backwzzds

[backwzzds]

Just some oral sex w/ Farmer!Reiner

Reiner Braun x afab!fem!reader

Smut-MDNI

Based off of this thought I had at 8am.

You hear the back door open and close, making you turn your head as you stand at the stove, cooking dinner.

He's covered in sweat, muscles straining against the white tank top that sticks to his skin as he takes the towel from his shoulders, wiping the sweat from his face with a heavy sigh.

You smile softly, covering the pan with foil before sticking it into the oven.

"I assume it's still hot out there."

Even though the sun was beginning to set, his appearance would make you think the sun was still beaming like it was the middle of the day.

"Very." He says, giving you a soft smile, his cheeks flushed from the heat.

You take a step back from the stove, leaning against the countertop of the island behind you. Your eyes remain on him, seeing him chug the bottle of water he left sitting on the dining room table.

You think of all the times you see him lifting huge bags of animal feed on his shoulder and all the times he'd chop wood and carry big ass logs in the middle of the summertime heat like it was nothing.

"Maybe if you'd quit liftin' everything like Superman all day long, you wouldn't be so hot, baby." You tease playfully, watching him take the tank top off, muscles flexing as he pulls the fabric over his head, laying it across the back of the chair.

The way your eyes linger on his body doesn't go unnoticed by him.

"Can't do that, sugar. 'S gotta get done." He says finally pulling the bottle from his lips and letting out a breath.

You grin watching him make his way over to you, his fingers coming out to play with the pretty little pink apron you wore.

"I could help you out." You say trying to stifle the grin that threatened to run across your lips knowing he wasn't bout to play that.

He looks up from the frilly pink material to your face like you must've lost your entire mind, not saying a word but the look on his face makes you laugh and he grins looking back down at your body, his hands going to your hips.

You bring your arms up, fingertips tracing the veins protruding from his biceps.

"What're you thinkin' about, papa?" Noticing his silence.

He doesn't answer, lifting you up with ease, walking out of the kitchen with you.

"Rei.. what're you doing? I'm cooking." You say kind of amused yet confused by the situation.

He carries you to a nearby wall, pressing your back to it as he looks at you with a very familiar glint in his eyes. The fading sunlight poured into the window making his golden eyes look like honey.

"Just how pretty you are.. and I'm still thirsty.." He mutters. You're a bit confused until his finger's reach under your little dress, ripping your panties off with ease.

"Rei.." You say watching him toss the destroyed material aside before he suddenly lifts you off the ground.

"Reiner!" You giggle surprised as he maneuvers you into the air, your legs thrown across his broad shoulders.

His hands hold your waist, keeping you steady as your dress bunches up over your ass allowing him to immediately dive into your cunt, hot tongue lapping over your pussy.

"Mm.. baby.." You look down, his head now covered by your apron as he hungrily eats you out.

You could feel the heat from his body on the back of your thighs, spit running back to your ass before dripping down to the floor beneath you.

All you can hear is the messy, wet sound of his mouth sucking, slurping, and lapping at your pussy. You lean your head back on the wall, hands holding onto his flexing biceps as he laps his tongue over your puffy clit, humming in satisfaction at the taste of you.

He ate your pussy so good it had your stomach in knots, pleasure building up rapidly in your core.

"Fuck.. Rei."

He was relentless, not pulling away for a second as he began to swirl his tongue around your clit, massaging it in a steady slow pattern.

One of your hands came out, planting on top of his covered head, making him hum against your cunt, taking your clit between his soft, wet lips, sucking gently before releasing with a quiet but audible pop.

His hands move to your ass, lifting you a bit higher as he moans against your pussy.

"Tastes so fuckin' good, mama." He mutters, licking your cunt messily, hot tongue spread flat over your pussy, slipping between your folds and over your quivering hole, wetting it up as he brings you closer to your climax.

He feels your legs tremble on his shoulder softly, your breath coming out in soft moan and shaky gasps.

"Mm gonna squirt for me darlin'?"

"Mhm." Was the only response you could manage and he grins, swirling his tongue over your clit.

"Come on then, baby.. Let me have it." He says in a deep husky voice, his tongue immediately going back to it's previous movements on your clit.

"Ahh.. Fuck Rei!" You cry out in pleasure, the knot in your belly finally snapping as you squirt, hearing him instantly begin to slurp on your gushing cunt as the hot liquid poured down his chin, running down his chest and flexing abs, wetting up the waistband of his jeans.

He licks you clean before putting you back down onto the floor, gently, grinning at your expression as he squeezes your hips softly.

You smile back tiredly.

"Guess all that heavy lifting pays off, huh?" He teases and he walks away from you, grabbing his towel and cleaning himself off.

You roll your eyes at his teasing, moving to the stove to get the food.

"Yeah.. I guess it does.."

Thank you @ramonathinks for the apron idea. 🤭

[backwzzds]

blue collar!reiner had fallen in love with the pretty beauty at the strip club. her pretty slutty two piece sets that shined while she clapped her ass in his face had him mesmerized. the brown whisky that burned his throat and only tasted so good because it came for her didn’t help the rush his body felt. she was just as sweet as she was pretty, a little dumb but god he loved it. so of course he wifed her up. the petty little stripper was now a dotting house wife; instead of twirling on a pole she twirled the mixing spoon into pots making reiner everything his husky heart desired. she now lived in her own little pink dream house, catering to him and receiving his love while also giving him just as much.

while reiner got his hands dirty, his wife’s got hers massaged and done; duck nails being such a fan favorite. the same little house wife that was once dancing for other men was now a needy slut! but only for reiner. sitting home with a wet pussy and throbbing clit wasn’t so fun, so as soon as reiner walked through the door with dirt and an empty my melody lunch box she was on him. kissing him sloppily and wrapping her thick legs around his waist as he carried her to their shared room.

now the hot water ran all over them, moans echoing into the bathroom and over the sound of the water hitting tile pavement. “who’s doing this to you baby?” reiner’s words had her stomach erupting with butterflies, his cock fucking into the gushiness of her walls while her legs were over his shoulders. his wife’s back rested against the wall, reiner loving how flexible his chubby beauty was. “y-youu!” her eyes shut tight. his thick head constantly hitting that spot that had her brain going foggy and cream drip all over his cock.

reiner’s balls slapped against her ass, his rough grunts and lip bits, eyes solely trained on her - and her pretty loves faces. her long nails clawed as his back and neck, pussy thumping with every bump his pelvis made to her sensitive puffy clit. “who’s you baby?” reiner, fucked into his wife like she was a slut. ignoring the large wedding band and treating her just how she liked. “m-my husbanddd” the man’s cock jerked inside of her gushy pussy, his head getting thrown back and blond hair getting wet.

“y-yea that’s fuckin right.” he kissed her lips licking at her tears. “your. fuckin. husband.” with each of his claims he fucked his cock deeper - harder, pounding his pussy and modeling her walls just for him. as if they weren’t already fit to perfection. “o-ohgoddddd” she cried, with curling toes and ringing ears the beauty creamed all over her husband. her need to be relieved being quenched that easily. reiner fucked his cum into her, making sure her womb was full and tummy was poking in bloatingness. you just loved your life with your blue collar man.

[backwzzds]

𝒮𝓅ℯℯ𝒸𝒽𝓁ℯ𝓈𝓈

Firefighter Reiner x Black reader

an: surprise shawty! i ended up finishing this in one night because once i started i couldn’t stop. also this fic was made with the song speechless by beyoncé playing on repeat so if you wanna listen to that while you read it might be more immersive!

cw: firefighter reiner! traditional wife reader! (not in the weird conservative way) unprotected sex, creampie, slightly sub reiner! also reiner is southern in this it’s not specified but i was thinking it along with reader being chubby. again not said but sort of implied. also not proofread!MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

It had been four years. Four years of a blissful marriage with the love of your life. Reiner was a hard working man. A provider in every sense. So much so, he picked a job that entailed providing for others. He loved to help, to save, and so it wasn’t hard for him to pick being a firefighter as his career choice. He was so glad he did. It was how he met you. 

-

You remember that day like it was yesterday. At the time, you were staying in your shitty apartment. It was cheap and you lived alone. So the little things, like jammed doors and cracked tiles, didn’t bother you much. Your bathroom door got jammed often. Usually, you were able to just force it open. It was second nature at that point.

That morning you had gotten ready to shower. You took a towel and an outfit layed them out of your bed while you were distracted talking to a friend on the phone. Taking off your clothes before heading to the bathroom with your phone and nothing else. You hadn’t realized you forgot your towel until after your shower. You had sighed, chuckled to yourself (foolishly thinking it was no big deal) before going to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. You shoved at it with all your strength and still, nothing.

