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proxima-writes · 23 days

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𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄

PAIRING: JACKSON!JOEL MILLER X FEMALE READER

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+ MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 1.5k

SUMMARY | Nowadays, he’s got the look of a man who’s discovered safety after survival, more life in his face, more weight on his bones. His hair has grown out, curling around his neck and more prominent streaks of gray at his temples and in his beard. This thing between the two of you remains undefined, comes and goes like waves crashing on a shore, but you’ll take what you can get because you’ve never been good about avoiding temptation.

AUTHOR’S NOTE | One glimpse of Pedro as Joel in the new season has turned me into a woman possessed. Thank you @undrthelights and @janaispunk for giving this a read for me 💕

ways to help palestine

WARNINGS | explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, porn without plot, mild angst, able bodied reader, no physical reader descriptions or age mentioned, jackson era, mentions of joel's weight (in the context of looking healthier in jackson), emotionally constipated joel, dirty talk, praise, pet names, kitchen sex, oral sex - f receiving (while standing), unprotected p in v, limited aftercare. let me know if i’ve missed any!

A noise breaks through your dreams, a loud banging that startles you from sleep and leaves you blinking at the ceiling. Thoughts still fuzzy, you stumble down the stairs and through your kitchen to the back door that rattles in its frame with each pound of a fist against it. You glance at the neon red numbers of the stove clock and at this hour, there can only be one culprit.

“Joel, what the fuck,” you groan, opening the door. “It’s two in the morning, what is wrong with you?” He doesn’t answer, simply shoulders past you and into your house. “Oh, sure come on in, make yourself—“

Your sarcastic remark is abruptly cut off by his lips crashing against yours, mouth hot and hungry as he skips any semblance of pleasantry and dives straight into carnal desire. His teeth graze your lip, the sting soothed by his tongue before it tangles with yours. Your fingers curl into his jacket sleeves, hanging on for dear life as he backs you into a wall, the two of you hitting one with a dull thump that disturbs the picture frames.

He shoves a knee between your thighs and pins you to the plaster, every sense invaded by him as he continues to consume you. When his mouth leaves yours and begins to leave hot kisses like brands across your neck, you finally find your voice again.

“Joel, what—“

“Shut up,” he grunts. You’re taken aback by the command and you have half a mind to smack him across the head for it, but he’s got his teeth on your earlobe and he adds, “I just, I need this, okay? Please?”

The fight leaves you in one fell swoop because you’d do anything for Joel if he just asks nicely. You nod and he returns to his task of turning you into a puddle with a single minded determination. When you start to rock your hips against his denim clad thigh in a desperate bid for friction, you feel, rather than see, the grin on his face.

“Mm, just as needy for me, ain’t you?” He teases. You frown.

“Don’t push your luck, Miller,” you snap. He laughs, a deep rumble that reminds you of the thunderstorms in the spring. “I can still kick you out of my house.”

“You won’t.” Confident, cocky, a man who knows he has you in the palm of his ridiculously skilled hands. “If you’d been smart, you would have kicked me out the first time. Now I’m just like a stray dog, ain’t gettin’ rid of me now.”

The first time, when he showed up in Jackson with a chip on his shoulder and a frown on his face. His hair had been shorter, his frame a bit smaller, his eyes a lot more vacant. He walked you home one night from the Tipsy Bison and when he kissed you under the glow of your porch light, his mouth tasted like whiskey, not unlike it does tonight.

Nowadays, he’s got the look of a man who’s discovered safety after survival, more life in his face, more weight on his bones. His hair has grown out, curling around his neck and more prominent streaks of gray at his temples and in his beard. This thing between the two of you remains undefined, comes and goes like waves crashing on a shore, but you’ll take what you can get because you’ve never been good about avoiding temptation.

While your thoughts drifted to the past, Joel has dropped to his knees and is curling his fingers into the elastic of your underwear, dragging the fabric down your thighs.

“In the kitchen? Really?” You huff. “There’s a perfectly good bedroom upstairs.”

“Too far,” he says, tossing your underwear aside.

Despite your complaints, there is something undeniably sexy about having Joel kneeling before you, impatient enough that he’ll take you right where you stand. He shuffles closer, lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and lavishes your clit with broad swipes of his tongue.

Your head drops back as you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair as he pulls out every trick in the book of your pleasure, alternating between fast circles and sucking the bundle of nerves between his lips. It’s not long before you’ve reached the precipice of your release, teetering on a razor thin edge before finally falling into oblivion with a gasp of his name. He groans against you as you come, waves of it rolling through you.

“So fuckin’ good,” he says as he pulls away. You look down at him with a half-lidded stare, his chin wet in the low light and his own gaze dark with lust. He stands, slowly, with a bit of a wince because of his bad knee that he tries to hide with a grin. “C’mere.”

You let him pull you away from the wall and into his arms where he kisses you, his lips and tongue drenched in your taste. He walks you back to your little kitchen table, kicking a chair out of the way so that he can turn you to face it, a palm between your shoulder blades urging you down until you’re bent over the wooden surface.

The clink of his belt buckle falling to the linoleum makes your muscles clench in anticipation. Joel’s palm smooths down your back, almost reverently, before reaching your ass and giving it a rough squeeze.

“You’re killin’ me, you know that?” He asks. You turn your head, glancing at him over your shoulder.

“Me? I’m not doing anything, I’m waiting for you to quit teasing.”

“That’s just it,” he says, sliding the head of his cock through your messy pussy before notching himself at your entrance. “You ain’t gotta do anythin’ except exist and you’ll drive me crazy.”

Any response you had dies a swift death as he presses inside of you, filling you in the most tortuous way. The ache of the stretch quickly fades as he bottoms out with a deep groan, his hands gripping your waist tight enough that you know you’ll feel the phantom sting of bruises in the morning. He sets a rough, demanding pace, the sound of skin against skin cacophonous in your little kitchen. You can’t hold back the noises of pleasure he wrings from you as he slams in deep with each thrust and pulls out so far that you’re practically empty before doing it over and over again.

“So fuckin’ gorgeous like this, so tight,” he grunts. You arch your back the slightest bit, changing the angle so that each drive of his cock drags against that spot inside of you that has you seeing stars and whimpering his name. “God, that’s it, sweetheart. Take it so pretty.”

“Joel,” you moan. “Please, please, please.”

“Beggin’ to come again?” He asks. “So greedy, ain’t that right?”

“Yes,” you sob. “Need to come, please, Joel!”

“I gotcha, baby.” His hand slips between your thighs and his fingers pinch your sensitive clit. “Come on, come on my cock so I can fill you up.”

It’s an empty threat, but one that works. Your muscles go tight with your second orgasm, your cunt pulsing around him as his thrusts grow erratic, uncoordinated as he chases his own high. He pulls out just seconds before making good on his word, painting your skin with warm release.

As you catch your breath, his warmth leaves your side. You vaguely register the sound of running water before a cold rag is wiping away the mess on your ass and cleaning up the slick between your thighs, the rough fabric over your sensitive flesh making you jump. Joel shushes you, another pass of his soothing palm down your back as he finishes wiping you clean.

You stand up straight on shaky legs and collapse in the chair that he’d kicked from the table to make room for your bodies. He’s already pulled his pants back up, the only evidence of your tryst in the sheen of sweat on his brow and his hair in disarray. His jaw grows tense as you watch him and he shoves his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot in the awkward aftermath.

“Thanks,” he says. “Needed that.”

“So you said,” you reply. “Did something happen?”

“Just some bullshit with Tommy.”

“Brother bullshit or town bullshit?”

“Bit of both.”

“Oh.”

He nods, glancing at the door. “I should get goin’.”

“Right.”

Joel doesn’t move for the door, though. No, he steps in close, taking your face in his warm hands and kissing you softly, gently, a wild juxtaposition to his earlier attentions. When he pulls away, you can’t help but reach up and smooth a thumb between his eyebrows, trying smooth the line of concern there.

“You don’t have to leave,” you whisper. You’ve said it before. You’ll say it again. You’ll keep saying it, until the ship that passes you in the night returns to your harbor.

“I do,” he replies, stepping back. You give him a tired smile.

Tonight isn’t that night.

Thank you for reading! Please consider reblogging or commenting if you enjoyed! You can find more of my writing below:

Joel Miller masterlist | All character masterlists

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel tlou #joel x reader #no use of y/n #jackson era joel #long hair joel

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zloikarasik · 1 year

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lonelystarrs · 7 months

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𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖

𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟! 𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐅𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐨 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Toji didn’t think he’d ever change for a woman again, turns out he did for a pretty little thing like you, he just wasn’t expecting it in this way —bet you really thought the joke about him being a werewolf was funny now.

Warnings 18+ MDNI seriously. Kinktober + extremely descriptive + monsterfucking + werewolf Toji + knots + breeding + size kinks + dubcon + mirror +

Tbh this was pretty rushed and basic, but let’s be honest only here for the smut when it’s kinktober 😂🫶🏻

It started over a year ago, all over a simple wound that Toji had from what he assumed was a curse at the time.

The claw marks had ran so deep across his back it exposed bone, the blood loss was life threatening but his ignorance took him towards his home, not towards help.

That’s when you came into the picture, pretty little you.

An off duty nurse who’s happened to be walking home to meet a stumbling Toji bleeding out near the building where he lived. Being ever so loyal to her duty as a nurse you helped. He remembered your eyes, your hair, how warm and soft your hands were and he remembered how you smelt. It stood out from the cold air, the smell of fresh rain and it was weirdly comforting, a clean yet sweet smell.

You’d stopped the bleeding, getting him to hospital for treatment and all you were was a memory, some pretty thing leaning over him slumped in a way that wasn’t dignifying what so ever and especially not how he usually met women.

He healed faster than expected, way faster than anything they’d ever seen before. Within two days he was healed with nothing but a large, clawed scar down his back, from his right shoulder to his left side under his ribs.

He took himself home, a bag of take out in hand as he stood in the elevator taking him up to his floor. The other hand shoved into his pocket staring mindlessly at the ceiling panel.

When it dinged and the doors opened he stepped out, colliding with someone much smaller than him and that someone was you.

Falling back into your ass from colliding with sheer force that was Toji Fushiguro, and in true Toji style he didn’t aid your fall he very much let it happen. Looking down at you and tilting his head, green eyes staring at your incredible legs long and toned leading straight up to those pretty black lace panties you had on under the shorter loose leather skirt that had rode up.

The little lace top you had on left little to the imagination, denim jacket a little ruffled from your fall, and nice black strappy heels on with red bottoms —which he didn’t expect.

Your hair framed you, thick and wavy, all done up for your little night out. Tits pushed up and face with light make up.

It was the second time he’d ever seen you and the first time he made contact with you, lazily reaching out a hand but not bending to you —he only done it because you helped him a few days ago.

You took it letting him pull you up with such force it thrusted you into his chest and he smirked, tilting his head giving you another once over because you really were such a pretty little thing.

“Oh! You’re uh- well you’re looking much better, it was only a few days ago and they’ve released you?”

“I left.”

“You’re moving well, what are you a werewolf?”

“A werewolf?”

Toji snorted a laugh at you and you laughed waving your hand around flippantly from your goofy joke. You thought he was one who those shitty dog looking things in classic old horror films?

“I was joking, y’know? It was a big claw mark and you’re out of hospital in days with a wound that went bone deep…”

“Just a real man doll, I ain’t howling at no moon.”

