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jdeclerc · 2 months ago

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my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the sette. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around.

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry.

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long.

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses that soaks into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare.

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for.

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried.

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could.

Domineering. Grossly possessive.

He has you already, but that's not enough.

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be.

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse.

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out.

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life.

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous.

Dismissive.

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe.

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only.

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm.

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time.

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy.

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time.

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away.

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content.

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him.

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile.

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce.

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut.

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable.

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct.

Good girl.

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye.

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

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jdeclerc · 2 months ago

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Simon Ghost Riley x you

Operation: Midnight Snack

It was late. Too late, really. You should have been asleep, but instead, you found yourself tiptoeing into the kitchen, hoping to grab a snack without waking Simon. The man had the instincts of a damn predator, and the last thing you needed was him catching you raiding the fridge like some kind of criminal.

You had just peeled back the wrapper on a chocolate bar when-

"The hell do you think you're doin', love?"

You yelped, nearly dropping the chocolate as you spun around. Simon was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, wearing nothing but sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His mask was off, his hair was a mess, and he had that lazy, half-lidded look that told you he’d just woken up.

You swallowed. Damn it.

"Midnight snack." you admitted, holding up the chocolate like evidence.

Simon raised an eyebrow. "Chocolate? Before bed?"

"I had a craving," you defended.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. He stepped closer, crowding you against the counter, his bare chest warm against your skin. "That so? Thought I satisfied those before we went to sleep."

Your breath hitched as his fingers ghosted along your waist. "Simon-"

"Shhh." His voice dropped, rough with amusement and something deeper. "Eat your chocolate, then I'm takin' you back to bed. But just so you know, sweetheart..." His lips brushed against your ear, his breath hot. "I've got a better way to keep your mouth busy."

You nearly choked on the piece of chocolate you had just bitten into.

Simon chuckled, stealing a piece for himself before lifting you onto the counter with ease. "Finish up. You've got five minutes."

You stared at him as he walked back toward the bedroom, still smirking.

Five minutes?

Oh, you were in trouble.

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jdeclerc · 3 months ago

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I don’t think i could love him more.

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jdeclerc · 3 months ago

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I can imagine asking Ghost to take my daughter to the daddy-daughter ball, only not to be able to get rid of him once he brings her home.

"you what?"

you rest your forehead against your locker door, closing your eyes as you tune out the nonchalant voice on the other end of the phone.

he always cancels.

but this?

"y-you can't cancel," you say finally. "you have to go. you can't do this to her, are you fucking kidding me?" you put a hand to your forehead. "you're a fucking asshole. i-i bought her a dress. it's for fathers and daughters, i can't fucking take her. it's all she's been talking about, i can't believe you--!"

you kick your locker shut and take a seat, resting your elbows on your knees. he gives you another excuse, but you just blink away your angry tears.

"no. don't bother. in fact, i don't want to see you again. i don't want her to see you again."

you put the phone down, your hands trembling from how angry you are. you aren't even surprised that he's not calling you back.

he's never wanted her. never.

"sergeant."

the firm sound of your title immediately has you on your feet. you stand up straight, but you relax a little when you see it's just ghost. his head is tilted to the side, and he's watching you carefully from under his mask. you can't see his expression, but his eyes are intense. he's focused on you, very much so.

you wipe the few tears that are under your eyes, and then your phone pinging takes your attention away from him. you pick it up and curse under your breath, opening your locker again to grab your things.

"i'm sorry, lieutenant, i need to go. can i get back to you tomorrow?"

"it's pick-up time, isn't it?"

you freeze from putting your jacket on, eyeing him warily before zipping it up.

"yeah," you say finally. "and i have some bad news to deliver, so while i'd love to stay and chat, i really need to go."

"doesn't hafta be her father," simon shrugs, leaning up against the locker beside yours. "could be anyone."

you glare at him a little, "if you're trying to make some kind of crude joke about the lack of men in our lives, lieutenant, i'd be careful if i were you--"

you stop when he grips your chin tight between his gloved fingers. you blink, unsure of what to do, and he shakes your jaw a little.

"i could take 'er."

you frown up at him, too annoyed to notice how he bends a little more, his face nearly against yours.

"it's not funny, lieutenant."

"not laughin'."

