Lady Alice

18+ mdni (smut, literally no plot LOL)

cw: sub!fem!reader, cnc (reader says things like stop, too much, but it's established there's a safe word), dom/sub dynamics, exhibitionism, poly!141, daddy kink, squirting, spanking, mean!141 lowkey, abrupt ending, word count: 1.4k

a/n: gn people on my phone!

"You broke a lot of rules, Price."

"No more rules."

---

cw: so it's casual but not at all. all i'm saying is undertones (but they're not all that subtle)

it doesn't matter where you are, as long as jack is with you, his hands are on you somehow. whether his palm rests on the small of your back or his fingers curl into the nape of your neck, he guides you through the crowd with a stern look on his face. 

to jack, the sidewalk rule might as well be holy scripture. when you cross the street, he immediately switches sides with you. his girl is not walking right where the cars speed past, not when he has seen how quickly an accident can happen. 

when it gets dark, jack’s chest puffs out a little more the moment you walk past a group of people, especially if it’s a group of men. he’ll step in front of you like a human shield. should anyone dare to look at you the wrong way, he'll let go of your hand, and instead he'll wrap an arm around you, flexing the muscles beneath his shirt purposefully

food groups—jack makes sure your meals are up to his standard. while he can get away with drinking coffee for breakfast, you best believe he won’t let you out of the house without getting some protein and fiber in you. he even cuts your food for you if you’re too tired, no matter how much you complain about being treated like a kid. (maybe a part of you secretly likes it.)

hard of hearing!simon riley who comes home and immediately notices the silence. No loud greeting, no mid-rant about your day, no off-key singing. Just you waving at him with a little note that says “lost my voice 🥲”. His stomach drops. Your voice is the one sound he actually wants to hear.

hard of hearing!simon riley who becomes extra protective and attentive. He sits you on the couch and pulls you into his lap, resting his good ear against your chest just to feel the faint vibrations when you try to speak. Even the weak, raspy whispers you manage feel like a gift.

hard of hearing!simon riley who starts carrying around a notepad and your phone everywhere so you can type or write what you want to say. But he still prefers when you try to talk, no matter how scratchy and quiet it is. He’ll lean in close, eyes half-lidded, chasing every little sound you can give him.

hard of hearing!simon riley who gets oddly frustrated by the silence. Not at you — never at you — but at how much he didn’t realize he depended on your constant yapping to feel grounded. The flat feels too much like it did before you.

yapper!girlfriend (temporarily mute) who keeps trying to talk anyway, only for nothing but pathetic little rasps and squeaks to come out. Simon finds it unfairly adorable and infuriating at the same time.

hard of hearing!simon riley who fucks you extra slow that night, face buried in your neck, desperately chasing the faint broken whimpers you can still make. Every tiny raspy moan you manage goes straight to his cock.

hard of hearing!simon riley who growls against your throat, “C’mon, love… give me something. Need to feel you.” He thrusts deep and holds there, grinding against that spot until your voice cracks and you let out the loudest hoarse moan you can manage. It’s enough to make his hips stutter.

hard of hearing!simon riley who puts you on your back, hooks your legs over his shoulders, and eats you out like he’s trying to draw your voice back out. Every time you try to moan his name and it comes out as a wrecked whisper, he sucks harder on your clit, determined to force louder sounds from your damaged throat.

hard of hearing!simon riley who flips you onto all fours and presses his chest flush to your back, mouth right against your good ear so you can hear his low growls clearly. He rails you hard, one hand gripping your jaw, murmuring, “Louder. Try for me.” Your hoarse, broken cries are weaker than usual, but the vibrations against his palm and the way your body shakes make up for it. He cums harder than he has in weeks.

“tell ‘em no carnations at my funeral. fuckin’ hate those.”

you sigh, for what felt like the millionth time in past three days. “simon—”

“and promise me you’ll at least wait a couple of decades before finding someone else.”

“simon, for the love of god, you’re not dying. just drink the damn soup.”

he scrunched his face as if he had been deeply wronged by you, but he drank the soup from the spoon you had held near his mouth anyway, moaning and groaning after the slightest movements. “you did not answer me, lovie. how long would you wait before finding another man after i am gone?”

simon had caught common cold and it happened three days ago. he had come home after running some errands and later, the same evening, the nasal congestion happened, and then the sneezing. oh god, the sneezing. he drank hot tea and had slept on the couch that night so you wouldn’t catch cold too. he said it’d go away soon, that it was nothing.

only, it didn’t go away. next day, he came down with proper cold. tiredness, headache, sore throat, light fever, cough—all that stuff.

and if simon wasn’t the most dramatic version of himself while he was sick. it was a new experience entirely, watching the big, serious guy act like spongebob once he got sick. simon hadn’t fallen sick before. not that you had witnessed anytime he did. but now that he did, you were seeing a totally different side of him.

he’d been acting as if he had a terminal disease instead of common cold. it was adorable in a way, really.

