I'm Jane :) She/They, overworked, and a writer on the side. My favorite color is midnight blue, my favorite food is Aloo Gobi, and I have a beautiful gorgeous girl named Starr 🌟 Catch me listening to Hozier and old Mr. Suicide Sheep playlists, jotting down my next written work and sipping on lime water. How busy I am and how often I post varies on my schedule, so please be patient if I haven't updated in a while. I'm most likely catching up on sleep or working!
I mostly write for Call of Duty (I say mostly because I'm open to other fandoms, but I have yet to explore). I write SFW< NSFW, light, and dark content, so please make sure to block the tag "Dead Dove Do Not Eat" if you wish to skip my darker works.
My Works
Call of Duty
König Masterlist
Simon "Ghost" Riley Masterlist
General COD Works
Comforting You During a Rough Academic Period
Comforting You During Your Period
"You're Being... Detained" (Phillip Graves x Reader)
Want to see general COD word vomit? Check out my tag cod blurbs!
Want to see more COD content? Drop requests here!
// All work and OC's are fictional. All rights reserved to the Call of Duty franchise. I do not own the characters portrayed in these stories. //
Things I will NOT write:
Scat or waterworks
Food play
Beastiality (monster fucking excluded)
Anal
This list may potentially get longer. If you don't see something here, feel free to ask me about it, but keep in mind it might be something I'm not willing to do, and will therefore be added to this list.
// Just because something is on this list does not mean that this blog will not contain reblogs of this kind of content. By continuing to read my blog you are agreeing that you are responsible for the media you consume. //
FOR ALL WORKS: Headers and dividers credited to @the-aesthetics-shop // MDNI strips and lines credited to @inklore
If I use a photo and cannot find the original artist (since Pinterest is full of reposts where they sometimes don't credit the original creator), please know that none of the art I use is mine. Please message me if you find the OC for an image I use and I'll credit them.
bartender ghost trying to cook when soap gets sick lmao
I'm dying, I would be so pissed at nothing if this happened to me
Tonight is actually the worst: you've said that many times on weekend nights, but today takes the cake. Soap is out sick, unfortunately, andyou would have thought he was lying, just to get a day alone with Kyle. But he actually tried to come in that day. Simon promptly told him to leave when the Scot kept stepping into the alley to cough up a lung.
It isn't even that busy; it was a Wednesday night, you had three tables, and currently, there's no one at the bar. You're hovering near the kitchen doors, chewing on your pen cap and listening to the frustrated clanging and banging echoing from the kitchen, when your two-top waves you over. You're not worried. They're here for one of their weekly date nights, and they know Price.
"I'm so sorry-" As you walk over, Miranda pushed her burger towards the edge of the table. "I never do this-"
You wave your hand dismissively, taking the burger and James' shepherd's pie as he hands it to you. "Hey, you wouldn't be the first ones tonight. Is it undercooked?"
Miranda nods. "Yeah - sorry, I just get picky about stuff being cooked."
"It's fine!" You say apologetically, both plates on one hand as you grab their empty water glasses. "I'll let chef know, it's not a problem."
"Is Johnny feelin' alright?" James asks.
You bite your lip, deciding not to sugarcoat anything. "Well... he's out sick. Simon's filling in for him."
Like a Pavlovian response, they both wince. They must have seen this rodeo before.
You quickly clear the air. "But John should be here soon! He'll step in for him once he gets to the pub."
They both let out a breath, and James speaks. "Right - we'll just wait for John to get here. Don't want to stress Simon out."
You smile, taking the food and the glasses away. "I'll be back with some more waters."
As soon as your back is turned to them, you rush off to the kitchen with the dishes. All of your tables have opted to wait for the owner to take over in the kitchen - and now, you spot a table of six walking in. Fabulous.
You shoulder your way into the kitchen and grimace as the smell of burnt beef hits your nose. Simon's facing the grill, muttering under his breath and angrily flipping a burger. The patty falls apart mid-flip, and he only sighs in response.
"You got the fuckin' heat up too high, ya nyaff-" Soap's voice echoes through his phone, propped up against the refrigerator. "Turn it down."
"I already did." Simon grumbles back. He grabs a dry rag and pops the oven open, pulling out a baked mac and cheese. It's got a nice layer of charcoal on the top - and it's a bit hard to tell if the entire thing is completely burnt or not.
"For Christ's sake, Simon-" Soap pauses, then sneezes, followed by a groan. "Give it a rest, just wait for cap."
"He's supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago-" Simon stops as he turns, eyes landing on you. You're still holding the two plates of food, a sheepish look on your face.
"What's wrong now?" He snaps.
"... undercooked..." You mumble.
He grunts and comes around the line, grabbing the plates from you. You sigh as he stalks back to the grill, snatching the burger from the bun and slapping it back onto the grill.
"They said they'd wait for Price-"
"I can make a goddamn burger." He said, mashing the patty down with a burger press. You huff in frustration and throw your hands up, heading back to the restaurant to get waters for the six-top.
Price comes jogging through the front door about ten minutes later, giving you a curt smile as he rushes into the kitchen. You hear a brief exchange of bickering between him and Simon, as well as cookware banging against the countertops. Moments later, the bartender emerges, shoulders tense and an unmistakably angry crease in his brow.
With Price finally in the kitchen, and Simon at the bar, you finally punch in your orders for your tables.
For the rest of the night, you let Simon cool off. The tension in the air fans out as the hours tick by, and it's replaced with a low-simmering frustration. Thankfully, none of your tables make any rude comments or shoot their shot at getting a handful of your ass, or you'd be afraid that Simon would beat them into the woodgrain of the floor. They all seemed satisfied with the change of cooks, and once the food is run to the tables, the remainder of the evening goes by complaint-free.
Simon's steaming at himself as he scrubs the dishes behind the bar, almost polishing them down to half their original size. What kind of man can't make a burger? He should have swept up the macaroni before Price got there, or cleaned some of the dishes - now the owner has to clean up after his mess. And why the fuck did he call Soap? The bloke's sick, he should have let him rest-
His thoughts are abruptly shoved to the back of his mind when you take up the space in between; you park yourself in the same seat at the bar as every night, tips in one hand and your calculator up and ready on your phone. You give him a small smile and nothing more, still sensing that he's navigating through the rough patch in his mind.
He continues washing the bar dishes, keeping his head down. "Any trouble tonight?"
You shake your head as you punch numbers into your calculator. "Nope - no triple digits, though."
He huffs. "Can't have you makin' millions every night. The bar would suffer if you ran off to Dubai with all that."
"Nah..." you tap your pen against the bar top, eyes watching his forearms as he washed the dishes. "I'd at least take you with me. And I'd get you plenty of sunscreen."
He freezes, one of the glasses half-submerged into the sanitizer. He looks at you with narrowed eyes. "Why 'plenty'?"
A moment passes as you debate whether or not to potentially insult him, eyes locked on his face. "Well-" you glance at his forearms again, scarred and very pale. "You just... everyone needs a little, y'know?"
He straightens up with a knowing look. His mask shifts as he presses his lips together in indignance. "You callin' me anemic?"
