i need soft simon who knows you're sensitive and nervous so he tries to calm your nerves during sex and asks if you're ok with what he's doing :'( fuck i need him so bad :"(((
simon is honestly the biggest sweetheart with you, especially during sex ): like this soft, sweet creature he's been gifted?? he adores you more than words can say. wants β needs β to keep you safe, needs a reason to come home at the end of the day.
sex with you is sacred, he treasures each time he gets to take you apart with his lips and tongue and fingers. takes his time finding every spot that makes you whine and mewl for more, fingers curling in his hair to keep him close.
the first time you take his cock? oh my god he's obsessed ):
you're placing so much trust in him and he would rather be six feet under than cause you any hurt or discomfort.
each time you do something new with him, your nerves light up like a wildfire and consume you β you're so worried. you need him more than you've needed anything else in your entire life but you can't stop the way you tremble under his touch, voice lost and stuck in your throat, breath uneven.
and he notices. of course he does ): his sweetheart, who's been nothing but good to him, good for him. he feels you under his touch, the way you're trying to be so brave for him.
the softest kisses against every part of your body ): your thighs and hips. up your belly and to your sternum, dragging his lips across the marks he left on your throat. he settles you, tension seeping from your body as you languidly kiss him, heart slowing and calming.
he's not a predator and you'll never be his prey.
everything he does, he asks for your okay. never satisfied with your sounds, always always needing your words. he takes you so slowly, tells you everything he's going to do, every touch he's giving you, the way he moves your body to fit comfortably against him. you're so sensitive to his touch ): but he takes care of you, always.
and he's like this every time. never assumes that because you were okay with it one day that you're okay with it another. he places your comfort and pleasure above all else in a way no one ever did ):
like he loves you so much and he wants to devote and devour you and know that he's doing right by you ):
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werewolf!soap that loves to watch his cum drip out of your ass in thick streams, your pussy fluttering and clenching around nothing when it drips down your folds. he loves your needy whines and whimpers, looking back at him with big, glassy doe-eyes, too fucked out and cockdrunk to ask for what you want. oh i know, pretty girl he coos as he uses his thumb to spread his cum all around your sensitive ring of muscle that he leisurely fucked for the last hour or so. you want more, don'tcha? and all you can do is nod and spread your legs further, arching your back and shamelessly presenting your cunt, wet and waiting. he uses his cock to tease your clit, rubbing up and down your slit. he gathers his spend on his cock, pushing deep into your cunt and groaning at the warmth, bending over your back with his teeth at your neck, telling you how pretty you'll look with his cum dripping out of you everywhere.
soap is the type to spend hours biting and sucking marks into your skin. heβs possessive, not letting you go until you have fresh marks blotching your skin, not even trying to put them in places that could be covered by clothes. no, heβs going to make other people realize that youβre spoken for and if heβs not there with you to make them realize that, then the smattering of marks along your throat and collar will speak for him.
warnings: smoking (cigarette/cigar), age gap, shotgunning, pet names and praises (darling, good girl, pretty girl), handjob, blowjob/deepthroating, cunnilingus, fingering, price is a consent king, panty stealing. please let me know if i missed something!
notes: oh my god, this is pure filth. as always, minors dni as this work and my blog are 18+. dbf!trope makes my brain go fuzzy. enjoy!
he finds you in the bathroom, blowing smoke out the open window, half-empty pack of cigarettes by your side on the counter you're perched on, lighter tucked inside.
you're frazzled as he opens the door β as is he, assuming no one would be in the bathroom.
it's a habit you picked up from too many nights out with friends. you don't like how it tastes, but it's comforting and familiar and so you seek it out when overwhelmed or nervous.
and you are.
captain john price, your dad's best friend since before you were born.
he came over unexpectedly β or, unexpectedly to you, your father seems to have been anticipating him.
he's dressed down in civilian clothes β you've mournfully never been able to see him when he's in his gear β but he looks like a god damn greek god. he's so fucking attractive, you're convinced it's ruining your life.
boys have asked you out, here and there. but none of them have that beautiful mustache or eyes that crinkle in the corner when they smile or the ability to look fucking delicious puffing on a cigar.
you want to devour him.
you need to.
"sorry, love," and you have to suppress the shiver that crawls down your spine at the pet name. "didn't realize anyone was in here."
he lingers in the doorway, before stepping in and closing the door behind him, going to wash his hands.
"i could've had my panties down," you say back.
jesus fucking christ, what's wrong with you?
he seems to be biting back a smile, turning off the water and drying his hands. his eyes catch yours, glittering in the light, darker than before.
"wouldn't that have been a sight," he muses, pulling a cigar from his coat.
you swallow and shift as you feel arousal leak out, panties growing wetter by the second. you bring the cigarette back to your lips with a shaky hand, barely inhaling before you're coughing out the smoke, tears pricking your eyes at the sting.
he tilts his head as he regards you. you're beginning to feel like prey.
"may i?" he asks, nodding his head towards where the lighter is tucked into the pack, as he slips the tip of the fat cigar between his lips and fuck, you want to see his mouth against your pussy, licking into you and smearing your cum all over his stupid, attractive mustache and β
"s-sure," you squeak, fumbling for the lighter and holding it out to him.
he looks downright predatory as he steps into your space, slotting himself between your slightly parted legs, forcing them open so he stands between them easier.
he's so fucking close.
"go on, then," he says, a bit muffled, rolling the cigar with his teeth to settle it in the middle of his mouth, dark eyes never leaving yours.
you put the mostly-smoked cigarette between your teeth and use both hands to flick the lighter.
it takes an embarrassing amount of times before you get a steady flame going. a large hand wraps around your wrist as he holds the lighter steady, bringing the tip of the cigar down to light it.
you watch, enchanted, the tip glowing red. he leans back, one of his hands falling to settle on your knee as he uses the other to hold the cigar, taking it out to blow the smoke to the side.
"it's a nasty habit," he says, cigar back in his mouth as he pulls the dying cigarette from your mouth, the butt tinged with your lipstick.
"you're one to talk," you say, slowly and carefully bringing your fingers up to slip through his belt loops, pulling him that much closer.
he moves willingly.
"you ever smoke a cigar?" his voice is deeper, rougher.
you look to him, doe-eyed and glassy, voice soft.
"no, never."
he makes a noise of thought low in his throat and it goes straight to your cunt. if he presses just a bit closer, your hips would be flush together.
his hand hand β warm and comforting β slides up the base of your throat to hold your jaw, fingers pressing into the hinge.
"open up, darling," he murmurs. your mind goes blank, white noise in your ears and static in your head. you immediately open your mouth, and he makes another noise in his throat. it sounds like approval.
"good girl," he says β purrs β and you know he feels the way you swallow at the pet name, the praise. he crowds in that much closer and you feel the outline of his cock, half-hard, in his pants. you inhale through your nose, fingers tightening in his belt loop.
he inhales the cigar deeply, the tip burning a bright red, orange, yellow, and he pulls away and keeps his mouth sealed. he holds the cigar to the side, as not to burn you with any falling embers, moving to slant his lips over yours. he blows the smoke into your mouth, tongue pressing against yours for only a moment before he's pulling away, closing your mouth.
he nods towards the window after he deems that you've held it for long enough, and you blow out a small trickle of smoke. heat licks at the base of your spine.
"how's it taste?"
fuck if you know, too busy remembering the feel of his lips against yours, the way you felt his cock harden as he licked into your mouth. but the taste lingering on your tongue is heady β earthy and spicy and like something you abso-fucking-lutely should not be doing.
"i don't know," you whisper, other hand going to his waist to cling to him, legs tightening around his hips. "better," you add on, eyes dark and needy as you press into him.
he feels the heat of your cunt through your panties, the way you're sopping into the cotton. you're wearing a dress, one that shows off the tantalizing line of your collarbones, the dip of your sternum to your breasts, a slit in the side that shows a flash of your thigh when you walk.
he wants to fucking destroy you. sink his teeth into every available inch of your soft, sweet flesh. he wants to make the mark so deep that it bruises for days, possibly scars. he wants to know what your skin tastes like, especially between your thighs. wants to hear the way you cry and whine and beg for him, and he would give in so easily.
a man of his caliber, steadfast in the chaos of war and operations, thinking on his feet and willing to do whatever it takes to come out on top β he's brought to his knees at the prospect of having you, pressing you into his bed every morning and leaving you pliant and satisfied. the pleasure lingering just long enough to tide you over throughout the day until he gets home and gets to fuck you again, bury himself in your wet heat and watch as his cum spills from your puffy pussy, all slick from his mouth and spend.
he hums in this throat, bringing the cigar back to his lips to do it again. you straighten up that much more, eager as your eyes flit to his mouth, mouth already open in anticipation. he'd laugh at your eagerness if he wasn't so hard.
he moves his hand to wrap around your throat, watching as your eyes darken from the pressure. his mouth is on yours once more. you paw and grip at his shirt, as he moves to cradle the nape of your neck. he tilts your head to the side to seal your mouths together.
all pretense is dropped.
the cigar falls forgotten into the basin of the sink, a growl in john's throat as his free hand goes to your waist, fingers pressing in enough to bruise. he licks deeper into your mouth, your brain going fuzzy from the slick heat of his tongue dragging against yours.
he bites and nips at your lips, soothing it over with his tongue, and you dare to do it back, eyes fluttering open as you capture his bottom lip with your teeth, biting ever-so-slightly.
his eyes are nearly black.
trailing his mouth down the curve of your jaw, he situates you enough to pull your dress up to bunch around your hips. a pathetic whine leaves your throat as he pushes you away enough to pull the straps of your dress down, exposing your breasts to his eager mouth.
"so fuckin' beautiful," he pants against your collar, your head tipping back to give him better access.
you reach for his belt, cock pressing hard against his zipper. an animalistic sound reverberates through him as the clink of his belt echoes through the bathroom, the only other sound buried among sharp, short breaths and groans.
"darling β " he starts, moving as if to draw your hands away. a noise of protest stops his movement, as he pulls back to look at you, trying to clear his mind enough to talk.
"you don't have to," he says, voice wrecked but so, so soft.
your fingers continue their path, belt unbuckled, deft movements opening the button and carefully pulling the zipper down over the prominent bulge.
"but i want to," you whisper back. you'd give him anything he wanted, if he asked.
he takes a good, long moment to study you, palms surprisingly soft as they cup your face, looking for any signs of hesitation. the sincerity shines through so clearly in your eyes, bottom lip trapped beneath your teeth as your fingers dance around the waistband of his boxers.
you'll stop if he wants you to. youβve never been with someone whoβs cared so much about your comfort, but his eyesΒ are warm and a smile pulls at his lips, and your heart thumps a little harder between your ribs.
you lean up enough to drag your mouth over his jaw, kissing the tip of his chin, his beard tickling your lips. "please?"
he swallows hard, exhales through his nose before his fingers thread through your hair and pulls you in for a heated kiss, more teeth and tongue than before.