It turns out you lived in the same complex as him having rich parents but still studying as a nurse, once Toji found out the money he started taking an interest because even in his late thirties he wasn’t going to change.

He thought he wasn’t anyway but you made him feel something rare —and that was feeling a lil bad about taking advantage of you. He knew from past experience with his deceased wife that he maybe had a second chance of redemption, because that’s how he started feeling with her.

Your caring nature was a given, you were a nurse, so when Toji suddenly came down with a full blown fever you’d been there again, your hands feeling colder this time on his hot skin, your voice soothing him and that smell of you was lulling him. He’d pulled you in and buried his nose into you, inhaling like an animal as he started to grope every inch of you desperately, it gave him some relief.

Apparently he was changing in more ways than just seeing you as a source of money and sex, because it turned out that in fact, Toji was howling at full moons nearly four weeks later.

It started with restlessness and a mild fever, nothing too out of the ordinary in your line of work, but it wasn’t normal for Toji —he didn’t get sick. But something was crawling under his skin, his cock throbbing under his joggers and no matter how many times he fucked it into his fist he wasn’t cumming. His hand ran through his sweaty hair, pushing it out his face as he looked down at his far above average cock, an angry red and drooling precum with his hand curled around it.

It was throbbing, rock solid, he could feel the pulsing in it and he was burning from over stimulation, the rage in lack of release was only adding to the feral feeling biting across his skin as he felt his patience all but slipping.

Then his nose caught a whiff of something, something that made his cock flex in his hand and drive an instinct he didn’t know he had. Green eyes scanned the room, landing on a top of his you’d been wearing. When he lifted it to his face he moaned, eyes rolling back into his sockets and the pleasurable pulse sent to his cock was euphoric… that sweet smell of you was opening that door he was banging against.

His hips rolled into his fist, cock sliding into it smearing the overload of precum to make a wet hole to fuck into and his pace was feral, heaving in air between inhaling the scent you’d left over it. His mind too clouded to realise what exactly he was doing but chasing only a feeling.

You didn’t last a second when you returned home after your shift in work, he’d jumped on you and fucked you like you were his life line, a feral, blind pleasure that burned under his skin, only feeling it cool when you pressed against him. Burying his face into your neck and breathing you in like oxygen.

And he felt fucking incredible, fucking you felt unworldly.

Day two he’d been running such a high fever that wasn’t going down, reaching a temperature that was almost inhuman. He’d crashed into a sleep and you’d used the opportunity to shower. The towel was ripped from you as soon as your feet entered the bedroom and you were pressed against the wall, legs thrown over his shoulders as he lifted you.

But it wasn’t Toji.

His coat was so black he blended into the darkness of the room, silver teeth bared and green eyes illuminated like the full moon.

With your back pressed to the wall and werewolf! Toji lifting you on his shoulders as your thighs tightened around his head. Your hands gripping and pulling at his black fur as that long tongue worked its magic, so long it was fucking your dripping hole and rubbing against your clit at the same time. It didn’t take long for spit and cum to run down your ass and legs as he was edging you towards cumming on him again and you bucked wildly against him.

It should be wrong —holy shit this should be wrong.

But those glowing green eyes below you were feral, those jaws so large that you literally fit between them as he ate you out. His clawed hands under your thighs to prevent him from piercing you with those almost silver-white teeth.

You couldn’t breath as your body was driven into over stimulation and he wasn’t letting up on his restless attack with his tongue.

He was growling under you, something rumbling in his chest and you could feel it vibrating on his tongue. When you tried to pull away, tried to lift yourself from him his ears flattened, his lips curled and he bared his teeth with a snarl.

The only reason you calmed were his eyes and you knew it was him, even if you wanted to fight you couldn’t but you just needed a break to breathe. He looked silly in the apartment despite how big it was, Toji was a huge man regardless but this added to the huge form that he was.

“T-Toji I ca-fuck- I can’t anymore you gotta s-stop-“

Your body thrashed with each harsh lick of his tongue, drool dripping down his chin into his coat finding the taste of your cum irresistible, the smell of you was addicting. Toji was an asshole so it wasn’t hard to ignore you begging him to stop as you couldn’t handle it anymore, he was selfish and greedy naturally but when it came to eating you out like this?

Fuck-

The tip of his tongue buried in you felt you clenching again in little pulses as you got closer, he slanted your body to one claw keeping under your thigh, the other resting on his shoulder keeping you spread open against the wall. He reached down grabbing his cock, feeling the knot forming at the base —it felt different, besides the size difference.

He fisted himself and his hips started to move in time with it.

“M’gonna cum- fuck, hah, T-Toji s’good -holy shit-“ you were slurring words that meant nothing, weightless as your vision went white and stars appeared and with perfect timing he lifted from your clit and let his entire length of his tongue fill you roughly, he looked up to see your eyes roll back and your head rolled against the wall.

“Fu-Fucking hell,”

He stroked his dick steadily as you came around his tongue, hips stuttering as your body was slack against him and the wall. Withdrawing his tongue and head he pulled back, the taste of you filling his mouth, mouth watering again at the sweetness you gave.

He literally shrugged your thighs off his shoulders, his hands gripping your ass as you slid down the wall catching you with your legs falling over his thick forearms. He angled you so his hard, upright dick pressed against your entrance, your hands gripping his biceps, lacing under the black coat and your eyes widened as you realised he wasn’t letting you catch your breath.

Regretting looking down to see he wasn’t his body that had just change but the size of his already worthy dick had doubled, pre was drooling from the slit and it was flexing angrily.

“W-wait Toji that’s too big you-“

He pressed the tip to you and pushed, panting as his green eyes watched his cock start to stretch you out and it was tight. Toji bullied his way in, his forming knot pressing against your clit, your jaw slacked and no noise left you. The stretch was painful, but with how he was pressing against your spread open clit was just enough to distract you.

Toji growled when he eyed the bulge in your stomach and he flexed inside you watching it move. Clawed hands planted against the wall behind you, either side of your waist with your legs still over his forearms, the position was awkward being wedged between the wall him like this.

“T-Toji p-please g-go easy, it’s too big I’m-“

His hard thrust back into you cut you off as your breath hitched in your throat, nails digging into his chest and your toes curled.

“You’ll take it how it comes,”

your eyes widened as you looked up at him with worry, finally hearing him speak, his own voice mixed with something else thrown in. Your body contradicting your worry, his words made you pulse around him and he chuckled, green eyes meeting yours.

Shifting an arm to snake around your waist to hold you in place as he pulled back his cock, watching the slick glistening on it and he slammed back into you, starting a pace that was cruel. Your arms wrapped around his long nose and jaws clamping them together, pulling him into your chest hugging him and pressing your forehead to his.

“Holy shi-hah, it’s too big, it’s too- I’m gonna cum, I’mgonnacum!”

You sounded panicked but all he focused on was the wet plap, plap, plap of his inhuman dick spreading you open cause it was fucking beautiful to watch. Slick and cum coating his knot as it formed a sticky link everytime it touched your clit.

And he lost it.

You only made whimpering and strangled noises as he fucked you hard, every other thrust trying to push his knot in to plug you, failing drew a pissed off snarl from him that made him pull away along with his cock.

He threw you across the room to your bed and you tried to crawl away, his grip on your ankle slid you back down the bed and in his desperation he pinned you to it, rutting clumsily against the back of your thighs and ass trying to find your pussy.

“Stay, brat-“

He snarled into your ear and you groaned into the bed as he snarled in your ear and arched your hips back, a dull ache in your cunt from being stretched so much but pulsing to have it again.

Unhappy with the position he shifted, green eyes catching himself in the huge floor length arch mirror, he gripped the backs of your thighs and pulled you up. Your back to him you reached back to grab him to balance yourself. His cock slapping against your exposed pussy as he walked to the large mirror, spreading you out. He nuzzled his nose into your neck.

“Put it in before I force it-“

You reached down pressing your fingers to the underside of his head, pressing it against yourself as he lifted you until he felt your swollen hole, impaling you on his cock, watching the bulge appear in your stomach again and he let you watch, let you see what he was seeing.

Green eyes flickering from your face to his knot bouncing against you, begging to plug you, he could feel it resisting less in this position and when he’d just had enough he paused and forced you down to take it.

Your pained whimper only spurred him on, his thrusts switching to short but hard, your body bouncing off each thrust as you went crossed eyed, drooling with only noises leaving you as he made you watch him fucking you dumb.

He gave no warning when he came, only some whine that left his throat. His hips jolting up into you as his knot swelled locking him in you.

“S’too much- m’full, no more -Toji I can’t-“

“Cum it out then,”

You were shaking against him, your whole body struggling to keep up with him like this, but it was so hot watching him plug you, fill you up and seeing that bulge in your stomach.

So you reached down, one finger rolling over your buzzing clit and your hips jolted in reaction to how sensitive it was, your nerves burning with each circle and swipe on your clit, watching your hole clenching and pulsing around him.

You came with tears streaming down your cheeks, pushing so hard his softening cock pulled from you followed by the ridiculous amount of cum he’d fucked into you.

He nuzzled into you, gracing his teeth over your neck as you came back from seeing stars, tranced by the sight of the mess he’d made of you, holding you up like you were nothing as his green eyes glowed.

“We ain’t done, doll.”

©pharix/lonelystarrs 2023 permission is not given to repost, translate or post anywhere else.

Dividers all on my side blog for credits as per 🫶🏻

#toji smut #toji fushiguro smut #jjk toji #toji x you #kinktober jjk #kinktober Toji #toji x reader #jujutsu toji #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk fanfiction #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk thirsts #dilf toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #fushiguro toji #toji x y/n

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skzdarlings · 1 year

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06. sharing a bed series ; skz ; felix

masterlist.

sharing a bed series part 6/8. because it’s the cheesiest most classic trope and it’s FUN. -

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: sexual content. enemies2lovers, sharing a bed trope. bodyguard au. a dose of angst. open ending. past violence and parental abuse mentioned. ongoing perilous situation and forced proximity. not the healthiest dynamic lol. spanking, some rough play, hair-pulling, throat-grabbing, overstimulation, crying during sex, mention of past unprotected sex, a more dominant felix and a kinda bratty reader.

You kick open your bedroom door. As usual, no one is home except for you and Felix so you are free to scream and curse and stomp all you want.

“I can’t fucking believe you!” you shout among a flurry of other colourful words.

Felix enters behind you with his hands in his pockets, looking as nonchalant as ever.

Felix’s perpetual calmness is half the reason your father hired him. The other reason is that Felix was the best behaved boy in the world who grew into the most pristine, perfect man. Your father did not claw his way to the top of the industrial world by settling for anything less than the best. Lee Felix is the best. Your father trusts him with everything and anything, including wrangling his rambunctious daughter. Felix’s job is to guard and protect you – from others and from yourself. He is annoyingly good at it.

Felix is the prettiest, loveliest, sweetest man on the outside, particularly selected for his unassuming attributes. An obvious bodyguard figure draws unwanted attention. Felix, however, attended high school and college with you, posing as a fellow student and never looking out of place, always appearing gentle and ordinary and kind. Behind that, he is a lethally competent bodyguard. Your skinny, freckled, fair-haired watchdog can subdue any adversary.

Including the one tonight.

“I was just doing my job,” Felix says. He closes your bedroom door and locks it out of habit even though you are home alone. He is still completely uncaring to your crisis, as fucking usual, wandering around like he is a sensitive little lamb, smiling and content.