"you..." you meet his eyes, deflating a little. "you...you'd...you'd do that for me?"

ghost merely clicks his tongue before letting you go. when you make your way to your car, he follows, and you try to hide your smile as you make your way home.

ghost exchanges his mask for something more discreet when you aren't looking. a black n95, but his eyes still kill the same. when you come back to the car with a little girl on your hip, she stares wide-eyed at the hunk of man sitting in the passenger seat. he raises a brow at her, saying nothing, and you swallow hard as you buckle her into her seat.

"uhm...this is ghost. can you say hi, honey?"

"ghost? like halloween?"

"like halloween, baby."

as you buckle yourself back in the drivers' seat, you side-eye ghost when you hear the crinkle of a plastic wrapper. when you peek into the rearview to reverse out of the parking lot, you see your daughter with a big smile on her face and a red lolly stuck in her mouth.

"always carrying around sweets, lieutenant?"

he shrugs. "maybe."

she makes him wait in the living room while you get her dress on (she wants a big reveal, coming down the stairs and all). you bought it off of etsy, a custom-made, princess-inspired dress. it has a big skirt of silk and tulle, with a big bow at her back, and when you look at her smile in the mirror, you feel that searing slice of something that makes you want to kill the man that almost ruined her evening.

she gets to do her big reveal. she spins at the top of the stairs to make her big skirt move, and then she's running down the stairs, giggling, laughing, and just as she makes it to ghost, he grabs her under her arms and tosses her into the air. she shrieks with delight when her big dress moves, and you bite your lip watching them. the sight of ghost hiking her up on his hip and commenting on her bow makes your mouth water.

fuck. have his arms always been that big?

they look funny. your daughter looks like the prettiest princess, and ghost looks exactly as he always does--like a SAS lieutenant. he might not have any of his gear on, but the cargo pants, thick boots, and windbreaker don't hide his physique.

"have fun, baby."

you come up next to her, kissing her face, and she clings to your superior, arms tangled around his neck as she waves goodbye. you give ghost the keys to your car, tell him to bring her back by seven, and then you pamper yourself while she's gone.

you drink a few glasses of wine. you take a hot bath. you pick a movie to watch and don't have to make sure the rating is at least PG.

when ghost finally comes back, you're laying on the couch with another glass of wine. pajamas on, blanket over your lap, and you smile when you see her passed out in ghost's arms as he closes the front door behind himself.

"asleep? already?" you giggle. ghost sets your keys down by the door before taking his boots off, and you watch intently as he carries your daughter up the stairs to put her to bed. you follow him, grabbing some of her pajamas from the drawer as he lays her down on the bed. you work together to get her little shoes off and shimmy her out of the dress, and as you get her into her clothes and back under the covers, she barely even moves. she's so tired, yawning and snuggling under her blankets, and you shut the door behind you, leaning against it as you blink up at your lieutenant.

he stares right back down at you. you reach a hand up and trace along the edge of his mask. it's quiet. inappropriate. he won't move away from you, and you won't move either.

you could get used to this. you could get used to watching more adult movies, drinking more wine, having time to fixed your chipped nail polish. you could get used to being bent over your unmade bed and fucked nasty.

you grab onto the crumpled sheets, arching your back more. your knees dig into the mattress as your ass hikes up, and ghost grunts as he uses your hips as an anchor and fucks into you harder. it's been ages since anyone's found your sweet spot, and ghost's cock is nudging it every single time his hips come back to meet yours. his thighs are nearly as fat as his cock, and you feel like your entire body is being rewired as he gives it to you so good, inside and out.

thumb against your clit, balls smacking your pussy, cock splitting you open--you used to think sex was made only for men, but maybe you just never found a real one to show you just how toe-curling it really could be.

if you thought it was good on your tummy, ghost shows you an entirely different feeling on your back.

it's so intimate. no one has ever looked at you this way before. his hands are intertwined with yours, and all you can do is cry and squeeze his hands as he sinks all the way inside of you and barely moves apart. in the dark, he takes his mask off, and you can feel the pant of his hot breaths as he grinds into you deep, slow, purposefully. the stimulation on your clit has your thighs shaking, and when you think the tears are too much, ghost flattens his tongue to lick them off before kissing you wet and languid.

ghost barely pulls out. he just circles his hips, punching back into you, and you see spots behind your eyes when he finally opens his mouth and groans into your ear. something about hearing his voice, hearing him falter, it makes you come. as soon as your cunt squeezes, ghost chokes, gripping your jaw tight and coming deep. you squirm underneath him, arching your back--he fills you up, so much so you can feel it spurting out around his cock and spilling out between your thighs.

you're too tired to protest when he sinks between your thighs after--you have to get clean somehow, right?

when you come into the kitchen in the morning, ghost is at the stove, your daughter on his hip and an egg frying in the pan.

he doesn't leave you when you take him back to work; and he doesn't leave you when you go back home. you should've known better, maybe. it's your own fault. ghosts like to haunt.

and this one is home.