"go on, darling," he mumbles against your cheek, and he feels the smile that stretches on your lips as you push his boxers down enough to free his cock. you look down with rapt attention as your fingers curl over his length, thick enough that you can't touch the tips of your fingers together. he's hot in your palm, and he's so fucking big. your pussy clenches at the thought of him inside you.
"yeah?" he asks against your jaw, seeing your hand around him. his tip leaks pre-cum, and you drag your hand up to draw your thumb over the slit, watching as it spreads.
"yeah," you reply, dazed, unable to stop touching him.
he grips your hand to pull you off, chuckling at the pathetic noise you whine out, his name dripping in a tone that makes him ache. he doesn't say anything, and you lock eyes as he laves his tongue in a stripe over your palm, damp as he brings it back to wrap around him.
you pump your hand, adjusting your grip a few times until his breath hitches, burrowing into your neck and grazing his teeth along the column of your throat. you tilt your head to press your lips to the side of his head, gripping him more firmly and starting a rhythm of steady strokes.
"'ve thought about this," he confesses, gripping the counter beneath you. he's trying not to fuck up into your hand.
"did you get off to it?" you're breathy and dizzy, torn between focusing on how his dick feels in your hand β something you've been wanting for a while now β and the way his mustache and lips feel against your skin. it's awkward, and your rhythm falters here and there, but he isn't complaining.
"absolutely, i did," he answers, and it thrills you. pre-cum steadily drips from his slit and gets mixed in with your strokes. it's obscene, the sounds his cock makes as you get him off. he's breathing and groaning right against your ear. you think you could cum from the noises alone.
"christ," he grits out, teeth more insistent on your jaw. "doing so well for me, pretty girl. feels so fucking good."
the praise warms you, making you eager to please, eager to be good.
he drags his mouth from your jaw down to your throat, nipping and licking over the skin until he groans, and you feel his dick pulsing in your palm. he grips your wrist for you to stop. you do, but you tighten your hold on him as well, not willing to let go just yet.
"'m gonna cum, darling, fuck," he growls into your shoulder, trying to gain his composure. it's been so long since anyone touched him, and he's almost desensitized to the way he fucks his own fist. the fact that it's you with your hand wrapped around him, possessive and needy? he's surprised he's lasted this long.
"mouth?" you ask quietly and he has to blink to clear his vision, pulling back enough to see your eyes, nose brushing yours.
"hm?"
"can you cum in my mouth?" you offer again, and he damn near spurts all over you at the suggestion. "easier to clean up," you rationalize.Β
you're not wrong, but god damn.
price takes in a steadying breath, then pulls back to look at you, face cupped in his hands. your eyes sparkle, lip caught between your teeth and you blink up at him with glassy, wide eyes. he pulls you in close to kiss you, far softer than anything before. he takes his time licking into your mouth, savoring how you taste β the remnants of the cigar is faint, but itβs there. it isnβt frantic or urgent, and it makes your heart ache. your free hand rests on the side of his face as you kiss back, trying to convey something you don't quite wish to name.
he drags his lips from yours, smearing them across your cheek and down your jaw, to the sensitive skin behind your ear. he bites gently at the lobe, voice rough and accent thick.
"right. on your knees, then."
he steps away just enough for you to slip from the counter to the floor, eyes dark as he watches each moment pass, not wanting to miss a single thing.
as you settle on your knees, he tucks a few errant strands of your hair behind your ear, ensuring nothing obscures his view of you. he cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your bottom lip as you brace your hands on his thighs, blinking your hazy eyes as you try to focus on his face instead of the way his cock hangs so close from where you pulled him from his boxers. you draw his thumb into your mouth with your tongue, and he presses down, a firm pressure. your lips close around the digit, gaze never wavering as your tongue swirls around it gently before sucking, his breath catching.
"c'mon darling," he says softly, drawing his thumb from your mouth and spreading the spit clinging to it across your lips. "don't make me wait too long."
you grip the base of his dick with one hand, taking a moment to lick around the head, gathering the pre-cum that drools from the tip. you dip your head down to lick a broad stripe from the base to the tip, drawing him into your mouth.
he groans low in his chest, one hand bracing on the counter while the other threads back through your hair, gripping on the side of a little too painful, but it feels so fucking good as you open your jaw further to accommodate his size, feeling each inch push into your mouth and to the back of your throat.
"mind your teeth, love," he notes, voice raspy and hoarse. you take a chance, grazing your teeth lightly on the sides of his cock, and his fingers tighten further.
"careful," he admonishes, the heat in his eyes licking down your spine. "be a good girl for me, yeah?"
fuck, you'll do anything he asks if he continues to call you that.
you pull off his length to lap at the head with small kitten licks, keeping your eyes on him, making sure he's watching when you take him back into the wet heat of your mouth, fingers digging into his thigh more firmly for balance.
you take him as far down your throat as you can manage before you choke, using your hand to pump what doesn't fit in your mouth. you move your mouth up and down his cock, working in time with your hand, each glide coating him in your spit, making it easier to take him.
he can't take his eyes away, pleasure numbing his system, entranced as he sees how good you take him, so eager to please. your mouth feels divine, the tip nudging the back of your throat, feeling the way you swallow around him.
"that's my girl," he praises as you take more and more of him each time, until you're able to remove your hand entirely and press your nose to the thatch of curls at his base.
"jesus christ, look at you, so fuckin' beautiful," he grits out as your throat pulses around him. you choke and sputter, pulling off him entirely, breathing heavily. your mouth is a mess, spit dripping down your chin, his cock soaking with it.
"don't hurt yourself," he breathes out, carding his fingers through your hair affectionately.
"i want you to..." but you're too embarrassed to say, never having been in this position before. never wanting to do it before.
price is patient, waiting for you to continue.
"want me to what, pretty girl?" he rumbles when you need more prompting. "don't be shy," he adds, content with cupping your face and taking in how you fit so nicely in the palm of his hand.
you shift uncomfortably, before your eyes linger on his cock, dripping with your spit and the last remnants of your lipstick. you feel empty without him in your mouth.
"fuck my throat," you voice, doing your best to keep your voice steady.
he looks proud β why had you been so shy in the first place? β thumb brushing over your cheek. he seems to be debating for a moment, before he squats down to your level, grip firm on your jaw as he draws you in for a filthy kiss before he's standing back up, pressing the tip of his cock against your lips.
"you tap my thigh twice if you need me to stop, yeah?" he asks, and the authority in his voice makes heat pool thick in your belly, aching to be filled. you nod, tongue sticking out to taste him.
before you're able to get your mouth back on him, however, he pulls you away. you whine low in your throat in protest, but his hold is firm.
"tell me."
"if i need to you to stop," you begin, leisurely stroking his cock β needing to always be touching him β "then i tap your thigh twice. sir," you add on as an afterthought but he snaps, pushing the head of his dick back in the welcoming heat of your mouth.
"gonna fuckin' ruin me, i swear," he growls, keeping a firm grip on your hair and waiting for you to drop your jaw, driving into your mouth when you do, slipping deeper with each thrust.
you grasp his thighs, never breaking eye contact. your eyes water the deeper he gets, but you'd rather cry your mascara off before tapping out.
his thrusts are rhythmic, measured β the sound of him fucking into your mouth bordering on pornographic. he pushes you down further, until you're choking, gagging, tears and saliva spilling down to your chin. your nails dig in hard, but you don't tap out.
"oh, fuck," comes his choked-off moan, hips snapping harder, rougher. pre-cum coats your tongue with each thrust, until he's burying himself fully down your throat, your nose pressed against the base of his cock.
it's wet and messy and you gurgle and cough around him, but you love it. his resolve is cracking.
"i can cum in that pretty mouth of yours, yeah?" he checks one last time, shuddering as you only moan in agreement.
he pulls back until the head is resting on your tongue. you open your mouth so he can see as he jerks the rest of his length quickly, a few more times before he spills against your tongue. thick streams of his spend coat your tongue. he thrusts weakly as he cums, riding out his orgasm, a frisson of pleasure sparking through him.
he pants as he withdraws his softened cock.
"show me," he commands, and you obediently open your mouth enough to show him the cum gathered on your tongue, preening at the noise of approval that rumbles deep in his chest.
"swallow."
you close your mouth to obey, licking the edges of your lips for good measure, before opening your mouth again so he sees.
"good girl," he rumbles out, swiping your bottom lip before tucking himself back into his boxers and jeans. "c'mere," he says, reaching for you to pull you up, crowding you against the counter.
you wince as your legs protest, aching with how long you were on your knees, but then you're being sat back on the counter, pulled into price's warmth as he kisses you again. you grip weakly at his shirt, letting in him relish the taste of himself clinging to your tongue, cradling the back of your neck.
"such a good girl," he says, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your dress to hook into your panties, dragging them down your legs and over your ankles, stashing them in his pocket.
you'd flush if you weren't so embarrassingly turned on, wondering and wanting to know what he plans on doing with them.
he pushes your dress up over your hips, spreading your legs to expose your glistening, sticky folds β desperate β and drops to his knees.
"look at you," he says, breath fanning on your thighs, teeth nipping lightly at the skin there. you whimper, one hand on the edge of the counter to keep you steady, the other moving to grab onto his hair, silky and gorgeous and feels so good between your fingers like every other part of him β
you try to focus on him, fucked-out before he's touched you, raising your hips to entice him closer, needing his mouth and tongue. he presses his lips to up closer, stifling a laugh, and you'd make some bratty remark if you weren't so worked up.
he looks at you as he laves his tongue over your slit, drawing up between your folds before circling your clit. your nails scratch at his scalp, head falling back as your mouth opens in a silent moan, panting out breaths.
john's warm hands grip at your thighs, keeping you still, licking leisurely between your folds and clit, a pleased hum low in his throat that you feel, sparks spreading through your veins.