First, you panicked. Then, you tried again and again and again. Still, the door hadn’t opened. About an hour passed of being trapped in your bathroom. As embarrassing as it was, you called 911. After explaining what happened, the dispatcher sent firefighters to your apartment. Soon later, You heard a lot of male voices and heavy footsteps in your apartment and it was so humiliating to know a bunch of men were about to see you naked.

That’s when someone called out for you and you called back. You had made a half attempt to cover your breasts and mound once you heard them prying your door open. That’s when you saw Reiner.

You can never forget the dumbfounded expression on his face when he saw you. His eyes wide and his strong jaw slightly slack. Your face grew warm. So embarrassed that the guy coming to save you was ridiculously fine. You both stared at each other before he realized he was supposed to be doing his job. He had shooed his colleagues away before they could see you in your compromising position. Then, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. His face was red and his eyes stayed respectfully on the floor. You had wrapped yourself in his fireman’s jacket and he waited outside the bathroom making sure the door wouldn’t swing open or get stuck while you were changing.

He was sweet and gave you advice on how to fix your doors once you were fully clothed. You thanked him and he smiled widely and gorgeously then uttered “Of course, ma’am. It’s my job,” With such pride and sincereness, your heart had nearly exploded at the adorableness.

About a week later, you had decided to bake cookies for the men that helped you and drove down to the station. You just had to tell them thank you. Especially Reiner. His advice had all of your doors working normally. You had pulled up and walked inside and called out to see if anyone was there. All the men had come down and you smiled sheepishly when they recognized you. Reiner was the first to get to you and you talked. He had complimented your hair. You giggled and thanked him. The rest was history.

-

You were curled up on the couch. Comfortable in a bonnet and one of your husband’s t-shirts and a pair of shorts. A candle lit. Your home smells of vanilla and honey. A fluffy throw blanket thrown over your legs as you sip a glass of red wine. One that Reiner really likes so you ended up drinking too. Not on purpose. Just because it reminds you of him.

When you both got married Reiner made sure you would never have to work again. You really didn’t mind staying home, doing whatever the hell you wanted while reiner worked. You both just happened to like it that way.

As you sit, watching a new show you’ve been bingeing lately, you hear the front door open then shut. You smile to yourself and check the time. It’s eight pm sharp. The same time Reiner always comes home. Never early, never late. You hear his heavy sigh and some shuffling before he trudges his way to the living room.

“Hi, honey,” You coo, watching him walk around to collapse on top of you with a grunt. You giggle as he nuzzles into your bosoms inhaling your scent and sighing. “Long day?” You question, He nods and sighs.

“Had some stupid calls today. Been wanting to come home to you all day,” He mumbles, your smile widens. He looks up at you slightly pouting. You peck his soft pink lips. He sighs, like he’s really been looking forward to it all day.

“I’m sorry your day wasn’t the best, baby,” You say, as you pull away. 

“Just…come to bed with me?” He asks, you don’t hesitate to nod and he doesn’t hesitate to carry you to the bedroom. He kicks the door shut behind you guys. He takes his time to gently lay you down.

“Reiner…” You whisper, watching him remove his shirt. His body stupidly muscled. You're grateful he started bulking. His frame is thicker and softer but the definition of his muscles still stand out.

“Hm?” He hums as he starts to kiss your neck softly sucking hickeys onto your brown skin. His large, calloused, hands gripping your thighs. Massaging the thickness of your thighs and pressing his bulge against your heat. You gasp softly, back arching and legs wrapping around his waist.

“I-I thought you were…tired…” You mumble, a little distracted as he licks up the side of your throat, hungry, desperate.

“Never said that,” He growls, his chest rumbling against yours. At that you decide to stop pretending to not want it as much as he does. You cup his face and smash your plump lips against his. The kiss is sloppy and passionate. The both of you too impatient to take your time. You sit up and push him onto his back and straddle his lap. Your hips grind against his in slow little circles. He groans into the kiss, his lips parting. You take the opportunity to slide your tongue into his mouth. You whine as he swirls his tongue around yours. It’s warm and wet. You pull back to remove his shirt you were wearing. Your breasts, soft and supple, are cupped by his palms almost as soon as they’re freed.

“Fuck!” You gasp as his thumbs circle your nipples until your buds stiffen. He sits up to suck on one before quickly switching to the other. His dick straining in his pants, a small wet spot forming where he’s leaking precum all over himself. Your shorts are worse. Cunt sticky and slick with arousal. Both of you are desperately humping each other. Driving each other crazy.

“Come on, mama. Need to feel you,” He practically whines. His voice is deep and hoarse. The Neediness bleeding into his words. You moan out loud and nod, urgently tugging your shorts and panties off in one swift motion. He does the same with his own clothes, awkwardly kicking his pants off. Your eyes meet and you both share a soft intimate laugh. Pressing your forehead against his, his hands grabbing hold of your waist.

“I love you, baby,” You say softly. His hands slide down to your hips then up your back. You shudder at the contact. He grins.

“I love you too, darling,” He whispers. You grab the base of his cock and rub your wet folds back and forth on his flushed pink mushroom tip. He lets out a breathy “Fuck” Before his hands slide back down to your undulating hips.

“You missed me, baby?” You ask, your eyebrows furrowed in pleasure as you grind your clit against his head. Getting wetter and wetter. Coating his thick length in your juices.

“You know I did, [Y/N],” He says breathily. You smile and shake your head slightly.

“Just humor me, my love,” You murmur. He rolls his eyes a little, though not truly bothered by your teasing.

“I missed you so much, honey,” He mumbles with a small smile. You sink down on his dick and you both moan in unison. He stretches you out in ways that never fail to make you feel it. Even after all these years. His eyes are shut tightly, his grip on your hips bruising.

After a moment of adjusting, you slowly lift your hips up and down. Your hands on his firm chest for support. Your pussy wrapping his cock in warm tight wetness. Dripping and soaking him in pleasure. He sighs and relaxes, getting used to the rhythm you set.

“You feel so fucking good,” He groans, his hands moving to your ass, squeezing and slapping the fatty flesh. You take the stinging sensation as encouragement to speed up slightly. The soft slap of your skin meeting fills the room, your eyes rolling back. Reiner’s eyes open to watch you bounce on his dick. His eyes fixated on where you’re leaving that signature creamy ring around the base of his cock like you always do when you guys make love.

“Reiner, Baby,” You moan out, You make eye contact with him and almost cum right then and there. His face is flushed, his jaw is slack and the softest moans and whimpers escape him as you bounce faster. He collects some of your creamy slick with his thumb, then rubs quick tight circles on your swollen clit.

“I’m so fucking close. Please tell me you’re there too. Please, Baby,” He whines desperately. His hips thrusting up to meet your bounces. Rough and quick, the both of you chasing your releases.

“Yes, I’m there, Baby! I’m cumming!” You whine. You cry out, your voice cracking as you orgasm. Your face scrunching with pleasure while you clench and pulsate around him, milking him for all he’s worth.

“Holy- fuck!” He grunts. His eyes rolling back and his toes curling as he holds you still with his grip on your hips. His cock throbbing inside you as he paints your walls white with his thick, warm cum. You collapse on top of him and he wraps his arms around you.

You both sit in silence, bodies sweaty, trying to catch your breath. His hand slowly and soothingly rubbing up and down your back. Once you no longer struggle to get air in your lungs, you lift your head to kiss him soft and slow. He smiles into the kiss, and when you pull back his smile is still there.

“I love you,” You whisper, smiling back at him. His hand finds your left, fidgeting with your wedding ring before kissing your knuckles.

“I love you, darling,” He whispers back. You giggle and nuzzle your nose against his. He chuckles and carries you to the bathroom, where you both clean up.

You love your husband.

thanks for reading💋

do not copy this is my original works

[backwzzds]

Don't play wit' me

Summary: Dealer Eren AU, Eren doesn't play when it comes to you, and you loved how you had him wrapped around your finger. So when you don't get your way one day, no one can blame you for being a tad bit bratty. ۶ৎ Eren x black fem reader ۶ৎ

Context: Drug use, use of the word nigga, tongue piercing, tattoo's, alcohol use, bratty reader, rough sex, oral (m&f), chocking, unprotected sex (wrap it up guys x), pole dancing, degrading, use of word daddy, ma, mama, public sex (?)

Word count — 5.7k

You couldn't help the small smile that tugged on your brown-stained lips as you watched your man put a gun to some bum ass nigga's head for calling you out of your name.