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jdeclerc · 3 months ago

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straight men have beauty standards for men that are completely different than the beauty standards women and gay men have for men and then they get mad when they conform to the beauty standards other podcast bros set for them and women still don’t find them attractive

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jdeclerc · 3 months ago

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ghost proposing, a little angst but very very sweet

they have the night off and he’d already be devouring her whole if she wasn’t so excited about going out. it’s a shit bar close to base, but she reasons it’s a good change of scenery.

and boy is it, terrible karaoke heard a mile away. the military wives, or rather soon to be, taken over. a bachelorette party of at least six women, loud and obnoxious.

soap and gaz find it to be the most hilarious thing in the world, applauding a brunette on stage over her disastrous performance of careless whisper. but ghost can’t help but watch y/n, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. throughout the night he silently dissects her, his assumption it being some sort of yearning for female company. but as one of the women come up to their table, asking if anyone from the squad could take a picture of the rowdy group, ghost swallows harshly. y/n jumps at the opportunity, congratulating the bride like they’ve know each other their whole lives.

they never discussed the nature of their relationship. hell, the word relationship was never even voiced out loud. but even a stranger could tell how they moved in sync, his reflection and her shadow. in their line of work it was best case scenario and simon never allows himself to think about there ever being more.

but that is until y/n asks to see the ring. it’s almost comical, the gigantic diamond blinding, making her squint. ghost finds himself scoffing behind the mask, he could easily read y/n’s compliment a lie. she would never wear anything like it.

the following months ghost finds himself ring shopping. fucking hell, what is he thinking, really? his tongue can’t even roll the world girlfriend. and yet here he is, glaring at the poor saleswoman like she’s supposed to know none of these expensive rocks are good enough for his y/n.

when the ring is finally chosen, he doesn’t quite know what to do. he’s horrified of y/n finding it so the ring stays on his person at all times, even in the field. he’s less talkative than usual, if that’s even possible, always looking for the right moment. brushing their teeth together in the morning, ghost buried between her thighs in the evening. he nearly does it one late night, y/n perched on the window sill of her room. swimming in moonlight, she looks ethereal. he’s done unimaginable things in his life, taken and saved lives. none of the gore ever phased him, but the sight of her has his stomach turning.

so he chickens out. regret begins to gnaw at him as the very next mission goes haywire. y/n barks at him through the comms, the sweetest sound in the world, even if she’s telling him to get out, explosives ticking in the building. he’s trying, he really is. his gear seems to get heavier by the minute with a broken rib threatening to seize his lungs. he can make out her silhouette by the exit, but it’s out of reach. the floor crumbles beneath him.

when ghost wakes up, he immediately spots soap pacing back and forth, as much as the tiny ward of the hospital would allow him. y/n is passed out in the chair next to his bed, his balaclava clutched to her chest.

“good to have you back, lt.” soap whispers not to wake the sleeping soldier. “how ye feeling?”

“was she hurt?”

“no.” soap shakes his head, knowing how important the answer is before he can move on to his long awaited teasing, pulling out a velvet box out of his pocket. “i suppose it was foolish to question who this belonged to then. didn’t take you for the marrying kind, lt.”

he wasn’t, but if it pleased y/n, he’d marry her a thousand times. and even though ghost wants to be annoyed with the sergeant, he’s already decided to promote him to best man for finding the ring before y/n could.

when ghost gets released, it takes time to find courage to open the velvet box. it’s barely holding together, taking most of the damage to protect what’s inside. the ring is chipped, the intricate band of petite diamonds has at least five distinct cuts. they’re surprisingly neat, but asymmetrical and obvious to they eye. he can only curse, what a fool he was to convince himself that there could be something more.

“what’s that?” y/n is right next to him, her stealth impressive as she appears unnoticed in his room.

he can tell her awe for the ring is genuine, eyes eyes lighting up at the piece of jewelry. she pries it out of his hold, standing close to the window to examine the gems reflecting daylight. she disregards the cracks completely, telling him it adds character to it. the sincerity of her smile makes it hard to breathe.

“so who’s the lucky girl then?” she asks, never once trying on the ring.

“who- who’s the lucky girl? bloody hell woman, who do you think?”

they’re both dumbfounded, y/n by the answer and ghost by the question. and ghost knows he said the wrong thing as y/n shrinks in her spot, her gaze glued to the floor.

