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skeletonsucker · 7 hours ago

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Fuckboy! Simon loves getting a reaction out of his shy, nerdy roommate.

He likes the way your eyes go molten whenever he invites over birds who won't stop groping at him, going crazy with their seductive Simon, Simon, Simon, who are easy and free to open up his shirt and flirt shamelessly — loves how you excuse jealousy as nerdy talks of not being able to study with his whole loud crowd.

Simon goes crazy when his eyes meet yours over the head of some--nameless--only--for--the--night hot chick he's making out with. Oh, he can cum alone at your warm face, so bothered, playing with the hem of your cardigan, licking your lips and blinking away.

He loves, loves, loves seeing you giveaway even the slightest of tremor, smallest of signs that you care, that when altogether his restraint would break down, and there would be no other way except pinning you under him all the while kissing you senseless, so he knows it's not a one way dance.

Which is exactly why he tugs his smirk back before asking in a voice he has mindlessly reserved for you, low in his throat, coated with sugar.

“Ya’ reckon you can get out da’ flat today, huh ?”

You look up at him; eyes glazed with a natural softness, one fingertip aligned to where you stopped reading.

How much he wants to kiss your eyelid—

“Why ?”

“Got a date.” Simon grins, “Big tits Jessica.”

“Jessica from chemistry ?” you hum softly.

His gaze slides along your exposed neck to shoulders, from where your sweater had dragged down. Simon has to take a moment to recover from the cadence his heart just experienced all at once.

“Wha— dunno. Bigs tits…blon.. brunette.”

Maybe blonde.

He can only see your tinted face, and the way you sit with your knees up, your sweater sleeves going down knuckles.

Simon doesn't know why he gets so anxious when you stop looking at him, and continue reading the black thursday of October, 1929. He starts to recognise that the way his heart tugs might be incoming heart stroke because you won't see him.

Until you break the silent torture. “Okay.”

He almost doesn't hear you from the storming inside him — to somehow shovel this topic forever, and to keep you accompany in any other way, to make you laugh with that amoeba joke you always chuckled despite saying it's not funny.

To kiss this small sad smile away from your lips.

“Wot ?” he shudders.

“Alright, I actually had a library date so—”

“Date ?!” Simon jerks up so fast, with his palm planted flat on the small dining table.

You flutter your lashes, barely concealed smirk at the way your empty tea cup rattles on the table.

Good.

“Yeah. Isn't he your mate—” you scan his waning face, he thinks only he can do this but two can play a game, “Johnny.”

“Mactavish ?!” he blurts urgently, the nerve on his neck feels like it would explode. Honestly, he'd explode whole before he sends you off with Johnny on what ? Library date his ass. It foul play on his innocent roommate, he ain't letting anyone take you away.

“Are you alright, Simon ?” You ask him, dripping with innocence.

Simon slowly sits back down, trying to form sentences that aren't ‘I am in love with you,’ and ‘Don't go with that dog. Stay with me forever.’

“I…I don't feel like…hey, um, reckon we should stay in and revise.” Simon quips, hopefully glancing at your open book.

“Exams are so close.” he presses on at your raised brow.

“Exams are nine weeks away.” you counter, Simon doesn't take it that way.

“See ?! There's no time.” he jumps out and snatches away your empty cup while scanning at the open page, “I really need to study bout this whole great... depression.”

You scoff under your breath, he takes that as a win with his silly-relieved smile.

“Gonna make tea for us, and tell Johnny ya’ won't be able to make it today, alright ?”

“Alright.” you whisper, grinning in the sleeve of your sweater.

Got him all riled up this time, aye.

⚝ Masterlist ⚝

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skeletonsucker · 17 hours ago

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The Letters He Never Burned

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: Through quiet letters and unspoken truths, something bloomed.

It began as a favour.

You never thought a single letter could reach anyone, let alone someone like him.

You wrote about your garden, the books you read, and your cat who sat on the kitchen table like a king.

You kept it light. Hopeful.

You figured, whoever got it, if they even bothered to read, would need something that felt normal.

Not pity. Not a reminder of where they were.

You didn’t expect a reply.

So when an envelope arrived weeks later, sealed tight with careful, blocky handwriting and a military return address, your fingers trembled.

Not much to say. But I got your letter. It helped.

Don’t stop writing.

-Ghost

And so, you didn’t.

Over the months, the letters grew longer and more personal.

He never gave much away.

But he started asking questions. About your day. About the people in your life.

He asked what your favourite season was. If you believed people could change.

I don’t sleep well. That’s not new.

But I read your letter twice last night. Thought I’d dream of something better.

I didn’t. But the thought helped.

-Ghost

There was no photo of him. No voice. Just his scrawl, always signed Ghost until, one day, it was just Simon.

And then it stopped.

No more letters. No word from the front.

You checked the News, and they said a team had gone dark in the field, no names released. You checked your mailbox every day for weeks. Every knock at the door made your heart stumble.

You tried to move on.

You failed.

Weeks turned into months.

And then one evening, a knock at your door.

When you open the door, there’s a man on your porch.

Tall. Broad. Worn leather gloves. Civilian clothes, but you know instantly that he doesn’t belong to this kind of quiet.

He removes his hood.

His face is pale, gaunt. Haunted.

“Simon?” you whisper.

He nods once. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

“I didn’t know if you were”

“Didn’t know if I was coming back either.”

You don’t wait. You close the distance and wrap your arms around him.

His are stiff at first, unsure, but then his whole body sinks into yours like he’s been holding his breath for months.

“I read your letters,” he murmurs into your hair. “Every bloody one. Even the one about the cat knocking your tea over.”

You laugh through your tears. “I thought you’d stopped writing because…”

“I didn’t know if I deserved to keep them.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. “But I never stopped thinking about you. And when I made it back, you were the only place I wanted to go.”

You place your hand against his cheek, rough with stubble.

“You don’t have to say anything else,” you whisper.

“I do,” he replies hoarsely. “Because I didn’t think I could feel anything again. But I felt you. Every damn letter. And now that I’m here… I’m not going anywhere, love.”

And when he kisses you, it tastes like salt, and everything he never thought he’d have.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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skeletonsucker · 1 day ago

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I could have sworn I've liked and reblogged this before but the heart on the bottom right of the post is still as dark as the night sky in a forest where you can't fucking see the sky

So, if you saw this reblogged before, no you didn't, or maybe you did cuz it's good who knows

Simon Riley, who discovers (and accepts) that he has a raging Mommy kink on a random Saturday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly as he checks out the new flavours of Ramen noodle cups.