"What? No!" you say quickly, looking back down at your receipts. "Not anemic, just- like, you're a little pale, I guess." You try to dodge the accusation in his tone, swinging your foot rhythmically by the bottom of the stool.
"Pale?" he grunts, grabbing the next bar glass. "Yeah, alright... should'a seen me in Mexico..."
Your foot slowly comes to a halt as you process his words, your stomach starting to flip. You imagine him under a high, hot sun, probably in a black shirt, like always. Sweat clinging to his skin, to the muscles of his torso that you just know are hiding under his clothes. Maybe he rides a motorcycle there... you can see him leaning up against a black, sleek Ducati, wearing a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips, beckoning you toward him with a flick of his fingers.
"... do you have pictures?" You ask quietly, nonchalantly scribbling a doodle on one of your receipts.
Before he can answer, Price pushes out of the kitchen doors, making you lean over the doodle that you are now very interested in (hoping he didn't hear what you had just said). "You couldn't've seen any part of him in Mexico." he says, reaching down behind the bar to grab a new bottle of hot sauce. "He was covered head to toe. I bet twenty quid his skin never touched the air down there."
Simon shoots Price a glare as he leaves, setting down a bowl of chips between you and the bartender before heading back into the kitchen with a smirk. The dishes in front of him are picked up once more, and he scrubs them as he grumbles to himself. "Wanker..." You watch idly, grabbing a chip and tossing it into your mouth. For a moment, his eyes flicker up to you, then back down with a hidden smile. The negative, droning in the back of his mind has faded altogether - the only one to question his worth and skill had been himself, and now he feels quite foolish for berating himself over something as simple as cooking a burger.
"You free for breakfast tomorrow?" he asks, lifting his gaze once more.
A smile immediately lands on your face, making his insecurities ease up just a bit. "Definitely." you reply, grabbing another chip. Your smile suddenly drops as you jab the chip in his direction. "Unless you're cooking."
He huffs humorlessly. He grabs the chip before you can toss it back, and drops it into the wash sink without hesitation.
Make-out session with Soap on the couch turns heated, and piece-by-piece, articles of clothing get stripped off. He watches with lecherous eyes as you take his thumb in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the rough pad. You never break eye contact as you remove your bra at a torturously slow pace, before tossing it at his face. It's hard for him to recover from that when his cock is siphoning all of the blood in his body into itself. He pauses for a moment, pulling the bra off his face as you giggle, sliding off of his lap and walking down the hall with a teasing, sultry gleam in your eyes. As if to say, don't keep me waiting.
Oh, he's getting lucky.
His movement sparks yours; as he gets up from the couch, the deliberate sway in your hips becomes excitement, and now you're darting to the bedroom. He follows quickly, using the sofa's arm to stabilize himself as he swings around the corner with an eagerness to pursue you. The only thing he can feel is the growing arousal in his length as he listens to your laughter, chasing after you with a burning desire to ravish you.
Then, violently ripping through the sensual setting, multiple things happen at once. Johnny slams his toe into the doorframe of the bedroom in his narrow-minded focus to fuck you. "Fuck'n shit!I" he curses, grabbing his foot - the continued momentum of his body sends him crashing down, and his uninjured ankle rolls with a sharp twist of pain. Simultaneously, he crashes against the bed, his head smacking into the footboard and his body ricocheting off of the mattress.
Your panicked gasp is muted in his mind as he lands on his back. A noise escapes his lungs; the ceiling comes into focus, then fades, then comes back. His ankle throbs painfully, and he just begins to register what happened when two images of you come into focus.
"Oh my god-" you fret, kneeling next to his head. Your expression is panicked, the previously libidinous look now replaced by shock. "Johnny, can you hear me?"
He blinks, narrowing his eyes to try and keep his vision from dancing. "... loud n' clear."
"You've cracked your head open."
Sure enough, the side of his forehead feels warm. As you disappear again, he reaches his fingers up to drag along his face, and they pull back with blood staining the tips. He looks down at himself - he doesn't quite notice how his ankle is bent at a somewhat questionable angle, no. All he sees, and all he cares about, is that he's still rock-hard, and that his roll in the sheets with you has been interrupted. That won't do.
You come rushing back with a cloth from the washroom, gently wiping up the blood on the side of his head. The ceiling light above perfectly frames your face above him, like an angel coming to his rescue, your tits just inches from his face... maybe feet... he can't really tell. They're close enough that they should be in his mouth. Won't that make you calm down?
"I'm going to call an ambulance, ok?" You say, trying and failing to contain your alarm.
"Don'needit..." he slurs out, his gaze locked on you.
"Babe, I can't drag you to the car like this! You might have cracked your skull."
"Naw, bonnithin', please..." his hand reaches out to try and grab your hip, but he isn't sure where your hip is at the moment. "Jus' ride it first, a'right?"
"No!" you scold him, running towards the closet and grabbing the closest pair of jeans and whatever t-shirt you can reach. "You're bleeding all over the carpet, bampot!"
He knows he's not dying; even in his current state, he knows this is far from the worst he's had. He sighs, letting his limbs fall back against the floor. He really needs to work out this stonner, and the fact that you're too worried about a concussion is criminal, in his opinion. A quickie wouldn't shake the odds of life or death, here.
"I've got a fuck'n rager, babe, c'mon." he begs. "Jus' sit on it for... for a bit, n' I'll be right as rain."
"Make the blood go back up to your head, so you don't bleed out." you snap, grabbing your phone from the dresser.
He groans and closes his eyes in defeat. How's he explaining this to Price?
If you make Johnny a loaf of chocolate banana bread, warm, sweet, dense, and moist (srry), it's like you've put a ring on his finger. He'll watch with a giddy smile, leaning against the counter as you slice off a piece for him (it's his loaf, why can't he just rip off a chunk and eat it?), equally full of adoration and anticipation. That first bite of soft, chocolaty bread has his eyes rolling back, lids closing as a deep, satisfied groan rumbles through his chest. Savors the taste as your face lights up with pride, watching as he shoves another bite into his mouth.
"You like it?"
Hw scoffs. "Gonna get ye a fat, shiny rock for your pretty lil' finger, Christ-"
"That good?!"
"Make me another one 'n I'm puttin' a bairn in ye"
Soap x reader in the works where he very gently and patiently helps her lose her virginity because sex is something she struggles with but she wants to overcome it (anon request)
I refuse to post any of it until it's written start to finish bc I'm sick of leaving stories open-ended/unfinished and this might (keyword: might) make me actually complete something
Roommate!Johnny who casually walked in on you changing.
Before you could yell at him to get out of your room, he stripped his own t-shirt off, pointing at his stretchmark at the top of his torso, then at your stretchmark near your hips.