“i mean- i- i really don’t know.” she stutters, growing shy likes he’s never seen her before.

“try it on.”

“what?“

“come here.“

y/n allows him to hold her hand, sliding the ring on her finger with utmost care. it fits perfect, just her size and taste. her eyes jump between him and the ring, mind going a mile a minute.

“what do you reckon?“ his voice is low and quiet, and that’s all he says. it dawns on her that he’s really doing this, proposing in the most simon riley way possible.

“i didn’t even know we were dating.” she can’t help the jaw numbing smile that overtakes her, gently squeezing her hand in his.

“‘cause we’re not. we’re engaged.”

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jdeclerc · 4 months ago

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its rude to reblog things from people you arent mutuals with fyi. :/

💀 my brother in christopher

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jdeclerc · 4 months ago

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what's a tumblr influencer? what am i influencing? my mental illness? 😭

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jdeclerc · 4 months ago

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in love with this 😍

Some of you guys wanted a more in depth look into this post of mine so I expanded upon it and I shall deliver! but this can be read on it's own ofc.

Enjoyyyyy <3

Simon woke up with a start, even in the low lighting he could tell he was in an unfamiliar room and a small stirring next to him alerted him to the fact he was close to an unfamiliar presence as well. No, not unfamiliar, but not familiar enough for his heart not to jump slightly at noticing you. Your hand grabbed a fist-full of his shirt and you were seemingly trying to pull yourself impossibly closer to his presence. His startled heart began to melt, and in the calm your resting face brought him he began to remember how exactly he got here.

////

“M’ tellin ya mate yer going tae like ‘er,” Johnny teased, bounding a couple steps in front of Simon, turning back to him and rocking back and forth on his heels, hands shoved into his pockets to protect them from the cold. As Price often quipped, the scott couldn’t stand still for the life of him.

“Mhm,” Simon just grumbled in response.

“See mate, That’s the attitude that scares all the girls away.” Johnny commented, hands outstretched and exaggerated.

“Whatever.” Simon huffed, rolling his eyes. Johnny wasn’t wrong, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything with a girl that wasn’t a quick lay, even then it had been months, not to mention going out on a proper date. Well, a date was a stretch, you were Johnny’s roommate and close friend for a couple years. He had heard of you, but never met you and now Johnny was insisting that he go on a date with you because he was convinced it was going to work well, Simon wasn’t convinced in the slightest.

“She’s real nice though- so put away the tough guy act big man- girls don’t like that.” Simon couldn’t believe he was getting dating advice from his sergeant, so he just doubled down and kept scowling but Johnny kept pressing. “I'm telling you she's a real sweet girl, kinda lass who would try tae make a crying baby laugh on the tube or go and feed some mangy stray dog, perfect for a prickly bastard like yerself.”

“Okay okay, Jesus ’s not like ’m going to scare ‘er off on purpose.” Simon relented

“You better not, getting laid might do you some good man, calm yer ass down a wee bit” Johnny chuckled

Simon would have yelled at him for that comment but his friend cut him off, “‘Kay we’re ‘ere,” Johnny chirped, “Gaz and his girl should be inside already and she’ll be ‘ere soon,” Johnny said, pushing his Leftenant through the pub door.

Johnny had invited Kyle and his girlfriend for a kind of double date situation because he thought having another girl there would help you feel more comfortable, something Simon couldn’t argue with. Why Johnny’s single ass would be attending was a mystery.

The pub was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the damp cold of the London streets. Simon quickly located Kyle and his girlfriend -whom he had met once before a couple months back- he couldn’t say he wasn’t jealous. Having someone sweet to come home to was a lingering thought that kept him awake most nights. A fleeting hope that persisted despite his best attempts at squandering it. Taking his coat off and quietly greeting the others, it would be a lie to say he wasn’t nervous, terribly so. His hands felt shaky, his stomach twisted in knots, Simon liked situations he could be in control of and this wasn’t one of them. He had no control over whether you would like him or not, over whether you would have a good time, and it terrified him. Johnny had talked you up and made you sound perfect, a fact he didn’t doubt but what if you didn’t “click”, what if the sergeant was wrong. Simon was so nervous he could have passed out right then and there, but little did he know Johnny had been playing both sides.

////

“Ya like serious guys right?” Your roommate had asked you out of the blue, a week or so prior.

“Uh yeah sure? I mean I guess so, more than immature assholes like you.” You had joked back across the small kitchen.