And his spine goes rigid, when you address him directly.

"Big lad like you needs a proper meal," you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. "In my humble opinion." You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.

Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.

His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a "Have a good day, love." and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.

By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.

And he doesn't quite know what he's feeling in this moment, but he puts the Ramen back into the shelf, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.

Oh, Simon's going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping you'll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.

➥ READ MORE × | [ SUGAR PLUM PROMISES MASTERLIST ]

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skeletonsucker · 1 day ago

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I need this

Like water

Because other than the typical 141 tries to get her we ALSO have Laswel and her wife breathing down their necks if they dare do anything to fuck this up too much

Crack 141 x reader drabble. Reader is she / her pronouns, long and thick hair, in my head is a woman of color because we have BAGGAGE when it comes to this. Fear of violence and explicitly mentioned acts of violence but nothing gory and this will likely err on the side of cathartic rather than triggering but like. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOURSELF

At the end of every mission, Kate is the first to greet them when they land at base. She makes sure they get patched up, takes on any urgent intel they've got, and gives John a list of the absolute bare minimum of paperwork he has to get done by the last possible dates after the hard ones.

So when she gets a call from her neighbors saying that they think someone broke into her house- the one she shares with her wife- and that they have guns- the squad already begins moving in the seconds it takes for her brain to come back online.

The police aren't going to get there on time. They're not going to get there in time. They pull up to the house and they hear screams-

There's no time to prepare for what they see in the living room.

You're smashing the spine of some poor fuck with a hot poker and a level of commitment even Price himself can't say he's ever brought to the job- Laswell's wife is still sitting on the couch under a blanket, presumably where she was when they broke in- and from the sheer amount of blood and groaning from the other two bodies you've been at it for a while.

Laswell goes to check up on her wife while the 141 are just standing there catching flies. They don't know who you are, you're not from base- they can't make out your face with your thick hair swinging wildly around you, but you're out of breath and every now and again a shriek leaves you to suggest you don't exactly do a lot of cardio.

"Should we...." Price starts, but is immediately cut off by Johnny- ("Aye, yer fucking welcome tae, Cap,") and Kyle- ("I think they're busy working through something right now,").

"My wife's best friend," Laswell says from next to them. She looks at the person in question, now going at the balls of a particularly unlucky bitch- "she has.... very strong feelings about this type of thing."

Her favorite squad looks at her like they're going to animorph into puppies any second now. She sighs.

"I'll give you her number."

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skeletonsucker · 1 day ago

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i love tumblr glitches. sponsored message everyone

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skeletonsucker · 1 day ago

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Honestly

Imagine dating him after that happens

What can you even do

Once the enemies realized that Ghost wouldn't flinch at the worst torture

They changed strategy..

When they noticed Ghost being.. a bit skittish when one of them called him a good boy- even if it was in a mocking way..

...

They now torture him with compliments and affections

it works

he cried

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skeletonsucker · 2 days ago

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I would read a full thing of this

Just them being like

"uh, you're probably great at cooking?"

"holy fuck you're bad at this, no, something more like 'you did so well as a soldier, you tried so hard I'm so proud of you'"

*insert Simon struggling more/ suffering*

"see? You gotta hit em where it hurts- er- where it...feels good?"

"Holy fuck, uh okay, okay lemme try again-"

Once the enemies realized that Ghost wouldn't flinch at the worst torture

They changed strategy..

When they noticed Ghost being.. a bit skittish when one of them called him a good boy- even if it was in a mocking way..

...

They now torture him with compliments and affections

it works

he cried

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skeletonsucker · 2 days ago

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Hi there nice to meet you I'm sobbing

Do you have any thoughts on pirate simon?🤍🤍

Mmmmm my only thoughts are being his lover who waits for him at the same spot every year, eagerly peering across the ocean for those ragged black sails to appear over the horizon

doomed to spend eternity trapped aboard the dilapidated ship, the wails of damned souls tormenting the sleep which should be filled with dreams of you

his steps heavy in the sand and shoulders slumped with years of exhaustion, he still finds the strength to hoist you into his arms when you run towards him

for every year that passes, you come closer to meeting your inevitable demise, the one all humans must face. yet, despite the cruel fact that simon is doomed to face the rest of eternity stripped of his humanity, nothing prevents him from dying a little more alongside you each time he sees you

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skeletonsucker · 2 days ago

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So- wait IS John leaving??? Is Price going away???

I don't understand there's been that connection and all but they haven't managed to talk to each other about it is it gonna be a long distance thing???

Also GOD DAMN GRANDMAS, Isla included

And although Johnny's apology was very genuine and sweet, I don't know if I'm misunderstanding just the behaviour or not but how can she just trust it?? Like, she's still gonna be there and all and I understand that it's probably just her getting an apology she never expected to get, a chance instead of a wall, but is she like, forgiving forgiving them or here's your chance take it or leave it-ing it-

Also I love the kids??? Yes put snails in him more snails more snails

Simon also needs to apologise again double actually I think he needs to-

THANK YOU FOR WRITING TRANSIT LOVE YOU

Secrets Are For Grown Ups | Part 10

Part 1 can be found here | AO3 | @/bernardsbendystraws for the dividers

A/N: there are so many POV changes this chapter. They happened. We’re gonna roll with it.

The play date timing was scheduled through John. He put you in the thread because when he left, you would need to start handling this. The thought of leaving tore at his heart. It snapped the threads that kept the useless organ in his chest. Every morning, he rose and found you glaring at everything because you had yet to put your contacts in. It layered more unrealistic dreams into his head. When you started making him hot water for tea, when you began your coffee, he knew if you gave him the go-ahead, he would drag you to a judge. He had to leave, or soon he wouldn’t be able to pull his roots free.

Your mother had pulled him into a conversation recently at a family dinner hosted at your home. He had been on the back porch watching you play boccie as well as one could with two seven-year-olds.

“Are you planning on dating my daughter?” The shrewd woman, with sharp eyes, watched him choke on his beer.

John coughed into his elbow, brows pulled down as he glared at your mother. Larsen’s mother, seeming to have super hearing, stepped out of the house to watch him flail like a fish on a hook.