Sorry but losing your shit and bullying people over non-problematic Ghoap shippers is so cringe. I get it if they get in your face about it, but if you're leaving hateful comments on a tiktok you don't have to respond to, get over yourself. Let people have their ships. It's all fictional. Go get a different hobby and stop crying over fiction.
cleanse me (bsf!johnny mactavish x reader, fluff with groping)
it had been a rough mission. the kind where the team gets out by a hair, bleeding and scraped as they ran to exfil. the kind with a silent ride back to base, neither you nor johnny able to fill the air with a laugh or two. the kind where you think of what could have happened if things hadn’t fell into place at the last second, who you could be mourning now.
johnny’s your best friend, and maybe something more. late night cuddles, waist hugs and forehead kisses all feel like a little more. that night with the drunken marriage pact (you both were only tipsy, but you like to use alcohol as your reasoning for stupidity) that you both ignore to this day.
so when you see him in the communal showers, a man whose seen you naked in every way, you can’t help but seek comfort from your other half. you strip your clothes into a pile on the floor and walk over to where this scottish god stands under a shower head, letting the water wash off his sins.
he hears you come up from behind him and tenses a bit, still in fight mode from the mission. you take a hand and smooth out his tense back muscles, his body relaxing at the familiar feel of your calluses. his mohawk has grown out, almost breaking regulation standards, but you like the feel, sliding your hand from his neck to his longer strands. your nails scrape his scalp, every movement reminding you that you didn’t lose him, he’s still here. you reach your other hand around him, and he silently squirts shampoo into it.
you take your time massaging his hair, getting out the dried bomb residue and drops of blood. the water finally runs clean after a few minutes, and you finish him off with your own conditioner since you know he doesn’t own one.
you move on to body wash, massaging him up and down until he’s covered in suds, in soap. you take your time with his back, tracing scars and healed-over bullet wounds. you crouch and get the back of his legs, kneading tense muscles. he turns around and you choke back a whine, coming face to face with his hardened cock, but now isn’t the time. instead, you lather the front of his legs and slowly stand, giving his cock a couple pumps to make everything gets cleaned.
finally you clean his torso, playing with his light chest hair as you work in the last of the soap. his arms are so masculine, thick veins protruding as you work him down to the fingers. and now you’re done.
you make eye contact nervously, for the first time since this entire endeavor started. his blue eyes sear into you, a world of want and understanding found behind them. johnny grabs your chin and pulls you closer, forcing you into the cleansing stream of water. “leannan.” darling. love. you had looked it up before, his tender nickname for you, never really understanding the breadth of it until he looked at you like this. like you were his love.
“johnny.” he was cleaning you now, with the same care you gave him. the hands of a soldier, a bomb maker, an engineer, practiced in deft and slight movements. “ye take care of me so well.” you nodded, choking back some unknown emotion. he was cupping your pussy, muttering sweet nothings about treating her right and my wet little thing, things in his language you didn’t understand.
“how long do i have to wait to marry ye again?” he moved from your cunt to your breasts, memorizing their feel. storing it for later, in the darkness of his room, fist pumping his cock with rough strokes. “five-“ his hand gripped your throat, thumb stroking your jaw, distracting you for a second. “five years.” he hummed. “i’ll marry ye tomorrow if ye want, just say the word.” your mouth opened and closed, resembling a gaping fish. he laughed and gave you that cheeky grin, slowly returning to himself. because of you.
sfw + nsfw. overstimulation & premature ejaculation (simon). his metal arm has a vibrator function. unprotected sex.
mr. riley is a new regular.
hulking, broad-shouldered, always hunched like he's trying to fold himself into something smaller. dirty blonde hair, hoodies that swallow his frame, gloves that never come off— not in winter, not when the air conditioning is broken, not when it’s so hot outside that the pavement wavers under the sun. you see him come in once during a heatwave, sweat beading at his temples, looking like he just came from hell itself. but the gloves stay.
always.
he’s quiet. doesn’t talk much unless he has to. keeps his answers clipped, never makes small talk, never lingers longe,ur than it takes to grab his order and leave. you might’ve found him intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that his dog, riley, was the exact opposite.
big, fluffy, and absurdly well-behaved. the kind that made strangers stop and coo when they passed by, all soft ears and wagging tail. an instant favorite among customers. an absolute menace to simon.
because the dog likes attention. loves it, actually. practically demands it. and, more specifically— he likes you.
so the moment simon steps up to the counter, riley is already perking up at your voice. tail wagging, eyes locked on you, waiting expectantly like he thinks you’re about to drop an entire steak into his mouth.
"oh! mr. riley! the usual today?"
simon grunts. closest thing to a yes you ever get.
"and a pup cup for little riley, i take it?"
the man sighs. “he’s gonna get fat.”
but he still swipes his card. no hesitation.
riley whines at the accusation, staring at him with something close to betrayal.
you slide simon’s order across the counter after a moment, the movements routine by now.
he reaches out. his right hand hovers over the cup. fingers stretching, hovering, like he’s trying to will it into his grasp.
nothing happens. his fingers twitch, but they won’t close.
you see it— the way his jaw tightens, the sharp curl of his lip like he’s biting down a curse. the tension in his shoulders. the exhale through his nose.
“mr. riley?” you ask carefully.
his scowl deepens. he tries again— too hard, too fast— his grip locks up, crushing the cup before he can stop himself. the lid pops off. coffee splatters over his hand, dripping onto the counter.
you yelp, stepping back on instinct. he doesn’t.
he just stares down at his hand. impassive. like he hasn't been baptized by scalding liquid.
“shit- hang on-” you scramble around the counter, heat rising up your throat, words spilling out in a rush. “jesus, are you- your hand-”
“s’fine,” he grunts.
his flesh hand flexes at his side, but the other— the one that had crushed the cup— stays frozen, unmoving.
you don’t believe him for a second. ignoring his protests, you reach for his wrist, peeling off the soaked glove before he can stop you.
you freeze.
metal. not sleek, new, high-tech metal. not the kind you see in sci-fi movies, gleaming and futuristic.
no. this is old. dull, scratched, worn— something that’s clearly been through hell and barely made it out. the joints look stiff, the plates dented in places, the wiring almost exposed near the wrist.
your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “… huh.”
his brow lifts slightly. “that all you got?”
you blink, tilting your head. “kinda thought there’d be… more wires. sparks. terminator shit.”
a beat. then, maybe, the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips.
“disappointed?”
“a little.”
you keep staring, the sight settling in your brain, cataloging every detail. not military-grade. not some brand-new prosthetic straight from a lab. something about it makes your chest tighten.
“has it… uh, been this iffy for a while?” you ask, glancing up.
simon shrugs with his good shoulder, the movement almost dismissive. “yeah. thing’s temperamental.”
“like you,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.
his brow arches slightly, but he doesn’t deny it.
you glance around the café, nerves twisting in your stomach. no customers. the clock ticks lazily, the smell of coffee and vanilla in the air. you bite your lip, thinking.
“so, uh- i’m an engineering student,” you start, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your apron. “and… i mean, if you wanted- i could take a look? maybe tweak it a bit?”
his gaze snaps to you. it makes your stomach flip, and you wonder if you’ve just crossed a line you hadn’t realized was there.
“… you want to mess with my arm?”