“Well,” He had began, unphased by your teasing, “There’s this guy I work with-”

“Don’t even.” you cut him off

“What?!” he whined

“Don’t try and set me up with one of your military bros,” you warned, “I’m not interested.”

“Just because your last dates have been busts doesnae mean you shouldn't keep tryin’,” He pleaded, catching the sponge you threw at him, “He’s a real good guy, kinda intimidating but you’d like him, promise!”

You glared at him before going back and forth, Johnny was really trying to sell this guy, and he wasn’t wrong, your last three dates had been nothing short of disasters. Selfish bastards that only talked about themselves and wanted to fuck and nothing else. So, after lots of pleading -and a couple tasteful photos from them at the gym- you agreed.

So as you walked closer and closer to the pub, your nerves were buzzing. Just gotta get past his tough exterior is all, Johnny’s words of advice rang through your head. Thankfully your roommate had invited another one of his friends there along with his girlfriend, you would have been hyperventilating if it was just going to be you and some guys. As you reached for the door, you could only hope Johnny was right about this guy.

////

“There she is!” Johnny called out, snapping Simon from his thoughts. He looked to the direct he had sauntered off in to find you. Removing the thick scarf from around your neck, and rolling your eyes at your friend’s shenanigans.

‘Shit shit shit’ Simon began to spiral, biting down harshly on his lip. You were pretty, like really pretty, trying to warm your cold cheeks up with the back of your hand. You looked like the kind of girl a guy would dream about and have to spend a moment getting over after the morning alarm rang. Simon knew he wasn’t unattractive by any means, but it was too damn easy to get self conscious around someone like you.

Noticing his anxiety, Kyle gave him a harsh pat on the shoulder, “Just act natural mate, you’ll be fine.” Easier said than done

You approached the table and it was as if all the pub lights had suddenly focused on you, either that or you were admitting this kind of angelic light from your person.

“Right then,” Johnny began gesturing around the hightop table, “That’s Kyle and his girl,” they smiled and waved, you did the same back, “an’ tha’s the man ‘imself, Simon Riley.”

You took the seat next to him and held your hand out to him, “It’s nice to finally meet you Simon.” You beamed, looking him up and down. He took your hand and he couldn’t help but notice how much smaller it was, how it fit so softly into his. He couldn’t even begin to process the way you had said his name, almost like a little whisper in the buzz of the pub, just the sound made him dizzy.

“Likewise,” He responded, though it was little more than a whisper, “‘eard plenty about you from Johnny.” He continued, accent low and thick. He could’ve kicked himself, even the most normal sentences sounded strange when he said them in front of you. You cast a side eye to your roommate, raising an eyebrow.

“Only the good things hen!” Johnny defended himself, hands in the air. Simon was in love already.

////

Intimidating was the understatement of the century, this guy was absolutely terrifying. He had to be at least 6’4”, probably over 200 pounds of pure muscle, topped off with the most soul piercing brown eyes you’d ever looked at. But there was something more behind all of that, those eyes betrayed just the smallest amount of vulnerability, and with how softly he took your hand in his, maybe Johnny was right.

Thankfully the conversation flowed easily, having Kyle and his girlfriend there helped and Simon was surprisingly easy to talk to. He didn’t say too much, but he always made it so clear he was listening to every word you said, hanging on every syllable. Nodding along and encouraging you to continue. When he did talk, his voice was low, grumbly and deep but somehow soft at the same time, like he was trying to approach some frightened wild animal. Not to mention the way you couldn’t stop your heart from pounding when he leaned down to hear you better, your height difference on full display even when you were both seated.

As the night went on, conversation shifted from being the entire table, to you and Simon going back and forth between each other. Bodies angled towards each other, he had taken his mask completely off by the time the food arrived and you couldn’t deny he was handsome, in a rugged and charming way. When the conversation began to naturally sizzle out you pointed to his arm,

“Tell me about your tattoo?” you asked innocently. Kyle and Johnny held their breaths, their leftenant didn’t open up about stuff like that, got defensive when anybody asked about it. To their surprise and relief, a smile tugged at his lips and he began to gently explain to you the parts of his sleeve, leaving out the more traumatic parts.

“Bruv,” Kyle whispered, leaning into Johnny, “This is like- actually working out.”

“Just had to work some of that MacTavish magic mate.” Johnny grinned, elbowing his friend

“Please never say shit like that again.”