“Ma’am,” John coughed into his shoulder once more.

“Peggy,” she supplied.

“Peggy, I don’t think that is any of your business. And even if it were, I’m too old for her.”

She narrowed her eyes at John and then shifted to bring Larsen’s mother into the conversation.

“Sarah, this young man can’t be more than forty. Do you think he is too old for my daughter?”

John felt more and more like a fish caught and examined. He gasped for air as he decided whether he could leap from the boat and back to the safety of the water.

Sarah let her eyes drift from the gray hairs sprinkled through his sideburns and beard, his hat covered most of them on his head, to his dirty boots on his feet.

“I think eight years ago, when she was in the UK, you would have been too old for her. But now? The distance between thirty and forty isn’t as far as between twenty and thirty.” Sarah sipped her beer, “But she did mention John’s divorced, so could be he’s gun-shy, Peggy.”

The problem with talking to older women, John has discovered, is their profound ability to place wounds at the most painful points.

“Ladies, I am going to excuse myself from this conversation.” John stomped down the steps.

You looked up at him as he drew closer, offering a smile as you put the pieces together.

“They started poking their noses in your business?”

John shook his head as he explained, “I’ve been in interrogation rooms that were less uncomfortable than that conversation.”

The laughter that fills the backyard dribbles honey into his cup, sweetening his tea before he leaves you all alone again. John Price isn’t a man who could stand ruining you with his touch.

Jace chimed in, “Grandmas are so nosy. They are always asking me if I have a girlfriend at school.”

“You don’t, you have a boyfriend,” Mac added as if this information were common knowledge.

Anxiety wasn’t the word Johnny would apply to the way he felt currently. Even when he could see the seconds of his life tick away as he disabled bombs, he didn’t want to divorce his soul from his body. Simon’s fingers, twined with his, color leeching from both sets of knuckles, kept him present and upright.

The men, who faced death without flinching, twitched when the sound of the deadbolt moving reached them. You greeted them with a neutral smile. Johnny had seen his mum use that one when the solicitors found their door.

“Come on in, Jace and Mac are at the table with John,” you stepped back, a wide berth left for them to pass.

Johnny led them forward, steps hollow as the wood of the gallows creaks. Stepping past the sitting room where he had experienced vivisection of his sins, he finds his captain and his sons. John has his arms trapped to the table by two boys who continued to build Legos up and over him.

“Jace,” the one who must be Noah, Mac, as his mom said he wanted to be called, pointed to a bright blue two-by-one piece. “I need that one.”

They don’t notice. You skirted around the statues of men, and clearing your throat brought every set of eyes to you.

“Boys, I would like you to meet the men who helped make you.” Your fingers are trapped in the rigid grip of your other hand. Every line of your body screams of discomfort. “Jace, this is Simon Riley, and Mac, this is John MacTavish. Nana MacTavish is his mom.”

The pairs looked the other over, Mac offered the hand first.

“Wanna play Legos with us?”

Johnny let out a watery laugh. A child who looked like he would blend into his sisters’ families would offer the invitation first. You had raised kind boys.

“Yeah, we would love to play. What are you building?”

Slipping into the kitchen, you find Isla humming as she kneads dough.

“How are they doing?” She didn’t look up from her task as she asked.

“I think they are doing good? The boys knew that Larsen didn’t help make them, and I’ve been prepping them for meeting Johnny and Simon since they confirmed they wanted to meet the boys. Noah invited them to play, and I can’t think of a better introduction for them. John is keeping the peace so I can come and go as I need.” You lift yourself onto the counter, drumming your feet against the cabinets.

“And how are you doing?” She glances up from her dough, eyes kind as they assess.

“I am…” The landscape of your emotions stretched out before you, a battlefield of the dead left to rot. “Torn. I didn’t think I would be so conflicted about this.”

“Others filling the space for them doesn’t sit quite as well as the idea, dearie. Give yourself some grace. You are handling this much better than anyone has a right to expect.” Isla, pleased with the texture of her creation, transferred it to an oiled bowl and set about cleaning the counter as she continued. “Now, forgive my meddling, but what are you going to do about John Price?”

Biting the inside corner of your cheek to give yourself a second to decide why she was asking. She scraped up the leftover flour and headed to the sink for a rag.

“How do you mean, Isla?”

Folding your arms tight to your chest, you struggle to stand under the thunderstorm now raining down on the dead. You wanted him. If that was obvious to Isla, it must be to John. He knew and didn’t do anything about it hurt like a brand because it showed how unworthy of love you were. He had even questioned if older men would be an option with dating; it had been clear he didn’t think of himself as part of that camp, but —

Isla cuts your spiral off with a sprinkle of water to the face. She lifts a brow when you look at her, aghast. She had flicked the excess off her fingers in your direction.

“He already knows your situation, John Price loves your boys and gets along with their fathers. What I am asking is, do you want him in your bed?”

“Isla!” You shriek as you slide down from the counter.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Hello, son.” Her gaze shifts to the entrance of the kitchen.

Thank god she did. John MacTavish has no reason to hear of your growing feelings for his former captain.

“Mam,” he glanced at you and then back to his mother. “Can I have the room a moment?”

She narrowed her eyes at Johnny and then looked to you. Swallowing hard, you give her permission to leave. Johnny pulls her into a tight hug and drops a kiss on the top of her head as she exits.

You and Johnny stare at each other. This is the first time you have been alone together in nearly a decade. The years float between you, burning barrels of rum, the only remains of the pillaged relationship.

He looks good, despite the trials you know he has gone through; losing a leg is no easy thing to recover from. Johnny’s eyes are still that heartbreaking blue.

“I need to apologize for my wrongs.” The words hit you like stones flung before Christ.

Johnny rushes on, either because he can see you about to speak or the flinch you hadn’t been able to hide.

“I was wrong and in the wrong.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. They disappeared down to his forearms. Chin tucked to his chest, he took a deep breath before pinning you to the floor with the supplication that supplanted the fear in his face. “I knew what I had done to you when Simon’s name came out of my mouth. That’s why I didn’t follow you. I listened as you shattered in my bathroom and then fled the building.”

“Johnny,” your voice cracks. You don’t know what you were going to say, but you couldn’t not say anything, right?