You throw yourself down on your bed with a dramatic heave.

“You broke his arm!” you cry.

Felix is standing at your desk, removing his work equipment. He is dressed like a civilian for the most part, denim pants with a windbreaker and a button-down over a t-shirt. He lays the jacket over the back of the chair and sighs, looking at his reflection in your vanity mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, still casual, feathering the dyed locks so they flutter back into place.

“I was just doing my job,” he repeats. He undoes the button-down and tosses it aside, then kicks his shoes under the desk.

Felix is all sharp lines and harsh angles, slender but athletic. His cheekbones are high, his angular face softened by his dark eyes and endearing freckles. That sweetness is juxtaposed by the gun harness strapped across his back.

You swallow. The harness hits the floor, then he grabs the back of the t-shirt and yanks it swiftly over his head. It joins the pile of discarded articles.

He sits on the desk chair with a distracted sigh, dutifully disassembling the gun for an inspection or cleaning or whatever nonsense Felix has decided is more important than your conversation.

“His arm,” you repeat. “You broke his arm. He was a completely innocent guy! I’m allowed to flirt with guys! Just because you’re my daddy’s good dog and he doesn’t let you get your dick wet, doesn’t mean I have to suffer too.”

Felix looks at you, his mouth a thin line with his unamused smile.

“Cute,” he says. He drops the smile and his distinctive deep voice drops another decibel when he says, “You can flirt. Just not with him.”

“His arm—”

Felix closes the gun and puts it on the desk.

“I think he was lucky I didn’t rip it off for grabbing you like that, don’t you think?” Felix says. He asks it so nicely too, tipping his head imploringly, like he really wants an answer. Not that he waits. Just as soon as the smile comes, it goes, replaced with a eye roll as he gets to his feet.

“Get ready for bed,” Felix says. “And, mmm, that’s not a request by the way. I’m phoning your dad to tell him we’re home safe.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to argue, just leaves the room while reaching into his back pocket for his phone. He closes the door behind himself, leaving you to fume by your lonesome.

Out of rebellious frustration, you do not budge an inch. You cross your arms and sit back on your bed, still dressed in your evening outfit. You can distantly hear Felix speaking in a formal voice and it makes you twitch with anticipation.

Felix being so professional is simultaneously his most annoying and most attractive quality. Annoying, because he really never falters on the clock. Attractive, because it wouldn’t be any fun pushing him to the boundaries of his rules if he wasn’t such a stickler in the first place.

When Felix returns, still wearing nothing more than his jeans, his expression immediately turns exasperated. He closes the door and puts his hands on his hips, staring down at you.

You stare straight ahead, arms and ankles crossed. You and Felix have shared a bed since the day he was hired, back when you were teenagers, as you were in the habit of sneaking out at night. You were not intimidated by the chubby-cheeked teenage boy, gleefully slipping past him while he slumbered – until suddenly you were being yanked back through the window. You learned the hard way that despite his appearance and disposition, he was an especially skilled martial artist.

As your father continues to accrue enemies in every market, you cannot live life on your own, not without endangering it. You still need Felix. You still share a bed. Everything you do, you do with Felix, whether you like it or not. Felix expresses little feeling on that front, a perpetual font of seeming sunshine when he isn’t breaking someone’s arm.

You know you are being mightily petulant by keeping him up, but you don’t care. If you can’t have what you want then neither can he. You can stay up all night, just staring and glaring at each other contemptuously. You are happy to let all that mutual disdain simmer through its achingly slow burn.

“Really?” Felix says. “Do we have to do this tonight?”

“I’m not doing anything,” you say.

“Right.” He laughs dryly but sits gingerly on his side of the bed. He smiles, his eyes crinkling sweetly with pleasure. His hair is getting longer again, sweeping his neck, and you watch as he delicately tucks some behind his ear. He leans on one arm, looking at you. “I’ll ask you nicely then, sweetheart.”

Ooh, that’s a low blow and he knows it. The word sweetheart always sounds so rich in his mouth, his accent softening the heart of it. Hopefully he misses the way you melt, but you doubt it.

His smile only deepens.

“Please, please get ready for bed,” he says. “It’s been a long day, yeah? And we’re both so tired. Come on. Let’s go. Just need some rest I think. Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”

You do not move.

You hear him sigh, a melodic sound. He runs his hand through his hair again.

“All right,” he says, soulfully. “All right. Fine.”

You hear the sharper inflection in his tone but you react a moment too late. Your bed is big, big enough you could starfish without even brushing his side of the bed, so it takes you a second to scamper to the opposite side.

That second is too long. Felix reaches out and grabs you by the calf, dragging you across the bed.

“Don’t you dare,” you say, kicking at him to no avail. “I’ll phone my dad!”

He is completely undeterred by your dramatics, only sighing when he hauls you over his lap.

“Go ahead,” he says. “I’m allowed to use, uhhh, what’d he say… discretion… mm… to discipline you if I think I need to.” He puts his phone within your reach. It is not a genuine gesture of goodwill so much as it is taunting you because you both know your father would take his side. “Well?” he asks. “Do you want to phone him?”

“I hate you,” you say.

“I know,” he replies. “Sorry.”

He sounds like he means it, though it’s hard to believe him when he flicks up your dress and swings his open palm across your ass. His hand comes down four more times before he neatly fixes your skirt again.

“Bed time?” he asks brightly, like everything has been solved with no problem.

You crawl off his lap while grumbling irritably, doing your best to ignore the smarting on your behind when you turn over to glare at him. He is just smiling at you, that thin-lipped way he smiles with dry humour.

“I hate you,” you say again.

He waves his hand, gesturing the vaguest, blandest sentiment of meh with its wiggle.

“I’m just doing my job,” he says for the millionth time.

“Really?” you reply with as much sarcasm as he usually gives. He hears it, tilting his head like a curious cat, as if he has no idea why you could possibly be upset with him – though the stupid little upturn to his lips tells you that he knows exactly why.

You hate him. You really, really do hate him. You have never hated anyone the way you hate him and you want to shout it from the roof. But you can’t do that. You can only say it to his face in private, in whatever way you can.

You reach without warning, cupping the bulge between his legs and finding a lot more than a denim crinkle. His gaze darkens, his hand covering yours warningly, though he doesn’t lift it away.

You adopt a saccharine sweet tone when you speak.

“Do you tell my daddy that when you discipline me you get hard?” you ask, batting your eyelashes.

He moves your hand to his thigh instead, shaking his head.

“Stop being silly,” he says. “Go get ready for bed.”

Your eyes follow him as he stands. He doesn’t get far when you grab his belt loop and tug him back. Felix has fast reflexes and is incredibly coordinated, so you find it hard to believe you sincerely bested him, but he stumbles as if you did. He stands where you want him, where he’s close enough for you to kneel on the bed and press your face right against his bulge.

He says your name in a warning voice, his already deep voice dropping more.

“I wonder…” you say, nuzzling your nose against the ridge in the denim, where you can feel him hard and getting harder still. “When my daddy asks you what we do all day,” you say, flicking your eyes up to his, “do you tell him your dick spends more time in my mouth than in your pants?”

His nostrils flare with his next breath.

You smile, victorious.

“He still thinks you’re his perfect soldier, doesn’t he?” you ask. “You can do no wrong. Little does he know…”

“I do my job,” Felix says. “And I do a good job. Okay? That’s all that matters.”

You start to open your mouth, one hand climbing towards his fly. You stop with a gasp when he fists a chunk of your hair, tugging your head away from him. It sends a hot shock rippling through you, flooding you with the recollection of all the times he grabbed your hair and pulled you closer, the times he cupped your head and put himself in your mouth despite knowing better, the number of times he fucked between your pretty lips and forgot to be proper, cursing so much it was practically poetry.

This time he guides you away and you whimper miserably. He does not loosen his grip, his fingers threading closer to your scalp so it both hurts less and holds stronger. He knows better than to just let go. He knows you perfectly. You glare at him.

“Look at me,” he says, because your gaze dropped to his bulge again. “I said look at me.” He tugs your hair so you obey, giving him your most annoyed expression. “You’re listening, yeah?” he says. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “You’re going to go to your closet. Get ready for bed. Sleep. You’re going to do that,” his voice turns frighteningly pleasant, “or I’m going to carry you over there and get you ready myself.”

“Like when we were leaving the club tonight?” you ask just as sweetly. “And you put me over your shoulder then, oops, something happened when we were in the limo, didn’t it?”

He lets go of you, exhaling tiredly in a high-pitched breath.

“Where did all your pretty rings go, Felix?” you ask, reaching for his bare hand, usually adorned with rings. “Did they fall on the floor in the limo when you decided you had to shove your hand up my skirt?”

Leaving the club, you were both wired. Felix was honestly justified in breaking that guy’s arm. You purposefully chose the creepiest, shadiest guy in the club to lead on, knowing Felix would appear two seconds later to rescue you. He always does. No one else ever pays you any personal attention and your life is too complicated for romance, so you thrive on the feeling of someone caring enough to always find you – even if it’s literally his job.

You also like getting mad at him for overreacting, but you like his overreactions. Him twisting and breaking that creep’s arm honestly turned you on. It also got Felix all worked up, a bit pissed because you were being irresponsible again but nonetheless heated. You thought for sure he’d take you home and go crazy and fuck you in the foyer. Instead he put up the limo divider and one-by-one removed his rings, giving you ample time to refuse before he covered your mouth tightly and slid his other hand up between your thighs.

Of course, despite bringing you to the edge several times, he never let you finish. Because he’s the worst.

And now you’re all worked up and he’s shirtless and being a stupid, pretty, two-faced bitch.

“I—” you start.

He rolls his eyes and says, “I know. I know. You hate me. Now go.”

You get up, stomping all the way to your walk-in closet. You can’t even slam the door because it’s a sliding one, but you make the biggest possible demonstration of closing it anyway.

You get ready for bed. You briefly consider dressing provocatively or even strolling out there naked, but in the end you decide to just dress in your ugly, comfy, over-sized t-shirt and march angrily back into the room.

Felix is gone when you return, probably off to double-check the house security one last time before joining you. You could try climbing out the window and down the terrace, just to be ridiculous, but he’ll catch up sooner than later and be even more annoying about it. So you get into bed and turn off the lights, laying down with a huff, blankets pulled up to your chin.

You get a bit dozy before Felix returns, the creaking door snapping you awake. You look over your shoulder and watch him finally shuck the jeans. He gets into bed in his boxers, removing his earrings once under the covers. He puts on the bedside table, then double-checks his gun is in the drawer, then and then only then does he lay down.

The big bed leaves an ocean of space between you. You roll over to face him. His eyes are closed but there’s no way he is already asleep.

“Felix,” you whisper, even though the big house is empty, “I’m cold.”

“There’s another blanket in the closet,” he says without opening his eyes.

You slide across the bed, close enough to reach out and put a hand on his chest. He opens his eyes and stares straight up.

“I need a cuddle,” you say. “Or I’ll have nightmares.”

“You’re not a child anymore,” he says.

That is maybe one thing you miss about the time before you and Felix started… this. When things were still innocent between you, he would often let you snuggle up with him. Now, he keep his distance. Now, he doesn’t hug or hold you.

So no one does.

“We’re still young,” you say, a dumb argument, but you’re tired and out of ideas.