“not mess! i mean- help. like… it’s kind of what i do. circuits, mechanics- prosthetics aren’t that different. probably.” you wince. “unless you’re, like, secretly part robot with classified tech and i’m about to get black-bagged or something-”
“you talk a lot,” he deadpans.
“nerves,” you shoot back, cheeks warming. “so… yes? no? totally fine if it’s weird.”
he exhales through his nose, staring at you like he’s trying to figure you out. the silence stretches. then—
“… got tools?”
your face lights up. “back in my car!”
“figured.” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “fine. but if you break it worse-”
“i won’t,” you grin, already grabbing your keys. “trust me.”
“don’t say that,” he calls after you. “famous last words.”
…
simon would rather take a bullet than admit it, but you turn out to be a problem in his life.
because after that first fix— crammed into your car that rattled like it was held together with duct tape and prayer— he walks away with a hand that actually works for the first time in months.
no stiffness. no lag. no bullshit. he clenches his fist and releases, watching the fingers curl and straighten without a hint of resistance.
it feels foreign. unnatural. smooth in a way that it should be but hasn’t been for a long, long time.
so when he asks how much he owes, expecting a number, you just tilt your head and grin.
"tell me your full name. i don’t wanna keep calling you mr. riley."
simon stares at you like he’s weighing whether he can get away with walking out without answering. then, like it pains him— "simon."
you laugh. “you look like a simon.”
…
he doesn’t try to make it a habit, coming to you.
really. he doesn’t.
but prosthetic specialists are expensive, and he’s not exactly drowning in engineering contacts. the local mechanics won’t touch prosthetics (liability reasons, mate, can’t help ya), and he sure as hell isn’t stepping into a clinic unless he wants some lab rat poking and prodding at him like he’s a cutting-edge science project.
so when his arm starts acting up again, he does what he always does.
he ignores it. it’ll be fine. he can live with it.
it starts with a bit of stiffness. a missed grip here and there. nothing major.
then his fingers start locking up at random, the servos stalling, the whole limb feeling like it’s dragging behind the rest of him.
not ideal. not something he can use. three weeks in, and it’s a fucking liability.
he caves.
simon times it carefully. dead hour. mid-afternoon. when the café is empty and you’ll have a second to spare.
he walks in, orders a pup cup for riley, and waits. he doesn’t wait long.
the moment your eyes flicker to his gloved hand— how his fingers can't even curl anymore— your expression drops.
your shoulders tighten, brows knit together, mouth parting slightly like you’re about to scold him before you even know what’s wrong.
"simon," you say, voice sharp like he just admitted to a felony.
before he can so much as blink, you’re untying your apron.
"break," you toss over your shoulder.
your coworker barely looks up. just shrugs.
simon exhales through his nose. he should’ve just ripped the damn thing off himself.
your car is just as a mess as it was last time. empty water bottles on the floor. a crumpled hoodie in the backseat. textbooks piled in the passenger footwell, some open, some stuffed with loose papers. it smells faintly like vanilla air freshener and stress.
riley jumps in first, hopping into the backseat like he owns the place, and promptly curls up across the mess of loose papers and crumpled receipts.
simon says nothing. just lets himself into the passenger seat, shifts slightly to get comfortable in the too-small space, and watches as you slam the driver’s side door with a little more force than necessary.
you’re fuming.
he can feel it radiating off you like an overheating engine as you shove his sleeve up and strip the glove away.
he glances down. yeah. even he has to admit— it looks rough. the plates are slightly misaligned. the servos are dragging. the tension in the fingers is off, the whole mechanism resisting movement like it’s gummed up with sand and bad decisions.
"oh my god, how long has this been going on?"
his eyes flicking to the side. "three weeks."
you go still. "THREE WEEKS?!"
riley lifts his head from where he’s sprawled out in the backseat and whines at the sharpness of your voice. simon rubs at his temple with his good hand, sighing.
"three- jesus, simon, if your arm has a problem, you come to me right away!"
"didn’t wanna bother you."
you make a strangled sound, something between disbelief and frustration, already yanking open your toolkit with more force than necessary. "bother- oh my god, you idiot," you snap, flipping through your tools at lightning speed. "this is- unusable. how were you even functioning like this?"
"managed."
"you shouldn’t have to ‘manage.’ that’s the point of a prosthetic!"
simon huffs, shifting his arm slightly as you mutter curses under your breath and start unscrewing the external plating.
riley rests his chin on the back of simon’s seat, watching the whole thing unfold with his big brown eyes, tail thumping softly against the pile of forgotten assignments.
"can feel your judgment," simon mutters, breaking the silence.
"good. let it sink in."
riley lets out a low whine, nudging the back of simon’s neck with his nose.
simon sighs. "yeah, yeah. i know."
the dog lets out a single huff, like he agrees with you.
you pause long enough to glance at riley, expression unimpressed. "at least he gets it."
"gettin’ ganged up on," simon mutters.
riley whines. you don’t even look up.
"good.
his mouth twitches. he tells himself it’s a muscle spasm.
you don’t look at him when you actually get to work. simon notices.
he’s sitting there, arm bared, cables exposed, and you’re bent over the mess of wiring like he’s not even in the room. like he’s just another machine in need of fixing. your hands move with quick precision, fingers deft as you pluck out worn components and replace them with fresh ones. you mutter to yourself, little noises of satisfaction or frustration depending on what you find.
it’s unsettling. not you— no, you’re fine. better than fine. competent. but it’s been a long time since someone’s handled his arm without hesitation, without the kind of quiet reverence people get when they realize how much damage a man has to take before he needs one of these.
to you, it’s just broken. something that needs tuning.
he flexes his fingers the second you flip the switch.
his hand moves fast. smooth. no delay between thought and motion. he rolls his wrist. it hasn’t felt this natural in weeks.
"good?" you ask, still gathering your tools.
he moves his fingers again. watches them articulate, watches the precise shift of metal joints. "yeah," he mutters.
you nod, already packing up, already moving on.
he watches you.
then you say it, casual, like an afterthought. “don’t worry about it.”
simon doesn’t blink. he knew you were going to say that because apparently you're the next coming of the good fucking samaritan. it still pisses him off.
he glances at you. at the torn-up upholstery of your car, the loose wires under the dash, the check engine light that’s been on this entire time, the faint but definite smell of something burning.
he drums his fingers against his knee. “i’ll fix your car.”
you argue about it, of course. insist it’s fine, like you don’t hear the death rattle when you start the engine. simon doesn’t argue back. doesn’t need to. just asks— when’s the last time you had it looked at?— and watches you press your lips together.
thought so.
“two days, at least,” he tells you.
your horror is almost funny. “two days?”
“maybe three.”
you stare at him like he just told you your dog died.
he pats the dashboard. “i’ll do what i can to keep it alive.”
it takes one day. he calls while you’re still half-asleep. “your car’s a lost cause.”
you meet up later so he can walk you through the damage in person.
you listen. don’t talk much, don’t get defensive. just nod as he points things out, as he explains the alternator’s failing, the battery’s shot, the brake pads are gone— and yeah, he’s still pissed about that one. your transmission is a liability. the engine’s practically running on fumes.
you sigh, dragging a hand over your face.