Even when Simon began to feel comfortable enough to start cracking some jokes and Johnny thought his chances were done right then and there, you buckled over and laughed, hitting at his bicep. Not noticing how his eyes shone with pride when he was the one making you laugh.

“I’m going up to get another drink, anybody need a refill?” You asked, nodding as people put in their requests. Simon watched you leave as you weaved your way through the crowd, his eyes never leaving your figure- the curve of your waist more specifically.

“Don’t just stare at her mate, go on ‘an follow ‘er ya big sap” Johnny teased, all but shoving his friend from his stool.

“Fuckin’ workin’ on it,” Simon growled, “Impatient bastard.” He downed the rest of his drink and made his way to where you were perched on the edge of the bar.

“Oh hey!” you beamed, “Did ya want something?” All of your attention immediately on him, Simon felt a surge of pride at seeing the dashed hopes of some stragglers who had obviously had an eye on you when you came up to put your order in.

“Jus’ gettin’ another whiskey is all.” He murmured. He watched as you put the orders in, including his, feeling a strange tightening in his chest when you had to lean in close to the bartender so he could hear your order. Smiling when your face screwed up after asking for a sip of his whiskey, eyes shining when you hummed along to the song blaring from the pub speakers. He realized he was going to have to lock this down immediately.

“Would you-?”

“Hey um,” You unknowingly cut him off, “Would you want to keep talking somewhere quieter?” your eyes didn’t leave you fidgeting fingers, “Like I mean, the apartment is just a couple blocks that way.” you smiled, gesturing in the general direction.

Simon would have jumped for joy if his pride had allowed him, instead he stuttered a response, “Yeah that sounds good, -I mean I’d like...that”

“O-okay, yeah okay,” you nodded, relief washing over your face, grabbing the drinks and asking him to follow. He downed the second glass of whiskey so fast he feared he might have drowned in it. You set the glasses on the table and began to grab your coat.

“Ya leavin’ already lass?” Johnny questioned, sounding a bit defeated, until he noticed Simon shoving his beanie onto his head with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. “Ohhhhh,” He smirked, wiggling his eyebrows, “You’re leaving.”

You threw him an exasperated look, “Did you remember your keys?”

“Ya know I never do” He winked

You smirked and rolled your eyes, tossing him your extra pair and adjusting your scarf.

“Now ye behave!” Johnny called after the two of you, “I run a right tight ship in tha' gaf an-” He stopped when Kyle threw and hand over his mouth and provided a sweet “Be safe on your way”

Simon gave him a curt nod and led you out of the pub with a steady hand on your lower back.

///

The brisk wind hit you the moment Simon opened the door for you into the outside world. A quick shiver passing through you as you let your arms wrap themselves around your body. Your ears began to burn and you cursed yourself for not bringing a hat. You only got one teeth chattering block before Simon noticed your bright red ears, with an amused sigh, he tugged off his beanie and ruffled his short, blonde locks. Without warning, the hat was then shoved onto your head, pulled snuggly over your ears. You whipped around to face him, big doe eyes shining up at him.

“Don’t mention it.” is all he said, before taking the lead and walking in front of you, thank god it was cold enough to blame his red cheeks on the harsh wind.

You led him though the dark streets, your and Johnny’s shared apartment was only a 10 minute walk from the pub. 10 minutes that were filled with countless questions from you, questions that had felt too awkward to ask in the loud and crowded pub. Favorite color? Favorite song? Favorite food? Favorite animal? What kind of movies did he like? Did he like warm or cold weather? Simon couldn’t remember the last time someone wanted to know this much about him, people on base always seemed to want to get to know Ghost. To try and humanize the intimidating persona he took on when at work, they didn’t want to put in the work to know, to understand the humanity he already possessed. But here you were, asking him questions like your life depended on it. Not in some feeble attempt to make him less scary, but because you were genuinely curious about the person that he was. He felt strangely at peace around you, uncomfortably comfortable, or maybe it was just the fact you made him feel human.

You stopped him at the front of your building with a tug on his sleeve. He let you lead him inside, shuffle into the tiny European elevator that made him look comically large, and hold the door open for you as you slipped into the apartment. It was very clearly a place inhabited by Johnny, the xbox controllers on the coffee table, the 4 empty protein shake bottles in the sink, the ratty sneakers Gaz had begged him to throw away still by the door, and a sleeveless workout hoodie throw haphazardly over the back of the couch. That you scurried to pick up, not expecting company,

“Sorry, he just leaves his shit everywhere.” you sighed, grabbing the shirt and shoving it into the closet hamper.