“I was never as young as you,” he grumbles, more to himself than you. He seems to realize what he said and shakes his head. He pats your hand on his chest then rolls over, leaving his back to you.

You slowly return your hand to yourself, staring at the back of his head with an uncharacteristic prickling of tears.

Felix doesn’t talk about his life before this. You just know that it was somehow worse. Worse than being a watchdog. Worse than giving up years of his life to protect someone else. Worse than the times your father wanted to discipline you but learned that if he hit you directly you would just patch yourself up and move on, but if he hit Felix then you would break down and offer anything to make him stop.

You can see a couple faded scars from those times, faint lines that cross his back, remnants of old belt lashings. You touch one now, tracing your finger lightly from one end to the other. You watch a shiver roll down his spine. He doesn’t turn around.

Giving up, you roll away, back to your distant side of the bed. You close your eyes and will yourself to sleep, but it just makes you well up with tears. You sniffle, rubbing your nose messily on the back of your arm.

Fabric rustles. You suck in a breath when Felix slides up behind you, pulling you into the middle of the bed where he holds you snugly in his arms. You immediately roll to face him, throwing a leg over his hip and burying your face in his neck.

“Sweetheart,” he says, nothing else.

“I hate you,” you say, then press a kiss just under his jaw.

“I know.” He cups the back of your head as your kisses move down his neck. “I know.”

You make it to the middle of his chest before he turns you onto your back and gets up over you. He kisses you properly, thumbs wiping your tears as his mouth makes you forget about the reason you cried at all. All that matters is kissing him back, wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him close as possible. His sounds of pleasure are so deep and rough and rumbling.

“Fuck me, please, please,” you say, pushing your fingers into his hair.

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You know we can’t do that,” he says.

“We’ve done it before,” you say, purposefully canting your hips to rub against him, reminding him you are still so hot and wet from his finger-fucking, that only stupid underwear keeps you apart. It has the desired effect, his brow furrowing as he holds himself still above you. You peck his lips and string your arms around his neck. “You know I’m on birth control now for that reason,” you say, a little sweetly, smiling up at him. “Remember?”

He drops his face in the crook of your neck and makes an even crazier sound, shaking his head.

“That was very, very irresponsible of us, you know,” he says.

“Mhm,” you say, sliding your hand down his body to his waistband. “It really was. But it felt good, didn’t it? Dangerous. Coming inside me like that.”

Felix is right; that incident was very irresponsible. You had already started your little cat-and-mouse game and ran out of condoms one night. Because the two of you only have sex with each other, when that happened, you usually just fooled around until he pulled out.

That time was… a lot. You were pressed so tightly together and you were being painfully quiet because you weren’t home alone. It was such a stupid time to mess around, but common sense leaves you when Felix is involved.

That feeling is mutual. Felix knew better too. If he got you pregnant… the fallout with your father would be catastrophic for both of you. Still, for that moment he was inside you, with your fingers laced together and pressed by your head, with your legs tight around him and his face in your neck, nothing else seemed to exist. You were two normal people who were allowed to do whatever they wanted with whoever they wanted. It was a breathless, momentary fantasy, holding him tight and telling him to come, shuddering at the noise he made as he did just that. You didn’t even panic after the fact. You let the moment linger for as long as it could, still pretending you were normal, still pretending it was fine.

You started birth control soon after, telling your father it was to regulate your period. He waved it off, not wanting to hear more.

Your father has truly never suspected a thing. He doesn’t see the people around him as people, just objects, so it makes sense that he sees nothing in Felix but a soldier. He doesn’t know anything about Felix. Doesn’t know the pattern of his freckles or how his eyes crinkle up when he smiles. Doesn’t know he has a sweet tooth and will dump a thing of sugar in nearly everything. Doesn’t know what he finds funny, doesn’t know what makes him sad, doesn’t know anything at all.

You drag your calf up the back of his leg.

“Felix,” you say.

He gives you no chance to say more. One second you are in limbo, the very next he has shoved down both his boxers and your underwear and is already pressing into you. Only nonsense leaves your lips after that, your eyes closing as he works your body like a familiar and well-loved instrument. He knows it as well as you do. As you do his. It’s easy to work him up, to get him as close as you.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, changing position so he’s kneeling. He puts one of your legs up against his chest, levelling you with an amused smile. “You’re trying to get me to finish first,” he says.

“What? Noooo…” Your giggle turns into a gasp. You can be as loud as you want but you bite your fist anyway, hiccupping with a choked back sob of pleasure when he finds an angle that makes you see stars.

“Yes, you are,” he says. “But you won’t win.”

“I will,” you say.

“Uh-uh,” he says. “Sure.”

He makes you come twice before he does. He even starts pushing you towards a third but you are so oversensitive that it makes tears fall. He cups your chin and looks at you, cursing.

“You’re so mean,” you say, smiling through your tears. “Getting off to me crying.”

“I’m—not—I just—”

“Liar,” you tease. “You totally are.”

He just giggles. Then he flips a switch and goes from cute to something else, grabbing your throat and fucking into your oversensitive pussy so good and hard that you cry out.

“Shhh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he says. “Got you. Got you. I—”

You kiss him and he comes, sinking into you with dick and tongue and breath, filling you and surrounding you.

You hold him close, arms tight around him, his sweaty forehead pressed to yours. When he tries to lift away, you pull him back, making him laugh softly.

“Stay,” you say, and repay his torture by squeezing him inside you, knowing it will make him twitch and jerk with oversensitivity of his own.

“You never make it easy for me, do you,” he says with no animosity.

You shake your head and smile like you’re proud of that. He laughs then kisses you. The kiss is good and thorough and sweet, completely loving, affectionate. It gets your heart racing despite everything you just did. You rest your hands on his chest and gently push him back.

“I still hate you,” you say, because you have to say it, because the opposite would be too dangerous to ever say. You can’t even let that word enter your thoughts, certainly never let it leave your lips. If you held that word in your mouth for even a second, you would become addicted to it. So you glare at him with all passion you can muster and say, “I hate you so much.” You sniffle when he wipes your tears away. You turn your face. “I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone.”

“I know,” he says in a strained voice. He presses his forehead to your temple and exhales. “I know, sweetheart.”

#skz smut #stray kids smut #lee felix smut #felix x reader #skz x reader

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notjoelmiller · 3 months

Text

i cared

MDNI simon "ghost" riley x f!reader summary: three and a half years ago and an ocean away, he tore you apart. now he's turned up at your door. wordcount: 4.1k warnings: smut (fingering), drinking, AFAB reader, possible past dub-con (reader was in a bad mental state and simon knew), simon is a shitty guy in this, talk of hypothetical suicide, talk of past bad mental state (depression), mentioned PTSD, heartbreak on both sides, death mention (MW:III canon) a/n: hey remember when i said that my next fic would be joel and i posted a little insert. that was a lie! instead of working on that (12k word, currently) monster, i wrote something else. if you couldn't tell, i started this before the holidays and then forgot about it.

ao3

The house is much nicer than Simon anticipated. When he saw the New York City address, he had expected you to be crammed into a shitty 6th-floor walk-up. But no, not you. Instead, you have an honest-to-God three-story home with red brick delicately dusted with snow. You certainly couldn’t afford it on the 141 salary. He always suspected you came from means. This just confirms it. It just makes him wonder why the hell you decided to slum it in the services for so long.

It reminds Simon that he shouldn’t be there. You weren't made for that life and left for a reason. Who is he to ruin your peace?

He’s not alone on the street. Well-to-do families of strangers pass by, all watching the masked man observe their neighbor’s home. He can still turn around and leave you to the life you so clearly want.

Something shifts in one of the windows, the curtain being tousled by something. A dog. You got a dog– a golden retriever with sharp eyes and, evidently, an even sharper bark. The canine goes berserk, barking and howling and growling at Simon through the window. It’s Simon’s cue to leave, to leave you be with your semi-rabid, semi-domestic canine.

But before he can move, the curtain shifts again– pulled this time –and you’re there. You squint for a moment, surely wondering what masked freak is standing in your walkway like he owns the damn place. He lets you scrutinize him. It’s now or never. Either you’ll tell him to fuck off once you realize who he is or you’ll call the police on him, though it’s not like they would do anything after he calls Kate.

Instead, you disappear behind the curtain, your loyal steed of a dog following hot on your heels. In a moment’s notice, the large front door, with a gilded knocker and door knob open. You beckon him in. He follows, eyes trailing up and down your body once you’re facing away from him. You’re dressed casually but smartly in a short denim skirt and cashmere sweater. Simon’s never seen you in that getup before, even when going out to the pub.

“Shoes off,” you order, motioning towards the neat shoe rack next to the door. They’re all women's shoes of the same size. Simon’s shoulders relax, and he slips off his boots. It was for the best, he figures. His old boots would have just dragged dirt into your space. He takes off his mask too, hanging it up with his jacket. It’s nothing you haven't seen before.

Simon follows you into the sitting room– at least, that’s what Simon guesses the room is. It’s too neat for your taste, or his memory of what your taste is exactly. The couch and single chair seem untouched, the air still, like Simon’s presence is cutting through some sacred stillness.

You point to a couch and Simon obeys, sitting with his hands on his knees. Your eyes lock with his without granting him any semblance of your thoughts. Simon keeps his gaze soft, neutral. You can scrutinize him all you need.

You sigh, straightening your posture. A smile pulls at your lips. Your smile lines crease deeper than he remembered. Or maybe they always creased that deep.

“Tea?”

***

“He’s quite protective,” you drop two sugar cubes into a cup of tea. The spoon in your hand lets out a delicate tink as it hits the porcelain cup. You hand Simon the teacup, it’s just how he likes it. “Always has his haunches raised, even when he’s not working.”

Ah. A service animal. He’s surprised to not have put that together sooner. Always loyal, the pooch plants himself at your feet, gaze burning into Simon. If looks could kill…

“Your home?” Simon asks. He lifts the teacup to his lips and sips. Simon places the teacup on its saucer impossibly slowly. Simon can’t believe you’d trust him with something so delicate.

“I inherited it.”

A smile creeps on Simon’s face. Teacups and generational wealth. He always knew you were posh. Or whatever Americans call posh.

“You’re on holiday?” You ask.

“‘Tis the season.”

You hum. Your house is the only one on the block without some sort of holiday decor. Simon wonders if it was a pointed decision.

“And you came here.” Why?

He can’t tell you the truth. The fact is that every day since you left– all one thousand two hundred ninety-eight of them since John uttered to his fuming lieutenant that you just weren’t fit to serve any more –he’s ached. One thousand two hundred ninety-eight days of no contact. Of his only proof that you ever existed being a photo and a tear-stained note with one sentence scribbled in ink: John has contact info– emergencies only.

“I wanted to wish you a happy holidays.”

You laugh dryly, though it sends a pang of pain through Simon. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound. “Usually people send a card for that.”

You observe Simon with precision, like you never left the force, though the way you scratch Yogi’s belly unconsciously betrays the hardened exterior. It’s a glimpse into the last three and a half years. Of the woman you’ve become– so foreign to Simon. Foreign to your past self. Or not. Maybe this is who you’ve been all along, just hidden behind fatigues. Maybe the woman Simon thought he knew was just a farce. Rich girl playing army for a few years.

Maybe you joined the force just to fuck around for a bit. After a few years, you’d have stories to tell your socialite friends back home. Except, you didn’t get what you wanted, didn’t you? Simon knows well and good that serving, the 141, and him, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, destroyed something in you.