“i need my car,” you grumble. “i have plates to pass. blueprints that cannot get wet, or my professor will deduct major points. and-”
“i’ll drive you.”
you stop. blink. “what?”
“i’ll drive you,” he repeats, like it’s obvious.
you look at him, wary. “don’t you have work?”
“on break.”
“friends?”
he shakes his head. “not really.”
“family?”
he actually laughs. there's no real humor in it.
something shifts in your face. simon sees it before you do, the flicker of discomfort, the way you adjust your stance like there’s something you want to say but don’t know how.
simon doesn’t let you say it.
“tell me your schedule.” he shuts the hood like the matter’s settled. “text me when you need a ride. i’ll be there.”
you cross your arms. “so i get a chauffeur for fixing one prosthetic?”
he flexes his fingers. “you underestimate how much these cost.”
you roll your eyes. “you act like i replaced the whole thing.”
“you might as well have,” he mutters. “damn thing actually works now.”
you sigh, shifting on your feet. “you really don’t have plans?”
“if you count drinking beer alone, then yeah, i have plenty.
so he starts picking you up.
at first, it’s straightforward. you text him when you need a ride, and he shows up, no questions asked. no complaints, either— just grunts a greeting, waits for you to get in, and drives. sometimes he has the radio on. other times, it’s just quiet, the steady hum of the engine and the occasional flick of a turn signal.
simon doesn’t mind detours. when you run late and beg him to swing by a drive-thru, he just sighs and pulls into the next available one. doesn’t even say anything when you apologize through a mouthful of food, just takes a sip of his own coffee and keeps driving.
but, one morning, when you rush out of your apartment, tripping over your own feet, already bracing for the inevitable “can we stop by-”
simon just reaches into the passenger seat, grabs a bag, and tosses it into your lap.
you blink down at it. warm, heavy. smells good.
“…what’s this?”
he puts the truck into drive. “breakfast.”
“thanks,” you mumble, glancing at riley whose got his head wedged between the two of you, tongue lolling out, eyes bright as he watches you unwrap your sandwich.
“does he want some?”
simon doesn’t even look. “he always wants some.”
you tear off a piece anyway, holding it out. riley inhales it like it personally offended him
simon snorts. “you’re gonna spoil him.”
“he’s cute. he deserves it.”
“he’s a liability.”
“you’re just jealous ‘cause i don’t feed you by hand.”
you look up, realizing what you just said.
simon’s looking back at you. slow blink. unreadable.
heat licks at your neck. “i- i didn’t mean-”
riley whines, nosing at your hand for more food, and you’ve never been more grateful for a dog’s terrible sense of timing.
he hums, turning back to the road. “thought so.”
…
this keeps going for months. a pattern. a rhythm. the two of you slot into each other’s lives like you’ve always been there.
you stop thanking him when he brings you food. he stops questioning it when you drag him to your workshop to tinker with his arm.
and then, one day. he picks you up, just like always.
but this time—
you slide into the passenger seat and don’t say anything.
no greeting. no complaints. no requests for coffee. just sit back, staring straight ahead, like you’re still processing something.
simon frowns. “…what?”
“…my project is on prosthetic arms.”
his head snaps toward you. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask if it’s because of him. because that— that feels too dangerous.
your hands grip your sleeves. “can i design you a new prosthetic arm?”
he doesn’t answer right away. doesn’t move. his fingers flex against the wheel.
you don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at you, and it’s the first time in a long time he really feels like he’s made of metal and wire and things that aren’t his own.
you exhale. glance at him out of the corner of your eye.
he looks down. his palm, cold and impersonal. not really his, not entirely.
and— “…yeah,” he mutters, tapping his fingers against his thigh.
a beat.
“…all right.”
…
simon steps inside your apartment, and the first thing he notices is that it smells like you. not perfume, not some scent in a bottle— just you. a mix of coffee, paper, and something warm and lived-in. his boots make the floor creak slightly as he shifts, taking it all in.
riley, in comparison,immediately takes off, nose to the ground, sniffing every single thing he can get to. he pushes his head into the couch cushions, sticks his snout into your laundry pile, and stands on his hind legs to peek at the half-eaten bag of chips on the coffee table.
simon watches you rush to pull snacks away before riley gets his paws on them, muttering something about “you’d think i don’t feed you.” riley wags his tail in betrayal.
the space is cluttered but cozy. the kind of messy that isn’t disorganized, just... busy. like your life is so packed with things to do that it spills over into your home. there are loose papers on the coffee table, your drafting table is buried under textbooks and sketches, and there’s a laundry basket in the corner that’s almost full but not quite.
and the lamps. so many damn lamps. simon counts sixteen before he even makes it past the entrance.
you explain your thesis, and simon listens. really listens. you talk with your hands, explaining concepts in bursts of energy, excitement bright in your eyes. you tell him about rare alloys, cutting-edge designs, how the neural link would function with smoother input signals.
his stomach twists a little when you say it—
“i want to make you a new arm with all of that.”
simon doesn’t answer immediately. just exhales through his nose. he know he should say no. tell you it’s unnecessary. that his arm is fine. that he’s fine.
but then you pull out the blueprints, show him the design, and it’s... it’s good.
it’s really fucking good.
and he knows how much this tech costs. he remembers sitting in a sterile office, watching a man in a lab coat list out the prices of different prosthetic models. he remembers running his fingers over a brochure, seeing the way the most advanced models— the ones that felt like real limbs— were laughably out of reach.
“it’s expensive,” he says, voice flat. It’s not a question.
you hesitate. shift your weight. “…the university gave me a budget.”
he watches you. waits. “…and is it enough to cover the costs?”
you don’t answer.
he sighs and pulls out his phone.
you blink. “what are you doing?”
“making a call.”
simon doesn’t ask for favors. he doesn’t like owing people. doesn’t like being in someone’s debt. But this— this isn’t only for him.
it’s for you too.
he doesn’t hesitate when he dials price’s number. the line barely rings twice before it picks up. “this better be good, ghost.”
it's the price standard. no greeting, no pleasantries.
“it is,” he says. “need a favor.”
a pause. not because price is surprised— simon doesn’t ask for favors often, but when he does, it’s never something small. It’s never something for him.
“go on.”
simon glances at you. you’re watching him, curiosity and just a little bit of suspicion. the old leather of his gloves creaking as he crosses his arms. “need a sponsor.”
another pause. then, dry as hell— “what, you starting a football team?”
he rolls his eyes. “no.”
“boxing, then?”
“price.”
the humor fades. a quiet sigh. “who’s it for?”
he hesitates. just for a second. not because he doesn’t know what to say— because he doesn’t know why he’s saying it. “she’s building a prosthetic,” he says finally. “one I need.”
one i want, he doesn't say.
“your arm acting up?”
“yeah.”
“so get it fixed.”
“this is better.”
price doesn’t say anything for a while and simon knows the old man is thinking, turning things over, considering.
then: “she good?”
siimon glances at you again. you’re shifting through your notes now. he exhales. “yeah.”
he hums, considering. “you trust her?”
that’s what it comes down to. trust.
simon has trusted exactly three people in his life:
1. his mother. until she was gone.