Everyone who knew Eren knew you. He was the biggest dealer around, not only for his top product but for the fact that he had such great referrals. Eren didn't like strangers until they were vetted by him, Levi, and Connie, so it was strange that Jean had recommended someone to him, but it was even stranger that he let it slide without any background check.

Maybe it was because he was in a good mood after you took his dick in your mouth ten minutes earlier.

You often went along with Eren to his drops and to the trap, so it wasn't strange to see you prancing around. As you were friendly with his boss and the rest of his friends, Eren had no problem bringing you.

But there was a little hiccup. Jean.

Eren never really considered him a friend—God knows why—but he did sell to him, so when Jean brought a guest with him to the trap, all hell broke loose when said nigga called you the trap whore and asked when he could have a turn with you.

The room went silent. Eren’s head snapped toward the guy so fast, before anyone could even process what happened, he had the barrel of his Glock pressed right between the dude’s brows, his jaw tight, emerald eyes glinting with a rage that was barely contained.

"Say that shit again," Eren’s voice was eerily calm, too calm.

Jean took a step back, hands raised. "Eren, chill, bro—"

"Nah, fuck that." Eren cocked the gun, pressing it harder into the guy’s forehead. "You think you can just walk up in here, talk on my girl, and walk out breathing?"

The guy stammered, sweat beading along his hairline. "I-I ain't mean it like that, man—"

"Oh, you ain’t mean it like that?" Eren mocked, tilting his head. "So what the fuck did you mean?"

The whole room held its breath. Even Levi, usually unbothered by anything, shifted slightly in his seat, arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold. Connie, sitting a few feet away, shook his head with a low chuckle.

He continued to stammer, his tough-guy act completely squashed under Eren’s glare. You sighed, arms crossed, tapping your nails against your thigh as you watched the scene unfold. This wasn’t new. Eren never let disrespect slide, especially when it came to you.

Levi finally spoke up, voice dry. "Eren, we got business to handle. Ain't no point wasting a bullet on some dumbass who won't live long in this game anyway."

Eren didn’t move immediately, his trigger finger twitching slightly. You could tell he was debating it. You wouldn’t stop him if he pulled it—you knew how he was.

Still, you sighed dramatically, shifting in your seat. “Renny,” your voice was soft, lilting, deliberately sweet.

Eren’s shoulders dropped slightly at the sound of your voice. He let out a short breath through his nose before taking a slow step back, lowering the piece.

"Get the fuck out," Eren muttered, voice still deadly.

The guy didn’t need to be told twice. He stumbled back, practically tripping over himself as he bolted out the door. Jean lingered for a second, giving you and Eren an unreadable look before following after him.

Eren turned to you, jaw still tight, but his eyes softened just a little. "You good?"

You smirked, reaching up to brush a thumb across his jaw. "Of course. My man handled it."

He let out a small, satisfied hum, pulling you in close, fingers curling around your waist. "Damn right I did."

You leaned in, voice a low whisper. "Still owe me for leaving me hanging earlier."

Eren chuckled, pressing a slow kiss against your lips before murmuring against them, "I’ll make it up to you, baby. In every way you want."

That's how it was. Eren didn't play when it came to you. You want a fresh set? He'd give you more than enough money. You want a new coach bag? He gives you his black card and tells you to go nuts. You want some dick? He'll stop what he's doing and has you crying on his cock before you can think.

So yeah, three years with the man has made you endlessly spoiled—you always got your way.

Your brows were furrowed as you looked down at the text that lit your screen. You were confused, very confused.

'Have to rain check on our date ma, gotta deal with some shit'

You blinked, your fingers hovering over the keyboard—you were a little confused, not knowing how to respond to something you weren't used to.

You pressed the ringer next to his name before you could think. You could hear it ring for a while, anger starting to bubble in your chest, thinking he wasn't going to answer your call.

"Ma, I cant talk—“

You cut him off before he could finish. "What do you mean you have to reschedule?"

You could hear music and shouting in the background but you didn't care, "I got shit to deal with, I'll take you out tomorrow--“

"Eren, no," you snapped, your body shifting in your shared oversized bathtub, your nails tapping against the sides, "I don’t wanna go out tomorrow. I gotta help Mikasa with some shit so I want to go out today, like you promised."

He sighed on the other end. "Ma, don’t start—"

"Don’t start what? Getting upset that my man is ditching me? After I just had a bath with all those essential oils that you like? Had my hair done, nails fresh, bought a tight ass dress that you said would make my ass like fat? And for what? A damn rain check?"

You heard him exhale sharply. "You know I don’t wanna do this, baby, but shit came up. Business. You know how it is."

"Nah, what I know is that I always come first." Your tone was laced with attitude, lips pouting even though he couldn’t see it.

He was quiet for a second, and you could picture him rubbing his temple, jaw clenched. You didn’t care. Eren never told you no. He always made time. So the fact that he was choosing not to right now? Unacceptable.

"Ma—"

"Nope," you interrupted, shifting again as the bubbles rose, your fingers pulling a fresh blunt off your bath table, voice turning syrupy sweet but still full of attitude. "I get it. You got 'shit to deal with.’ So I’ma go find something else to do too. 

"Oi--"

"Byeeee." You hung up the phone, kissing your teeth, you watched as he tried to call you again, knowing he hated it when you cut him off.

You continued to ignore him as you sent Historia and Sasah a text asking if they were still going to the club. The two quickly hit you back with a yes and said they'd swing by to get you in 40 minutes.

You were glad your makeup and hair were already done, you set your bath knowing you liked the dewy look it gave your freshly beat face.

You sighed as you took a drag from the freshly lit blunt that sat between your fingers, letting the smooth smoke curl around your lips before exhaling.

The sound of your phone buzzing again caught your attention, your eyes darting down to the last text you knew Eren would send you for the night.

'Don't play with me'

You felt the hum of the weed running through you as a small smirk pulled on your lips. You opened the message, letting him know you had read it before locking your phone.

By the time you stepped out of the bath, the weed had settled into your bloodstream, leaving you warm and buzzing. The bathroom mirror was fogged up, but you could still see the outline of your figure as you slipped into a dangerously low-cut silver dress that showed off your spine tattoo, the fabric hugging your curves like it was made for you.

Biting your lip, you took a quick selfie, your fingers placed gently on your neck, purposely showing off your ring finger that had his name tatted across. Hearing the honk of a car, you licked your lips as you quickly made a post to Instagram, tagging your man before you grabbed your clutch and waltzed out the front door.

C'mre daddy.

The club was already packed when you walked in with Historia and Sasha, neon lights bouncing off your skin, the bass of the music thrumming deep in your chest as you made your way through the crowd.

You were playing with fire; you saw the look of recognition in the bouncer's eyes as he noticed you. You could see the hesitation in him, but with a raised brow, he let you through. You knew Eren would know where you were the minute you stepped into his club.

Yes, his club.

Annie and Ymir were already in the VIP section, waiting, drinks in hand. Annie, ever the minimalist, had on a fitted two-piece, gold jewelry catching the light as she raised her glass in greeting. Ymir, sprawled lazily on one of the couches, smirked at her blonde girlfriend, squeals leaving her lips as she practically pounced on the short-haired brunette.

“About time,” Ymir teased. “Figured Eren had you locked up somewhere.”

You rolled your eyes, plopping down beside her. “Boy’s acting up tonight. Fucking cancelled on me so here I am--"

"You mean he told you no, so now you're in his club, knowing he probably already knows you're here?"

You smirked, your tongue running along your teeth, the cool metal of your piercing clinking with your pearly whites. Your fingers ran against the rim of the shot glass before downing the tequila.

"Exactly, so let me go shake my ass."

Eren continued to faze out the stupid argument between Connie and Armin as he lazily rolled a blunt between his fingers. He wasn’t paying them much attention; his focus was on his phone, eyes scanning through messages from his men.

At first, he thought he had read it wrong.

Then another text came through.

And another.

"Yo, your girl just walked into the club."

Eren’s brows furrowed.

Nah. No way.

There was no way that you were acting out all because he had to reschedule. Actually, scratch that, that is exactly what you were doing, and he knew he should have seen it coming.

His jaw clenched, his fingers flexing around his phone as more messages popped up.

"She came with Historia and Sasha." "VIP spotted her with Annie and Ymir."

Eren’s grip on his blunt tightened. He was already annoyed as it was—you had hung up on him earlier, ignored his text and calls, and now? You were out, in his fucking club, acting like he wasn’t going to find out?

Armin must’ve noticed the sudden shift in his demeanor because he leaned in. "Something wrong?"