"j-john," you whine out β soft, so you can't be heard β and his eyes snap to you, focused and determined. "please," you add, trying to draw him closer with the hand tangled in his hair, feeling like you're going to fall to pieces.
he presses a kiss to your hip, before he buries his mouth in your folds, and you keen. his grip on you tightens, his nails digging in hard enough to leave indents. you can't roll your hips like you want β need β entirely at his mercy as he licks through your folds, occasionally swirling around your clit, sucking on it lightly.
it feels so fucking good, biting your lip hard enough to taste blood to stop yourself from crying and moaning out. you settle for shuddering breaths, blearily blinking down at him, moving your hand to the nape of his neck, keeping him close, delirious with pleasure, never wanting it to end.
his tongue pushes into you and your grip on the counter falters, slipping and falling back, head knocking against the mirror. you whimper for an entirely different reason, pain blossoming where your head hit, and you're almost brought to tears when john pulls his mouth away, standing up and gathering you in his arms.
his lips are shiny with your slick, arousal coating his mustache, eyes blown black. he cradles the back of your head so gently, careful with his touch as he straightens you, tilting your head back to look you over.
you've never been one to pout but you are now, bottom lip out as you grip at his shirt. your palms are sweaty, but his shirt isn't slick like the counter. you feel like you could cry if he doesn't get back on his knees, finish what he started.
"y'okay?" he murmurs gently, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, down your temple, to your cheek, nosing your face to align with his, taking advantage of you pouting by nipping at your bottom lip before easing you into a gentle kiss.
you nod in reply, his free hand skimming up the length of your thigh, the fragments of arousal still swirling through your body.
"want you to fuck me," comes your shy request. you've no idea why you're shy β his dick was in your mouth minutes ago and he was eating you out like he'd be happy to die between your legs β and yet.
he presents you with his middle and ring finger, pressing them against the seam of your lips.
"suck."
you're hesitant, if only for a moment, but it's enough of a moment for john.
"be a good girl, now," in that fucking throaty drawl, and you're helpless, opening your mouth to let him do as he pleases with you. a satisfied smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, as his fingers drag over your tongue, pushing to the back of your throat.
wrapping one hand around his wrist, you watch him through glassy doe-eyes, swirling your tongue around his thick digits as best you can, swallowing and drawing his fingers deeper.
"there we are, sweetheart," he praises, and he feels your unsteady breath, "not so hard, hm?"
you want to bite him, whine and whimper and cry until he fucks you with his tongue or even the fingers shoved down your throat or his cock that's sitting half-hard back in his jeans.
but you don't, because you're a good girl.
strings of spit connect his fingers to your lips as he withdraws them, and he marvels at his drenched fingers. he drops his hand between your legs, circling your clit, causing you to grip at his arm.
"when i fuck you β and i will fuck you β " he starts, voice wrecked and low and addicting, "it's going to be in my bed so i can hear all those pretty sounds you make and fuck you until you're ruined."
he captures your mouth in a filthy kiss as he pushes his fingers in your cunt, buried to the knuckle. you cry into his mouth, his tongue licking against yours, swallowing the sound. his fingers are so thick, stretching you better than any toy you have hidden away in your bedside drawer.
he lets go of your head to lean down onto the counter, crowding into your space further, anchoring him. you pull away from his mouth to wrap your arms tight around his back, fingers gripping at his shirt, burying your face in the crook of his neck. he drags his fingers in and out, making you feel every inch.
your teeth make home in his shoulder, finding it damn near impossible to stop the noises rising in your throat, little whines and moans, feeling like fire is curling in your belly, sparking hotter and hotter with each thrust.
he hooks his fingers up, easily finding the squishy part inside your cunt that makes you see stars.
"oh, you like that," he says. not a question, because you can hear the smug fucking smirk pulling at his lips.
he thrusts his fingers hard, alternating between hitting that spot and pistoning his fingers, dangling you over the edge of an orgasm. you'll never be able to use your own hand again β now that you've had your blood ripped open and devastating pleasure injected into you.
"such a pretty fucking cunt," he growls against your temple, moving his thumb to press against your clit. "so wet for me, so needy." he switches to hit that spot inside you with each thrust of his fingers, thumb circling around your clit.
"fuck, john," you pant against his neck, thighs trembling as he draws you closer to your orgasm.
you can't say much more than that, dragging your teeth along the exposed line of his neck, mewling as you damn near drown in the pleasure.
"want you to soak my fingers, baby, show me how much you need it."
it doesn't take more than a few more thrusts with his fingers deep inside before you're clawing at him, pressing your face to his chest. you try so hard to bite back your moans, but white-hot pleasure shoots through your entire body, vision going black and starry as you gush around his fingers, cumming harder than you ever have by yourself.
the pleasure comes down to simmer, grip loosening, coming back to your senses. he slowly withdraws his fingers from your cunt, your arousal dripping down to his wrist, under the band of his watch.
you watch as he licks the evidence of your orgasm off the back of his hand and between his fingers, before drawing them into his mouth to suck them clean. his eyes never leave yours.
he drags them out as slowly as he dragged them from your cunt, savoring every drop he could get.
you grab for the front of his shirt, boneless and sated, and he comes willingly as you bring him in for a kiss, happily tasting yourself on his tongue. he takes the time to kiss you, softer and softer until you inhale a breath and let it out, body no longer strung tight.
with a kiss to your cheek, he leaves you sitting on the counter as he rifles through the drawers and cabinets until he finds a washcloth, dampening it under the faucet.
carefully β and so, so gently β he cleans up the sticky mess between your thighs, almost reverent in his touch. he moves to clean his mouth next. he pulls you from the counter after, helping you steady yourself and dress you to look presentable, but keeps your panties tucked in his back pocket.
"you okay?" he checks and you think you're in love with him.
"perfect," you reply, throat a bit scratchy, nuzzling under the curve of his jaw.
opening the door, he guides you out first, palm warm on your lower back. he moves to go back out to your parents, while you're determined to crash into a post-orgasm nap.
he pushes your hair back behind your ear, leaning down low enough to murmur, ensuring no one else but you can hear him.
"one of these days, i want to know what my cum tastes like dripping out of your cunt."
he leaves you like that, his signature smirk painted on his lips, turning and walking down the hallway, while you stare at his broad form retreating, wondering how soon you can get him back between your legs.
simon riley is the kind of man who very carefully gives you a piece of the wedding cake and then uses his thumb so gently to make sure he didnβt get any frosting on your mouth.
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puppyplay with soap where you made food and you know you should eat but youβre too depressed to actually eat. and soap is there nuzzling your throat and shoulders and takes small bites of your food. so you bring him to the couch and feed him bits and pieces and eat along with him. and heβs so fucking soft with his messy hair and glassy eyes and you scratch along his freshly-shaved sides and feel a little better.
and then ghost comes home and is like βwhy is he on the couch?β
βοΈ pornstar!ghost who's so, so in love with you β
words: 3.8k
tags: smut, creampie, pet names (good girl, love, darling, etc), throat holding, no use of y/n, fem!reader, ghost and reader are so in love with each other, biting/marking, mentions of sex work.
notes: inspired by @ghosts-cyphera 's pornstar!ghost. thank you so, so much for creating him and for letting me bite him and chew him like a squeaky toy. please read the original here and give it lots of love! here is the playlist i made while writing β a mixture of soft and sweet and filthy and everything in between. minors dni, my blog is 18+.
in the muffled quiet of the bathroom, you take a deep breath. your heart beats in time with the rhythmic thumping of the bass that reverberates throughout the flat. that same steady beat of edm songs has been on repeat since you arrived at the party, and your blood hums with the vibrations. you love parties; the drinks, the snacks, the absolute unhinged bullshit that can only be achieved by those in front and behind the camera.
youβre surprised there hasnβt been a noise complaint.
you slip from the bathroom, perhaps just a little tipsy, the warmth of the drinks and the atmosphere thread through your blood like fire, the colored flashing lights casting everything in a multi-colored glow. you move through the crowd to find the one person who means more than the entire world and β
heβs sitting on the couch, pretending to listen to one of the newer talents; sheβs a touch too close, fingers reaching out to graze his forearm. he doesnβt even blink twice before heβs pulling his arm away, pretending to adjust his watch as his eyes sweep the room.
as soon as his gaze lands on you, he straightens up, leaning forward in anticipation. the other girl looks put off but neither of you pay her any mind as you make your way to him, crawling onto the couch where heβs (been) waiting for you.
you nestle into his side, taking the red, plastic cup you trusted him with when you went to the bathroom. you take a small sip.
βthis isnβt my drink,β you tell him.
βyouβre right.β
you pout at him, eyes glittering with the lights.
he looks at you expectedly, pointedly looking at the cup and giving you that look. the one he gives you whenever he wants you to do something, and you always listen.
you wrinkle your nose and stick your tongue out at him, before dutifully drinking the water that heβs so graciously filled your cup with instead of whatever fruity and far-too-strong cocktail the host had conjured up. he snorts, rolling his eyes fondly as he slings an arm across the back of the couch.
when half the cup is gone, you look back at him, doe-eyes big and glassy, the need for praise and approval simmering under the surface. even in the low light of the room, you see how his eyes soften as he takes you in. his hand comes up to cup your face, cradling it. you close your eyes, nuzzling into his palm as you enjoy the moment of calm. as his thumb gently wipes under your eye, your eyes flutter back open to focus on him, and he tilts his head as he assesses you.
this moment is just for you two. even in a room full of people, youβre unable to focus on anything but him.
he glances at his wrist to check his watch β the one you gave him for his birthday last year and the one thatβs been on his wrist ever since, not even taking it off to film unless absolutely necessary.
(and if he got you a bracelet that matched his watch as close as possible for your birthday? neither of you mention it, but you know.)
ghostβs never been one for social niceties βpreferring to keep to himself β and you know you havenβt been here too terribly long, only one drink deep, but both of you have a rare day off together and heβd rather be alone with you for as long as possible than at this last minute thrown together βpartyβ by a few colleagues.
he leans in close to graze his covered mouth against your jaw β he never takes off the skull mask, except when heβs alone with you.
("it's part of my charm," he claims, grin stretching across his lips, getting ready for his first shoot of the day. you bite back an amused smile, sitting in front of him and fussing until he sits still so you can paint on his eye black.)
βi think itβs time i took you home, princess.β
and christ, his voice.
it's well known youβre closer than most, so itβs not terribly surprising when you arrive and leave together and generally stick to each other like glue.
you press your lips right against the sensitive skin behind his ear, brushing against the fabric, voice masked by the music but still keeping it low enough so only he hears.