You tap the porcelain of your teacup. It makes a pleasant ding. “Did John tell you where to find me?”

“No. Well–” Simon tries to tell you the truth without throwing his comrade under the bus. The truth was, John had indulged in one too many drinks at the pub one night and hadn’t locked his quarters. An envelope addressed to you sat front in center on his desk. “Not intentionally.”

It’s a satisfying enough answer. Only a small twinge of annoyance crosses your face before you hum. “This isn’t a guilt thing, right Simon?” You ask, “I didn’t do what I did because of what happened.”

“What we did back then, on the field,” Simon traps you under his gaze. His stare is aggressive, but he hopes it conveys the intense feelings he’s struggling with. “I can’t just leave it. That’s why I came.”

Simon doesn’t dare speak. He doesn’t dare breathe while he watches you process his words. It’s a load of crap, he knows it, and he knows you know it. It’s just a matter of whether or not you want to kick him out.

You smize, teeth coming out to tug at your bottom lip. “Have you ever had New York pizza?”

***

You order two pies, hushing Simon when he insists it’s too much. You were right. Two isn’t enough. Simon scarfs down one pie without coming up for air. It’s delicious. It isn’t until he’s four slices deep that he realizes that you, smiling widely at him, haven’t yet picked up your first.

You’re a gracious host– a natural, really. You perch yourself on the kitchen island, legs crossed in a way that makes your skirt ride so sinfully up your thighs. Simon doesn’t look of course, he’s a gentleman. At least, he is for the first bottle of the ungodly expensive red wine you procure. It’s then that you perch your leg on the counter opposite your spot on the island, right next to Simon. Old habits die hard– especially when inebriated –and Simon places a hand on your leg, massaging the skin of your ankle.

You pay no mind to Simon’s ministrations, though, lost in the domestic bliss and mindless conversations you’ve probably been drowning yourself in for the last few years. You wave the glass of wine wildly about, like you wouldn’t give a damn if it spilled all over your expensive clothes. It seems so natural for you. Simon wonders what you were ever doing with the 141 when posh city living fits you like a second skin.

Simon inches his hand higher up your leg as you speak. He doesn’t get very far, but it’s enough so that he can trace patterns into the soft skin of your thigh. It’s too much, though, because your eyes lock onto his. But you’re not mad. You don’t tell him to stop. Rather, you examine him, and in your eyes Simon sees what looks like mirth.

“I missed this,” Simon says. He cringes at the words leaving his mouth. He’s succumbing to the domestic bliss you’ve created, looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses.

You reach for a third bottle of wine and a corkscrew, furrowing your brow in thought while twisting the screw. “I didn't want to abandon you,” you say. Simon, watching you pop the cork off with ease, almost forgets that you’re talking to him until you lock eyes. He watches you sniff the cork, pause, then sniff it again before topping off your glass. You take a heaping swig, like that Pinot Noir worth more than Simon’s monthly pay is unremarkable. “I left for a reason, you know.”

Oh, Simon certainly knows. The rumors had been inescapable in the first weeks of your absence. All around base every soldier had entertained the question of what happened to the American chick in the 141. Simon had only so many threatening looks to give privates before curiosity got the better of him. He abated the desire to ask John for so long, but there was only so much longing he could handle coupled with the cacophony of voices asking the same thing he desperately wanted to know.

John didn’t flounder when Simon finally came to him, demanding to know why you left.

She was discharged.

Why?

For… mental reasons.

Simon lost his shit in Price’s office that morning. He collapsed onto the couch with a gasp, a hand grasping and squeezing his heart. His breath left him, but Simon was too bloody stupid to understand what the hell was going on until Price was handing him a brown paper bag.

Breathe, son.

“Simon,” you breathe, your saccharine voice the most tantalizing sound Simon has ever heard. You lean forward, your finger tracing the scar parallel to the cut of his jaw. You were there for it, saw the knife slice through his mask and the skin underneath. You bandaged it in the helicopter after, making Simon promise to go to medical afterwards. He promised he would. That night he closed the wound with superglue. “Why did you really come?”

Because you disappeared. Because Price said you were on the brink of becoming a statistic. Because I fucked up. Because I said things I didn’t mean and I thought that it killed you.

“Johnny’s dead,” he lies. But it isn’t a lie. It’s true, sure, Johnny’s been reduced to ashes and scattered in the Scottish highlands. But that isn't why he came.

“I know.” You sniffle. Christ, Simon’s made you cry. Nausea washes over him. A voice in his head screams, fix it, idiot! But emotions were never Simon’s strong suit. Instead, Simon reaches for the bottle and tops off your glass of wine, probably a bit more than he should have, but it seems like you need it.

You mutter a thank you and down a bit more than half of the glass. You come up for air and hiccup. “John told me.”

“Price?” He asks, as though there was any other John. Anything to get you talking rather than crying.

You nod. “He dropped by around Thanksgiving. Asked if I wanted to be there when you all…” You wave your hand in the air, “You know.”

Something ugly festers in his chest. Maybe if he actually went to a therapist, Simon could recognize what it is.

“You said no?” He asks.

“I didn’t think I could.”

Simon nods, holding your gaze in a way that he hopes conveys his sense of understanding.

“How’d it happen?” You croak. Your eyes are glassy, a reminder of the ever-looming threat that you could fall apart again. Simon reminds himself that you wouldn’t be crying if he had just kept his distance.

“Bullet in the head.”

You tense, your head flying to Simon. Your eyes are frantic, searching for something in his face. “He…he…?”

Christ.

“No, no,” Simon scrambles to get his next words out, “Makarov. It was-” His voice cracks. Unusual. “-was too fast to stop it. To save himself.”

You hum, slumping down like it’s comforting to you that Johnny had his life torn from his arms. Like it’s comforting that Johnny couldn’t go on his own terms, but on the terms of a Russian terrorist.

“You know,” you say like you know he knows, “Johnny’s the reason I got out.”

Simon shifts. Johnny never talked about your discharge, always responding to speculation like he was none the wiser. “He is?”

“Yeah,” you laugh. It’s deep and watery. “Things were…bad one night. He found me. Talked me through the night. Listened to me.” You throw your head back, eyes tracing imaginary patterns on the ceiling.

“He told Price?”

You nod.

“That was after we…”

You nod again. Simon feels sick.

“It had nothing to do with you, Simon.”

“I never thought it did.”

“Then why,” you ask, “did you bring it up?”

Simon shifts. “Thought it was relevant.”

You smile, though your eyes are still lined with tears. “Guilty conscience?”

“Of course not, love,” Simon laughs, hoping you buy it. It works, he thinks. You seem to deflate, slumping a bit. You take some time to think. Simon, panicking at the thought that your self-reflection could send him out the door, pulls out the one trick he has over you.

He lets your legs fall. They bang against the cabinets with a soft umph from your lips. Simon slides off of the counter and stalks your way. You watch him and put up no fight as he slots his wide body between your knees. You don't even complain as the parting of your legs forces your skirt to ride even higher.

Fingers card through Simon’s hair. He hums.

“Why did you do it?” You ask.

Simon tilts his head, and with the wine in his veins and your hand in his hair, the world spins. Your other hand slips under the hem of Simon’s shirt. Warm fingers graze the skin of his stomach and then side, before your hand settles on his back, palm splaying across scarred flesh.

“I–” Simon croaks, “–I felt something for you.”

You snort. Simon’s chest burns and he takes some deep breaths to calm himself. He imagines Price’s paper bag, inflating and crinkling over and over.

“You knew I would leave. That’s it, isn’t it?” You accuse with a gleam in your eyes. “I was in a bad place and was leaving so it didn’t matter if you hit it and quit it.” You laugh. “You got what you wanted without risking your position.”

“That’s not true.”

Your thighs bracket his legs, trapping him against you. Your words curl around your wine-stained tongue. “‘I don’t love you’. Isn’t that what you said Simon?”

“Love–”

You tense, thighs squeezing him like a vice. “Love,” you coo, the imitation of Simon’s long vowels curtles unnaturally on your tongue. “Love, love, love. You know Simon,” you wrap your hands around the back of his neck and lean into the crook of his neck. Your lips brush against his skin as you speak, “You say it, but you’ve never meant it.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon utters, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your skirt.

“You’re not.”

He’s not. He doesn’t argue. He could– should, rather –but he can’t think straight with you this close to him. The scent of your perfume itches the deepest part of his brain. You never wore perfume when on duty, rather, always coated in the aroma of base-issued shampoo and sweat.

“I really cared for you, you know,” you whisper, your lips millimeters from his, them parting when his fingers rub you through the fabric of your underwear.

“I know,” Simon closes the distance, capturing your lips with his.

He pushes you back onto the counter, you let him, lets Simon cage your body like he has the right to. You groan into his mouth when he traps your bottom lip between his teeth and melt when his fingers slip past the hem of your panties, his fingers plunging through the wetness into your cunt.

It’s obscene— the noises you make as he thrusts his fingers into you. With his free hand, Simon pushes your skirt up over your hips so he can watch your cunt squeeze around him.

He slides his thumb up to your clit and you gasp. “Simon,” you moan. He nearly stops. It’s been years since he’s heard you say his name, let alone moan it. Fuck, Simon can’t help but grind his cock against the island counter, groaning.

It doesn’t take much to work you into an orgasm. Before he knows it, your moans become softer, higher pitched, and you’re coming apart, clenching hard on Simon’s fingers.

He works you through your orgasm, whispering praise into your ears. Simon gives you no time before pouncing, fisting his hands in your hair and devouring you. You wiggle underneath his weight, uttering something, but the words are lost into Simon’s mouth. He pulls away, his eyes meeting your expectant ones.

“What?”

“Upstairs,” you say, chest heaving. “My room is upstairs.”

***

Simon wakes before dawn. He’s lying on top of you, your strong breath rocking him up and down. Your limbs are impossibly tangled. He’s reminded of an identical morning, years ago, of what he did then, and what that choice led him to. But that was years ago. You were different then, broken. How was he supposed to know that his choice would make you shatter?

He untangles himself slowly. It feels like the process takes hours, though the sun fails to make an appearance by the time he slips out of bed. The clock reads four in the morning. That explains it. It also explains the way the room around him is spinning slightly. He’s still drunk– or at least buzzed –from the night before.

His pants are an easy find, discarded by the door. His shirt though… Simon spins around the room, eyes glazing over the space. He tries not to take anything in too deeply, too personal for this morning.

He spots his shirt on your vanity. Simon yanks it off, but something hard and heavy comes with it. It nearly drops to the floor, but Simon catches it before it can hit and wake you up.

It’s a perfume bottle, heavy and half-filled. Simon can’t suppress the urge of his half-drunk brain to sniff it. The scent— the scent of you —explodes in his synapses. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, ensuring you’re still asleep, before pocketing the bottle.

The dog follows Simon as he walks through the house. Luckily, as he slips on his shoes, the dog disappears into the rest of the house.

Simon lingers with a hand wrapped around the door knob. It warms under his touch.

“Are we doing this again?”

He flinches at the sound of your voice, “I ‘ave to.” Simon stays facing the door, though he doesn’t make a move to turn around. He knows how he must look to you, too cowardly to face you. He’s reminded of the last time he spent the night with you. He got out scot-free. What would have happened if you found him then? Simon can’t say for certain whether or not he would have left then, if you called out for him in the same delicate voice.