Eren didn’t respond right away, instead unlocking his phone and scrolling through Instagram. He had a feeling—one that was confirmed the moment he saw your post.

"C’mere, daddy."

That picture. That fucking picture.

Your smooth, dark skin glowing under the dim light of your shared bedroom, the silver dress clinging to your curves like it was made for you, the way you placed your fingers just right to show off the tattoo of his name across your ring finger.

Eren’s nostrils flared. His tongue ran across his teeth, that little muscle in his jaw ticking.

Oh, you were real bold tonight, huh?

Armin, still waiting for an answer, gave Eren a skeptical look. "Eren? What is it?"

Eren exhaled sharply, his voice rough. "She’s at the club."

Armin rubbed his temple. "Shit. Annie told me the girls were going out, but she never mentioned—" He trailed off, eyes darting to Eren’s phone. His brows lifted as he took in the post. "Oh."

Eren didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He picked up his keys, and the two followed right behind him.

Connie was grinning like a cat got milk in the back, windows rolled down as he continued to smoke. The speakers blaring with some rap song Armin put on but Eren couldn't care about those two, he was thinking how he was gonna spank your ass raw for acting like a spoiled brat.

He pulled up to the club not that long after; it was no surprise, given how fast he was speeding. Connie dapped the bouncer, but Eren was already pushing through bodies as he entered the club. The atmosphere was thick—sweaty bodies grinding to the heavy bass, flashing neon lights casting everything in deep shades of red and purple.

His eyes scanned the VIP section, his gaze falling on Ymir and Annie. He was getting ready to barge over to them, but he felt it. He felt you.

The green hue of his eyes scanned the crowd until it landed on the cheering crowd, whistling, roaring men, their greedy hands throwing cash towards the stage.

His body went rigid.

He was going to kill you.

Eren’s breath stilled in his chest as his gaze locked onto you, his entire world narrowing down to the sight before him.

You moved with a kind of confidence that made his stomach twist, muscles flexing as you spun around the pole, the silver dress clinging to your curves like a second skin. The fabric barely covered your ass as you dipped low, teasing, taunting, daring.

Eren’s jaw ticked, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

The brunettes jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He could hear Connie mutter a "Goddamn" under his breath, and even Armin, usually the most composed of the three, shifted uncomfortably.

Eren moved slowly, ignoring the two who probably ran off to find their perspective women as he continued to watch you. He wasn't a bitch, but if you could describe what he was feeling it was fucking love, love and hate.

His stomach was a wreck as you worked that pole like you owned it. Eren never forgot how much he loved you even when you pissed him off like today and watching your perfect self make other men hard was how he loved you the most.

He watched as your dark skin gleamed under the dim lights, muscles flexing and moving with every precise motion. You twisted, arching your back just right as your hands traced down your body. Your hips rolled, slow and seductive, before you spun again, gripping the pole with ease, confidence dripping from every movement.

Your eyes—half-lidded, sultry—flicked up, scanning the crowd.

His lips pulled, your gazes locked. His arms crossed as he continued to watch you, noticing the slight hesitation in your movement but you didn't stop.

Eren inhaled sharply through his nose, his patience hanging by a fucking thread.

The music was pounding, the crowd cheering, money leaving the hands that reached toward you, but Eren didn’t hear or see any of it.

All he saw was you.

The way you dropped down, ass nearly touching the floor before rising back up, body winding like you were made of liquid.

The way your fingers ran down the length of the pole before wrapping around it again, your tongue swiping along your lips, that teasing little expression still in place.

You watched as he started pushing through the crowd, having had enough of your game, so you thought, why not double down.

Your leg curled around the pole, the cheers loud, your ass facing the crowd as you began to give the crowd a little twerk. The roar of the men around you—the way their hands stretched toward you like they had a fucking chance—

The hem of your dress flapping against your ass was what set him over the edge— well it could have been a number of things but before you knew it you had been dragged off the stage.

The boos of the crowd was drowned out as Eren's tatted hand held a firm grip, almost brusing grip on your wrist as he pulled you towards his back office.

You stumbled slightly as he dragged you through the club, your heels clicking against the floor, but he didn’t let up, didn’t speak, didn’t fucking look at you.

You bit your lip, hiding the smug little grin threatening to form. Oh, he was mad.

But you weren’t stupid. You could feel the heat rolling off him, the tension in his muscles, the way his fingers flexed against your skin.

The moment he kicked open the door to his office and yanked you inside, Eren slammed the door shut, pushing you up against it before you could get a word out. His hands braced on either side of your head, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths.

You tilted your chin up, refusing to break eye contact, that bratty little smirk still playing on your lips. "Something wrong, daddy?"

His nostrils flared. "Don’t fucking start with me."

"Start what?" You batted your lashes innocently, running your hands up his chest, feeling how his muscles tense under your touch.

A soft moan left your lips, his tattooed ring-clad hand had wrapped around your throat, you continued to stare up at him, watching the muscles in his jaw tighten, your pussy clenched around nothing as you noticed how dark his eyes got—how angry he was.

Fuck.

"You wanna act up just cause I told you no? I spoil you too god damn much." His voice was low, dark, dripping with restrained hunger.

A whine left your lips, his thumb rubbing against your lips"You always give me what I want, Renny." Your eyes never left his as your lips wrapped softly around the tip of his thumb.

You could barley make out the 'fuck' that he muttered under his breath, eyes hooded, watching the way your soft lips moved. Eren’s jaw clenched so tight you thought it might shatter. His thumb pressed down against your tongue, the cool feel of your piercing rubbed against the ridges on his thumb. He watched the way your soft lips wrapped around it, the way your warm mouth sucked just enough to send all the blood in his body rushing straight to his dick.

His grip on your throat tightened, forcing your head back against the door as he leaned in, his breath hot against your lips.

"I do always give you what you want, don’t I? Treat you like a fucking queen." His voice was low and rough. "That why you think you can get away with this shit?"

Your lashes fluttered, your hands smoothing up his chest, nails grazing over the tattoos on his arm. Your birthday in Roman numerals.

"You don’t tell me no," you whispered, your lips brushing against his thumb as you spoke. "So I don’t know why you thought you could start today."

Eren exhaled sharply, his hand leaving your throat only to grab your chin, tilting your head further back. His eyes burned into yours, that sharp emerald gaze swimming with a hunger that had your thighs pressing together.

"You know what your problem is, ma?" His fingers slid down, his knuckles grazing your pulse. "You think you run this shit. Think you can act up, go out, put on a little fucking show—"

His voice dropped lower, more dangerous.

"—and I won’t remind you exactly who you belong to."

Your breath hitched, pussy throbbing at the way he was looking at you, at the way he was speaking to you.

"You should," you whispered, lips barely brushing against his. "Remind me, I mean."

Eren growled.

His hands were on you in an instant, gripping your waist, spinning you around so your front pressed against the cold surface of his desk. His fingers curled around the back of your neck, pressing you down slightly, just enough to make you shiver.

"You wanna be a fucking brat?" he muttered, his other hand dragging your dress up your thighs, exposing more and more of your soft, glistening skin. "Act up just to get my attention?"

You smirked against the desk, arching your back slightly. "Worked, didn’t it?"

Eren smacked your ass, hard.

A gasp ripped from your throat, your fingers curling against the desk as your skin burned from the contact.

"Yeah," he murmured, smoothing a palm over the spot he just hit before landing another sharp slap, making you whimper. "Worked real fucking good."

His lips brushed against your ear, his breath warm, sending chills down your spine.

"You just love making me mad, huh, baby?" His fingers dipped between your thighs, sliding against the damp lace of your panties, pressing right against the spot that had you trembling.

You couldn’t fucking speak, not when his fingers were right there, not when he was teasing you like this, his voice deep and smug, knowing exactly what he was doing to you.

"You’re soaked," he hummed, slipping a single finger under the fabric, gliding it through your wetness. "You got yourself this fucking wet dancing for other men?"

You turned your head slightly, your cheek pressed against the desk as you stared up at him, lips parting slightly.

"Nah," you whispered, breathless, needy, bratty. "I got wet thinking about you dragging me back here and fucking me like you should’ve after our date."

Eren’s grip on your neck tightened.

His fingers pressed deeper against your soaked panties, teasing the sensitive bud just enough to make you whimper. "You fucking piss me off," he murmured, voice dark, low.

You turned your head, lips curling into a smirk "You piss me off too Ren," you purred, shifting your hips just enough to grind against his fingers. "But I guess that's why you love me."

Eren inhaled sharply through his nose.

Your panties were ripped off before you could even process it, the lace tearing in his grip before being tossed somewhere across the room. His palm smacked against your bare ass, a sharp sting blossoming where he hit, your thighs twitching at the sensation.

