nice on your tongue followed by a broken “please” or “I’m sorry.”
But one isn’t enough. You’ve been a bitch to Johnny in the past, as he had been to you (but Johnny ignores this fact), and he plans on getting his fill all in one night.
Maybe if he can get you to admit he’s the best you’ve ever had, he’ll let you cum in the morning.
More Neighbor!Simon Riley (since y'all absolutely loved my first one)
a/n: thank you all for the likes you give to my first writing of this!
You can find the first part HERE.
Minors do NOT interact.
Before starting, clear warnings: Accidental Eavesdropping, Auditory Voyeurism, Invasion of Privacy, Simon is a pervert. Don't like = don't read/interact. Please scroll if this bothers you in any way.
Before Simon choose a home to leave after deployments, or during times when he was injuried and was banned from missions till he fully healed, he needed a place to stay. Price didn't wanted him to stay inside the base all the damn time.
So he found this apartment. Not too tall, not too crowded. Neither the town. It wasn't too isolated or too crowded, just the perfect way that if someone ever tried to assassinate him, he would already know. Plus Simon know how to stay low, to blend in, barely leave the house, and made deep research about everything and everyone.
He also knew that he should have changed homes months ago. But he didn't. He couldn't. Not yet.
Not when he had a such a cutie next door to him.
Oh weren't you a sight to sore eyes?
Simon first noticed you when he was checking the apartment residents background, to make sure no one was dangerous enough. That's when he come across you. Cought his eye, which he didn't really mind.. at first.
Not till you give him that damned food.
Of course he couldn't blandly trust it, or you. No harm done, he was like this to everyone, he should be, naturally.
Yet after confirming the food was very much safe, he really inhaled it all.
That wasn't some 'cought my eye' anymore for him. That was a whole 'ruin m-'
...
There it was with the toughts again. Sigh. Better take a shower..
But when he entered the showers? Noises filled in. Noises that aren't normal when he sometimes (definitely by accident, never leaving his bathroom door open to hear you sing or talk to yourself) heard from the vents that were actually connected from the walls.
At all.
It was sinful. Downright so seducing. Filthy.
Oh-- oh. you didn't know the vents were connected, aren't you?
That's why he could hear - not so perfectly of course, but still very much there - your pretty moans that you barely tried to hide.
Probably because you tought 'who would hear anyways?'
Well Simon did. He is hearing EVERYTHING right now.
No no. What the fuck is wrong with him?? Listening on his neighbor? Be shameful of yourself, Simon... You are kind, innocent. What he is doing right now is dirty. He shouldn't..
But his hands twitched. Wanting to listen more and maybe even touch himse-..
You made yourself a big place in his brain.
A/n: inspired from the fact I realized that in my building some vents in the bathroom are connected. And honestly I don't know what should I write after this one-- (would appreciate ideas) and don't be shy to leave comments/requests too!