“Stay.”

“What?”

“In New York,” you say, voice dry with sleep. “With me. Get out of the SAS, the 141, all that bullshit.”

“‘S not that easy.”

“It is. I left. You can leave. Or you can stay and end up like Johnny–”

“What do you know about Johnny,’ Simon growls, turning on his heels. He straightens his spine, puffing his chest up like you’re a threat. Your dog buys it, growling and worming himself between you and Simon. You don't take the bait though. You honest to God laugh in Simon’s face.

“I know enough.” You step closer to Simon. The pooch gets the memo, clearing the way for you. Simon almost does the same, he wants to. Some instinctual part of his brain needs to cave to you. “You mean something, Simon,” you flick your eyebrows up, letting them drop immediately. It feels like a challenge, like you were asking Simon the silent question. Do you matter?

“You’re more than a soldier– more than a body on a field, waiting to drop.” There are tears in your eyes. You don't let them fall. Simon hopes you’ve finally realized that he isn’t worth your heartbreak. He’s never been, but at least your realization would stop his cruel cycle of him chewing you up and spitting you right back out.

“Come to New York, Simon, please. There– there’s a butcher shop up the block, they’re always looking for help. You said you used to do that stuff, right?”

Fucking hell. He had said it to you, years ago after a mission. Simon went drink for drink with Johnny and Gaz and got positively wasted. It was the night he first set his sight on you, when your tenderness sunk its claws into his heart and refused to let go. You didn’t know then what it would lead to. Simon did. Every love Simon had wilted in his claws. Why would you be different?

“Come here,” you plead, “Take the job with them. I can help you find an apartment or you can live with me but–” You grab Simon’s shoulders, tugging. It isn’t strong enough to turn him around, but he does. Your cheeks are wet and eyes glassy as you stare up at him. “Simon, it’s too late for us, but don’t let it be too late for you.”

Simon lifts his hand to your cheek, fingers grazing the plump skin. It slides to the back of your head and tugs– yanks you into his embrace as he crashes your lips against his own. The morning makes you soft though, as Simon nips your lips with his teeth, you melt, softening and slowing your movements.

It’s you that pulls away first, staring at Simon. You let him swipe his finger across your cheek, caressing you.

“Please,” you beg, kissing the palm of his hand.

Simon lets his hand fall from you. It sits achingly cold at his side.

It would be cowardly to leave you without a goodbye after forcing himself back into your life, even if it was for one night. Simon considers himself to be many things, but never a coward. Yet, standing in front of you, staring into your expectant eyes, words don’t come easy.

You step towards him. Simon steps back. The door knob presses into his back. His heart is pounding, the blood in his eyes deafening him. Your scent wafts his way, your perfume. The one whose bottle he knocked over, nearly let slip through his fingers and shatter. The one which you never got to wear in the 141. The one weighing down his back pocket.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Simon says.

He doesn’t look back. Not when you gasp his name. Not when he opens the door. Not when he walks down the snowy street.

Price and Gaz will ask about his holiday. They’re kind like that. In the cab to the airport, passing the bottle of perfume between his hands, Simon considers his answer. Single word answers are his forté, but won’t suffice with the prying curiosities of his captain and sergeant.

The answer comes to him when he sniffs the perfume once more.

In the coming week, when Gaz claps him on the back, he will ask, “How was the holiday, Ghost?”

Simon will answer, “I had a meal with an old friend.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #ghost fanfiction #cod fanfic #ghost x female reader

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mactavishsgfandwife · 4 months

Text

Dad!Simon Taking Your Daughter to the Optician’s (Fluff)

another random one but OMG imagine your daughter had needed those adorable baby glasses and simon took her to the optician to buy a pair 😭 like awwwwweewwwwwwwwe purest domestic fluff ever, not proofread

He pulls her tiny, pink raincoat off of the coat hangers by the door, along with his own black bomber jacket that he holds under one arm, and he tenderly leans down to zip up her little jacket - the one with cutesy rubber ducks embroidered at the cuffs. Most people wouldn’t immediately assume them to be father and daughter. This huge, intimidating military man with sunglasses on in early Spring to hide his eyes and a small silver dog tag dangling down around his neck, dwarfed by his broad shoulders - and reaching her hand up to hold his, babbling something unintelligible about rocks, a little girl. Her hair was carefully tied into bunches - Simon had tried to do it himself but he somehow managed to miss out half of her hair, so he lifted her up over his shoulder as if he were a firefighter and went to find you.

"Y’married a soldier, not a hairdresser," he grinned, a little bit embarrassed.

At the optician’s, he guides his little girl around the room, inspecting the shelves of different glasses. He holds her soft, little hand in his big, tough one. For a moment, he is distracted by some informational poster on the wall, but a sudden exasperated gasp from the 3 year old at his feet pulls him back to reality right away. Looking down, he sees her chubby hands holding a pair of adult sunglasses to her eyes, a big grin on her face.

"Glasses! Want glasses, daddy!" she giggles, the specs falling wonky on her little button nose. Simon laughs softly, crouching down to get closer to his baby, his elbows resting on the denim of his jeans.

"You can have glasses, love… but those are too big for a littl’un like you," he leans in to kiss her soft forehead, and tries to place the sunglasses back, as her little fingers paw at them.

"What about these ones..?" he smiles, holding out a little pair of pink glasses, purple at the edges, with sweet little stars along the sides. That smile on his face is met by her exaggerated, pleading eyes and her little sad pout, still trying to reach her hands out to the sunglasses that her daddy had meanly placed on a high shelf. :(

Simon finally settles on buying the sunglasses ‘for himself’, rolling his eyes with a small chuckle as he helps fit those cute, purple glasses to his little girl’s face, turning her to look at herself in the mirror of the shop.

"Ahh!" she lets out a little, excited squeal, "I love it, Daddy!"

"You look so pretty, little girl," he smiles protectively, trying not to laugh as he sees her chubby, grinning face looking up at him behind those glasses that make her eyes seem twice as big as normal.

Her little mary-jane shoes run in circles around the shop, as she lets out little squeaks of joy and mumbles to herself - in the end, it takes your husband a whole 10 minutes to convince her to take them off so that he can buy them, and on the walk home she does her best to speed ahead of him (not that he would ever actually allow her out of his sight), shouting, "Faster, Daddy!", alternating between running away from him and walking slow at his side, panting from the running until he caved and carried her. She was just so excited and couldn’t wait to go home and show Mummy. <3

And she looks so cute when she excitedly rushes into the kitchen, screwing up her face and giggling as she tells you all about her new glasses, Simon leaning against the doorframe in the background and chuckling softly as he watches, unable to hide how much he loves his little family.

i love him so much i’m crying tears thanks for reading lovelies! x

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luxeslore · 4 months

Note

[plane crashing sound] we’ve heard of hybrid!reader x simon but how abt hybrid!simon x reader,,,, he marks you all the time with his smell, a bite mark, (or his cum or piss) whenever you’re not paying attention, always insisting you stay home with him (or even better, let him build you a home in the middle of no where so no one can bother you two) n he’s somehow always in his rut whenever you’re ovulation [passes out on the ground in a heap]

hybrid!simon— a whole brand new level of BASTARD. ending up with him because you wanted a companion + protection and you just end up with a big bully !!! but he really does love you… he’s just so possessive and he can’t be blamed for that. it’s quite literally how he’s biologically programmed !!!

WARNINGS… 18+ CONTENT, MDNI. includes DUBCON [reader is slightly intoxicated + mentions of a struggle], hybrid!simon -> guard-dog!simon, “owner”!reader, possession, manhandling, a second of degradation, spit kink [drool, slobber], biting, cunt inspection, a single spank, light choking, oral [r. receiving], scent kink, breeding kink.

It’s past midnight. Even if you haven’t checked the time in an hour or so, you know that much. The atmosphere in your apartment is oddly still as you lock your front door behind you, dropping your keys onto the first flat surface available. You try your best not to stumble over, getting your bearings—usually Simon is hounding you by now, in every sense of the word. Sniffing your jacket, tugging at your shirt, ridding you of whatever traces of the outside world you’re bringing into the nest you two share.

“Si?” You call out his nickname into the thick air. Only to be cornered in the next second.

He doesn’t realize how scary he is in these moments, crowding your space entirely and towering over you. His ears stand tall on his head; pointy and scarred from years of being a fighter. He hasn’t always been such a spoiled pooch. He got lucky with you, and he recognizes that everyday. But it makes it hard to worship the ground you walk on when you come home reeking of multiple men. The scent of smoke and bourbon lingers on you, and it makes him snarl. A deep and carnal sound that has you shaking in your booties while his face contorts, baring his teeth at you.

You lower your head and silently pray this gesture of submission will be enough. Your words are slurred, unfortunately not helping your case by any means, “I told you I’d be going out after work!”

Thick arms wrap around you— your chest pressing up against Simon’s, allowing you to feel his chest vibrate as he growls out a string of curses. Fuckin’ slag. Your eyebrows knit together while your hands end up flat on his chest, trying to push him away.

“Get off, Simon.”

Although you may be his “owner,” you’ve never given him such a direct command before. Nearly matching his energy with how you spit the words out. He’s always been such a moody but nonetheless protective and faithful companion up until now. It pains him to disobey, really. He can't stop himself or drown out the biology driven anger clouding his reasoning.

And you certainly don’t make it easy for him to pin you down onto the couch. Kicking and flailing until you feel it. The fat bulge in his pants, pressing against your ass. All hot and heavy and letting you know he’s been aching for hours, waiting for you to return.

It’s sick how quickly your brain tells you to submit. It shouldn’t be this way; you shouldn’t let him have so much power over you. But when his teeth sink into your neck painfully, his slobber drips over your skin and down your shoulder, soaking through your shirt… you yelp in pain. Just like a bitch would do. There’s little time to revel in the pain when he soothes the fresh wound with his tongue, when his hands are making the rounds on your body.

What you were wearing is a forgotten memory within minutes— a heap of cotton, denim and lace on the ground between your clothes and Simon’s.

You can hear him panting behind you. Face to face with your cunt, inspecting to make sure no one else tried to claim what’s his. A bit silly on his part since he would’ve been able to smell it on you and your pretty cunt anyway. His thumbs spread your folds, pulling them apart while he marvels at how cute and leaky you are. You press your heated face into the back couch cushions, wiggling your hips to get him to do anything other than gawking at you.

He scoffs, “Y’think you deserve having your pussy played with?”

“Didn’t do anything wrong, Si.” You huff out, annoyed all over again but so desperate for anything from him.

His heavy hand comes down on your ass. You scream as the sting spreads over your plump cheek, before hiding your face once again and holding onto one of the throw pillows for dear life. Arousal slips off of your cunt in glossy, glimmering strings— finally enticing Simon enough to dive in.

He dips his tongue into your pussy, appreciating the way you squeal upon feeling the wet heat so much that his big ears twitch. A thick thumb comes up to rub your clit in circles, determined to make you cum on his face before he stuffs you full of his cock. It’s only a matter of minutes before you’re whimpering and squirming, letting him know you’re gonna cum with pitchy cries. You feel so pathetic crumbling under him, as if you’re the one that needs to be leashed and looked after. The wet spot made up of his drool and your cum mixed together beneath you isn’t helping.