"I spoil you too much."

You hummed, a teasing little sound, looking back at him with half-lidded eyes. "You do."

Eren’s jaw ticked. "Yeah? And this is how you thank me?"

You gave him a little shrug, hips shifting, rubbing your slick folds against the hard outline of his dick through his jeans. "Only want your attention Renny."

Eren grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose your throat, his lips hovering over your ear.

"You had it the second you walked on that stage," he murmured, voice like gravel.

Eren wasted no more time. His belt clinked, the sound making your thighs clench together in anticipation, your breath stalling as you felt the heat of him pressing against you. His free hand gripped your hip, keeping you in place as he slid his cock between your slick folds.

Your lips parted, a soft whimper slipping out as he coated himself in your wetness, dragging his length up and down your folds, teasing your clit just enough to make you squirm.

"Eren," you whined, pushing your hips back, desperate for more, for him.

He exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into your skin. "Fucking slut, just wanted to be drunk on my cock huh?"

You nodded, moaning softly as he pressed the thick head of his cock right against your entrance, so close, but still not enough.

"Say it," he demanded, his grip tightening, his lips brushing against your ear.

You whimpered, your body trembling with need. "I want to be drunk on you."

He groaned, the sound went staright to your cunt, with one rough thrust, he buried himself inside you, stretching you open, filling you up all at once. A choked gasp tore from your throat, fingers scrambling against the surface of the desk, nails digging into the wood.

"Fuck—Eren!" Your voice broke on the last syllable, your walls clenching around him, trying to adjust to the sudden fullness.

His fingers tightened in your hair, keeping your head tilted back, his other hand spreading over your stomach, holding you still.

"You feel that, ma?" he murmured against your ear, voice dark, laced with raw need. "This dick ain’t for nobody else.And you got the nerve to be up there, showing off?"

A moan spilled from your lips as he dragged out of you slowly, the thick length of him pressing against your walls in all the right ways, before he slammed back in, hard enough to make the desk beneath you shake.

"Answer me," he demanded, his palm cracking against your ass, leaving behind a sting that only made the heat between your legs burn hotter.

You whined, gripping the edge of the desk, your body trembling as he set a brutal pace, thrusting into you with deep, punishing strokes that left you breathless.

"I—" You tried to speak, but another thrust had you moaning instead.

Eren clicked his tongue, his grip on your hip tightening, his thumb pressing into the dip of your spine. "Nah, use your words, baby. You had all that attitude before—where is it now?"

Your nails dragged against the desk, your thighs shaking, toes curling in your heels. "Y-you’re right," you finally managed, voice shaky, wrecked. "I was acting up."

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, but there was no humor in it—just heat. "Damn right you were."

His fingers slid lower, dipping between your thighs, finding your clit and rubbing slow, deliberate circles, a sharp contrast to the way he was fucking you into the desk.

Your entire body jerked, a whimper tumbling from your lips as your walls clenched around him.

Eren groaned, his hips stuttering for just a second before he picked up the pace, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur.

"You know I’d give you whatever you want," he murmured, his lips grazing your jaw, his breath hot against your skin.

You barely processed his words—too lost in the feeling of him, the way he stretched you, filled you, owned every inch of you like he had something to prove.

"Tell me you’re mine," he growled, his hand tightening around your throat, his cock throbbing inside you.

Your lips parted, a desperate little whimper escaping as your body arched against him, surrendering completely. "I’m yours, daddy—fuck, I’m yours."

Eren groaned, his hips slamming into you harder, rougher, deeper.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice strained, wrecked. "You fucking are."

His grip on your throat tightened, his fingers pressing into the sides just enough to make your head swim, your breath hitch. He was so fucking deep, splitting you open on his cock, your walls fluttering around him as he pounded into you, using your body just how he wanted.

"Look at you," he gritted, his voice dark, condescending, dripping with heat. His hand tugged your head back, forcing your spine into a deep arch, your chest pressing against the cool wood of his desk. "Acting all high and mighty earlier, bratty as fuck— now you can’t even talk. Can’t even think, huh?"

You whimpered, your fingers curling into fists, your thighs trembling as he fucked you hard, each stroke knocking the air from your lungs, pushing you closer to that sweet, devastating edge.

Eren chuckled, low and taunting. "Nah, don’t get quiet now, ma. You wanted my attention, didn’t you? Thought you could act like a fucking slut in front of all those men and not deal with me?"

A sharp slap to your ass had you gasping, your pussy clenching around him in response.

Eren groaned, his hips faltering for just a second before he snapped back into rhythm, his grip on your throat loosened just enough for his fingers to slide up, gripping your jaw, forcing your head up.

"Look at yourself," he ordered, tilting your chin towards the dark glass of the office window, the faint reflection of your fucked-out expression staring back at you.

Your lips were swollen, glossy, parted. Your mascara was smudged, your hair a mess. Your eyes—half-lidded, hazy, desperate.

Eren grinned. "Such a fucking mess." His hand slipped between your legs again, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, brutal circles. "You like being fucked like this, huh? Like being put in your place?"

You sobbed out a moan, your entire body trembling.

Eren's grip tightened on your jaw, his fingers pressing into your cheeks, forcing your mouth open as he spat onto your tongue.

"Swallow it," he ordered.

And you did. Without hesitation.

Eren groaned, his hips stuttering, his cock twitching inside you. "That’s my fucking girl."

Your walls clamped down around him, your orgasm hitting you hard, sudden, unforgiving. Your body shook, your moans breaking as your climax crashed over you, pleasure swallowing you whole.

Your breathing became staggered, your vision trying to focus as you came down from your high but Eren had other ideas. Your back, ass now hanging off the edge of the desk, Eren spread your legs wide, his head immediately dipping between your thighs.

A broken moan tore from your throat as his tongue found your clit, pressing against you as he licked slow, teasing circles.

Your body arched, legs trembling, hands scrambling for purchase.

"Eren—fuck, oh my God," you gasped, your hips rolling against his mouth, but he only pinned you down harder.

"Be good," he murmured against you, his fingers digging into your thighs, keeping you still. "Take it."

And you did. You took it all— the messy, open-mouthed kisses he pressed against your folds, the way his tongue dipped inside you, teasing, curling, before returning to your clit, flicking against it just right.

It was too much. Your body shook, your mind blanked, your breath caught.

"Fuck, Eren, I—"

You came hard, your thighs squeezing around his head as he groaned against you, licking you through it.

But he didn’t give you time to recover. The second your high began to fade, he was already pressing you into the desk, pushing your legs up until they were practically touching your chest. Putting you in a delicious matting press,

A choked moan left your lips as he slid back inside you, stretching you all over again.

His hips snapped against yours roughly, the sound of skin slapping, your wetness, his growls and your cries filling the room.

"Look at you," he taunted, his lips curling. "Fucking ruined. Just. For. Me."

You could barely breathe, let alone talk back. Your fingers dug into his arms, your body jolting with each punishing thrust.

"You gonna stop acting out?" His hand wrapped around your throat again,

"Yes," you sobbed, the lewd sounds of your pussy and moans filled the room, you knew you had made a mess of the desk, knowing if you managed to get a peak you would see your cream all over his cock.

Eren’s tattooed fingers slipped between your bodies, his thumb rubbing slow, lazy circles over your clit, making you jolt, making you wail.

"E--rennnn." A desperate, breathless cry tore from your lips, your nails raking down his sweat-slick back as the pleasure coiled tight and hot in your belly.

"Yeah, that’s it. Take it."

He angled his hips just right, hitting that spot that had you trembling, shaking, gasping his name like a prayer.

"You gonna come again, sweetheart? Gonna make a mess all over my dick?"

You nodded frantically, helpless, wrecked.

"Please—Eren, fuck—please, I—"

"Do it," he ordered, his thumb pressing down harder, rubbing faster. "Come for me, baby"

You shattered, pleasure crashing over you like a fucking tidal wave, your body clenching, spasming, locking up as the orgasm ripped through you.

Eren cursed, his head dropping against your throat, his own breathing ragged, uneven.

"Fuck—good girl," he murmured against your sweat-damp skin, kissing, biting, licking.

You were soaked, trembling, overstimulated, but Eren kept going. His pace never slowed, never faltered. His cock was still thick, still heavy, still throbbing.

And he wanted more.

His fingers dug into your hips, lifting you, pulling you impossibly closer, forcing your bodies flush together as he fucked you through it, dragging out every last aftershock, every last whimper.

"One more," he murmured, almost soothing, almost sweet. "Just one more, baby."