βthen take me home, simon.β
his eyes flash dangerously, taking your cup and abandoning it on the coffee table. his large hand dwarfs your own as he drags you off the couch.
you didnβt say hello to anyone in particular when you arrived and you donβt stop to let anyone know you're leaving. youβre too focused on his thumb running across the ridge of your knuckles, the way he laces your fingers together, how you two fit so well together.
if there was a red string tied to your pinky, you know it would lead you right to him.
the ride back to your flat is spent with his hand on your thigh, hot and possessive like a brand.
there's something different about tonight. ghost's touch lingers, as if he doesn't want to be without you for even a second, and you're drawn to him like a moth to flame, helpless to do anything but get as close as you can, hoping you won't burn and turn to ash.
you know exactly where the night is leading when he pulls you to your bedroom, the soft glow of your bedside lamp casting everything in a halo of warm, dim light.
ghost turns to you, hands on your hips, pulling you closer. you fingers tease the edge of his mask, hooking under the familiar fabric and starting to drag up. you pause as his lips come to view, watching him carefully.
glassy eyes meet yours and you forget to breathe for a moment. you want to capture the warmth swirling in his eyes, keep it close on the days that are dark and dreary, on the days that only he makes better.
you pull the rest of the covering off, his hair slightly ruffled, haloed by the light.
a delicate smile graces your lips, reaching a hand up to run your fingers along his jaw β a motion so familiar, a motion repeated in front of cameras and bright lights and others watching. he's sharp lines and features carved from marble but he's so soft, a comfort you can't name when you're with him.
he looks like an angel, heaven-sent.
"whatcha you thinkin', pretty girl?" he asks, voice low, accent thick, capturing your wandering fingers and pressing a kiss to your inner wrist, right beneath your bracelet.
you don't say anything, continuing to admire him, biting your lip. you're afraid to speak. afraid to give a name to these emotions that have settled into your bones and blood, seared into you.
for now, you keep those words locked in your heart, protected by ribs and flesh and walls that he so carefully picks apart with his teeth and tongue and fingers.
you shake your head instead of answering him, a gentle smile gracing your lips, threading your fingers through his hair. it's fluffy and a bit on the long side. he showered as soon as he was off work. he never wants others lingering on his skin.
you tip up on your toes enough to capture his lips with yours, biting at his bottom lip.
he presses you up against the wall, mouth hot and wet on yours. he licks deep into your mouth, fingers lacing in your hair. you grip the front of his shirt, mewling into his mouth as he kisses you like he'll never get to again.
some of your lipstick is smeared on his lips when he pulls away, eyes black. you shiver under his stare.
you press a tantalizing kiss to his jaw, teeth nipping.
"want to film it?" a mischievous smile paints your lips, hands raking lower to hook into the hem of his shirt.
both you and ghost have quite a collection of videos and pictures of you two, hidden behind locked albums and passwords. it's a testament of trust β one that's been carefully built and protected, tucked away where only you two know.
"not this time," he replies, voice soft, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear. he cups your jaw gently, wiping away smudged mascara. "this is just for you n' me."
you swallow thickly, choking down words threatening to spill from you. the temptation to say something lingers on your tongue, pressing behind your teeth, daring you to take a bite.
the kiss you press to his lips is far softer than anything, heat just below the surface.
ghost doesn't make a habit of kissing those he's filming with. a bite or two, something more vicious and rough β but with you? sometimes he'll kiss you like you're glass, afraid of marring you, breaking you. other times, it's all heat and liquid fire, consuming you and all you think about for days after.
he'd wake up every day kissing you if he could.
your clothes are a mess on the floor, not that you particularly care right now.
not with the way ghost is pressing his weight down on you so deliciously, hot and heavy, devouring you. he cages you between his thick forearms, barely giving you room to breathe, biting and nipping and licking deep into your mouth until your lips are shiny and swollen, pupils blown so wide, they're practically black.
"wish i could be the only one to see you like this," he pants against the hinge of your jaw, dragging teeth and tongue down your body.
the urge to bite and bruise and mark clouds his mind, wanting nothing more than to bury his teeth into the supple flesh of your thigh, until the imprint of his teeth lasts for days.
surprisingly soft hands part your thighs, baring your glistening desire to his burning gaze.
but that's not what he's looking at.
he's unable to look away from the temporary tattoo that's fading on your skin. it's been washed away from your time on set β spit and water and release coating your skin β but it's unmistakable.
a ghost.
"what's this?" he asks, thumb stroking over the faded lines of the tattoo, breathless.
you rise up on your elbows, desire thick through your veins. you don't have to look to know what he's asking about. but you look anyways, mesmerized by his thumb grazing over your skin.
"the girls and i had some on set," you begin, voice soft. "we were filming in a bath so we figured why not, y'know?"
he looks up from between your legs, predatory and possessive.
you lick your bottom lip, feeling bold.
"thought it might be cute to have you with me," you say, a whispered confession.
ghost looks like he's repenting for his sins, kneeling between you legs. you thread your fingers through his hair, arching your hips up, failing to bite back the whine rising in your throat, needing him impossibly closer.
βoh, love.β his voice is rough, wrecked, dragging his lips over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teasing right along the edge of where the ghost fades. βletβs give you something a little more permanent, hm?β
he shouldnβt β he really shouldnβt β but the urge, the need to mark you is overwhelming. it overrides every other rational thought.
he sees the way others look at you. he'll watch your videos β out of curiosity and not jealousy, he tells himself β and see the way your co-stars have this star-struck, pussydrunk look about them. he never brings himself to finish watching the videos.
his teeth sink into your skin, a sharp shock of electricity and want flooding your senses. your nails dig into his scalp, hissing out a breath between your teeth. his teeth are deep, and you can't find yourself to care. arousal leaks from your cunt, begging to be touched and filled and claimed.
ghost eventually withdraws his teeth. you sink down into the mattress, tension seeping from your body. the sting of the mark he left becomes a focal point of your attention, body buzzing and thrumming with arousal as ghost licks thick stripes to soothe the deep impression, admiring his work .
"laswell's gonna kill you," you mumble, moving to cradle the back of his head, trying to pull him up.
he goes willingly.
his eyes sparkle, a cocky smirk painted on his lips as he drags them from your cheek to your lips, indulging in a slow kiss, tongue pushing in your mouth and licking along the edges of your teeth, grazing the roof of your mouth.
"good thing i don't care what laswell thinks," he says against your lips when he pulls away, continuing the path of his kisses down your jaw to your throat, pressing delicate kisses to your pulse.
his cock lays against your hip, thick and pulsing and dripping pre-cum. you lace your legs up around his waist, heels of your feet resting delicately at his sides.
one arm cages you in while he uses his other hand to push your hair back from your face, lips tracing a path from your forehead down your temple, right above your ear.
"and me?" you ask against his jaw, wrapping around your arms around broad shoulders, enticing him to lay more of his weight down on you.
"and you what, sweet thing?" his reply comes so quick, so fluid, like he was waiting for you to ask.
"do you care what i think?"
he presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek before pulling back to look at you in a way only he can. you've seen β felt β the stares of your coworkers when you're filming.
it never compares to how ghost β simon β looks at you. like you were made only for him (and maybe you were, you think, from time to time); like you were the moon and he was so desperately trying to be the stars to be close to you; like his every breath began and ended with you.
he doesn't answer you with words. he's never been a man of many words, anyway.
he cups your jaw so softly, thumb brushing along your cheek. his eyes are so bright, his touch is always so gentle.
you can't remember life before he came into it, a blur of memories and moments lost to time. all you know now is that you can't β won't β go through life without him by your side, so deeply entwined in your blood and bones and soul.
his mouth is warm and tender against yours, and it's so easy to lose yourself to the comfort and the haven he has become. he kisses you like his life depends on it, like he'll stop breathing if he lets you go.
his fingers skim along your sides, down your spine and to your hip, tilting you up against him until your ass is resting against his thighs, cock hot and heavy and leaking right above your clit.
he carefully guides himself down your cunt, slipping himself between your folds, gathering your slick, before notching the fat head at your entrance and you ache.
he's so big β bigger than any of your coworkers, anyone you've slept with outside work β but he pushes himself so easily into your soaking pussy, walls fluttering around each inch that sinks into you. you feel so fucking full of him, the stretch a pleasant burn that ignites in your belly, lighting up your nerves like a wildfire.
always a little delirious when he pushes into you, consumed by the tight, wet heat of your cunt, he pants against your cheek, cradling you against his chest.
you fold yourself into him, legs hitching higher, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. you lick at the sweat clinging to his skin, cologne sticking to your tongue.
without any words, he knows when you're ready. you always need a moment to adjust to his size, feeling the deep, steadying breaths you take. he pulls out slowly, carefully, until the tip rests at your entrance, before snapping his hips back against yours. his lips fall to the column of your throat, feeling each moan he pulls from you, each whimper and whine.
you love the way he fucks you for work. it doesnβt feel like itβs work, not with him, never with him. you try not to dream too much about being able to keep him all for yourself.
this feels different. this is different. deep, slow thrusts, lingering kisses, noses brushing, breathing in each other.
your name sounds like a prayer on his lips, as he takes your fingers to kiss them before lacing them together, pressing your joined hands above you on the pillow.
your vision is hazy, clouded over with pleasure, barely able to keep your eyes open with each deep, steady thrust, his cock kissing the tip of your cervix.
"look at me, sweetheart," he begs, accent slurred and thick, eyes so dark and inviting. you want to lose yourself entirely to him.
maybe you already have.
"you don't even know what you do to me," he whispers against your lips, keeping his confession sacred between you. your breath stutters in your throat, unable to choke down the thoughts drowning you, a tear slipping down the side of your cheek.
he chases it with his lips, placing softer kisses to your eyelids, and then above your brow, moving down your nose to the bow of your lips. your nails dig into his sides, trying to convey each muddled thought through your touch, marking and marring him and staking your claim.
a sharp inhale follows a deeper thrust, choking out his name as pleasure floods your veins like venom, overtaking you.
"there?" he breathes, nails digging into your hip to keep you steady. voice lost, all you do is nod and mewl, pressing your breasts up against his chest, always needing him closer.
"yeah, baby, i know," he says, almost laughing, arm lacing around your waist to press you flush against him, his other hand tangling in the sheets beside your head.
with anyone else, you'd roll your eyes and scoff at the arrogance. but with ghost? you're so pliant and loose in his grip, letting him do whatever he wants with you, so submissive and obedient, only for him.
"oh, you've needed this ever since we got to the party, hm?" his teeth graze your neck, down to your collar, right above the curve of your breast. "bet you would've let me fuck you in the bathroom, hm? let my cum leak out of you for everyone to see, let them know that you're mine?"
his thrusts are sharper, meaner. it's everything you want, eyes rolling in the back of your head as the pleasure burns hotter and hotter, the precipice of release right there. the sound of your cunt drawing him in deeper with each smack of his hips against yours fills the room, each moan accented with your pussy gushing around him, his cock coated in your desire.
"gonna be my good girl and cum for me?" his voice is so rough, a hand around your throat forcing you to look at him, mouth open as you pant out each breath, unable to think of anything but his name.
unable to think of anything but your first name with his last, a contract with your names, a band around your finger.
you can only whine out a yes, please, fuck please, want to cum for you. the fingers around your throat tighten, the edges of your vision seeping black.
a sharp bite to your shoulder is the catalyst for your orgasm. thighs shaking, a moan of his name weak in your throat, your cum coating the tantalizing line of hair from his bellybutton to his cock, dripping down your thighs.