“hmm, let’s see… perhaps a year, i think?” you say, trying to hold back a smile. if he was going to be dramatic, you were definitely going to play along. “appropriate mourning period.”

“a year?”

“i mean, i am quite young, no? can’t give up on love this young,” you explain, holding another spoonful of the warm soup near his mouth, which he slurped gently. “a woman has needs, after all.”

simon looked at you for a few seconds as if you had betrayed him, and then he pulled up the covers a bit, trying to get inside those fully and lay back down on the bed. “i’ll come back as a ghost to haunt that man.”

now that almost makes you huff out a soft laughter, but you control it. “two years is the max i can do, love,” you say, trying your best to sound earnest, though you were miserably failing trying to hold back a smile.

“i don’t like the thought of dying anymore,” he replies finally, sounding as though he had uttered those words after a lot of thinking, and laid back down on the bed. there even was a soft, pout on his face, as if he was deep in thought. it was all so comical.

“that’s what i’ve been telling you for the past three days—and no you can’t go back to sleep just yet,” you reprimand him mildly, splacing the cup of soup back on the nightstand before pulling him back up using all your strength. “finish the soup first, it’s warm, good for the throat. then you have take the meds.”

“but lovie―”

“simon.” you just had to act strict to get him to listen. after he had finished the soup and taken the medicine, you fluffed up his pillow and let him lay back down on the bed.

“sleep tight, love.” you press a kiss on his forehead, tucking the hair strands back so they don’t fall on his eyes.

you were just about to leave the room before he spoke up, voice hoarse and raspy due to cold. “lovie ’m fucked, nose‘s so blocked… can you spoon me? need yer hugs and kisses...”

you smile warmly at his request. there was a high chance you would catch cold too, but fuck it. it was just a cold. you could recover from it in a week, max. after all, it’s not everyday you get to cuddle with a dramatic simon. “sure thing. but no more talks of dying, okay?”

“mhm.” simon nods obediently, shifting aside on the bed to make space for you. and when you settle down beside him, he rests his head on your chest, finally content.

suddenly, he raises his head up to look at you. “to be clear, you were jokin’, right?”

“yes,” you chuckle.

A meeting is about to start when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s around 12pm. So it must be a picture of what you’re eating for lunch.

maybe a sandwich with crisps? or maybe an açaí bowl from that new place you were talking about this morning.

He opened the notification.

Ghost slammed his phone face down on the table. Price and Soap looked at eachother confused, as did others in the room. The silence was awkward.

Maybe you had sent him in angry text ??

"You gotta strip, Sleepy. I need to perform a full physical. Can't have any fabric getting in the way of my diagnosis."

The words exactly sound like they'd be in the script for the worst porn video ever, but in the gravel of Jack's voice, they get you wet before he even touches you. Sorry, examines.

You peel off your scrubs, step out of your underwear, and lie completely exposed under him.

And, like the beautiful asshole he is, Jack doesn't take his stethoscope right over your chest. Nope, he just presses the freezing cold metal right up against your nipple.

He circles it until it peaks. You gasp.

"I don't think that's where the heart is, Dr. Abbot."

His head tilt works as a shrug.

"Don't have to listen in on it to know you're dangerously aroused...better settle down there."

And as he tilts his head forward to lick your other nipple---a taste test, Jack slips the stethoscope to where it's actually supposed to be, and you can't help but feel the heart he's listening to share its pulse with your cunt when he smiles.

He nearly whispers.

"She's hammering, kid. Can't imagine how your cunt's gonna feel when I get around to it."

You gasp again when the shock of the metal hits your slit.

Jack listens. If you're guessing right, if you even can with the way the nub rubs up against your cunt, your slick sticking to it, that he's wearing what is a clinical curiosity on his face.

The bastard. The beautiful bastard.

So he stays in the chair.

Every night.

Fully dressed, mask still on, boots planted like he’s still on duty. Like rest is something other people get to have without consequences.