“No. Listen. I did you harm by not asking if you wanted to fall into my bed. I did you more harm by using you. ‘m not asking for forgiveness. I need you to know, I apologize for that evil,” his voice cracks on the last word.

Tears are escaping your eyes, clogging your throat, and your nose. In all the worlds you could imagine where Johnny and Simon found out about your boys, not a single one of them contained the possibility of an apology. Johnny is crying too. Both of you are being crushed by the choices of people you no longer are.

“Thank you,” the whispered words wrenched out of you.

Jace ran into the kitchen, disgust and annoyance painting his young face. His whole body moved with his words.

“You’re sad too! Well, come on then.”

He grabbed Johnny’s arm and tugged. Johnny shot you a confused look as he slid his hand from his pocket and tucked it into Jace’s.

“Come on, Mom!”

Shrugging, you follow them out the back door and into the yard. Close to the fence, where you let the flowers grow wild, sat Simon. His back straight and arms resting on his bent knees, he is covered in snails.

Despite the emotional conversation you had been in the midst of, your mom voice comes out.

“Boys! Why is Simon covered in snails?”

Noah looked up at you as he placed another on Simon’s left arm, joining the six already slinking around. Jace abandoned Johnny to help his brother in covering the most deadly soldier you had ever met in garden snails.

“He’s sad. So we decided to show him our snails.”

The innocence of children will lead to some of the most baffling situations one could ever find themselves in.

“Did you ask Simon if he wants to be covered in snails?” You can’t see him agreeing to this.

The boys ask in stereo, “Do you want to be covered in snails, Simon?”

He shook his head, but made no move to remove them.

“Alright. Let’s get Simon cleaned up and set the snails free, please. Where did John go?” You ask the boys. Simon hadn’t looked at you since you yelled at him a few days ago.

“He and Nana are talking, so we brought Simon outside.” Noah supplied.

“Why do you have a,” you leaned to the side to see, “box of snails in the garden?”

“For fun,” Jace shrugged.

You nod once, even though none of this makes any sense to you at all.

“They call my mum Nana?” Johnny is choking up when you glance at him.

“She asked to be called Nana, and they have a Gigi and a Grams already, so Nana worked well.” You shrug, not understanding why this would bring him to tears.

“Were the snails a secret from your mum?” He questions following a wet cough. You weren’t the only one dealing with the aftershocks of emotions.

“No.” Noah’s brows pull together as he scoots back a small one from falling off Simon’s hand. “Secrets are for grown-ups.”

“Because kids should only have happy surprises,” you finish. It was a rule to help keep your kids safe from sexual predators. It worked by using the real names of body parts and teaching them how to scream fire and who to talk to if they ever met tricky people.

Running a knuckle under your eye to clear the tears, you use the collar of your shirt to swipe away the residue escaping your nose. You didn’t know it then, but this would be a turning point for everyone that made up this weirdly shaped family.

Secrets Masterlist | Masterlist

@love-kha1 @sweetlike-sugarplum @vmaxis @splaterparty0-0 @momowhoo @talia-the-gemini @redkarmakai @aethelwyneleigh27 @asexualbuthorny @sleep101 @callsignbumblebee @lucienofthelakes @sirbonesly @demothers-empty-blog @fightmerahhh @skeletonsucker @fruitymoonbeams-blog @bingoz @noheadcanons-juststories @kaoyamamegami @littlelovebug98

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skeletonsucker · 3 days ago

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cw: suggestive writing, afab reader x soap

HEADCANON: Soap almost loses goes feral it when he sees you in a milkmaid dress holding his little niece. Giving him some ideas and thoughts he shouldn’t have in his mam’s backyard get-together

PAIRING: John Soap MacTavish x reader

now Johnny had seen you in a lot of things even in nothing that was a given.

You in his shirts. His hoodies. His pretty pretty lass in that one tactical vest during a Halloween party that nearly ended the night early. But nothing. And Soap means NOTHING could have prepared him for this.

His sweet sweet minx in a bloody milkmaid dress. All soft cotton and wispy ribbons. The material cradling your frame just perfectly. Hugging you in all the right places. Cinched at the waist. Flowing just enough to tease but not enough to hide. Sleeves slipped delicately off your shoulders. Water running sinfully down glass is what it was.

Clinging and catching just long and sultry enough to burn.

Artemis in his fucking childhood backyard. Steamin' Jesus.

And to top it all off. As if just to ruin him completely -- you were barefoot in his mam's garden, holding his wee niece on your hip like you'd been born for it.

Smiling. Glowy. Bright and so fucking beautiful that Johnny almost passes out with how fast blood rushed down south to his groin. Brain absolutely short-circuiting at that.

Almost dropping the plate of his gran's mash he was holding too. Some poor sausage roll already clinging to gravity as his mouth parts a bit in utter, primal disbelief.

Johnny stood there, frozen, jaw slack, brain gone smooth. You hadn’t even noticed him yet -- busy chatting up his mam and sister by the garden fence, bouncing the babbling baby gently as sunlight hit your hair like something out of a painting. Like some goddamn pastoral fever dream. The kind of visions that made his knees weak and his thoughts utterly unsalvageable.

Rocking his chubby-cheeked niece gently in your arms, cooing like some divine, barefoot angel conjured from some kind of paradise in Tunisia.

Then -- Fucking THEN -- you lift the baby higher, nuzzle her soft little cheek, and say something sweet in that voice of yours that makes his entire soul leave his body.

Done. He’s done.

Funeral's next Thursday. Bring flowers.

He swore his bloody soul ascended.

His body though? Stranded on earth, bloody rock-hard and tragically overdressed in cargo shorts.

“Jesus Mary Joseph -- ” Johnny hissed under his breath, still frozen by the garden path, mouth dry, thighs clenched, gripping his gran’s ceramic dish like it was the last link to his mortal tether. One wrong look from you -- just one, he swears -- and he’d be spilling mash and something else right there on the bloody grass.

You turned, then. Bright, carefree, holding his niece like you’d been practicing for years. And when your eyes found his -- when you gave him that soft, warm smile that screamed home in a way the Highlands never could --

Johnny staggered.

Just a half step. A little foot wobble. Barely recovered. Didn’t matter.

Your brows lifted, concerned and confused. “You alright, darling?”

Oh no.

You said it like you didn’t know you were dressed like the wet dream of a fevered Scottish farmhand.