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back as his pace grew. Your legs trembled from how deep he was, how good he was hitting that spot over and over again, like he was trying to imprint himself inside you.

"Fuck, Eren—I can’t—"

"Yes, the fuck you can," he snarled, his grip tightening on your thighs, forcing them higher, pressing you deeper into the desk.

The change in angle had you screaming, arching, gasping his name.

"That’s it," he groaned, sweat dripping down his temple. "Take it. Take every inch of this dick like the good fucking girl I know you are."

Your body seized up, pleasure snapping through you like a live wire. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your breath caught in your throat as your orgasm ripped through you, violent and all-consuming.

Eren felt it instantly. The way your walls fluttered and clenched around him, your body gripping him like a vice, refusing to let go.

His pace turned sloppy, erratic, desperate, his breathing ragged as he fucked you through your high, chasing his own.

Your name tumbled past his lips, over and over, reverent and raw, his forehead pressing against yours as he lost himself, buried deep.

"Fuck—" Eren gritted his teeth, his hands gripping your hips tight, bruising, before he slammed into you one last time, burying himself deep, his cock pulsing, twitching, spilling inside you.

The silence between you two was calming, your bodies still pressed together, you moaned softly as you felt him shift in you, he pressed a lazy kiss to your jaw.

Your hands trailed up his arms, fingertips ghosting over the ink covering his skin. You smirked, voice breathless, smug.

"I basically got what I wanted."

Eren could feel his eye twitch, you did his head in but you loved you nonetheless. Huffing a laugh, he bit down on your neck causing you to giggle.

"Too damn spoiled."

𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 ©

[backwzzds]

late nights with connie

notes: sum smoking, use of ma and princess, lowk hints of plug connie i can’t help myself 😣

you wake up, feeling unsettled and cold, an indicator that your man wasn’t there. you turn on your side and see the clock striking 3:08. where the hell was he?

u get up from ur bed reluctantly with your blanket wrapped around you and try to search for him because you wasn’t gonna go to bed uneased. you see connie leaning against your balcony, smoking a j.

“con, it’s too damn late for you to be doing this. come to bed.” he turns to look at you and walks towards you. “you wanna take a hit?” you look up at him and roll your eyes and connie takes it as a sign you’re letting up. he takes the j and puts it on your lips waiting for you to inhale. “good shit huh baby?” you exhale, feeling much more relaxed than before.

“connie, i got work in the morning. it’s embarrassing but you know i can’t sleep without you.” you pout, just wanting to be able to get your way.

“i know princess, im coming. had a nightmare and i didn’t wanna toss and turn because i wanted you to get your beauty sleep.” he smiles at u apologetically and gives you a kiss on the lips.

you knew about connie’s nightmares. he never rlly liked to talk about them so often times, you’d both just end the night cuddling and staying so close to one another, it wouldn’t leave connie time to worry about his dreams.

connie runs his hands through his hair and leans towards the handrail, finishing his j. u follow after and stare at him.

“you can go to sleep mama, i can come in a little later. you need your rest.”

you ignore him and give him a long kiss. “let’s stay here. i’m cool w hanging out w you for a little longer.”

you wrap your arms around his waist, letting him have some of the blanket. he chuckles and gives you a kiss on the forehead.

late nights w connie were quiet, but comforting.

[backwzzds]

ִֶཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄 is the type of boyfriend who’d get you a solid gold anklet decorated with his name and a heart just because he want to see his name while he’s innit.

your pretty red lace panties were basically torn off of you the second connie got on top of you.

“ffuckk, m’sorry baby your pussy’s just to good fuck” he moaned out, thick cock rapidly pulling almost completely out then slamming in hitting that sweet sweet spot that made your legs turn to jelly.

he was hungry, fucking starving for you.

“ahhh, babyy s’so fuckin deep, mhmm just like that” you moaned out wrapping your hands around his neck pulling him into a sloppy kiss, sucking on his tongue feeling his piercing.

connie was in a daze looking at you. big pretty eyes with long lashes all teary, plump lips swollen and wet from you biting them and drooling, tits on full display bouncing up and down, and fuckk the way your legs were all the up to each side of your head and your ankle decorated with his name.

you looked down seeing connie’s cock bulge appear everytime he thrusted in then back out, it was so hypnotizing. but what connie was more focused on was how fucking good you looked with his name on you.

“who’s fuckin pussy is this ma” he asked as his pace quickened “hmm baby, i asked you who’s. fuckin. pussy. is. this.” he asked thrusting hard on each word.

your eyes were pouring, and your legs quivering. fuck this felt like heaven, so fuckin goodd.

“pussy’s all yours baby” you babbled out “j-just to her s-sing to you”

splat splat slap

wet noises coming from connie’s cock beating your soaked cunt filled the room

“fuck baby, tryna make me nut rn hmm” he said grabbing your ankles, placing a gentle kiss on them before placing them on his shoulders.

he was fucking you so good, your pretty, brown wet pussy clenched around his cock as your toes curled and you squirted all over his lower region as you moaned chants of his name and incoherent babbles.

“good fuckin girl mami, just like that baby” he talked you through your orgasm as he approached his own.

not long after he came deep inside you with low grunts and moans that were like music to your ears.

before you could even register what happened his head was already between your legs.

“cant leave my girl all messy, that wouldn’t be nice” he spoke with foux kindness.

you just remember seeing him stick his tongue out, decorated with a frog eye piercing on it’s tip before he was tongue and two fingers deep inside you.

© 2025 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝗼 𝐥𝐢𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐢𝐬𝐠𝗼𝐝. 𝐂𝗼𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝗼𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝗼𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝗼𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝗼𝐧 𝗼𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝗼𝐫𝗺𝐬.

🧚🏽‍♀️:: act like you don’t see the sp errors.

[backwzzds]

Simon Riley who never gets mad at his wife. No matter how angry he is. CW : None. Pure fluff

Simon was practically fuming. First he'd been ordered by Price to train a group of new recruits, then, the young recruits decided to be a colossal pain in the ass, and to top it off, he'd missed his lunch break where he would normally have some respite by calling you.

So now, he was shouting at the recruits. More than usual. The recruits all looked dead on their feet. But Simon didn't care, they decided to be annoying little pricks. They needed discipline or they'd never make it in the military.

"For fucks sake, you mongrel! Run ten laps!" Simon roared at a recruit, the others looking nervous. Not wanting to be the next one to face Simon.

"Uh, sir?" One of the recruits squeak.

"What?!" Simon roared, the recruit pointing behind Simon.

Simon turned with a low growl, clearly not in the mood for anymore antics, only for him to look down and see you. His wife, in a pretty little sundress and holding a Tupperware container full of something. It didn't matter what was inside, his stomach was growling at the thought of your cooking.

"Swee'heart" Simon sighed in relief, his shoulders visibly relaxing and his arms wrapping around your waist. He relished in the squeak that came from you as he lifted you up and buried his face in the crook of your neck.

"You alright, big guy?" you giggle. Simon grumbling in agreement. Making you laugh again.

Simon set you down, barking at the recruits to find Price and that he'll be taking over the training, before walking behind you with his hands on your waist to guide you to his office.

"Si, if you're busy I can go" you offer, and Simon can barely handle how fucking sweet you are to him.

Simon shook his head, taking off his balaclava and sitting in his office chair. Pulling you to sit on his lap.

"Made you some cottage pie" you grin, opening the container in your hands and handing it to Simon. God it was still warm. "I thought you were gonna yell at me with how mad you were at the recruits"

"Would never yell at you, princess" Simon said, rubbing your hips as you fed him a forkful of the cottage pie. He groaned at the taste, making you giggle.

"good?"

"so fucking good, lovie. Needed your cooking after how shit today has been" Simon smiled, bringing your left hand to his lips and kissing your wedding ring gently.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

btw guys I pulled white lily cookie and dark cacao cookie while writing this :p

[backwzzds]

Part 2 of the one that got away with Simon. Not much to add lol, it's just the guys shocked abt it. Also sue me, yes, I do think Simon isn't at all that closed off if you were someone he was close I'm with for so long, I just don't think that's Simon.

.𖥔 ݁ 🍯 a tad bit suggestive, mentions of sex, but it's brief˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

They were confused. The 141 men were completely confused. They had seen weeks ago a stranger throw a box at Ghost, shout at him, hit him, get away with it, and even have Ghost hug them.

What?

Johnny was already theorizing about it. But he was honestly as flabbergasted as the rest, specially since they suddenly saw Ghost look...happy?? He was in a great mood since that ceremony, even recruits noticed how the lieutenant was casually humming under his breath as he walked through the halls of base.