You notice it in pieces at first—the way you wake up slightly too warm, then slightly too watched. The way the room is never fully dark, not really, because there’s always that faint outline of him across from you, completely still, like a statue carved out of restraint and guilt.

He never speaks when you catch him. He never moves, just watches.

That slow, steady attention fixed on your chest rising and falling, like he’s counting every breath to make sure it still happens. Like if you stop, he’ll finally have something to panic about.

Sometimes you pretend to stay asleep longer just to feel it—his presence sharpening, like he leans forward just a fraction when he thinks you’re not aware. Like you’re the only thing in the room keeping him anchored to anything human.

He tells you once, in a voice so low it almost gets lost in the dark, that he can’t risk it.

Not you. Never you.

He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. The words sit heavy between you anyway, full of things he’s done, things he’s seen, things he still hears when everything else is quiet.

After that, you stop asking him to come to bed.

But you don’t stop waking up.

You’re shaking and sweating, holding the base of the chair so tightly that your knuckles turn white. The circular sensation against your clit has been non stop and your brain is about to turn to mush because of it.

“You okay, love? You look tense.” You glare at price to which he gives you a knowing smirk. “Not too much now. I’m still your captain. Could send you to train the recruits if I wanted to.” There’s an intentional pause- as if to leave the mind to imagine. “although I doubt you’ll be able to demonstrate much in this state.”

You lift your hips off the chair in hopes to alleviate some of the friction but to no avail. A string of curses leaves your lips. “Fuck…I’m gonna cum.”

“Easy now.” Ghost chimes in. “Still in a briefing. Keep it professional, kid.”

“You could just take a guess- put an end to it.” Kyle so kindly suggests. There’s a few menacing chuckles in response. “Remember your forfeit though.”

And just like that- the sensation stops. It’s both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, you no longer have to climax in front of your team at a mission briefing, while on the other, your thighs are now rubbing against one another for any amount of friction that could just give you that relief you need.

Later in the day, Soap finds you curled up on a couch, clutching your lower abdomen and eyes just a little bit glazed over. “You look like shite.”

And you felt like it. “One of you fuckers has been edging me all day,” you mumble, pressing your legs so tightly together as if that would do you any good.

“At least you know it’s not me, you know I like to give ya what you want.”

You shoot him a glare- because Soap will let you cum. The problem is, that’s all he does. You’re climaxing at least once an hour when he has your pussy, and he’s not shy to experimenting.

He’ll grind the toy against the corner of his desk, he’ll hold it under running water, he’ll even go so far as to tie it to a vibrator as he’s sleeping just to make sure you’re left satisfied.

And the day will always end the same- soap locked inside his room while you’re banging for him with cute glistening tears, begging and sobbing for him to stop which just isn’t enough for him until you’re sitting in a puddle of your own arousal outside his door.

“C’mon, lass. Just take a guess.” He steps closer, lifting your chin with a finger. His eyes glimmer with excitement when he sees the way you’re practically looking through him and not at him. “You get it right, you get your cute cunnie back. And if you get it wrong…” he leans closer to your ear, “I’ll take ya first and you know I’m good at making ya cum.”

The offer is tempting, and you almost mutter a name in his advice but suddenly you gasp when you feel a low vibration make contact with your sore clit.

You hunch over, gripping the back of the couch. “What’s going on?” You don’t even have the strength to look up but from voice alone, you know it’s Gaz.

“Looks like someone’s having fun.”

Gaz’s eyes trace from a smug soap to a pitiful you. “What d’they got going on?”

Your voice strains as you try to speak. “V-vibe.”

Gaz nods in understanding. “Sounds like ghost or price. Me? I’m a traditional man.”

Soap snorts. “Oh, we know.”

Gaz, cursed at him, rolling his eyes with no real heat behind it. But soap was right. Gaz always talking about how he wants to meet the love of his life “naturally” and properly court her, have a romantic wedding, have two kids (one boy, one girl), basically he was traditional in every sense.

This includes in the bedroom where he doesn’t believe in the need for toys. Instead, he’ll plunge his fingers in your pussy till it’s sopping and crying, and then he’ll drink it all up with the tip of his nose pushing against the hood of you clit- all to do it over and over and over again.

The pair continue to argue but you drown out their voices as you feel that sinking feeling deep in your gut again. The vibrations are so perfectly pressed against your clit that it has you seeing stars.

It has to be price, right? The fingers from earlier were rough with experience but the movements themselves were patient and experienced. They move in perfect circles up and down your folds, playing with them like pages on a book before teasingly flicking against your clit.