“Don’t I know it.” Simon chuckled lightly. The parts of the apartment that grabbed his attention next were your additions, a lip gloss tube in the key bowl, a cute teapot on the stove, the CD player next to the TV. You had given the home a “woman’s touch” as Price would have put it. Simon found himself foolishly imagining where your items would fit into his sparsely decorated flat as he toed off his shoes, but then again he was here, in your apartment, so maybe not so ridiculous after all.

“You can come in, ya know?” You giggled from the living room, kneeling down to slot a CD into the player.

“Right, sorry.” he muttered, shuffling his feet across the creaking wood floors and taking a seat on the couch, wincing at how it groaned under his weight. You plopped down right next to him and just began chattering on above the din of the quiet music.

////

When the clock read 11:53, around an hour and a half after you had originally arrived, he began to get antsy. He worried you were going to ask him to leave, to exit this warm bubble you had created for him, it was late but he would have stayed for hours had you asked him.

His stomach dropped when you moved to get up, he had a feeling he knew what was coming. That this would be some one time thing like he had feared, a nice conversation and nothing more. He began to clench and unclench his fists subconsciously, the thought of going back out into the cold streets now felt torturous. But then you just asked him sweetly what kind of tea he wanted.

“Anything.” he rushed out, just relieved he could stay here, with you a little longer. He followed you like some lost dog into the kitchen, watched you fill up that cute teapot with water and click on the stove before leaning against the counter across from him.

You were pressed close by the small layout of the kitchen, “I uh, I hope you don’t mind the music I put on.” You murmured, trying to fill the suddenly awkward silence.

“No, I like it.” He responded bluntly, but his eyes were no longer meeting yours. For the past hour they had been locked onto your lips. Gaze silent, but wanting.

Gingerly, you reached up a hand to his face, noting the way his breath caught in his throat when your fingertips brushed against his scarred skin. On the tips of your feet now, you tilted your head to get around that handsome roman nose before gently placing your lips on his. It was quick, fleeting, it ended as soon as it started. You pulled away, embarrassed due to his deadly still posture, not a hair on him moved.

“Sorry, I just, well- it was a good time with you tonight and-”

It was his turn to cut you off, the quick kiss apparently being all the motivation he needed to surge forward, sliding his hand onto the curve of your waist and guiding your head with a gentle hand on your cheek. Your surprised yelp was swallowed up by his lips enveloping yours. Pressing your body to his and inhaling deeply, it was as if he was trying to swallow you whole with his figure.

Finding a gentle rhythm, he moved his lips against yours, and god were they soft. Like velvet against his chapped and scarred ones. He practically growled when your lips left his, his mouth chased yours. Quirking into a crooked smile when he noticed you teasing smirk. The hand on your cheek moved so he could intertwine his fingers in your hair, cradling the back of your head and guiding your lips back to his. The sweet kiss turned hungry and feverish, the hand on your waist slid down to cradle where the fat of your ass met your thigh. All of a sudden you were being lifted to sit on the counter with just one of his hands, placed down gently by him before he resumed his desperate grip on your thigh. You attempted to move away once more, to catch the breaths he had been taking from you. But his grip tightened on the back of your head,

“Don’t.” The deep rumble of his Manc accent had you pressing your thighs together.

He noticed immediately, smiling as he trailed those kisses down towards your neck, “Ya like that sweet’art?” The grumble in voice almost made it sound like he was purring.

You nodded quickly, gasping and whining as he found that sweet spot on your neck. “Tell me whatcha’ want love, c’mon love need’a ‘ear it.” He growled, forehead resting against yours.

“You.” was pathetically all you could manage after the sudden release of the tension that had been building since the moment you asked him to leave the pub, but that was good enough for him. He let out a low whine and let his forehead rest on your shoulder, one hand slipping up underneath your sweater and the other finding the hem of your jeans. You were back to whining in his ear and placing soft kisses on his neck, both of you too wrapped up in the moment to hear the click of the front door lock and someone made their way inside.

You both heard the door close though and paused, not daring to look, bodies tensed and unmoving.

“Hey we’re back,” Kyle’s voice, “Soap said it was okay if I came to grab copy of- oh.”

Another awkward moment of silence before-

“Ye’ owe me a tenner then Gaz!" Johnny erupted into laughter.

“Aye! No, I still won!” Kyle argued back “It’s 12:11 now, so technically it's not today anymore mate.”