Kyle even saw him eat a homemade meal, packed with a small note the lieutenant put in his pocket as soon as he read. Kyle was simply too shocked by it and the food's smell to do anything other than stare as Simon ate it all with a smile.

Price was shocked that Simon was actually leaving base when he could. Staying away after deployment instead of being in his barracks until the next op.

"What's got you so happy, son?"

It was Price who broke the silence on the table. They were at the bar they usually went to, but Simon was smiling the whole time he was drinking, humming along to everyone's talk half heartedly. They all had noticed, and the captain was set on getting some answers, Simon being slightly drunk already helped, too.

"They didn' forget t' write" he mumbles, humming like that was some great news "hell..found out they're living around 'ere"

The guys frown, Gaz is the one to bite the bullet, feigned aloofness as he sips his beer.

"Who?"

Simon hums, texting someone before glancing up like he just remembered he was being questioned.

"My friend" he mumbles "not exactly friends anymore—"

Before they can assume said friend died or something, a person walks up to their table. You, the random they saw at the ceremony. They're ready to tell you to piss off, when Simon glances at you and melts, calling out your name softly.

"Simon Riley...you told me you wouldn't even drink! Do I really have to babysit you like before?"

You huff and puff, but can't help to soften softly as he drunkenly murmurs your name, taking your hand in his, a boyish grin on his face, one that didn't change at all from your teen years. Though you don't remember Simon being so dumb and gooey around you, you blame it on the teen love filter you had at the time. He looks like an idiot, smiling up at you, balaclava pushed up to show his lips, and the visible corner of his eyes crinkling.

"I'm fine, luv" he rumbles, standing up fairly straight and putting his hands on your hips as he smiles down at you, amused by your annoyance "y' weren't this uptight 'efore"

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your own smirk

"We're not teens anymore"

you huff some more, then glance at the other men, who are looking like Simon grew a second head. You wave at them, introducing yourself as an old friend of Simon's. Simon doesn't seem to like that and grumbles, putting a hand over your mouth.

"Not just friends."

you push his hand off your mouth and glare at him. Sure, you two had started talking again, and he may or may not kissed you until you felt like a puddle at your doorstep, and he may or may not have fucked you dumb a few times already since that ceremony. But you weren't really going around telling people you're together — or at least you thought you weren't.

"What?" He shrugs at your glare "'s true ain't it? Or d'you always let your friends f.."

You groan loudly and push him away, pulling him away from his friends with a haste goodnight.

And the 141 are still confused. Because they found out why Ghost was in a good mood, but now they also found out that apparently Ghost now had a pretty bird waiting for him at home, and he was soft with them. A totally different man than the scary lieutenant they knew.

They all just give up trying to understand it as a few weeks later he goes back to dark and brooding Ghost. Though they still saw how soft he was when you'd come pick him up after he went drinking with the boys.

[backwzzds]

The one that got away kind of trope with Simon and his childhood best friend!reader?!??? I'm just a sucker for friends to lovers

Maybe you were a troubled teen too; quiet, shy, anxious, always reading something or sketching something. Maybe you, for once, decided to say hi to him, he was alone, and you couldn't understand why the kids didn't talk to him — he was handsome and seemed nice.

At first, he was confused, you looked too nice to want to talk to him, all shy manners and quiet voice. He didn't say anything, just went back to what he was reading. And you sat beside him, eventually starting to read your own book.

After the first few weeks of you just quietly saying hi to him and seating with him on classes and breaks, he slowly started relaxing around you. You didn't tease him about his family, didn't look weird at his bruises, didn't comment on anything. Well, not about that anyways. You did comment about your book, or about the book he said he read because you read it too! Such a fun thing to talk about shared interests!

He found out soon enough you weren't really quiet. Just shy and anxious, but you liked talking, and even if at first he was annoyed, after some time, he sort of enjoyed hearing you yapping about books and movies and comics. And after a few months, you two turned to a pair. Wherever he was, you were right behind, and wherever you were, he wasn't too far away.

It went from books and comics to crushes and school drama, skipping class to drink or smoke on the empty skate park, dishing your parents, just general teen stuff, but stuff Simon would've never really experienced if it weren't for you. You were the only one who knew about how Simon's home situation was, and you never judged.

He really adored you. God, did you even notice how he just never looked at anything other than you when you were rambling about whatever shit he couldn't give a fuck about. He'd stare at how your eyes lit up when you looked at him, how your lips looked when you smiled or when you were talking, how your hands looked compared to his. He was tall-ish and a bit awkward, but as the years went by, he looked a bit less awkward, filled in a bit more.

He felt silly, the first time he actually noticed how he liked you. He felt stupid, you were his best friend, well, his only friend, and he was pinning, all dumb when you'd look at him, trip over his words when you'd giggle, it made him wish the ground would swallow him and his weird hormones.

It didn't lead to anything, sure, you wanted to go to college and he was going to enlist, so he never even made a move on you. You were the one who actually did something — even if it wasn't really a big move, it felt like it when you whispered in as you two shared a cigarette late at night.

"Wanna go to prom with me?"

You smiled at him like you didn't just make his heart start beating so hard he thought he was going to die, his stomach clenching and his ears bright red as he nodded, grunting, not managing to actually answer.

When he recalls that time, he really doesn't feel that bad, sure, his life was shitty, but you weren't, hell, you were single handedly the one who made his teen years as good as they were, even if just a little.

You had looked breath taking that night, he even made sure to save up and buy a suit that matched your outfit, you two danced, you laughed the whole time, he walked you home, sure, he never got the chance to make a real move on you, but when you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips that night, his knees almost buckled.

"Write to me, 'kay?"

You whispered to him, patting his chest before pulling back. He did write, and you'd write back. Soon enough his life in the military was too much to always write a letter to you, and you were too focused on college life to be able to write as much.

Yet every month, every single month, at least one letter found it's way to him, and it helped, you helped. Over the years, he changed bases, went through shit that broke him, made him less Simon and more Ghost, and of course, you wouldn't write, he was sure you moved on, and he wasn't angry, couldn't really.

He never really tried to move on for you. He didn't care for love in his life, and while he did hookup a few times, it was easy to just not try to let go of that ache he still has when he re-reads your letters.

It wasn't until a tap out ceremony, one he really didn't want to go to, but he trained these soldiers, so he gave it a go. He didn't really like remembering his tap out ceremony, he stood there the whole time until he was the only one there, before walking back to the barracks alone.

He was watching as the soldiers were tapped by lovers, brothers, mothers, friends. Standing off to the side in position. It was almost ending when he suddenly felt something hit him. A small jewlery box hit his face, hard, and he grunted, glaring at where it had come from, only to freeze

You. You were there. Why were you there? What were you doing here? Did you date one of the soldiers? Why were you glaring at him? His brain was working overtime. He looks down at the box, taking it in his hand and opening it. It's the necklace he gave you after prom, the one he saved up the whole year to give to you.

He snapped out of his nostalgia when you hit his arm, grunting and glaring at you, but you just glared back, something in him, maybe that young Simon that still was in love with his best friend, cheered and laughed and smiled at seeing the once shy and anxious you be so bold.

"Next time you change bases, fucking tell me, asshole!"

[backwzzds]

Simon had a civilian wife—and worse, a petty one.

And he? He was pathetic.

There was the silent treatment.

The cold shoulder every time he stepped into the house. And the worst of all punishments: sleeping on the couch. That goddamn couch, stiff and distant, miles away from your warmth.

He didn’t complain. Not when his back screamed in the morning, not when his neck cracked with every shift. Nothing.

Work was a blur. His focus, shot. Every time his phone buzzed, he snatched it up like it might be you.

It never was.

Nope.

Fucking Soap.

> “MY wife lets me sleep in bed with her. :]”

Asshole.

By the end of the week, Simon was in ruins—your absence chewing holes into what little remained of his sanity.

He needed to touch you.

Hold you.

Lay his head on your chest and breathe.

How were you fine with this?

How could you just shut him out?

And why, in God’s name, had he married such a stubborn woman?

…because he liked it.

That night, Simon did everything right.

Boots off at the door.

Duffle stowed neatly in the closet.

Gear stripped down and tossed into the laundry bin.

A real shower, not one of those rushed rinses—he scrubbed until the scent of Oakwood and Pines clung to every inch of scarred skin, drifting from the bathroom and bleeding into the bedroom.

You felt it before you heard him—the familiar pull of his presence mixed with the clean musk that always made your willpower falter.

Your fingers tightened around your book. You didn’t look up. If you looked, you’d fold.

You knew it.

But damn it, he smelled good.