"fuckin' hell," he growls against your skin, snapping his hips hard, grazing your clit twice, three times, before you feel his spend paint your insides. thick, hot spurts of his cum pulse from his cock, drawing out your own orgasm and making your brain static with pleasure.
a mixture of his cum and yours spill out from the edges of where he's buried inside you. his cock pulses a few more times as he comes down from his high, skin slick with sweat that's rapidly cooling.
he presses his entire weight down onto you, burying his face into your neck as your nose buries into his hair. sex and release and the last dregs of your perfume permeate the air.
you card your fingers gently through his hair, a comfortable silence lingering as you both fight to catch your breath. he needs a haircut, fingers tangling in the length. maybe he'll let you give him one tomorrow.
his body sinks deeper into yours, his breath even and steady to the point where you think he might've fallen asleep inside you. you're not about to wake him.
βhave you ever thought about leaving?β you ask, hesitant, letting your question linger in the air.
βthe industry?β comes his reply a momentΒ later.
you hum in acknowledgement.
he takes another moment more to think, before his answer comes, muffled against your throat. βsometimes, yeah."
βif i left, would you leave with me?β
his reply comes not even a second later, without any hesitation.
βmy love, i go where you go."
you're glad he's tucked into your neck, arms wrapping around him protectively, possessively, throat clicking as you swallow. more tears slip down your cheeks, burning a path down your cheeks and settling in his hair. your eyes close as the emotions threaten to burst from your chest, a weak attempt to maintain your composure.
you can only hold back so much.
βdo you believe in soulmates?β you ask, significantly softer. you only ask when you're confident your voice won't betray you. the crack gives you away.
ghost is silent, inhaling the scent of sex and sweat and you.
"'m not sure," he replies. he sounds worried, unsure. your heart beats painfully.
he's scared you're going to leave.
you'll never leave him.
βmaybe theyβre not in this world," you say, fingers tracing along his shoulders and down his spine. "maybe in another, another life, another place."
he shivers under your gentle touch.
"i think youβre mine," you say, heart beating and aching and tearing at the seams; so, so scared of your confession. "i canβt imagine going through this life without you.β
his voice, so much stronger, more confident and brazen and sure comes after a heartbeat.
doing my makeup getting ready to go out and feeling delusionalβ¦price would come up behind u while get ready and grab ur ass begging to not go wherever ur headed but youβve had the plans for weeks and tell him no but he pushes you up against the counter of the bathroom and im actually gonna stop here before i get sad
"john..." you say, voice soft. he presses his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing the skin as his arms tighten around your waist.
"'ve missed you," he murmurs in reply, voice muffled against your skin. his breath is warm and it makes you shiver. you swallow thickly, closing your eyes. the tell-tale burn of emotions cling to your throat, and you desperately fight back the tears.
your mascara was too expensive to cry off.
"i've missed you too," is your gentle reply. your voice cracks at the admission, and you hate how weak it makes you seem. you miss him all the time. you miss him even now, when he's pressed right up against you, his hold on you so tight as if you'll fade away into mist if he lets go even a little.
"don't go."
you wrap your fingers around one of his wrists, nails digging into his skin. you don't know if you want to pull him closer or push him away.
"please." he sounds wrecked and your heart aches something fierce, beating so hard you feel like it might crack your ribs from the inside. "just stay with me tonight."
you bite your lip, head tipping back as you take a shaky inhale. your stuttered breaths are the only sound in the room besides the faint whir of the fan. taking a deeper, more steady breath, you're able to squirm around in his hold. lacing your arms around his neck, you nuzzle your nose against his cheek, his mutton chops tickling your skin.
"how about this," you offer, lips dragging down to his jaw. you hadn't put any lipstick on quite yet, but you know he wouldn't complain if you left a mark on him. "you walk me to the pub to meet my friends, and then you come get me after a couple hours out. and when we get home, i'm yours for the rest of the night."
his nose presses against your throat, inhaling deeply. you're wearing the perfume he got you for your birthday earlier this year. he's silent for a moment, appreciating you in his arms, where he's able to keep you safe and tucked away from the outside world, where there's something that can take him away from you. something that can take you away from him.
"okay." he gives in to the compromise, knowing the guilt will eat at him if he makes you stay. "but i'll be counting down the minutes til you're back in my arms, yeah?"
(inspired by @ghosts-cyphera's pornstar!ghost! thank you again for letting me chew him like a squeaky toy β‘)
ghost knows somethingβs wrong the moment you arrive home.
your bag slumps to the ground instead of being carefully put on the hook; your shoes are left beside the shoe rack and not on it; your normal bright and excited greeting at seeing him is far more subdued.
you lookβ¦ you look exhausted. you give him a tight, tired smile. it doesnβt reach your eyes.
he frowns, dog-earring the page of the script heβs been given β a scene heβs set to shoot with you in a few days β and sets it to the side.
he waits for you to come to him. doesnβt speak, doesnβt ask any questions. he knows you well enough by now to let you break the silence first.
and if all you want to do is sit in the silence with him? heβs more than okay with that. as long as heβs with you. as long as he can be there for you.
you crawl onto the couch, arms lacing tight around his waist, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. he laces one arm around your shoulders to keep you secure, his free hand grazing his fingers back and forth soothingly along the line of your arm.
you inhale deeply and burrow yourself impossibly closer to him. you could never be close enough.
βsometimes i wonder,β you start, voice small and muffled against his skin, βwhat the point is.β
he waits, taking a few deep, steadying breaths. he feels you follow in tandem.
βi worry that people donβt actually know me. or even care, really.β
you donβt mean him. you never mean him.
ghost is so precious to you.
βi think,β he says, after you donβt continue, keeping his voice low and soft. βyouβve worked yourself too hard lately.β
you make a small noise against his throat so he knows youβre listening. you close your eyes, feeling the vibrations of his voice. itβs soothing. you could listen to him forever.
βthere are some days where itβs all to much. itβs so easy to forget yourself. and how absolutely nothing would be the same without you.β
you swallow thickly, throat clogging. ghost is gracious enough to not acknowledge the way you sniffle. heβs so, so courteous and gentle.
βthere are people who canβt see you how your friends see you. how i see you. and it breaks my heart when people donβt return your kindness. how you care so much for everyone, and you try so hard not to need to be cared for in return.β
thereβs lips against your hair, his grip tightening.
βyou donβt need to be so strong all the time. youβre never going to be alone.β
thick, hot tears blur your vision and your throat is tight. you donβt trust yourself enough to speak.
you donβt need to say anything. he knows. he feels the way you sink into him, hold him tighter, breathe in his scent deeply.
βwould you like some wine?β he asks after the silence lingers.
βno, thank you.β your voice is small.
βwould you like to take a bath?β
βnoβ¦ but thank you.β
βwhat would you like, darling?β he asks, comfort and warmth and safety surrounding you, filling all your senses.
βyou. i just want you.β
he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, fingers carding through your hair gently, cradling you as close as he possibly can get you. you slip your hand under his shirt, resting over his heart. ββm here, darling. βm yours.β
soulmate red string theory where ghost and soap are connected together. but it still feels like something is missing. they canβt figure out what it is, and it bleeds into their thoughts. the feeling ebbs and flows and they grow accustomed to it, if not a bit miffed that theyβre so unsure.
youβve waited so patiently for your red string. as the years go by, you grow more and more discouraged. your friends, your family, your coworkers β connected to their soulmate, a new flush about them after that first meeting. you try not to feel hurt and left out. what if you werenβt meant to have a soulmate?
and then, one morning, you wake up to two red strings tied to your pinky.
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fae!gaz whom you meet in a quaint little coffee shop thatβs off the main road, tucked away. itβs small and cozy on the inside, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, dim lighting, plants lining every available free space. you like the quiet, and the pastries, and the ability to feel as if youβre suspended in time for a while.
you see him one day, and youβre surprised because youβve never seen him before, and youβve taken note of all the regulars β being one yourself.
he already knows your name when the barista calls it out. he wants it willingly, though. he doesnβt have to wait long, thankfully. you settle into your familiar chair and pull out a half-read, well-worn book. he comes over to introduce himself.
he doesnβt give you his name, but you more than happily say yours. you like the way his eyes sparkle, the way your name sounds on his tongue.
you start to see him more often, and your heart always skips a beat when he looks to you and a soft smile graces his lips. you swear he doesnβt smile like that at anyone else. you start sitting together in that little coffee shop, comfortable silence as you read and he writes or draws or does the daily crossword. other times, heβll ask you about your book and you help him on the puzzles.
you donβt think he actually needs your help, but youβre not about to stop.
the shop likes to have an assortment of pastries; changing with the season or holiday or whenever they think of something new to try. you share yours with him, even though he protests every time.
he starts getting the pastries before you arrive. he knows what you like, knows what youβd like to try. itβs a bit curious, but cute.
one day the pastry tastes a little off. he doesnβt seem to mind, but you know something isnβt right. gaz looks concerned and he tells you not to worry, he has something back at his thatβll make you feel better. time feels far, far different after that.
best friend!simon riley picking you up from a bad date β
words: 2.2k
rating: nothing explicit apart from a brief mention of sex, just some light angst and comfort. my blog is 18+ so minors please dni.
warning: hurt/comfort, fluff, pet names, insecurity/doubt/worry, mentions of sex, simon is the softie we all know he is
notes: originally written for @ghosts-cyphera β‘ we all need a bestfriend!simon in our lives who's so sweet and gentle with us.
one thing you love about simon β besides everything β is how reliable he is. strong, steadfast, there when you need him. even when heβs not physically there β his work taking him away for weeks or even months at a time β you find yourself reading over the messages heβs sent, the little sticky notes heβs left, whatever memento youβve kept of him tucked away in the drawer in your bedside table.
not that youβll tell him that.
you hate asking him for favors β asking anyone for favors, really, but him especially. whenever you ask someone for help, it's always accompanied by a long-suffering sigh or a roll of the eyes or some very clear indication that they'd rather do anything else.
except for simon.
which is why you're hesitant to ask him more than you absolutely need to. you don't want to push your luck too far, less he eventually tires of you as well.
losing people hurts, always assuming it's you that caused the problem. you've come to accept this, even if the dark feelings of being too much or a burden claw at the edges of your mind.
but losing simon? you don't think you'd ever get over that.
it's just after 9pm, the sky dark and clouds threatening, with thunder rumbling steadily in the sky. your hand shakes as you fumble your phone from your pocket, trying to hold your tears at bay as you scroll through your contacts.
your call log is all simon.
some appointments here and there, but simon everywhere else.
fuck.
you hiccup, the tears spilling from your eyes as the sky finally opens up, joining you in your mourning.
you don't have any other choice, really, so you click his number before you can talk yourself out of it and walk home instead, bringing it up to your ear as it rings.
he answers before the third ring.