He opened his mouth to respond. Nothing came out. Absolutely nothing. There was a whistle in his brain like a kettle left too long on the stove. Every single survival instinct screamed “do not pop a boner in your mam’s garden.” Every. Single. One.

And then you bounced the baby on your hip again.

His niece giggled.

His mam laughed softly and said something about how good you were with kids.

And that’s when John 'Soap' MacTavish, elite sniper, tactician, demolitions expert, and renowned special forces operator... blacked out from sheer lust.

No, not really. But close. So very close.

He stumbled forward like he’d been summoned, forcing his legs to work, cock already straining at the worst possible time. His brain screaming be normal while his dick whispered breed her right now.

“Love?,” you asked again gently as he reached you, the baby tugging playfully at your neckline, unaware she was the only thing keeping you from being pinned to the side of the garden shed like a poster.

“You alright, Johnny?” you repeated in concern, brushing your fingers along his forearm, completely unaware of the meltdown behind his eyes.

He looked at you. Then the baby. Then the milkmaid dress. Then back at you.

And said, with all the composure of a drowning man clutching his last breath:

“Y’ever think about havin’ like... seven?”

You blinked at his words. “Seven what?”

Johnny looked you dead in the eye.

“Bairns.”

You choked. “Excuse me?”

But his mam. Nosy. Gleeful. Loud and always knowing, was already shouting -- “I told you he was gon’ propose one day soon!” -- at the top of her lungs like the whole of Glasgow, Scotland, and even bloody England at that needed to know her prophetic gifts had finally borne fruit.

And if Johnny’s gran finally noticed her plate of mash had been sacrificed in the name of horny spiritual warfare. She didn't need to say a word through her smile.

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skeletonsucker · 3 days ago

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I'm remembering that in our dms unfortunately

Broken Beyond Bearing | Part 6

-. —- / .-. . -.-. —- .-. -.. … / . -..- .. … - / ..-. —- .-. / …. . .-.

Part 1 found here | AO3

Johnny watches. He’s good at it. Not many notice that only ticks above his bright smile and well-placed nose are even brighter eyes. Oh, they notice the color, hard to miss his shade of blue, but they missed the brilliance behind them. Quick and sharp, they’ve served him well. Distraction as well as detection.

You stomped from the truck before he could put it in park, slamming both the car and front doors. Johnny followed more sedately as he thought about what you had said. Two weeks without a food delivery, and no one answering their calls. Why didn’t you leave a message? Had you tried Kate? She would have said something, wouldn’t she?

One of the reasons he earned the nickname Soap came from how well he could clean a room. Now that he has you back, he can take in more than the absence of wife. On the couch sat the laptop they had given you, sitting at an angle atop a blanket that spoke of an imminent return. Everything from the cans moldering in the bin to the slight wrinkles in your neatly made bed spoke of intentions.

You had stomped through the house and right out the back door. His coat lay tossed across the counter. A rhythmic scraping of plastic against snow tells a tale. Interesting.

Two weeks without a delivery shouldn’t have sent you sliding down the mountain in your boots. They had left the second vehicle for you, keys hanging in the kitchen. Stepping into the space now Johnny’s eyes were drawn to the hook. It looked exactly as they had left it. So interesting. Johnny can feel his brows pull together as pieces slide around in his mind. It almost makes sense. The picture is forming despite the missing bits.

Turning, he opens the freezer and finds it half full with neatly wrapped hunks of frozen meat. They reminded him of gifts, all packed in white paper and tape. Two roasts and a pork shoulder stared out at him from among frozen veg. You didn’t eat much, and there was enough food in the house to keep you sustained for more than two weeks. Pulling out a roast, Johnny set about getting dinner ready, keeping one ear out for you. With the other, he pops in a headphone and calls Kate. The roast is in the crockpot, and the potatoes on the counter before she answers.

“Laswell.”

Kate’s voice is professional but tired. She had been neck deep in a project they weren’t involved in for months now. It had to be something about you.

“Kate, got a question for you.” Johnny lets his voice reflect a calm happiness.

“If this is about the extra C4—”

Johnny cut in, letting the anger that burned in his bones out. The knife he had pulled from the block to cut potatoes caused his hand to ache from the grip he had on it.

“This is about our new wife, Kate.”

The electronic buzz of silence in his ear told so many tales.

Realizing she wouldn’t be volunteering any information, Johnny takes charge of the conversation. Gently resting the knife on the counter, he lets his body move, finding the cutting board, and begins washing the potatoes.

“Did you know she’s allergic to peanuts?”

Papers rustle through the line.

“No, I didn’t.” Kate bit the words out.

“Why can’t she drive, Kate?” He sets each clean root to the side. Johnny imagines this conversation as a series of tugs on a spider’s web.

“Obviously she was never taught, Soap,” Kate replied, exasperation floating her words.

“She took herself to town on foot because the food deliveries stopped. There is food in the house, but it requires cooking. A peek in the garbage tells me she spent the entire time on canned or fresh food. I’m not a good cook, Kate, but even I know how to throw a roast in a slow cooker. Where did you find her?”

“Soap,” Kate dragged out the word like he would give up his questioning if she held it long enough. Something clicked in his mind. Kate wouldn’t have found her in any normal way. Betas were rare these days and Kate never ended up on projects that didn’t involve some level of fuckery. Chopping the veg, he loads them into the crockpot and dumps enough spices that Simon would whine about a stomach ache if he were here.

“Kate,” her name crunched between his teeth. He growled out his next words. “What the hell happened to her?”

Leaving time and heat to do their work, Johnny turns to the wood-burning stove.

He prepares it while waiting for Kate to navigate the mental hurdles of telling him the truth. Johnny wonders about you. If he were to put you on canvas, it would be a study in contrasts; pastels peering through pockets in watercolor.

“We are two days out from this hitting the news, so keep your mouth shut until after the story drops. Your security clearance isn’t high enough for most of this.” Kate muttered a bit more that he almost missed, “Neither is John’s, for that matter.”

His clearance was pretty damn high, what could have happened that required a higher clearance than what John had currently?

“Better talk fast, then, Kate.”

She does, and with each new sentence, Johnny thinks he is going to be sick.

The stove is cool, and cleaning the ash gives him something to do while he listens to the horrors Kate and her team found in the facility where you had been kept.