2. price. who never asked for it, never demanded it, but earned it anyway.
3. johnny. who trusts him back without question.
and now, there’s you. he wouldn’t be making this call if he didn’t. “…yeah,” he says.
and that’s all price needs to hear.
you protest the second simon shoves the phone into your hands. try to give it back, eyes wide like he just handed you a live grenade.
but he just crosses his arms, leans against the drafting table, and nods at the phone. “explain.”
you hesitate for way too long before reluctantly pressing it to your ear. “alright, kid. sell me on it.”
you freeze.
“oh my god, i hate you,” you whisper at simon before launching into a shaky but passionate explanation of your thesis to whoever the hell is on the other end of this call.
price listens. makes the occasional noise of interest. asks a few questions. and then— “alright. send me the details. i’ll see what i can do.”
you blink. “wait- so-?”
“i’ll sponsor the damn thing. might even endorse it a little.”
you stare at the phone like it's just grown legs.
“just make sure it works, yeah?”
you nod like he can see you, mumbling out a “thank you so much, sir,” before fumbling to hand the phone back to simon.
simon takes it, tucks it back into his pocket, and proceeds to act like this wasn’t a big deal at all.
you gape at him. “who even was that guy?”
“someone you don’t want to owe a favor.”
your eyes narrow. “and you do?”
simon shrugs. “already owed him one.”
and that’s true. priice has done more for simon than he can count. gave him a job when he didn’t deserve one, gave him a reason to live when he thought he’d run out.
if sponsoring you means putting another tally on that tab, then so be it.
…
you learn more about simon throughout the months.
he doesn’t like cucumbers. you find that out when he picks them out of his sandwich with the kind of silent disgust that makes it clear this is a habit, a ritual, a deeply ingrained practice that will not change no matter how many times you tell him he’s being dramatic.
he doesn’t sleep much. that’s another thing. you catch it in the way he moves, the way his eyes flick around a room too quickly, too sharp for someone who’s gotten a full night’s rest. sometimes, when he’s sitting at your table and riley is curled up by his feet, he just stares off like he’s somewhere else, mind miles away. you don’t ask where.
he doesn’t like sitting with his back to the door. ever. it doesn’t matter where you are— your apartment, a coffee shop, some hole-in-the-wall diner— he always angles himself so he can see the entrance. you test it once, sitting at a booth before he gets there, taking the seat facing the door. when he arrives, he stares at you for all of two seconds before just sighing and sliding in next to you instead of across. you don’t do it again.
he fixes things when he’s anxious. your loose cabinet hinge, the flickering kitchen light, the leaky faucet. he doesn’t say anything. just gets up, pulls out a tool, and starts working like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you find out that the calluses on his fingers aren’t just from weapons—he knows how to take things apart and put them back together, knows how to get grease under his nails, how to run his hands over a surface and understand exactly how it works.
he doesn’t like closed doors. doesn’t like feeling boxed in. when he’s at your place, he always leaves the door cracked, just a little. at first, you think it’s just a habit, but one night you’re in the kitchen and you see the way his shoulders ease when he glances up and sees the open space. you don’t say anything. you just stop closing the door all the way when he’s around.
one day, you’re working on fitting the prosthetic to his stump. it’s finally starting to look like an arm.
simon sits across from you, his forearm resting on the table as you carefully adjust the fit. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t do anything except watch as you secure the straps and check the connection points.
“any discomfort?” you ask, frowning as you examine the joints.
he flexes his fingers, rolling his wrist. “no.”
you glance up. “are you sure?”
he snorts, a short breath of amusement. “you want me to make somethin’ up?”
“no, i want you to tell me if it hurts.”
his lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. just shifts slightly, testing the range of motion. “feels good,” he says finally.
you nod, make a note. “good.”
rain starts somewhere in the background. a soft patter at first, then heavier, filling the quiet of your apartment. you barely notice at first, too focused on your work, but then you glance up and realize how late it’s gotten.
simon leans back slightly, rolling his shoulders. the room is dim now, the warm glow of your lamps casting long shadows across the walls. riley is curled up on the couch, one ear flicking at the sound of the rain.
you hesitate.
simon notices. lifts a brow.
“what?”
you swallow, shifting in your seat. “would you like to stay over?”
there’s a beat of silence.
simon blinks, slow. looks at you, then out the window, where the rain is coming down in thick, steady sheets.
“…you sure?”
you nod, maybe a little too fast. “yeah. it’s late. roads are bad.” you clear your throat. “and- i mean. it’s not like you sleep much anyway, right?”
he huffs out something that could be a laugh. drags a hand down his face. when he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable, something wry and considering.
“alright,” he says finally. “but i’m takin’ the couch.”
you roll your eyes. “obviously.”
he smirks. you get up to grab blankets. riley stretches on the couch, taking up as much space as possible, and simon mutters something about “bloody dog” but doesn’t move him.
the rain keeps falling. the room is warm.
simon stays.
…
months of refining, testing, and sleepless nights have led to this— the almost-final version of the prototype. the culmination of your work, a piece of engineering so advanced it almost breathes beneath your fingertips. simon sits before you, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his flesh-and-blood hand resting on his knee while the new prosthetic gleams under the workshop lights.
it’s a work of art, even if he’d never call it that. matte black plating, smooth but lined with faint ridges where the internal components shift and adjust to mimic the movement of muscle. beneath the casing, synthetic tendons coil and flex like real ones, powered by the delicate balance of neural signals and finely tuned actuators. when he moves his fingers, the transition is seamless, each digit reacting in perfect sync with his intent, no longer the slight delay of older models.
he watches as you adjust the final connection points, the alignment of the servos. the heat of his gaze is palpable, but he stays silent, letting you work.
then— a flicker in the system.
it's subtle at first, a low hum beneath the surface of the plating. then it builds. a vibration rolls through the arm, an erratic tremor that makes the fingers twitch. simon lifts it slightly, inspecting it with mild curiosity, flexing his hand.
“huh,” he muses, tone is as dry as ever. “well. could be a vibrator.”
your brain short-circuits. “what-” your fingers slip, almost dropping the tool in your hand. heat floods your face. “that’s- no. absolutely not.”
he tilts his head, studying you like he’s just found something interesting. “was this meant-”
“no!” you blurt, too quick, too loud.
simon is skeptical. “be honest.”
your throat tightens. you look at the circuitry, the faint whir of the servos, anywhere but his face. “…i just- i thought it’d be good-”
his brow arches. “good for what?”