Or is it ghost? It’s more likely for ghost to be using a vibrator than price. He loves his toys, has a whole fancy collection that are “just for testin’” he says. But usually ghost is a little rougher, isn’t he? So maybe it’s-

The thought is cut off when you feel a blunt, large head of a vibrator forcefully being pushed against your opening. Your eyes widen, and whoever is toying with you isn’t in the room but you instinctively scream anyways which draws the attention of both Gaz and soap. “waitwaitwaitwait- It won’t fit!”

God- fuck- it had to be him. It had to be. Oh shit, just say a name. Or is it price? No- he wouldn’t. Or? Fuck- you could literally count down the seconds as the head stretches you wider and wider and - “Ghost! Stop it!”

And just like that…it stops. And for a moment, it feels like time stops.

“Oh? Looks like we have a name.”

You’re panting for dear life, vision blurry as you curl up in the couch, oblivious to the rest of the team flooding in the room.

Price kneels by your side, placing a warm hand on your forehead and using his thumb to brush away the hair that sticks to your forehead.

Once you catch your breath, you roll over slowly. Your vision is a blur, but it gradually comes to focus and you recognize price’s look of concern with the rest of them peering over his shoulder.

“Did I get it right?”

The men pause, none of them giving it away, until you notice a twitch of Price’s mustache followed my an upward turn of a crooked smile. “Oh, fuck.”

A deep and amused laugh confirms what you already know and Soap is already taking off his belt, “I’m going first, lads.”

“Why do you go first? Price did all of the work.” Gaz retorts, finger twitching in retaliation.

“Called dibs. Didn’t I, lassie?”

Gaz lets out a sputter of disbelief. “Oi, You can’t just call dibs on something like that!”

“Her mouth is still open if you want it.” Soap is already at your legs, grabbing them by the ankles and pulling them apart.

-BENJAMIN POINDEXTER X READER-

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; This whole fic was inspired by this post by @masterfishbaiter71 ! Anyways, this entire fic is just about edging Dex til he has a meltdown and goes fucking crazy on you ;)

⋆ tags/warnings. benjamin poindexter x female reader. SMUT!!!! PURE PORN. Guys please don't edge Dex, for your own safety, warnings for sadism, mentions of dacryphilia for both dex and reader, dex taking his anger out on reader, kind of switchy vibes (starts off with somewhat subby Dex and ends with reader getting destroyed lmao), m!receiving oral smex, BLOWJOB BLOWJOB BLOWJOB, facefucking, sadomasochism, you're his north star, per usual that white boy loses his self control, emotional Dex, swearing. I saw this post and flatlined pretty much. I love my little dexy-poo. Again, tysm to everyones support on my fics! Im so excited for tommorrows episode!

♫ “Baby, I could slow down, if that's what you need me to do. / We can go another round, maybe to a new altitude. / I'll make you need it, and you want it.” Altitude by Montell Fish

"I'm...I'm trying-" He growls out a plea.

The words fall from his lips in short spasms and bursts. He's struggling to get them out, his jaw clenched like it might break. You see him white-knuckling the sheets, twitching like he wants to reach out and grab onto you. Onto any part of you he can get his hands on.

Your tongue flicks over his tip once, twice. Precum pools in a small bead at the top which you kitten lick off intently. You hear Dex moan- and it's a strangled, ragged sound.

"Trying to...what, Dex?" You tease. Laughing against his throbbing cock. He can't respond when you begin to just kiss the length of him, wet and hot. You feel his whole body jerk and a low groan tear out from him.

The only sound in the room is the slow, wet obscene noises coming from how you're working him. And the sound of Dex's heavy choked breathing.

He's close. So close. It's times like these you get to see his brain completely shut off, all the noise that plagues him turn into a pliant, quiet mush at the feeling of your mouth on him.

"I-I'm going to-"

Cum. He's going to cum. You know that, smirking around the head of his flushed red cock. Poor guy can't even finish his sentence. You almost feel sorry for him the moment you pull back.

The loss of your tongue is jarring. It's the third time tonight. You've been teasing him, watching his control falter with every lick and kiss. You've also been careful not to take him fully down your throat, cataloging every reaction he gives you. The sight of his pretty face contorted with a desperate, needy pleasure.

You chuckle when his abdominal muscles flex, his whole body tense. The absence of your mouth feeling like a bucket of ice water has been dumped on him. A sharp gasp is ripped from his throat, hips bucking in shallow thrusts to chase the loss.