While spring had started to unfurl with the appearance of dandelions in the valley, winter reigned here for at least another month before spring could creep beneath the drifts. Lighting a small pile of kindling inside the black stove, Johnny continued to listen. Feeding the hungry licks of heat, he made his plan.

Snagging his coat, Johnny popped down to the truck.

“So let me see if I understand this. You’re telling me that betas lost their rights thirty years back and then were shuttled off in droves to facilities that experimented on them to the point that they discovered the calmers that are being pumped into the water system.” Johnny rubbed the inner corner of his eyes. “But you don’t have her full chart? You don’t know what happened to her?”

Kate sighed, and the distinctive sound of a lighter flaring to life reached him. He pulled open the back door of the truck and shouldered his pack.

“I thought your wife wanted you to quit,” Johnny commented lightly.

“My wife has given me a pass until this is all wrapped up,” Kate replied darkly. “No, we don’t have her full chart. What we do have are records of nearly 6,500 dead betas, and being realistic, there are probably three times that many between all the branches of Scorpio. All we did find was the most recent data about your wife, and it didn’t tell us much, only the drugs they pumped her with the two days before the raid.”

Johnny stared at the stitching of the back seat as he absorbed this information.

“Is there anything else I need to know about our wife, Kate?”

The silence is telling.

“Nothing I can tell you. If she shares anything about what happened to her, would you let me know? We are going to have to recreate Scorpio’s records.”

“I’ll let you know.” Johnny ended the call with a tap to his headphone. He slammed the truck door, watching the body of the vehicle rock under the force of his anger. When he could breathe without vomit staining his throat, he headed inside.

Shutting the front door tight to keep the slowly warming air, he rested his pack on the back of the couch. Digging through the tightly packed clothes, he unearths his sketch book and removes the wall stickers he had found in a tiny shop outside of a base he couldn’t recall the name of. Sprinkles, for you. Johnny set them on top of your laptop. Everything is shoved back into the bag as best he can manage; it gets left by the stairs to deal with later.

With that settled, he headed to the back door to invite you inside. The interior had reached an almost cozy temperature. The sheriff’s office had refused to give up your phone, coat, and the cards that clearly stated your name. John would call to rip the entire office a new asshole once he heard what had happened.

Johnny watches you. Feet spread wide, head down, shoulders tense under your shawl, and your fist tight around the snow shovel tells quite a tale. Sliding the glass door open, he watches as every speck of you shrinks. When you turn, there is no snarling beta who sent the deputy into a tizzy by singing made-up lines to nursery rhymes or a wife who would rather scar him with her teeth than accept his concern.

He eyes you over dinner. Johnny, with his blue eyes that would cut if they were ice, smiled with closed lips every time he caught your eye. After two weeks of suspicion, it rankled.

“Stop staring,” you mutter the words as you stab a potato that has taunted you. Cleaning was a skill valued in Scorpio. Cooking? Not so much. You didn’t dare open the cooking oven for fear of something happening.

“I missed you.”

The sincerity in his words whispers to you like the demons that lived below the floorboards. An offer too good to be true. The mask that kept you safe in Scorpio, calm and sweet with big, sad eyes, slips as you glare up at him.

“There she is,” he says, sounding pleased.

“Who?” You roll the question off your tongue with the hesitance of a base jumper on their first dive.

“The beta who nearly sent a deputy to murder with nursery rhymes.” Johnny smiled with his whole face, cheeks pulled up, and bright eyes wrinkled at the edges.

The heat suffusing through you rivaled that of the stove. You dropped your gaze to the plate before you. Only streaks were left from dinner. There is no good way to soft-step through the differences he had seen today. You were so careful before they left to play that submissive, quiet beta that everyone could accept. Nearly a decade of pretending slid off, bleached by the sun, and cleaned the crows that kept you company.

With a wink, Johnny stood from the table. He took your plate and set them in the sink.

“Let me take care of those!” You squeak out as you jump to your feet.

Johnny gives you a lopsided smile and steps out of the way. Turning on the water, you focus on the sensation of the water and soap on your skin and not the heat of him at your back. He stays for longer than you anticipated, but after the first plate is clean and placed in the drying rack, Johnny leans in and places a kiss on your temple.

“I’m going to shower. You’re up after me, I doubt the sheriff’s office took good care of you.”

His scent lingers in your nose and in the air even as he walks away. The shower is still running when the dishes are done. Deciding that the suggestion was a good one, you head to your room. The main bathroom is opposite your room. Turning left from the kitchen, you spot Johnny’s open pack, shirts spilling from the gaping top. Without a thought, you snag one. It is nestled neatly under your pillow.

You don’t think about the shirt again until you are tucked behind the bathroom door, Johnny and his body wash clogging up your throat. He had knocked on your door when he had finished up. The warm water washing over your skin prickled with a tad too much pressure. Something was off. Turning your back to the spray, you let your hands wander, sometimes your beta side couldn’t come out and tell you what you needed, but you had learned to let it out by degrees.

Both hands settle at your breasts, kneading and plucking at nipples. This remains your focus for long enough that you start shifting from side to side, needs rising. Running your tongue over your teeth, you decide you can indulge this need, but you need to be clean first. When you reach for the soap, since you did your hair before the internal unease had escalated, the one wet from Johnny’s hand is the one you lathered into your cloth.

The scratch of the rag on your skin escalated the need settling between your nerves. Cleaning to your toes, you rinse off and wring out the cloth. Adding more soap you focus on cleaning between your legs and ass cheeks. Bringing the rag back to the stream of water, the mixed scent of slick and Johnny’s body wash simultaneously causes a rush of need and a stream of terror to rocket through you.

Fuck. Your heat was coming.

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skeletonsucker · 3 days ago

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First of all, love Johnny, love your metaphors, second of all, I'm so happy Laswel told him because Jesus Christ, third of all GOD DAMN YOU WERE RIGHT ABOUT HOW YOU'D FIX THAT PROBLEM YOU COULDN'T WRITE

also I JUST REALISED SOAP IS AN OMEGA SO HE PHYSICALLY CAN'T BE THE ONE TO HELP HER WITH HER HEAT, well he can technically but not really I guess, IT HAS TO BE KYLE (❤️ Kyle ❤️) OR SIMON

BOTH IN WHICH SHE'S NOT TOO FAMILIAR WITH

but again, Kyle did help her while she was in the clinic

PLEASE LET IT BE KYLE

Kyle <3 <3

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

Also thank you transit love you/p :)

Broken Beyond Bearing | Part 6

-. —- / .-. . -.-. —- .-. -.. … / . -..- .. … - / ..-. —- .-. / …. . .-.