“you look like someone who gets a lot of girls, alright?”
there’s a beat of silence.
simon leans back slightly, tapping his fingers against the metal plating. the low buzz of the malfunctioning motor is the only sound in the room. “is that so?”
before you can even think of a way to explain yourself, he moves.
his grip is swift, fingers curling around your wrist. there’s no real force behind it, no intention to hurt. just a casual show of strength, a reminder of just how easy it is for him to manhandle you. you barely have time to react before he pulls, tipping you off balance.
you land on his lap, breath stuttering out of you in a quiet gasp.
he settles you there like you belong, his flesh-and-blood hand pressing into the small of your back. you feel the heat of him beneath you, the solid mass of his thighs, the way his breath stays even while yours quickens.
the prosthetic hums again.
before your brain can catch up, he moves his arm, pressing the vibrating palm against the seam of your jeans, right between your thighs.
your spine straightens, legs twitching against the instinct to squeeze shut, but his knee is right there, keeping you open.
simon makes a considering noise, watching your reaction. his voice drops, low and lazy.
“since you built it,” he muses, letting the vibration roll against you, “might as well test its full range of function, yeah?”
his head tilts, gaze flicking down to your parted lips. you’re already shaking, already aching, slick and soaked through before he’s even put his hands on you properly.
his weight shifts, thighs bracketing yours, hands adjusting. the grip he has on you firms, fingers pressing deep into soft flesh, making sure you don’t slip away.
not that you would. not that you could.
his breath ghosts over your cheek and your head tips back automatically, a slow surrender, baring your throat. simon makes a low sound of approval, and then his fingers tighten, curling into the denim at your hips.
"si-"
"oh, sweetheart.” he slowly tugging your pants down. "you in a rush? thought you liked when i took my time."
simon's hand drags over your thigh, metal knuckles gliding over your skin. the pressure he uses is just enough to make you feel it, to make your breath hitch, thighs twitching as something hot sparks low in your belly.
"shakin’, love. that bad, huh?"
his fingers stroke over your panties, pressing into the slick beneath.
"fuck," simon laughs, dragging his palm over your thigh, fingers spreading, squeezing. "you're dripping. what, just from me takin’ off your jeans? christ, love, that’s pathetic. you really need it that bad?"
your hips jolt, desperate, chasing friction. instinct drives you— no thought, no shame, just the raw ache of needing him.
simon tsks, shaking his head like it’s funny, like he isn’t already rolling his hips against your leg, cock hard and twitching beneath denim. his fingers press against the soaked cotton between your thighs, rubbing slow circles over your clit.
"built this thing for me," he mutters, mostly to himself, watching his own fingers move, the thick, cool metal pressed flush against heat-swollen flesh. "and look at you. already makin’ a fuckin’ mess all over it."
his mouth twitches. not quite a smirk. something meaner, hungrier.
his gaze drags up, pinning you in place. sharp. knowing. "bet you thought about it, though," he says. "at least once. didn’t you?"
heat spikes through you, curling in your gut. shame prickles at the edges, but it doesn’t matter. not when he’s right. you had thought about it. had imagined this. had pictured his prosthetic between your legs, pressing down, making you beg, the hard edges of metal digging into soft, soaked flesh, the slow hum vibrating against your clit until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but come apart on him.
your fingers clutch at his shoulders, grasping for something solid, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t acknowledge how you tremble beneath him. just watches. tracks.
you stare up at him, panting, barely able to focus, and— god, his face.
the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones, the scar that cuts jagged through the scruff along his chin. his stubble is coarse, speckled with hints of gray, a little uneven along his jaw. coarse shadows frame his mouth, dust over his upper lip, the cut of his jaw. his nose has been broken before, maybe more than once, slightly crooked where it was never set right. the thin pink ridge of an old scar cuts through his left eyebrow, splitting it clean in half, a deeper line stretching down the side of his face, the tail end disappearing into the rough stubble at his jaw.
you don’t get long to stare.
his mouth crashes against yours, rough and urgent, teeth knocking against teeth, lips parting just enough to let him shove his tongue deep, curling against yours, licking into your mouth, taking, claiming.
his teeth sink into your bottom lip, sharp, hard enough to sting. you whimper, legs shaking, and he groans like he feels it everywhere, like he wants to eat you alive.
then— a hum. low. steady. vibrating against your cunt.
your whole body jolts, spine arching, hands flying to his arms, fingers twisting into the thick, corded muscle of his biceps.
you gasp into his mouth, try to pull back, try to breathe, but he doesn’t let you.
simon’s arm locks around your waist, dragging you closer, pressing you down against the hard, pulsing vibration between your legs.
"fuckin’ christ," he groans, fingers slipping beneath soaked fabric, spreading you open. his breath stutters, mouth barely moving as he stares down at his own hand, at the thick, slick mess coating his fingers. "you’re soaked."
his cock throbs against your thigh, thick and heavy where it presses into the denim of his jeans, pulsing hot through the fabric.
his fingers stroke through slick, teasing, pressing against your clit, and the vibration amps up.
you cry out, body jolting, hips stuttering, but he catches them in both hands, grips them tight, holds you still.
"jumped like a scared little rabbit.” Simon's breath is warm against your jaw, lips dragging over your pulse.
his hand stills.
his fingers rest against your clit, pressing just enough to make you squirm, to keep you teetering, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t push you over. "should turn it up, yeah?"
your breath hitches, hips jolt, but his grip plants you right where he wants you.
"no runnin’," he breathes against your mouth. "you take what i fuckin’ give you."
pressure builds. tightens. burns through you a f through it all his eyes stay locked on yours.
the vibration shifts— harder, deeper. his fingers push inside, stretching, filling, pressing against every aching, sensitive spot.
your moan rips from your throat, raw and wrecked, nails sinking into the hard planes of his back. your legs twitch, thighs trembling where they clamp around his sides, but he doesn’t let up. doesn’t ease up.
simon grins, sharp and smug, lips curling against your temple. “atta girl,” he breathes, pushing you down, keeping you still.
his fingers press firm against the swollen bud beneath, dragging slow, torturous circles that make you jerk.
"swollen, love," his knuckles brush over your clit just enough to make your whole body twitch. "look at you-" his tongue drags over his bottom lip. "all fucked-out already, and i haven’t even started.”
a whimper spills from your throat. you twist beneath him, trying to get away— but there’s nowhere to go. simon is everywhere all at once.
simon’s head dips, breath warm as it ghosts over slick, swollen flesh. you’re open for him, spread wide, cunt glistening— slick dripping down the crease of your thigh, pooling beneath you.
he noses at you, the rough drag of his stubble scraping over sensitive skin, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh.