“Yeah but 12:11 's still tonight and I was bettin' that they’d shag t'night so I think-”

“COULD YOU GET THE FUCK OUT JOHNNY?! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” You suddenly snapped, finding your voice under the mountain of embarrassment you were under. Simon had been completely silent, hands now white-knuckling the counter top, as he looked away from the scene, staring holes into the cabinets under the sink. All while still leaning over you, jaw tight and teeth grinding, the tips of his ears noticeably red.

“ 'ave some sympathy lass! I jus' lost a tenner!” Johnny continued, unfazed, “I mean really Lt. could ye 'ave started a wee bit sooner then? What were ye waitin’ for? A full moon?”

Simon stayed silent so you took it upon yourself, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING JUST BARGING IN HERE?!” You tried to regain some decency and push Simon away so you could stand up, but he remained stationary against your attempts to move him, still having a staring contest with the wall.

“I live 'ere too, ye know! An' I texted ya!”

You groaned, realizing your phone sat untouched on the couch.

“Just- just-” You let out a frustrated growl, “You are insufferable.” You hiss, finally slipping from Simon’s guard and yanking on one of his firmly placed hands, and he let you. Whirl him around and wordlessly drag him down the hallway to your private room, following your steps.

"What about yer tea?!" Johnny called out, laughter lacing his voice.

"Oh fuck off!"

////

You shut the door behind you after shoving him through it, embarrassed beyond belief and burning with frustration.

“Sorry he’s such a pain in the ass”

“ s’okay,” Simon finally spoke again, “was hoping to end up here anyway”

That made your eyes widen and cheeks burn almost uncomfortably hot, as he swiftly crossed the room to continue what had been rudely interrupted. He clung to your waist like his life depended on it.

“But he’s-” You began, in between feverish kisses “They’re still-”

He growled in your ear a low, “Let ‘em hear.” It was once again all the warning you got before one hand lifted you up once more “wrap ya' legs 'round my waist sweet thing,” he encouraged, "yeah jus’ like tha’.” He smashed his lips against yours, walking you over to your bed, avoiding the clothes you had strewn around from trying to get ready early on that night, which he immediately picked up on. Setting you gently on the bed, he began to murmur against your lips with a smile, “What's all this? Wanted to look nice for me huh?”

You nodded along dumbly, the feeling his hardened cock in his trousers pressed up against your clothed core became all too much. He let out a low chuckle as he felt you ankles lock around waist.

“ 'M not going anywhere love don’ worry” He slid two calloused hands back under your sweater, ready to take it off. He stopped immediately upon hearing your whines of protest

“Wha’s wrong then love?” He whispered

It took all your brain power to form a coherent sentence in this state but somehow you managed. Lazily removing a hand from his neck and pointing behind you, “The window.” you said breathlessly.

He turned to find the blinds of your street facing window open. He might have been able to deal with his mates hearing some but strangers was a different story.

“Shit.” he untangled himself from you and quickly pulled them shut, “Don’t need anybody seein' what I’m doin' to my girl.”

“Your girl?” you questioned weakly

“Yeah,” he smirked, “ ‘m keepin’ you.”

////

It had all come back, crashing down on him like a wave. He could barley believe he had spent the night with you. You had actually want him, asked him to stay, let him have you, all of you. He untangled himself from you arms, hellbent on grabbing you a hot towel and a glass of water. He slipped into his boxers and his T-shirt and quietly opened the door to slip into the hallway. He could only hope you believed he meant what he said when he told you he wanted to keep you, though now he cringed at his confidence and wording.

He was met with a smirking Johnny leaning over the island as he entered the kitchen.

"Where's Garrick?"

"Fucked off back to his place before you woke up."

"Hm." Simon grabbed a cup from the same cabinet he saw you had last night and began to fill it at the sink.

" 'Hm'? really? Thas' it?" Johnny scoffed "Come on then mate? How'd it go?"

Simon was about to disappear back into your room, without so much as another word to the sergeant before he stopped. Without turning he muttered a quick, awkward, "Thanks."

"Ya know what, I'll take it." Johnny clapped a hand over his friends back and Simon winced. The scratches on his back you had given him burned a bit.

"Oh?"

Simon grumbled and left a bemused Johnny in the kitchen. Back in your room he was reminded how lucky he really had gotten. The sun light perfectly highlighted and shadowed your featured. the curves and dips of your naked body were covered loosely by your white sheets. Your sleeping face peaceful and angelic, you really did seem like a dream.

So he could put up with Johnny more, for you.

A/n: Is this just me coming to terms with the fact I have a humiliation kink? Yeah probably.

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