"i'm so sorry to bother you," you sniffle into the phone, before he has a chance to say anything. you take in a sharp breath, blood turning to ice. "am i bothering you?" you sound so meek and small and tired.
βno, dove, youβre not,β comes his calm, reassuring voice. youβre only half-convinced.
"i'm sorry," you begin again. your heart falls to your stomach, convincing yourself that this is his final straw. you're overtaken by a wave of nausea, despite not having eaten anything since lunch. "i didn't know who else to call, and i lost my tram pass, and i don't have an umbrella, and β "
βdove,β he says, his accent soothing to your ears β he's so endlessly patient and kind. you ache.
"i can just walk home, i-i'm sorry," you whimper out, unable to stop the tears blurring your vision, feeling pathetic and weak and so, so alone.
βdarling,β he says, a little stern. not angry, never angry. trying to focus you. βwhatβs wrong?β
βu-um, my date stood me up,β you sniff, swallowing hard. "i waited an hour," you mumble, looking to your shoes. "messaged him too, y'know. but he just. didn't show."
you think you hear simon curse over the line and your heart lurches, feeling like you're about to be sick.
βwhere are you?β
there's a rustle of fabric, the clink of keys, the heel of his boot walking across his floor. you manage to tell him the name of the restaurant, voice cracking.
βtwenty minutes,β he says, and youβre about to protest but he beats you to it. βsit there and be good and patient and iβll pick you up, yeah?β
"okay," you whisper in agreement, before the line clicks dead and you allow yourself to cry, huddling under the awning as some protection from the rain, now coming down in thick, sharp waves.
thirteen minutes later, the headlights of his truck shine through the dark, pulling up to the curb. you make a mad dash for the passenger door, still getting drenched in the process.
you can't even look at him, hands shaking as you buckle the belt, trying to make yourself as small as possible.
he says your name gently. you take in a shuddering breath and let it out just as shaky, looking over towards him. he's wearing his balaclava, but his eyes β even in the dark, you can make out his beautiful eyes. assessing you, worrying.
"i'm sorry," you croak out. you can't help it. it's burned into your tongue, driven into your mind to make him understand you didn't want to bother him. he doesn't have to forgive you, but as long as he knows, that's enough.
"love," he says, and there's... something in his voice, as he reaches over for your hand, holding it gently in his own. his eyes never leave yours. "'m never gonna be mad about you askin' for help." your eyes flit away, but he squeezes your hand and you reluctantly look back. "you know me better than that," he says, as if he can read the treacherous thoughts swirling in your head, drowning you and making it hard to breathe.
you can only nod, not trusting your voice at the moment. he hums, bringing the back of your hand up to graze his covered lips over the back, pulling out to drive you back.
"this is your flat," you say, fifteen minutes later as he shuts the car off. you were too busy looking at the window, watching the rain drops race down the glass, to notice that he wasn't driving the familiar route to your place.
"yes," he replies, as if it's obvious he'd bring you here. "you really think i'd let you stay home alone?"
his eyes are so fucking bright. it startles you, and you hate how your heart twists and thumps at how intently he's looking.
"i..." you start, chewing on your bottom lip for a moment. his eyes flicker to your lips, snapping away just as quick. "i was gonna eat ice cream and drink shitty, cheap wine," you say.
"as if i don't have either of those things here," he replies, opening the door and effectively ending the conversation. you scramble after him, eager to be inside in the warmth and burrow yourself into his couch.
"go get changed," he says, voice clear as he removes the balaclava and bends to untie his shoes.
you hesitate for a second, until he looks up to you and there's that something lingering in his gaze β the same something that was in his voice.
"go on now," he repeats, softer, and you ditch your shoes and your uncomfortably wet jacket by his.
his flat is as familiar as your own β you could walk through it blindfolded at night and you wouldn't knock into a single thing.
well.
you might knock into a corner or two, but that's not a vision thing. it's a you're a bit clumsy thing. simon finds it endlessly amusing, poking at the bruises that blossom on your skin while you bat his hand away.
his bedroom is familiar as well. which is why you don't think twice before you're shimmying out of your clothes β undergarments as well β and rifling through his drawers, finding your favorite shirt of his and a pair of his boxers.
you take a moment to smell the collar, taking comfort in the scent that lingers. youβve been dressed in his clothes many times before this but it feels different this time.
as you pad back out to the living room, simonβs already on the couch. your favorite blanket is draped across his lap, two bowls of ice cream and a bottle of cheap wine sitting open, glasses filled far more than you wouldβve. but youβll indulge him, mostly because you have the sneaking suspicion that heβll have you sleep here anyways.
his balaclava is off. the last dregs of tension drain from you as he looks over to you, face soft in the lowlight of the lamp, tv already ready with a show youβve watched a thousand times that he watches with you without complaint.
βknew youβd choose that one,β he says with a bit of a smirk as you crawl on the couch, burrowing yourself into his side, his arm slinging across the back of the cushion.
βam i that predictable?β you mumble, a small βthank youβ as he hands you a bowl.
he doesnβt answer, but you feel the burn of his stare before he snorts, flicking the tv to start playing, the familiar theme relaxing you further.
the silence with him is comfortable, lingering in a hazy in-between of awake and sleep, empty bowls and mostly empty glasses sitting on the coffee table.
βwere you going to fuck him?β he asks, three episodes in, bottle empty.
you blink, not sure if you heard him properly as you pull back to look at him. you canβt read his eyes. something hot twists in your gut.
βi-i donβt know, simon,β you start, the weight of his stare heavy. βmaybe?β
he doesnβt say anything and you chew your lip for a moment, fingers curling to play with the blanket. βdepends how the date went, i suppose. doesnβt matter much now,β you snort. his gaze hasnβt changed. βwhy?β
his jaw clicks, taking a deep breath. βyou deserve better βn that.β
a confused frown pulls at your mouth, unsure how to reply. βi know how to be safe,β you tell him, voice soft.
he seems to be weighing his words in his head, lowering the volume of the show. you feel sick.
dark eyes rove over your face, taking in every minute detail. you bite at your nail, just for something to do.
βdonβt think thereβs a bloke in the world thatβs worthy of ya.β
your frown deepens, breaking your eyes from his, twisting your fingers in your lap. relationships arenβt easy. being that vulnerable with someone isnβt easy.
you never want someone to pay for you, and even the smallest gestures like opening the car door or pulling out your chair feel like itβs too much. you donβt deserve that kind of attention. after a while, theyβll get tired. youβll become a burden to them like everything else in your life.
itβs easier to be by yourself. the only person you have to worry about bothering is you.
βlove.β he tilts his head, eyes trying to catch yours. how hasnβt he tired of you yet?
a hand under your chin forces your gaze up, and you try to shrink yourself against the back of the couch. your voice catches in your throat, words stuck there.
βwhatβs goinβ on in thaβ pretty head fβyours?β
you swallow thickly, finding it damn near impossible to keep your eyes on his.
ββs not like it matters,β you start. his brows furrow, but he stays silent. βno one would want me anyways.β
ββn why would you say that?β
frustration burns the back of your throat. isnβt it obvious? you can barely call him in a dire situation without thinking the worst of yourself. how can he think of you as anything but a nuisance? how could he think anyone else would put up with it?
βyou wouldnβt understand,β you say, defeated. you crumble back into the couch.
βmake me understand.β
heat flashes at the nape of your neck. he takes your hands in his, cradling them in his warmth. your name sounds so soft in his voice.
βhow arenβt you tired of me?β comes your whispered question, nose tingling and eyes threatening to water. you look at him. hesitant. scared.
the silence is loud. his frown deepens. it takes a few painful minutes, but you see the moment something clicks in place.
βyou know iβd do anything for you, yeah?β
your lip quivers, sniffling as you beg yourself not to cry.
βbecause you do the same for me,β he continues. you doubt it, mind going blank of every time heβs come to you for something.
his touch moves to your elbow, tugging you forward gently until he can arrange you in his lap. he slips his hands beneath the hem of his shirt, thumbs rubbing on your hips where the waistband of his boxers start.
you slowly brace your hands on his shoulders. firm and broad and safe.
βyou apologize so much. you worry so much.β the tears slip down your cheeks, throat aching, but now you canβt look away from him. one hand moves to cup the nape of your neck, thumb rubbing gently at the skin behind your ear.
βyouβre allowed to ask for help.β
you shake your head, a βnoβ caught in your throat, tears blurring your vision.
βoh, love.β he cradles you into the curve of his neck, arm wrapping around your waist and keeping a gentle hold at the base of your skull. βyou have me wrapped around your finger βn you donβt even know it.β
he lets you cry into his neck, dampening the collar of his shirt. but his cologne is soothing and you eventually slump against him. youβre so tired.
his lips graze your temple, his soft touch lulling you to sleep. youβll talk about it tomorrow, but for now you want to stay wrapped up in his arms, held by someone who genuinely loves you.
dbf!john price refuses to fuck you in any position that doesnβt let him see your face. he needs to see your eyes, the way your mouth hangs open as youβre unable to hold back your moans and mewls and begs for more. needs to see your eyes glaze over as he lays his hand over your throat, large fingers pressing lightly at the sides. needs to be able to kiss you and lick into your mouth, tasting his own cum from when you got him off, strong but not strong enough to resist the way you paw at the front of his trousers, bite at his ear and tell him how desperate you are to have him in your mouth. he needs to kiss along your jaw, soft bites here and there until he gets to your throat, turning it to the side so he can sink his teeth into the soft skin and leave his mark. he needs to see the way your face contorts into pleasure as he releases deep inside you, thick ropes of cum spilling and dripping from you.
but mostly, he wants to see that pretty smile, when both of you are breathing heavy, and he tucks some hair behind your ear. he presses soft kisses over your cheeks and under your eyes, moving down your face until he can indulge in gentle, languid kisses, feeling as you relax and release all your stress and tension, soft and warm and safe in his bed.
the haziness of john's cigar lingers in the air, mixing with the overall smoke of the club, a deep, thumping bass echoing through the walls, through your veins and blood and the steady thrust of his hips up into you.
his hands β large, warm, possessive β grip your waist, nails digging into the skin deep enough to leave marks. but you want them. you need them. even if no one else can see them, no one else can know β you'll know. you'll know that he's touched you, fucked you, claimed you in a way no one else has. in a way no one else can.