His whole body taught with the effort not to snap.

You finally look up from your place between his thighs, if only to catch a glimpse of his face. You note his hollow cheek-bones twisted into a grimace at the loss. The beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and abs. The way his veins prominently stick out and throb from under his skin and forearms. The way his chest heaves at the lack of contact.

And yet, what finally gives you pause is when you meet his eyes.

His eyes. Those gorgeous, dark eyes of his- heavy lidded and red rimmed. Overstimulated and wrecked, like he's been crying, or at least is on the verge. Glossy and wet as he desperately attempts to blink them away.

For a moment, you think he really just is that needy. Crying for his North Star's mouth on him, eyes dimmed with nothing but complete worship. But when his eyes meet your own, biting the inside of his cheeks, it's when you finally notice the truth.

The way his brows are lowered. The way his body trembles. The way his cheeks are flushed. The way his cock pulses impatiently under your hand. His locked jaw.

That look of pathetic desperation in his eyes is nothing short of a hot, wild, frenzied anger.

He's not just needy. He's fucking furious.

Your train of thought is cut off entirely when you feel a hand come up, tangling in your hair, and pushing you down in one hard, smooth motion. You feel the head of his cock immediately hit your esophagus.

As if on instinct, you gag around him, throat tightening as he groans loudly. He pants as he pushes you all the way down, manhandling your mouth onto his cock like a fleshlight. He holds you there for what feels like forever, those glossy eyes of his drinking in the sight of you gagging on him.

"Breathe...Breathe through your fucking nose." Is all he orders, trying to catch his own breath while you sputter around him. The words come out harsh. The change of pace is jolting. His eyes are still wet with need, the hard lines of his body still rigid underneath. You feel his hands tighten in your hair to a pressure than borders on painful.

He's seething. That anger boiling over and melting into a mean look on his face he was trying so, so hard to repress for you. But you just couldn't let him, huh? Had to make him the bad guy.

He observes as your mascara quickly begins to run, your own eyes welling. Something about it makes him shudder. Only when he sees tears of your own does he begin to move. You two can cry together.

"Good. That's...That's good. That's it." He loosens his grip on you ever so slightly to pet your hair, take you in like the goddess you must be, his saving grace. His body begins to relax, coming down from his anger as his breathing calms down...right before he rams his cock sharply down your throat.

You let out a loud gag and whimper around his cock, and he inhales sharply in unison.

"All quiet now, huh." He grits out, shoving you down further as you choke. The force of his words are coupled with the sharp thrusts of his hips fucking up into your throat. When you whine, he decides to push you harder. "Look at me. Look at me."

His words sound like both a livid command and a desperate plea.

You struggle to open your eyes, but when you do, you're still met with bloodshot and glistening gaze that now completely matches your own.

He holds you there, both of you shakily breathing, tears pooling while you cry around his dick.

He briefly wonders if you knew. If you knew you were killing him like this. If you knew how hard he was trying not to grab your head and fuck your throat raw. Be...gentle.

Guess it doesn't matter now.

Dex’s grip tightens in your hair, fingers flexing like he’s still fighting himself even as he starts fucking your throat in short, brutal strokes. His voice is low, rough, and broken.

“Couldn’t…just...wait anymore.” The words come out both furious and strangled. Like he's desperatley trying to apologize, to tell you why, but they lack any and all remorse the more he bullies your throat.

Each thrust is measured but punishing, his cock sliding deep, stretching your throat until fresh tears spill down your cheeks. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time- glossy, furious, and starving.

His thumb gently wipes a tear from your cheek even as he keeps ruthlessly using your mouth, the contrast between the soft touch and the vicious snap of his hips making your head spin.

He's close. Again. For the fourth time tonight. And something tells you this one won't end in broken pleas or shallow thrusts up into nothing.

He’s panting hard, hips snapping up faster, losing the last threads of control.

“Swallow it. All of it. Right now.”

His voice cracks on the last word. And with a final groan, he shoves himself as deep as he can go and holds you there, pulsing hard as he spills straight down your throat in thick, endless spurts. He stays buried, breathing ragged, thumb stroking your tear-streaked cheek almost tenderly while his cock twitches against your tongue.

He leans down to rest his forehead against yours, pulling you back up with a gentleness that contrasts his earlier actions. His touch is hot, the sweat of his body sticking to your own. Your throat will be sore tomorrow.

The two of you stay like that for quite some time, losing count of the hours. You might just end up kissing each others tears away.