"tastes sweet," he mutters, lips barely brushing where you need him. "dripping all over yourself, love. makin’ a fuckin’ mess just for me."
his tongue flicks out— soft, fleeting— not enough.
you cry out, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting, trying to pull him in, trying to keep him there.
he smirks against your skin. "shh." another lick, just to watch you tremble. "poor thing. so sensitive."
you twitch, hips chasing his mouth, aching for more, needing him to stop teasing, needing him to eat you alive. but then—
he pulls away.
your eyes snap open, bleary, wild.
you barely register him moving, barely track the way he rises up, broad and so fucking smug.
you're about to ask where he's going when you you hear it.
the clink of his belt.
your breath hitches.
he drags it out, making you watch as his fingers work the buckle, making you listen to the quiet rasp of the zipper, the rustle of denim as he shoves his jeans down just enough—
his cock is flushed dark at the tip. pre-cum beads at the slit, smearing as he wraps his fingers around the base, giving it a slow, teasing stroke. the sheer girth of it stretches his grip wide, the veins running down the shaft prominent, pulsing, standing out beneath the taut skin. he’s obscenely long, thick enough that your thighs instinctively press together, anticipation twisting tight in your gut.
simon strokes himself again, dragging his fist up the thick length, thumb circling the swollen tip. his cock twitches in his grip, another bead of precum welling at the slit, spilling over, tracing a slick path down the ridges of a pulsing vein.
his fingers flex around the base, squeezing, drawing another lazy stroke up before dragging his thumb along the sensitive underside. a quiet exhale leaves him, sharp through his nose, body tensing at his own touch.
he taps the swollen head against your clit, watches the way you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together even as they stay spread for him.
a whimper breaks from your throat.
simon smiles. "need it that bad, huh?"
you nod frantically, thighs trembling, nails biting into his skin.
he exhales through his nose, head shaking like he can’t believe you.
"fuckin’ insatiable," he mutters, pressing the head against your cunt. "guess i’ll just have to fuck it all out of you."
you sob beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, nails clawing at his shoulders.
"so tight," he grits out. "fuck- look at you, baby. takin’ me so good."
simon sinks an inch, just enough for the head to pop inside and his breath catches, body locking up, heat surging through his spine.
your cunt swallows him whole, warm and wet and too fucking tight, and instinct takes over—
his hips snap forward, bottoming out in one sharp stroke.
a broken noise rips from his throat, something between a groan and a whine, his body shuddering, his hands gripping your hips too tight as his cock jerks inside you, pulsing, spilling hot and thick before he can stop it.
his forehead drops to your shoulder, his whole body trembling, breath coming ragged, desperate.
"fuck-" his voice breaks. "oh, fuck."
your cunt throbs around him, squeezing, milking him even though he hasn’t even moved, and the overstimulation makes his body jolt, makes his jaw lock tight.
"oh my god.” your fingers claw at his back. "simon-!"
he groans into your skin, cock still twitching inside you.
"jesus christ..” he drags in a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to see your face— tear-streaked and glassy-eyed. "m'sorry- fuck, baby, i’m sorry, it’s been-" he chokes on his words, shaking his head, voice breaking. "god, it's been so long-"
he drags in another breath, body screaming, cock still throbbing with the aftershocks of his orgasm, but you’re still crying, still trembling beneath him, still so fucking needy.
and fuck, you deserve better than that.
he shakes his head, tries to will himself to stop, to apologize, to pull out— let you laugh at him if you want.
but your cunt is still squeezing him, soft and warm and perfect, and he can’t.
his hands slide down, gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider.
"fuck- i got you, baby," he pants, hips pulling back before snapping forward again. "fuckin’ hell.” his whole body shakes. "gonna make it up to you, promise. gonna give it to you like you need, yeah? gonna fuck you so good, baby, you’ll feel me for days."
you wail beneath him, thrashing, tears streaking hot down your cheeks, mouth open on a sob as he fucks into you, fast and hard, ignoring the way his cock aches, the way his whole body protests, pushing through it because you need this.
"simon- simon, please- oh my god- fuck!"
"shh, shh," he coos, a little breathless. "i know, baby, i know. takin’ it so good- fuck, squeezin’ me so tight."
you sob harder, clinging to him, and he groans, burying his face in your neck, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, sucking little bruises into your skin.
"fuck- oh fuck," his hips stutter, his own release rising again, too soon, too intense, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a fuck if it hurts.
"c’mon, love," he pants, "give me one more, yeah? cry all you want, baby, i love when you cry."
and when you finally do, when your body locks up around him and your walls squeeze tight, he groans loud and desperate, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it.
"there it is, fuck, there it is-"
he’s so proud, pressing wet, messy kisses to your cheeks, licking away the salt of your tears, whispering, "such a good girl, takin’ me so well, so fuckin’ perfect-"
"gonna cum again," simon tells you, almost pleading, "need to, sweetheart- need to cum deep in this perfect fucking cunt again-"
you wail, nodding, sobbing his name as your own orgasm crashes over you, squeezing down around him so tight it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.
simon groans, pressing his forehead to yours, gasping, desperate, hips snapping forward in rough, short little thrusts.
"good girl," he chokes out, "good fuckin’ girl-"
and then he's spilling into you again, sobbing into your skin, wrecked and shaking and completely fucking gone.
“my fuckin’ pussy” simon says as he’s pounding you in a mating press. your heel-clad feet are hung over his burly shoulders, flopping with every thrust.
“mmmn, yer fuckin” pussy” you slurred back.
“oh my, we’ve gotta talker, doing a little repeat after me? fuckin’ simon says, huh?”
soap dropping you off at your place after your first date, pointing out the weird guy very poorly hiding in the alleyway next to your building
it freaks you out to the point where you ask johnny to stay the night, your nerves running you ragged because what if this guy tries to break in after johnny leaves? it’s only natural that he calms you down with soft kisses and gentle sex
simon only leaves his place in the alley after he gets a text from johnny, a photo of your head on his chest, fast asleep and his fingers running through your hair
a few seconds later another picture comes through, a pair of frilly panties with a damp crotch
johnny loves taking you prone, savoring the skin-on-skin contact, the effortless way he can press in close, mouth at your ear, breath hot against your neck, drinking in your scent as he ruts into you. his chest flush against your back, the tickle of his course chest hair against your skin
his weight keeps you pinned beneath him, every slow, grinding thrust pressing you further into the mattress. he loves it like this, loves the way you squirm, the way your breath stutters and you clench around him when he mouths at your neck, when his fingers skate down your side, gripping the fat of your hips tight enough to keep you where he wants you, your ass sitting so perfectly as he fucks your dripping cunt
telling you to just take it, milk him dry, bon as he shifts, fucking his cock as deep as you'll let him go. the heat of him surrounds you, his scent, his touch, his low, breathy groans as he fills you up with his seed, how you whimper when he spreads you wide, just to watch how you drip all over his sheets
Dad!Ghost, but his two girls are so picky with everything they eat. It's a struggle for the both of you to convince them to eat their vegetables - the only success you've had is cooking broccoli and cauliflower until it's fall-apart tender, and slathering it in butter. Maybe you can sneak a few cooked, blended vegetables into their spaghetti sauce, but they're Simon's girls - they know when something's up. They try to bargain and make ultimatums with him at the dinner table, but he doesn't budge an inch, of course. Says something like "eat your vegetables or no Tangled for a month", which makes them reconsider.
Of course, your youngest son will eat anything - no qualms whatsoever. He was barely started on solids and he'd eat bites of steamed eggplant and peas like they were popcorn. Of course he has his favorites; he had a meltdown once, when Simon turned away from the dinner table to pick up the fork your son dropped, only to lift his head and find the little bugger had grabbed the rest of a medium-rare steak off of his dad's plate, attempting to eat it like a true caveman (the apple really didn't fall far from the tree). Didn't let it go or stop crying until Simon put a yogurt pop in his tiny hand.