"there we go," he says, voice a deep, honey purr as your eyes roll back, his thick cock hitting that spot deep inside you that makes you see stars, makes you whine and leak onto his cock, arousal slipping down your thighs and making an absolute mess in his lap.
there's a light sheen of sweat adorning his body β a mixture of the humidity of the club, the dark corner room you're tucked away in, only hidden from the rest of the club by a thick velvet curtain, and the fact that he's been fucking you steadily for the past half-hour, already pulling an orgasm from you and working you towards another.
the lights of the club glint off the metal of his harness. he removed his shirt when you both entered the club, and you'd never expect him to be wearing that. but others had been eyeing him all night, his nipples getting hard from the atmosphere. you had seen their eyes β staring at his collarbone, drifting down to his chest, and moving to linger on his hips where a trail of hair leads deliciously down into his trousers.
he could feel the jealousy emanating off you in waves, unable to hide your pout as you clung to his side, oblivious to the way others were looking at you the same.
"look at me, darling," he murmurs, one hand gripping the leash a little harder, forcing you to look down at him, the collar he gifted you right before going out laying delicately on your throat. "want to see you when you cum."
your nails dig into his chest, tightening around him as desire drips down your spine, warming your body and making you delirious.
"wanna come on your cock, john," you whine, leaning down to kiss him. all teeth and tongue, hard to do anything but pant as your thrusts grow sloppy. your thighs burn from the effort, stretched across his lap and thick thighs. his dick feels so good inside, hot and heavy and youβve never felt so full.
βoh, i know, darling,β his voice, low and mocking, nipping at the delicate skin behind your ear as he wraps one arm around your waist, securing you against him. βyou need to come so badly, donβt you?β
you hate him. heβs so hot, heβs been pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collar and chest, bruises and bite marks smattering against your skin. and he wonβt let you cum.
βplease,β you mewl. youβre not above begging. he likes it when you beg. ββve been so good for you,β you add, lips dragging across his jaw.
βmn, you have, pet,β he agrees, a sharp slap to your ass and a tighter grip on your leash, wrapping it around his fingers β slick and shiny with your spit and arousal β dragging you down until your nose is almost touching his.
βkeep your eyes open, or i stop,β he growls, low and throaty and all you can do is whine and nod and claw at his chest, desperate.
he snaps his hips up, and you cry out, feeling every inch as he fucks deep into you, your brain going static as your orgasm licks deep in your gut, so close.
your eyes flutter, threatening to close, but a warning growl from john keeps you obedient, keeping your eyes on his β dark, glossy, devouring.
three more brutal thrusts and he bottoms out inside you, your body shaking as your orgasm crashes over you, release spilling and dripping to his stomach, the hair on his navel absolutely drenched with you.
thick, hot spurts of his cum spill out from where heβs buried inside you, dripping down his cock.
βfuck,β he moans out, as he claims you in the way he loves best, marking you and ruining you for anyone else.
bodyguard!simon riley who takes a bullet for you β
words: 2.9k
rating: e
warnings: nightmares, guns/shooting, gunshot wound, hospitals, smut, creampie, cunnilingus, mentions of threats against reader, threat against reader, lowercase writing β please let me know if i missed any!
notes: 18+ content, minors dni. warnings have been provided.
he's been assigned to you for two-ish years now. you weren't thrilled at first, and neither was he β but he didn't make it as obvious as you did.
"i don't need a babysitter," you had damn-near hissed when he was introduced.
"i wasn't hired to be one," he counters coolly, which only serves to irritate you further.
actively ignoring his presence β as much as you could when your company moved him into your apartment β even though you begrudgingly made room in the counters and fridge for his things, even going as far as investing into a better kettle so he could make his tea and clearing out an entire cabinet for all his tea, sugar, and steeper.
he trails you quietly as he was hired to; keeping close enough to always have you in his sights but far enough away that people wouldn't be able to clock his association to you β or so he thought.
six months into his contract with you β an unknown amount of time left, as price never answered and soon he stopped asking β he wakes in the middle of the night from a scream he never thought would come from you.
he rushes into your bedroom, gun in hand with his finger resting on the side and not the trigger. the front door is locked as he had left it, windows unbroken. he almost thinks he might've associated it with one of his own nightmares, until he sees you.
curled in on yourself, face tucked into your knees, fingers threaded through your hair as you struggle to breathe properly, hiccups and sobs breaking between your stuttered breaths.
he knocks gently on your door, not wanting to startle you. you jump just a little, regardless, but lift your head to look at him.
"'m sorry," you mumble, voice rough, "i didn't mean to wake you."
and you hadn't. you thought you were done with these awful nightmares, the ones gnawing at the edges of your mind during the day.
"'s'alright," he replies, tucking the gun into the waistband of his sleep shorts, walking carefully towards your bed. "you okay?"
the look he receives damn near breaks his heart.
he learns, that night, that an attempt had been made on your life before. more than once.
they never got close enough to do any harm, you say, but then swallow thickly and clutch your bicep where simon sees a scar that he never took notice of previously. they didn't get close enough to do anything worse, you amend, chancing a look at him.
"i had security then, too," you explain, wiping your tears with your hand, playing with the blanket. "it didn't change anything."
something shifts after that.
he starts cooking for you β with you, when there's time β and you bring him a cup of tea each morning. the bookshelf in the living room, previously only half-filled, collects simon's books. you give him the login to all your streaming services, and ignore the pointed look he gives you when he sees some trashy reality tv show in your "continue to watch" queue.
he doesn't complain much when he stands behind you during an episode, arms crossed, asking a question here and there. you sigh, exasperated at having to explain everything, telling him to sit down and you start the series from the beginning.
nine months into his contract, your nightmares become more frequent, and worse. you don't understand why. you were getting better, you cry in simon's arms after a particularly rough night.
"sometimes these things happen," he tells you softly, gently carding his fingers through your hair, tucking you under his chin.
"make them stop, please," you beg, even though you know he can't. he wishes he could.
he starts sleeping in your bed.
he's so warm, your cheek pressed into his chest, feeling more secure than you have in months when the weight of his thick, tattooed arm slings around your waist. he presses a kiss to your forehead at night, and you burrow into his side.
he starts taking the balaclava off at night.
a morning where you blessedly don't have to be up early, grey clouds hang in the sky, the promise of a storm later.
"g'mornin'," he says, voice rough with sleep, feeling him flex and stretch beneath you, groaning as his body relaxes. a flash of heat snaps through you.
"morning," you reply, only half-awake, tilting your head up to drag your lips across his jaw, prickling with stubble.
his fingers are in your hair, thick and comforting, tilting you back until his mouth slants over yours. he cradles the back of your head as his tongue slips into your mouth, hot and heavy.
the sheets rustle as he moves to lay over you, free arm resting by your head as your legs hook on his hips, trying to draw him closer to you.
he nips at your bottom lip as he rolls his hips, the heat of his cock through his boxers frazzling your brain. you mewl, his tongue back in your mouth, moving his hand to grip your waist and drag you up against him, moaning low in his throat when he feels the wetness seeping through your panties.
"fuck," you breathe out as his mouth moves over your cheek, down your jaw, kissing the sensitive skin behind your ear.
"say please," he rumbles.
"simon, please," you whine, fingers curling at the base of his skull and scratching, and he snarls against your skin, sinking his teeth into the side of your neck as he tears your panties off, pushing his boxers down enough to free his cock.
you're so wet for him, slick coating your thighs as he drags his cock through your folds.
he usually takes his time β using his fingers and tongue to open them up first, wanting to feel the wet heat of their cunt and the spurt of their release to know they're relaxed and ready for him. he eats pussy like he'll die if he doesn't, will happily spend hours between your legs if you let him.
but you? he feels feral with need.
"it's big, sweet thing," he rasps into your skin, right above the mark he sucked into your skin, notching the head of his cock at your entrance. he's not trying to brag, it's just a fact.
you claw at him, the sting of open scratches burning his skin so pleasantly.
"it's okay, don't care," you pant, gripping him hard enough to leave deep crescent marks in his skin, angling your hips up to draw him into your cunt yourself.
he grips your hips with both hands, slowly pushing his thick length into you, nails digging even deeper the more he pushes in.
"feels so fucking good," he says, tongue laving over your throat to collect the thin sheen of sweat that coats your skin. "could fuck you forever," he groans, your breath hitching.
you make a strangled noise low in your throat. it's been awhile since you've fucked anyone, and you've never fucked anyone as big as him before.
the stretch feels so good, though. your cunt clenches around him as he sinks in deeper, mind glazing over as you focus only on him.
"fuck," he whines when he finally seats himself fully into you, nuzzling into your neck, overwhelmed by the heat and slick, "good fucking girl, taking me so well."
he swallows thickly, waiting a couple heartbeats to enjoy this β it's been awhile for him, too.
"think you can take it, love?" and his fucking voice. you would agree to do anything as long as you could hear that rough accent along your throat, teeth skimming your skin.
"yes," you breathe out harshly, moving to wrap your arms around his shoulders, needing him close, close, closer.
for a man of few words, simon has a filthy mouth as he fucks into you, accompanied by groans and growls into your collar.
"never had a cunt this perfect." "fuckin' made for me." "can't wait to get my tongue in you, feel you cum on my face." "no one else can have you." "you're mine."
and you, normally far more verbal than him, are reduced to nothing more than mewls and pleas and moans for more.
you mouth and nip at his jaw when you can, wanting to mark him just as much as he's marking you. you'll be his forever if he lets you, but you'll be damned if anyone else gets to have him either.
"simon β " is the only warning you give before you cum on his cock, head thrown back as you moan through the waves of pleasure, release coating his legnth and thighs.
"that's it, baby, good girl, give it to me," he says, blunt nails digging into your waist as he grinds himself deep into you. you feel so warm and pliant, the pleasure numbing your mind as he rocks himself into you.
"wanna feel you give me one more, angel," he bites at your throat on the other side, wanting to give you matching marks. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, fucking into you deeper, hitting that spot inside you that has you seeing stars and your toes curling.
you grip at him again, clawing as he fucks into you, the sound of your wet cunt taking each thrust creating a symphony with his groans and your cries. he feels so fucking good, splitting you open and making you whole, desperate for him to cum inside.
the way your nails dig into his shoulder is the sign that you're getting close, and he thrusts just a little harder, a little meaner, your cute whines growing more desperate as you walk the precipice of another orgasm.
no one's ever made you cum more than once β sometimes, not even once β and you've never been able to do it yourself either.
but simon? fucks a second orgasm out of you like it's his life mission, ankles tightening around his neck as pleasure lines your veins, shaking as he continues to hit that spot inside you as you cum, prolonging it as much as he can.