Simon isn’t known for letting up, so he’s curling over you in the next second, enjoying the way your form trembles against his. The way the bit of fat he has over his abs and valleys of muscle nestles into the gap the arch of your lower back makes so perfectly. You shiver as the tip of his cock is guided along your sensitive cunt, bumping up against your clit enough to make you jolt and squirm.

“Simon, please…”

A strong hand covers the front of your throat. Just barely squeezing, his lips rub up on the shell of your ear. You can hear him inhale so deeply, taking in every intoxicating note that makes up your scent before he begins speaking, “All mine, right? M’little breeding bitch?”

Fuck. The words make your core ache. Dull and sharp, reminding you of just how empty you feel. You dig your nails into that pillow again and choke out a sob, eyes fluttering shut just as he really gives your throat a good squeeze.

“All yours, Si,” you breathe, “your breeding bitch.”

It’s all the confirmation he needs and more to work each fat inch of his cock inside of you. Hopefully fucking you into submission for good so you don’t ever end up in the pub surrounded by dickheads again— he thinks you’ll agree it’s not a suitable environment for you and the cute baby bump you’ll have anyway.

#🤍.cod #tw hybrids #tw dubcon #tw piss mention #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #ghost smut #cod smut #call of duty smut #cod mw2 smut #call of duty mw2 smut #⌨️.luxe's writing

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teenidlegirl · 5 months

Text

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛ 𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝓝𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝓓𝐎𝐎𝐑. ❜

ઇ ˚ ݂ ֹ ꒰ biker!miguel 𝓍 fem!reader ꒱ ! ۟ ׅ ♡

. ˚◞ ♡ 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚⠀˖ ࣪ ༘ a charming guy with a bike moves next door. you two embark in an interesting connection which becomes something much more.

. ˚◞ ♡ 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕⠀˖ ࣪ ༘ modern!au, neighbors to lovers, fluff, sprinkle of angst, tension, swearing, pet names, smut, references of sex, implied short reader, hispanic/latina!reader 【 mdni 】

( ꯭♡︎ ) ˖ ࣪ . love note ˒˒ this idea randomly popped in my head while listening to “outside” by calvin harris.

the u-hual truck and several boxes on the curb. a new neighbor moving in, specifically next door to you. that house has been empty for some time and seeing it finally being occupied was a sight. looking through the blinds, you couldn’t see the new neighbors but only the two move-in guys. there seems to be a bike barked in the driveway, a black duacti to be exact.

oh now that is intriguing.

your new neighbor is a motorcycle rider. the bike is quite beautiful. your dad would be hella jealous since he adores ducatis. since there is a bike, where is the owner? scanning the area for the possible owner, a man dressed in all black with motorcycle jacket approached the u-haul truck to grab a big box that seems way too heavy to carry. but it seems the guy is a gym fanatic due to his bulky structure.

holy shit.

the dude is handsome as fuck.

dark chocolate locks along with some very visible strong cheekbones even from this distance. not only is he bulky as hell but also extremely freakishly tall. goddamn the man is probably over 6 feet. the move-in guys are only up to his collarbone and they are pretty tall themselves. this dude is a giant most likely.

this man is your new neighbor?

well fucking hell.

lifting your finger off from the blinds, you step away from your window to resume your day. although, it would be difficult to concentrate on anything since your mind is infiltrated with images of your new neighbor. you’ve never even met the guy and yet he’s all you could think about. get your shit together.

━━━━━━━━ ִ ۫ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ۫ ݂ ━━━━━━━━

you were returning home from work. pulling up into your driveway, you spot your new neighbor in his garage cleaning his bike. slowly getting out of your car, you sneak at glance at him without being suspicious. well, you’re wearing your black cateye sunglasses so nobody could tell if you’re looking directly at them or not. grabbing your purse and locking the car, you decide to introduce yourself.

fuck it, why not.

walking up his driveway to the garage, your ears were filled with music. the speaker be blasting linkin park. good music taste he has, definitely noted. he seems to not acknowledge your upcoming arrival since he’s too concentrated on cleaning his bike with a rag. now he must’ve acknowledge your presence as the corners of his lips curl up into a little smirk.

“ducati. badass.” you comment, stopping only a few feet from him so you don’t invade his space.

he let out an appreciative hum. “panigale v2.” his eyes never tear from the bike as he continues cleaning it with the black rag.

your eyebrows slightly raise in surprise. “my dad would be jealous. he used to own one but had to sell it to buy a car.” you cross your arms over your chest, obscuring him through your sunglasses.

“poor guy but understandable.” he wipes down the last bit of the bike before putting the rag away in a bucket next to him. “so which neighbor are you?” he never looks up at you as he starts scrubbing the front tire with a small black scrubby.

“next door to the left.” you tilt your head a bit to the side, digging your hands into the back pockets of your denim jeans.

“oh so you’re the one with the loud dog.” the guy couldn’t resist a smirk, sensing your light glare.

“not my fault he misses me.” you shrugged.

a low chuckle escapes his lips. “maybe you should be home more often.”

you look at him dumbfounded by his joke but you play along since it’s fun. “if only work was that easy. plus, he’s a husky, they’re criers.” that earns you another chuckle from him.

“what’s his name?”

“shane.”

you watch one of his thick eyebrows quirk upwards. “that’s an interesting name for a dog but it’s cool, quite unique.” after scrubbing the last bit of the tire, he drops the scrubby into the buckle, stands up from the little stool and turns to face you.

goddamn — he’s even taller than you thought. you have to crane your neck all the way up just to look at him. and dear lord this man is just pure muscle. the black shirt he’s wearing looks so tight on him that it acts more like a compression shirt. those broad shoulders stick out heavily, so mouthwatery. and that motherfucking waist, damn it’s so slutty that it’s a crime to have it that pinched. a damn greek god.

him on the other hand, traces your figure with his eyes. shit those denim jeans hug your thighs so perfectly, a little too tight to be honest which makes his chest warm. although, he was taken aback by your sunglasses, concealing your face that he desperately wants to see.

cleaning his hands with a clean rag, he walks up to you reaching out a hand to shake. “i’m miguel.”

you push your sunglasses on top of your head before taking his hand and gently shake it. “[y/n].” a little smile gracing your glossy lips with a head tilt.

miguel’s pupils dilate drastically from your face reveal. wow — you are very attractive, beautiful in fact. those gorgeous irises staring into his own and glossy lips that taunt him.

his pretty neighbor.

and he, your handsome neighbor.

━━━━━━━━ ִ ۫ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ۫ ݂ ━━━━━━━━

“fuck!” you slap the stirring wheel. the car isn’t working. just fucking great, now you’re gonna be late for work and your boss is gonna murder you.

well this is a shitty fucking day. first you slipped coffee over your cute white blouse, now your car is broken. a lot groan of frustration escapes your lips as you rest your forehead on the wheel.

your frustration didn’t go unnoticed by a set of brown eyes from next door. miguel was preparing to leave for the gym until he saw you shouting inside your car. he couldn’t help but smile in amusement watching you getting pissed off. the sounds of the failing engine answered his question. he watches you get out of your car and slam the door, a few curses in between spanish and english escaping your lips. resting his helmet on the bike, miguel slowly walks over with arms folded across his chest.

“dead engine?” he asks, head titled a bit.

a sigh of frustration escapes you, rubbing the temples of your forehead with one hand while the other rests on your hip. “yeah so now i’m gonna be late for work. chingado…” you rest your lower back against the car, not meeting his gaze.

“i can give you a ride.” miguel suggested, his eyes analyzing your expression and body language.

you shook your head. “no it’s fine. i’ll just take an uber.” you pull out your phone from your back pocket to open up the app but a large hand snatches your phone. “hey! what the fuck man—“

“you don’t need an uber. i’ll take you, end of discussion.” miguel turns around and walks back to his bike, your phone in his hand.

“dude—“ you groan, rolling your eyes. well, you don’t have any other option since he took your phone. letting out another sigh, you follow him to his garage. “can i at least have my phone back? i promise i won’t take an uber.” you cross your arms with ahead tilt.

he stares at you for a moment to see if you were lying or not. then, he hands back your phone which you take very swiftly and put in back in your pocket, making him smirk. miguel walks over to a shelf with a collection of helmets and grabs a red one. he walks back to you and hands you the helmet.

“you ever ridden one?” he asks as he puts on his gloves then his helmet.

“just once with my cousin but that was years ago.” you move your hair out of your face and put on the helmet. it’s quite big on you, considering it’s his so of course it’s big. luckily it has straps for adjustment. now it fits a little better, still loose but better.

he only responds with a low hum.

walking up to the bike, a moment of realization hits you. it’s a big bike, well, all motorcycles are big. maybe it’s because your small and short as fuck.

how the fuck are you gonna get on that thing?

“need some help?” his baritone makes you snap out of thought as if he knew.

“well…” you didn’t even get finish your sentence when you felt his hands on your waist and suddenly lift you up to place you on the bike, making you gasp as you instinctively hold onto his biceps as support. your reaction earns a low chuckle from him.

“you could’ve warned me, cabrón.” you shoot him a glare as you swing one leg over the bike so now you’re straddling it, shifting a little to be comfortable.

those brown irises land directly on your thighs. they got thicker and plumper when you sat down. his mouth instantly watered at the sight. thankfully for his helmet, you couldn’t see his stupid expression. without answering back, he gets on the bike. miguel lowers the shield of his helmet then grips onto the handlebars, clenching those gloved hands.

“scoot a bit closer.” he said, head turned to the side where he sees your from the corner of his eye.

you look dumbfounded at his request. is this dude serious? since you don’t obey, miguel reached behind and grabs under your thighs, pulling you closer until your chest is against his back. a soft gasp escapes your lips at the sudden motion. not gonna lie, your stomach did a summersault. now your face slightly flushed. you lower the shield of the helmet to hide it. at first you were hesitant to touch him but you have no other choice. very slowly, you wrap your arms around his waist and rest your head on his broad back. miguel can sense your hesitation, making him smirk underneath his helmet. gripping the handlebars once again, he turns his head to the side.

“hold on tight, chula.” he said so mischievously before turning on the engine and slowly start driving out of the garage then onto the road.

━━━━━━━━ ִ ۫ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ۫ ݂ ━━━━━━━━

so your growing friendship with your neighbor was interesting. is it even friendship? to be honest, it’s unclear what you two have. maybe an acquaintance since you’re simply neighbors. however, it feels more than just that. a strange bond between you two. but things got a little heated when you popped by while he was cleaning his bike, for the millionth time.

it was a hot day so you decided to wear a yellow summer dress. walking over to his opened garage, music blasts in your ears but you don’t mind. you’re a big music lover yourself. it’s the weeknd this time. this dude got great music taste. two of your favorite artists, linkin park and the weeknd. two things you have in common, definitely noted.

your pupils dilate drastically at the sigh of your neighbor. he wears a black wife beater that reveals his muscles so perfectly. holy fuck — he is built. each outline of his muscles is visible to the eye. but what makes your knees weak is those fucking gray sweatpants that hang below his waist.

fuck — he definitely chose that outfit on purpose.

snapping out of those horny ass thoughts, you approach him with crossed arms. “how many times do you clean that damn bike?”

miguel snorts, a little smirk gracing those plump lips of his. “gotta keep it perfect.” he uses a navy blue rag to wipe the front of the bike, sitting on a tiny stool.

“alright, mr perfectionist.” sarcasm at its peak but doesn’t affect him, only making him chuckle.