Part 1 found here | AO3

You had stomped through the house and right out the back door. His coat lay tossed across the counter. A rhythmic scraping of plastic against snow tells a tale. Interesting.

“Laswell.”

Kate’s voice is professional but tired. She had been neck deep in a project they weren’t involved in for months now. It had to be something about you.

“Kate, got a question for you.” Johnny lets his voice reflect a calm happiness.

“If this is about the extra C4—”

Johnny cut in, letting the anger that burned in his bones out. The knife he had pulled from the block to cut potatoes caused his hand to ache from the grip he had on it.

“This is about our new wife, Kate.”

The electronic buzz of silence in his ear told so many tales.

“Did you know she’s allergic to peanuts?”

Papers rustle through the line.

“No, I didn’t.” Kate bit the words out.

“Why can’t she drive, Kate?” He sets each clean root to the side. Johnny imagines this conversation as a series of tugs on a spider’s web.

“Obviously she was never taught, Soap,” Kate replied, exasperation floating her words.

“Kate,” her name crunched between his teeth. He growled out his next words. “What the hell happened to her?”

Leaving time and heat to do their work, Johnny turns to the wood-burning stove.

His clearance was pretty damn high, what could have happened that required a higher clearance than what John had currently?

“Better talk fast, then, Kate.”

She does, and with each new sentence, Johnny thinks he is going to be sick.

The stove is cool, and cleaning the ash gives him something to do while he listens to the horrors Kate and her team found in the facility where you had been kept.

Snagging his coat, Johnny popped down to the truck.

Kate sighed, and the distinctive sound of a lighter flaring to life reached him. He pulled open the back door of the truck and shouldered his pack.

“I thought your wife wanted you to quit,” Johnny commented lightly.

Johnny stared at the stitching of the back seat as he absorbed this information.

“Is there anything else I need to know about our wife, Kate?”

The silence is telling.

“Nothing I can tell you. If she shares anything about what happened to her, would you let me know? We are going to have to recreate Scorpio’s records.”

He eyes you over dinner. Johnny, with his blue eyes that would cut if they were ice, smiled with closed lips every time he caught your eye. After two weeks of suspicion, it rankled.

“I missed you.”

“There she is,” he says, sounding pleased.

“Who?” You roll the question off your tongue with the hesitance of a base jumper on their first dive.

“The beta who nearly sent a deputy to murder with nursery rhymes.” Johnny smiled with his whole face, cheeks pulled up, and bright eyes wrinkled at the edges.

With a wink, Johnny stood from the table. He took your plate and set them in the sink.

“Let me take care of those!” You squeak out as you jump to your feet.

“I’m going to shower. You’re up after me, I doubt the sheriff’s office took good care of you.”

Fuck. Your heat was coming.

Broken Masterlist | Masterlist

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skeletonsucker · 4 days ago

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141 with a reader that’s a party girl/goes clubbing often🙏🙏🙏 I love your writing

Gaz isn’t the type to stay home while you’re out. He’s just as much the partier as you are. These weekend rituals are his favorite, spending time together selecting coordinating outfits, taking the time to make sure you both are the best dressed at the club. You want to dance all night, and Gaz wants to be right there with you, swaying to the music, holding you close, buzzing on alcohol. Then after it’s all done, and the two of you go home, working out all that lingering euphoria in bed is the perfect ending to a long night out.

Soap is like a sad puppy when you go out to the clubs. It’s not that he hates your lifestyle, he only hates being left behind. While Soap enjoys getting absolutely pissed at the pub, clubbing isn’t his thing. Doesn’t mean he won’t trail behind. Soap may trust you, but he doesn’t trust anyone else. He won’t go alone though. He’s calling Ghost, and then Gaz if Ghost isn’t available. You won’t have a clue that Soap is in the club with you, silently telling himself he’s simply being protective.

Price rarely stays up when you go out with your friends. He knows the routine, and he prefers to rest when he’s on leave. You’re responsible, and he can trust that you’ll make it home okay, but he also knows when you come home. You attempt to be sneaky, but you’re louder than you think, and you always crawl into bed to snuggle up to him, making Price the little spoon. He always verbally complains that you’re disturbing his beauty sleep, but he actually loves it.

Ghost never puts up a fuss about your clubbing habits. He relishes the time you take picking out an outfit, styling your hair, and doing your makeup. Some days, when you select a particularly short dress, Ghost can’t help but take advantage to satiate the constant hunger he has for you. He’s confident in your loyalty and love for him. Ghost isn’t worried about you, but of others trying to move in on what belongs to him. Think he isn’t watching? Guess again. Ghost knows your haunts—where you frequent the most. He has direct access to those cameras, love.

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skeletonsucker · 4 days ago

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Dddne idk what else to say

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skeletonsucker · 4 days ago

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WHERE'S THE RING

WHERE'S THE FUCKING RING SIMON

GOOGLE ENGAGEMEN RINGS A FUCK TON ON HIS PHONE RN SO IT STARTS SUGGESTING HIM RINGS TO BUY ON AMAZON OR WHATEVER YOU GUYS USE SO HE

BUYS YOU AN ACTUAL GOOD ONE

Okay but I think it would be so fun for the roles to be flipped for once. A man flirts with out possessive reader and simon absolutely loses it. Tells her she belongs to him, maybe leaves a big ole lovebite on her neck. Ugh I need him

Alright, this one’s for all of you who wanted Simon to be just as possessive as the reader. I didn’t hold back here, did I? Hope this hits the spot! Let me know your thoughts in the comments, ly byee!

You were just going through the aisles, minding your own business, when it happened. You barely noticed at first, just some guy hanging around, trying to offer you help with a box of cereal. You smiled politely, not thinking much of it, but when you glanced over at Simon to tell him something, you saw his jaw tighten, his grip on the cart getting a little too hard. He didn’t say anything, but you knew that look. You’d seen it before, but never directed at you.

You didn’t really care when the guy leaned a little too close, standing too near you while you picked out what you needed. You knew Simon was behind you, just a few steps away, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching, his eyes boring into the back of your head. The guy didn’t know it, but he was already in the danger zone.