"baby β " he chokes out, sharp teeth on your shoulder, thrusts getting sloppy. the slick of your two releases sounds so loud in your bedroom, feeling the desperation as he thrusts, deeper, harder.
"cum inside," you mumble against his cheek, nails scratching at the base of his skull as he thrusts once, twice, three times β the warmth of his release flooding your cunt.
he fists the sheets in one hand, nails dragging down your thigh as he pumps deep into you, your slick and his release seeping out of your hole, dripping down his balls and your asshole.
you stay like that, lips brushing, breathing in each other's air as you slowly come down from the high.
simon gently β so gently β lowers your legs, carefully watching your face for any signs of discomfort, settling them on his hips, hands moving up and down your thighs. "y'alright?" he asks. you swallow thickly and nod, both hands now at the base of his skull, affectionately scratching at the nape of his neck.
he slowly pulls out, and you miss the stretch and the warmth immediately. you push up on your elbows, watching as the mixture of your pleasure leaks out of you, biting you lip.
"fuckin' beautiful," he says almost reverently, mesmerized.
he spends the next hour cleaning you up, and you think your nails create permanent marks on his shoulders.
time bleeds together.
his contract renews on the twelfth month.
he heard rumors that price might switch him out for another guard.
you're at the meeting β it's your bodyguard, after all, they figure you should get some input. price has two separate folders prepared. a sharp look from simon is all price needed to know about how he feels. the tongue lashing you give your higher ups has price raising his eyebrows, and simon sits forward a little more should he need to haul you out over his shoulder.
he wouldn't mind that too much, he thinks, but he'd rather not.
ten minutes later and you're angrily signing his renewal papers, a blotch of ink at the start of your name as you didn't even read the contract before signing, lungs burning from your rant about personal safety and what the fuck are you thinking and i didn't just buy an entirely new tea set for nothing.
you grip his wrist as soon as he signs himself, dragging him to the nearest bathroom.
his hand covers your mouth as he fucks you deep and slow.
"don't worry, darling, 'm not going anywhere."
eighteen months into his contract, and he's never felt so little control before in his life.
he's meticulous, prepared, tactile.
there's a gun in his holster for distance threats and a knife in his sheath for those who dare get too close.
he makes sure to memorize the exists before you even get to the venue, now making no effort to conceal himself.
he's like a shadow, or a guard dog.
you've never felt more secure. more protected.
until β
he doesn't know how it slipped past him.
he let his eyes linger a little too long on the curve of your neck, where a new diamond pendant lay with his initial engraved on the back. he admires the dip of the dress you wear, open-back that shows the enticing expanse of your back, the dress covering you above the curve of your ass. you look back at him briefly while whomever you're with speaks, eyes sparkling in the bright light of the room, a smile reserved just for him.
he hears the cock of a hammer and his eyes snap to a gentleman who brandishes a gun like he's never held one before in his life. his eyes, though. his eyes are like fire, black with rage, staring at you with such hatred.
you look one second too late.
simon is on you right after the click of the trigger, pushing you to the floor and caging you with his body.
"stay down and don't fucking move," he growls as he reaches for his own weapon, up in a flash.
you can't hear anything except white noise and screams that sound muffled, heart pounding and making it hard to breathe. two shots ring out, in tandem, and there's the telltale sign of a body hitting the floor.
simon is by your side, eyes scanning, frantic, looking for any signs of harm.
"you okay?" he asks, carefully outstretching his hands to let you stop him from touching you should you want. you don't.
"fine," your voice cracks, and you can't stop shaking.
"you're okay, you're okay," he says, cradling your cheeks, thumbs wiping under your eyes. "i'm so fucking sorry," he adds, guilt heavy in his chest.
you grab his wrists lightly, tears streaming down your cheeks as you look him over. you gasp, unable to catch a real breath, unable to look away from his stomach.
"simon β " you say, horror laced in your voice.
he looks down, seeing the red seep through his shirt.
fuck.
at least it wasn't you, he tells himself.
nineteen months into his contract, and he isn't dead.
while he's been shot before β a fact he tells you, assuming it would comfort you, but only got him a venomous glare in return β it's been awhile.
the hospital, the stitches, the gauze and needles. he hated it then and he hates it now.
price comes to you in the hospital β they're keeping simon for a little, to make sure there's no complications with his healing β offering another guard in the interim while simon recovers.
you've never shot down a proposal so quickly in your life. the nerve.
twenty-two months into his contract, and the last of the moving boxes are taped shut and labeled. some of them in your writing, the others in his. the keys to your new house are tucked into his pocket, alongside a black velvet box.
"why do we have so much shit," you whine when packing, only two boxes deep and so many rooms left to go. you're too busy stuffing a manatee shaped steeper into a box β mana-tea, you giggled when he opened it, him rolling his eyes fondly in reply β and don't see him pause, looking at you softer, never hearing "we" before like that. never dreaming he could hear it like that.
a lot of stalling on your part and encouragement on his, and the last box is packed and placed in the back of the truck.
he laces your fingers together as you drive to the new house, a bottle of champagne already chilled.
twenty four months into his contract, and you come home with something hidden behind your back.
you smile like you have a secret, which would be a first.
it's awkward to bring around from your back, but there's a large german shepard puppy wiggling in your grip, tail wagging furiously.
he feels his heart stop for a moment, unable to take his eyes off the puppy, and then the band that's sitting around your finger. he touches his own subconsciously.
you set the ball of fur down, who immediately launches at simon, whining and wiggling and trying to give him kisses.
there's a collar and tag already there, and you watch with your heart beating faster than ever, unable to stop the smile on your lips, as he wrangles the pup enough to read it.
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rating: there are allusions to smut but nothing explicit. however, my blog is 18+ so minors please dni.
warnings: hurt/no comfort, angst, no happy ending, brief mentions of smut, picking cuticles and biting nails. if i miss anything, please let me know!
notes: sorry in advance.
the fallout had been nothing less than catastrophic.
your father β you've never seen him so blind with rage, before. spewing vitriol and venom, mainly towards joel. it's unfair, you want to cry, you were part of it too. joel tried to be reasonable and rational at the beginning and you β you kissed him anyway.
you can't blame him, not really. some part of you knew it was always going to end like this.
it's been weeks since you've spoken with either of them. maybe a month, maybe a little more. you don't want to know, and you're not keeping track. time blurs together when you're barely making it one moment to the next.
joel hasn't reached out. you canβt blame him, either, but you can't deny that it hurts.
you thought that he mightβve fought back, stood his ground about your relationship. telling your father how much the relationship meant to him, how much you meant to him. anything that made it seem like he was doing something, anything he could to keep you.
you thought wrong, apparently.
the truth fucking hurts.
it's hard to eat, hard to sleep. you keep worrying about him. is he able to sleep okay? is he reading over your messages, wanting to type an olive branch out, remembering everything he said to you? is it eating him up at fucking all?
did it even mean anything to him?
"hey."
your father, surprisingly, was the one to reach out first. far too long after the entire ordeal happened. it makes your heart ache at the thought that it's been that long. that he's been able to β somewhat β come to terms with it and he's willing to talk. he offered to have you over one evening after work. not for dinner or anything, just to talk.
you should take what you can get, you suppose.
there isn't anything left for you to lose.
his voice is rough as you sit across from him at the table. you can't find the courage to say anything back.
the silence stretches.
you pick at your cuticles, blood seeping into the open wounds when you pull back your skin too far.
"he hasn't talked to me," you offer, chancing a look at him, after a few moments of silence that hang too heavy, a weight ready to drop and crush whatever is beneath it. "since..." you trail off, swallowing hard as you beg yourself to not cry. "i haven't... haven't tried, either."
your father nods, fingers tapping on the wood. if he's even a little bit happy about that, he doesn't show.
"it's better this way," you continue, voice weaker, unsure who you're trying to convince.
you bite at your nail. it's a nasty habit you've never been able to break.
"he'll find someone β " you inhale hard, let it out shaky. you don't want to think of him with someone else, someone who's not you. you don't want to think of him kissing someone else, holding them at night like he'll protect them from everything, whisper the sweetest promises in their ear while he takes them apart piece by piece with his mouth and fingers and β
"someone better," you manage to finish, if not a little pained.
you should've kissed him more. lingered in his arms a little longer in the mornings, in the evenings after he cleaned you up from the mess between your legs. you wish you had burned the memory of his smile into your veins β into your blood, into the smallest pieces of yourself that mattered β the one reserved for you, lighting you up like fire, keeping you warm in the unbearable moments you weren't with him.
all that's left is ash.
your father still says nothing. still won't look at you.
"it wasn't him." your father needs to understand. when you thought of the fallout β and you thought it inevitable, as it was β you never thought joel would lose everything too.
you don't know why you didn't think that. your father is understanding, but not that understanding.
you don't know why you're trying to defend joel, either. he doesn't seem to have tried the same, and he sure as shit didn't try when everything was being doused in kerosene and left to ignite.
"do you want him to find someone else?" you don't know why he asks, and you don't want to answer.
a bit of your nail came loose when you were biting it, and now you pick at it, tearing it off. destroying yourself in these small manners so there's less of you left to drag home when it's all over. glass lines your throat, making it hard to swallow, harder to breathe.
"it doesn't matter," you answer, and now he is looking at you, eyes dark and unforgiving. your heart shatters at the thought, but you never were particularly good at letting things go, letting them leave.
"no," he agrees, and it grates like broken steel, palm flat on the table as he leans back, monitoring your every movement. "it doesn't."
"i'm sorry," you offer, weak. tears burn your eyes, and you dig your fingers into your palms, biting at the skin, trying to focus the pain on anything other than your heart.
it beats, uncomfortable and heavy like lead, as it has for the past few weeks, as you fear it will until you die.
"you wouldn't have done it in the first place if you were," he bites out.
you bite the inside of your cheek, eyes closing as the tears begin to fall. he pushes back from the table β you hear the scrape of his chair. you sniffle, trying to hold back the sob that wants to break free.
you should say something β cry, beg, something to make him understand. you can't. your voice is locked, stuck in your throat as you fight to keep breathing.
your father wants to say something too, you can feel it.
but he never does, and he leaves you in the kitchen with a single light on, leaving you to the silence of blood thrumming uncomfortably in your veins and your heart beating like it's going to stop.
soap is the type to spend hours biting and sucking marks into your skin. heβs possessive, not letting you go until you have fresh marks blotching your skin, not even trying to put them in places that could be covered by clothes. no, heβs going to make other people realize that youβre spoken for and if heβs not there with you to make them realize that, then the smattering of marks along your throat and collar will speak for him.
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