“at least i don’t have bird shit.” he teases.

you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “i haven’t had the chance to get a car wash. work has been up my ass lately.” you want to slap off that growing stupid smirk on his face so badly. ugh this motherfucker.

“i could clean it for you, chiquita. all you have to do is ask. but of course, there’ll be a price.” a mischievous smirk illustrating his face as he glances at you. his eyes widen a bit at your dress. how pretty you look in it, yellow definitely suits you.

“ugh as if i would ever pay you, no thank you.” so sassy but he likes that.

he gets from the tiny stool. “just saying, chiquita.” miguel walks over to the counter to grab some stuff.

you roll your eyes once again before walking over to his bike. it’s a really gorgeous bike, so polished and clean. you’ve only seen the classic red ducati so seeing a black is a surprise but a cool surprise.

you decide to sit down the edge of the seat, your feet dangling since you’re so short. the cold metal hitting against your skin of your exposed legs, making you shiver a little at the cold sensation.

turning around, a small smile crept onto his face when he sees you sitting on the bike. walking back, miguel grabs the little stool and placed it down in front of the back tire. he sits back down, right next to your left leg as he begins scrubbing the tire.

while he continues cleaning, you glance around his garage. bunch of car supplies and cleaning equipment. not much decor other than the shelves of plastic black boxes. you realize the entire garage glows under warm lighting. it’s golden hour. turning to face the driveway, you’re greeted with the bright vibrant sun shining down on you. luckily you have your sunglasses so you put them over your eyes. you relish the delicious warmth of the sun, leaning back a little on the bike.

a refreshing breeze passes by, making your hair flow gracefully in the air. but your hair isn’t the only thing affected by the wind. the skirt portion of your dress flows. as miguel’s eyes tear away from the spot he was cleaning, he noticed your dress flowing in the wind a little too freely as it flows upwards revealing your pastel yellow panties underneath. his eyes widen at the sight as he felt his face grow hot, hints of pink staining his cheeks. miguel quickly looks away when you look back, painting a neutral face as if he didn’t just see your panties.

“bitch ass wind.” you murmured in annoyance, flattening down your dress, fully unaware of the peeping tom next to you. glancing down at miguel, you noticed the slight hint of pink on his face, making you quirk an brow. “what’s up with you?”

while trying to remain normal despite the image of your panties infiltrating his mind, he brushed it off so casually. “the sun, it’s too much.”

you stare at him for a moment then decide to let it slide with a hum. it’s true, standing under the sunlight for a while makes you feel hot. one time you went to the beach, even with sunscreen yet you still got burnt. you understand him.

after some time, miguel finishes and puts the cleaning supplies back on the shelves. when he turns around and walks back, you’re still sitting on the bike as if it were yours. the sight makes him smirk.

“comfortable much?” he stands beside you, bulky arms crossed over his chest.

“surprisingly, yeah it is.” you glance down at your seat then back up at him. you’re taken back by how close he was, literally right next to you. he towers you so easily, even when you stand. your eyes instantly land on his arms, his muscles flexing. goddamn he’s so built it’s insane. thank god for your sunglasses but for some reason he can tell you’re staring by the smug look on his devilish handsome face.

you then decide to hop off the bike and walk back to your house without looking back. “later, guapo.” the skirt of your dress sways along with your hips, making miguel feel hot and bothered at the sight.

━━━━━━━━ ִ ۫ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ۫ ݂ ━━━━━━━━

since that day, miguel hasn’t been the same. those repeated images of your panties infiltrated his mind a like damn plague. no matter what he was doing or where he was at, those images haunted him to the point of insanity. don’t even ask what he does at night because it very obvious. jacking off in his bed, moaning and whimpering like a little bitch. bro was so horny that he felt embarrassed and ashamed for thinking about his neighbor like that.

curse the fucking wind that day.

like you said, “bitch ass wind.”

oh and don’t even start with his weird ass behavior afterwards. miguel started avoiding you like a virus. bro was so down bad for you that he couldn’t even stay in the same room with you. he tried to be like his normal self but low-key he was going insane. not only because of the pantie flash but really because miguel likes you. the sassy, sexy diva energy radiating from you he adores a lot. he couldn’t get you out of his mind. all miguel thought about is you.

you, on the other hand, were confused by the sudden silent treatment. whenever you would visit his place, the garage was always closed. you’d knock or ring the doorbell but no answer. when you did see him, miguel was already drifting off on his bike. not gonna lie, you were a bit butthurt by the sudden distance. did you do or said something wrong? did you make him feel uncomfortable? millions of negative thoughts ran through your mind, wondering the cause for miguel's distance.

after some time, you demanded some answers.

his garage was open for the first time in two weeks. although, miguel isn’t nowhere to be found. his bike is parked so it means he’s home, probably dealing with something inside. while waiting for him, you wander around the garage looking at his stuff.

returning from his room, miguel stops in his tracks the moment he sees you. oh fuck — the woman who’s been plaguing his mind for two weeks stands in his garage only for one reason; and that reason scares him. he nervously glups as he watches you turn around. shit — you’re wearing the damn yellow dress again; the dress that accidentally flashed you.

“hey. what the hell is up with you? you’ve been avoiding me like some fucking plague. did i do something wrong?” you walk towards him, brows furrowed in a concern manner.

ah shit — he knew this would happen.

“no. i’ve just been busy with work.” miguel walks past you, heading towards one of the shelves of supplies. he can feel his heart beating fast, feeling anxious, and his palms growing clammy.

you follow him with a disbelief look on your face. “clearly i did something wrong because we haven’t talked or hung out in two weeks.”

shit shit shit.

now his heart is racing fucking wild. how the hell is he supposed to tell you? he can’t even look at you in the eye, too embarrassed and ashamed.

okay now you’re worried, or confused, or both to be honest. his strange behavior is now getting on your nerves. you notice his clenched fists at his sides, repeatedly opening and closing. you walk around him so you could stand beside him, almost in front.

“dude — what’s going on?” you sound genuinely concerned, looking up at him with furrowed brows.

just as your lips part open to say something, only a gasp spills from your lips as miguel grabs you by the waist and pushes you back against the ledge of the counter. his chest close contact with your face, both of your bodies pressed together leaving no space, sandwiching you between him and the counter. your hot and heavy breaths fill the air between you. very slowly, you nervously look up at the man who towers over you. both of his hands rest on your waist with a firm grip, gently grouping the dip of it. pure lust in those beautiful brown irises of his.

‘oh fuck me’, you thought to yourself.

your body tenses as he leans down towards your ear. “do you have any idea what you do to me? these past two weeks has been torture for me. all i could think about was you and those cute yellow panties you wore with that exact same dress you’re wearing right now.” he ends it with a squeeze to your waist.

oh fuck — his husky voice sends shivers down to your core, making your face flushed. he was thinking about you this entire time? now that’s a mindfuck. your heart skips a beat at his seductive confession. your chest heaves, breathing heavily.

does it make things worse the fact you’re wearing those exact panties right now?

“all i wanna do is ravish you. run my hands over your gorgeous body. bury my face in between those delicious thighs and make you cry from pleasure. scream my name until you can’t remember anything.” his hands slowly run up and down your sides, making you shiver at the sensation.

you can’t help but whimper at his words. god is this really happening? your handsome neighbor, who’ve you been secretly crushing on, wants you. fuck — you can feel your clit pulsating in anticipation.

“mig-miguel…” you softly moan.

“por favor, hermosita. let me have you, worship you.” miguel couldn’t help but start kissing your neck, right on the sweat spot which makes you whimper.

your arms slowly trail up his body until you wrap them around his thick neck, gripping the ends of his hair, making him pull back to look at you.

“worship me, miguelito.” lust laced in your tone.

his eyes darken, pupils dilating at your words. fuck the nickname hits him hard, sending jolts of pleasure down to his dick. he feels himself growing tight in his pants, a bulge forming. without hesitation, miguel smashes his lips against yours in a hungry kiss. god both of you have been waiting for this moment. you guys are practically eating each other’s faces. his tongue sneaks in, licking your lips for access which you gladly accept. a shared moan echoes in the air between you as you explore each other’s mouths. you dig your fingers into his dark chocolate locks while his hands roam your body, groping your curves.

without warning, miguel lifts you up by the waist and plants you on the counter. a soft gasp spills from you when you felt the raging bulge in his pants against your clothed core. while indulging in your heated makeout session, you feel a large hand slowly trailing up your legs towards your inner thighs. your breath hitches when you feel his fingers brushing against your panties, lightly rubbing your clothed core. another hand gently groping one breast. muffled soft moans spill from yours which eggs miguel on. he can’t take it anymore. grabbing underneath your thighs, he lifts you up and carries you out of garage and into his house. he shuts the garage door with a remote on his way inside.

as much as he wanted to take you on the floor of his garage, miguel wanted your first time together in a more comfortable setting.

and holy fuck — you’ve never orgasmed so many times in your life. he pull one after another from you, leaving you breathless and fucked out. also, probably the biggest dick you’ve ever taken. bro filled you up to the motherfucking brim, you’re on the pill so it’s fine but still risky (condoms are better).

and the aftercare, oh my god miguel is the sweetest man. such a gentleman, being sweet and caring towards you. made sure you were okay, getting anything you needed. gentle touches to make sure he doesn’t overwhelm you, whispering praises.

━━━━━━━━ ִ ۫ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ۫ ݂ ━━━━━━━━

ever since that night, you started dating.

y’all were fucking almost everyday.

one time, you rode him on his bike. yeah you read that. his garage was filled with your moans, echoing in those four walls. you holding onto his shoulders for dear life while riding the shit outta him. that was a fantasy come true for miguel, fucking you on his bike. oh he was a happy, horny camper. of course the garage door was closed so no one could see you two horny fucks. although, miguel wouldn’t mind people seeing you getting fucked so good by him, to make other men jealous and boost his ego.

the next time was on the floor of his garage. as much as you disliked the cold hard feeling of the floor, you were too cock drunk to care. another one of miguel’s fantasies coming true.

then it was in each other’s bedrooms, mostly miguel’s because he loved having you in his bed. one night after coming from your highs, both of you a panting and sweating mess, you stare up at the ceiling. miguel turns to look down at you, his eyes analyzing your expression.

“what are you thinking?” he was still a bit breathless, caressing your cheek with one hand.

your eyes remain glued to the ceiling. “i think we should just move in together at this point. it’s kinda stupid we’re together yet live in separate houses.”

a smile graces his lips at your confession. “then move in conmigo.” his smile grew wilder when he watched you turn quickly to look at him.

“my house is nicer, plus i have a pool and you don’t.” you shoot him an unimpressed look.

a low chuckle escapes his plump lips which makes your heart flutter. “vale vale, you win. demonio.” miguel continues caressing your cheek, relishing your soft skin against his palm. he nuzzles in your neck, planting butterfly kisses on your warm skin while his hands gently grope your curves.

you let out a satisfied hum as you run your fingers delicately through his dark chocolate locks. the both of you relax in bed, embracing each other.

you love your next door neighbor biker boyfriend.

ᡣ𐭩ㅤㅤ ݁. 𝓣𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ˖ ࣪ ༘ @loser-alert @midnight-the-shadow-wolf @eatalyy @primroselovessupernatural @ghost-lantern @gaygerthelame

#꒰ ˖ ࣪ . 𐙚 ⊹ ꒱ — 𝓞𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 .ᐟ #biker!miguel #miguel o’hara x fem!reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #across the spiderverse #oneshot

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