The worst part? The guy was talking to you like he owned the place. Smiling too much, leaning into your space, trying to keep the conversation going like you were the one who wanted it. You saw Simon shift, his eyes narrowing, and you didn’t need to be looking directly at him to know that his patience was running out.

When you caught his eye again, he didn’t look mad, not exactly. He looked… frustrated. Frustrated in a way that you didn’t quite understand, at least not yet. You hadn’t ever been on the receiving end of Simon’s jealousy before, but you were starting to get it now. He didn’t want to share you, not even a little, and it made him uncomfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.

Before you could say anything, Simon was there. He didn’t make a scene, didn’t grab the guy by the collar or push him away. He didn’t even address him directly. All he did was slide his hand around your waist, pulling you just a little closer, just enough for the guy to see the way Simon looked at you, possessive and silent, his presence like a barrier.

But the guy didn’t get it. He tried to keep talking to you, but Simon wasn’t having it. Not once did he raise his voice; not once did he look at the guy. He simply turned his head and said one word, flat and cold: “Mine.”

You weren’t even sure if the guy heard him or not, but you saw his expression falter, a little unsure now. He stepped back, hands raised like he was trying to say ‘hey, no harm done,’ but the damage had already been done in Simon’s mind. That was the first time you realized just how much Simon hated the idea of anyone even thinking they had the right to get too close to you.

As the guy walked away, Simon didn’t let go of you. He just kept you right there, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body against yours. His voice was low, just for you, but you heard every word. “Don’t know why I have to share you with the world,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he was angry at the universe itself. “They get the privilege of seeing you, but they won’t ever touch what’s mine.”

The words made you pause for a second, something heavy settling in your chest. “You’re not mad at me,” you said, almost a question. You were used to being the one who got possessive, who got territorial, but now… it was Simon. And it was different.

“No,” he muttered, his voice low, but there was no mistaking the possessiveness behind it. “I’m not pissed at you.” He sounded almost… conflicted, like he was trying to get across something without making it seem like a big deal, but his anger was still there, simmering. “It’s just… I fucking hate the way everyone else gets to see you. I hate that I can’t keep you all to myself.”

Your heart raced, a little thrill running through you at the thought of Simon—normally so in control—suddenly feeling like he had to fight for you. You liked it. You liked that he couldn’t hide it, that this was the first time you’d ever seen Simon struggle with the fact that other people even noticed you. You could feel it in the way he kept you close, his hand tight around your waist, like he didn’t want to let go.

He wasn’t done, though. His voice came again, this time with a rough edge to it. “Every time someone thinks they can get too close to you, it just makes me want to remind them that you’re mine. And when I see you talking to someone like that…” He trailed off, his lips curling into a snarl. “I fucking lose it.”

You were too busy soaking it all in to answer at first, too caught up in the way his words made you feel. You weren’t used to him like this, so out of control, and you had to admit that part of you thrived on it. You were always the one getting possessive, but now, for the first time, it was his turn.

The tension between you both was thick, so thick you almost didn’t notice when he started pulling you toward the exit. You only realized what was happening when you were outside, the cool air biting at your skin, and Simon was already pushing you up against the side of the building, eyes wild with that possessive hunger you’d seen a hundred times before.

“Simon,” you breathed, but he wasn’t listening. He was too busy claiming you, lips crashing into yours, hands rough on your neck. He pulled you close, body pressed tight against yours, and you could feel all the anger in his kiss.

He didn’t stop kissing you and didn’t stop his hands from roaming your body. He was marking you, claiming you in a way that sent shivers down your spine. When he pulled back just enough to drag his teeth across your neck, you bit back a gasp, and that’s when he spoke again, voice low and dangerous.

“You think anyone else could ever have you like I do?” His voice was rough, filled with jealousy, but there was a dark satisfaction in it, too. He kissed you again, rougher this time, like he was trying to erase every trace of anyone else from your skin. “You’re not theirs to want. You’re mine in ways no one will ever understand.”

The words struck something deep inside of you. You could feel the weight of them, the truth in them, and your chest tightened as he pulled you even closer, his body pressing hard against yours.

His hands roamed down your body again, finding that spot where your skin seemed to burn just for him. "No one will ever touch you the way I do. No one will ever make you feel like this. They can’t. They won’t."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands tightening in his hoodie as your body pressed against his even harder. "Simon, you—"

He cut you off with another deep kiss, his lips fierce and demanding. “You’re not just mine,” he murmured against your mouth, his breath ragged, “You belong to me. In every way that matters. And no one will ever be allowed to take that from me.”

His grip on you tightened, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, forcing your face upwards to meet his gaze. “Every time someone thinks they can just walk up to you, I’m going to remind them,” he snarled, his voice a dark promise. “You’re mine. And I’ll make damn sure no one gets the chance to look at you, touch you, or speak to you like that again. They’ll all learn the hard way that you don’t belong to anyone but me.”

Your heart raced, blood rushing in your ears. This wasn’t just possessiveness anymore—it was something deeper, darker. And for the first time, you felt the intensity of Simon’s own jealousy, something you hadn’t fully experienced before.

“Simon,” you whispered, trying to catch your breath, “I’m yours, you don’t have to—”

“No,” he growled, cutting you off, “I don’t have to do anything. But I will. And every single person who dares think they can come close to you will be reminded exactly who the hell you belong to.” He kissed you again, his lips pressing hard against yours, claiming you, his hands tight on your hips, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t get enough.

When he finally pulled away, his breath was shallow, and his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them. His fingers were tracing the line of your jaw as if he wanted to memorize every detail of your face. “I don’t share, sweetheart,” he whispered. “And you’re not going anywhere.”

Your chest tightened with desire, the intensity of his words sinking into you. The way he spoke—like he was ready to fight for you, to own you in the most raw, primal way—made your heart race. You gripped him tighter, breathless with how much you wanted him.

"Fuck," you whispered, your voice heavy with understanding, "now I get it... why you get hard every time I show my possessive side." You smirked, feeling that rush of heat at the back of your neck. "You're just as insane as me, aren't you?"

Simon’s gaze darkened even more, if that was even possible. His lips curled into a grin, predatory and wild, his grip tightening on you. “You’re damn right I am.” He leaned in close, his voice a harsh whisper against your ear. “And that’s why no one else will ever have you like this. Not now, not ever.”

---------------------------------------------

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