Simon stepped out, towel drying his hair, shirt damp against the curve of his back. His pajama pants hung low on his hips, casual, familiar, like a memory you didn’t want to admit you missed.

You peeked. Just a little.

And he saw.

The flicker of your eyes in his direction set off something in him. Hope lit up his face like a dog hearing the treat bag crinkle.

He pounced.

No warning, just all six-foot-something of him crashing onto you like a damn tree falling.

“Oof—Jesus CHRIST, Si!” you gasped, struggling under the sudden weight. “You’re too big for that!”

“’m not,” he grumbled into your stomach, arms snaking around you, face pressed to your skin like he planned to melt into you. Honestly, if he could crawl inside and live under your ribcage, he would.

You sighed, tossing your book aside, hand finding its way into his damp hair. The tension bled from his body instantly under your touch.

“Big baby��” you muttered.

He tilted his head, just enough to look up at you.

Those brown eyes—eyes that had seen war, death, and worse—were impossibly soft now.

“You done ignoring me?”

His voice was small. Hopeful. Like he’d crumble if you said no.

You stared down at him for a moment, lips pressed tight, trying to hold on to that edge of power you’d clung to all week. You wanted to stay mad—hell, you should stay mad. But Simon curled around you like a man starving, clinging to scraps of affection like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And maybe, just maybe, it was.

Your fingers slid slowly through his hair again. “I shouldn’t be done.”

His arms only tightened around you, body sinking deeper into your side, like the very idea of you pulling away would kill him dead. “I know.”

“You forgot our anniversary.”

“I know.” He groaned the words into your stomach, shame thick in his throat. “I’m the worst husband alive.”

“You’re up there.”

But your voice was already softer, that edge fading with each breath he took against your skin.

Simon peeked up at you again, brows drawn in that pitiful, wounded-puppy expression that always made your heart twitch no matter how pissed off you were. “I had somethin’ planned. Got pulled for a mission, got back late, then… I didn’t know how to bring it up.”

You gave a small scoff, fingers absentmindedly combing through his undercut now. “So your solution was radio silence and hiding in your own house?”

“...Y’weren’t exactly giving me a warm welcome,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t the one who forgot, Simon.”

He shut his eyes, face buried against your stomach again like he was trying to disappear.

You let the silence stretch for a few seconds, your other hand moving to rest on his back. He was warm—always so damn warm—and solid, like you could press your entire body against him and still not get close enough.

And that’s what made it so hard to stay mad.

“I missed you,” he said quietly.

You closed your eyes.

"Then act like it next time."

He nodded against you, barely more than a brush of movement. “I will. I swear.”

Another silence, but this one wasn’t heavy—it settled between you like a blanket, familiar and worn.

“You’re still not getting laid tonight,” you added.

Simon let out a pained noise, somewhere between a groan and a dying animal. “C’mon, love…”

“Nope.”

“Can I at least stay in bed?”

You looked down at him—his whole body wrapped around you like a lifeline, those big brown eyes begging without a hint of shame.

“…Fine.”

He exhaled like he’d just been released from captivity. “God, I missed this mattress.”

“I missed my space,” you shot back, but there was no bite left in it.

Simon wiggled just enough to fit perfectly against your side, one leg tossed over yours, his head nestled under your chin now. “I’ll sleep on the edge.”

“Damn right you will.”

A pause. Then, muffled into your chest:

“You still mad at me?”

You sighed, long and theatrical. “Ask me in the morning.”

He hummed, content. “I’ll make breakfast.”

“You better.”

[backwzzds]

You have been Simon Riley's housemate for about two years now. He's the perfect roommate - never oversteps your boundaries, always cleans up after himself, is quiet, and helps with groceries. Most of the time, however, he's gone. He's in the military, so Simon goes on missions that can last for months and months at a time.

Here's the thing. Simon bought this very nice weighted comforter recently. You remember seeing it in the order history on your shared Amazon account. When it came, Simon snored like a damn chainsaw. He slept like a baby, even bringing the comforter to the living room on movie nights. And sometimes, though you loathe to admit it, you'd go into his room to take a nap under that comforter. It's one of the more expensive, better-made, and heavier blankets. You're pretty sure it's almost 30 pounds.

Unfortunately, there's always a risk when you nap under that blissful comforter. The risk that he'd come home. Today, you're curled under his weighted blanket, taking a quick nap before you make supper. You really shouldn't have ever done it. It's disrespectful and an invasion of privacy. But that damn comforter sang to you like a siren... and you couldn't resist the urge today.

Simon comes home, exhausted from flights and the mission. He drops his duffel in the closet, then kicks off his shoes. You must not be home. It's quiet here today, no TV or video games on. You're not in the kitchen or reading in your room. But then, he gets to the doorway of his room. In the center of his otherwise tidy room, curled into a ball, is you.

"Little fuckin' goblin," he grumbles.

He should pick you up by the scruff of your neck, scold you for sleeping in his bed, and kick you out of his room. But there's something about seeing you in his bed that makes him feel possessive. If you were anybody else, maybe he'd be angry. But you're you, and he can't bear to even raise his voice at you.

"Hey, girl," Simon whispers, gently waking you.

Your eyes open slowly until you recognize who woke you up. You sit bolt upright, gasping like you just had the air knocked from your lungs. "Oh, shit!" you squeak.

"Relax," he says softly.

"Okay, l-l-listen, I can explain," you stammer.

"I don't think you can," he replies, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I just wanted to sleep under your comforter," you whisper, face heating with shame. "I'm sorry, Simon. It was wrong of me."

"Well, that's half the battle right there," he murmurs, putting a comforting hand on your thigh. "You could have just asked me."

"You're... kind of scary," you mumble. "I thought you'd say no."

"I know that comforter is nice," he whispers, rubbing soothing circles over your leg. "I sleep under it."

You nod sheepishly, heat flooding your neck and face even more now. "I'm sorry," you say again.

"You're alright," he promises. "Just ask next time, yeah? You look good in my bed."

You're almost certain your chest is flushed at this point. "Uh-" you say eloquently. "I- um-"

"Were you going to make supper?" he asks gently.

"After my nap," you admit.

"I can do it," Simon assures you. "If you want to sleep some more."

You shake your head. "No, you just got home. You're probably tired."

He shrugs. "I'm always tired."

You scramble to get out of his bed. "You sleep," you whisper. "I'll make dinner."

"Why don't we... both sleep?" he offers tenatively. "Would you like that?"

You go completely still. You thought you were going to be in a world of trouble. That Simon would kick you out of the house or, at the very least, yell at you until you cried. But he didn't. And he won't. In fact, he's offering to let you go back to sleep under that heavenly comforter of his. Next to him, the human space heater.

"Okay," you squeak out. "Okay, we- uh- we can do that."

Maybe this is your punishment. Because you have never felt so flustered in your life.

Simon takes off his mask and his gloves, throwing them aside like they offended him. In one swift move, he wraps you in his arms and rolls under the sheets.

At this point, you're pretty sure this is all a dream. No way Simon Riley would cuddle you in his bed, tuck you in, and hold you while you nap. "This is crazy," you whisper to yourself.

"I sleep easier when you're near," he says, breath brushing your ear. "Just... let me have this. I'll order takeout when we wake up."

You nod, turning in his arms so you can face him. "This is surreal," you tell him.

"I know." He presses his lips to your forehead. "I know it is."

"This is comfy," you admit, nudging your nose against his chest.

"Just sleep," he says, almost a command. "No nightmares when you're here."

You quiet down, allowing Simon to cuddle you to sleep. Maybe sleeping in his bed wasn't such a bad idea, especially since you ended up in his arms. You don't mind so much. In fact, you think you like being held by him.

[backwzzds]

“give me a kiss,” you demand. 

simon chuckles, standing to his fullest height and making no accommodations for you. this has been going on for at least ten minutes now – the bastard just won’t let you have your way. mask off and wearing civilian clothing, a rare occurrence, he washes the dishes in the kitchen, refusing to give in. 

“si, don’t be mean. i want a kiss.” you groan when soap suds find their way onto your face. “ugh, don’t flick soap on me. please, si. just kiss me. once. once is all i ask for.”

his back muscles ripple with barely concealed laughter. “don’t be botherin’ me when i’m washin’ up, lovie. ain’t wise.”

“give me a kiss!”

glancing down at you, eyes crinkled in the corner with mirth, his lips twitch. “get it y’rself, woman. go on. come take it from me.”

you creep under his beefy arm, tucking yourself between his broad body and the cold sink. truly cruel, you know he knows that you can only reach his chin on your tiptoes, jumping a little. still, you don’t give up. brushing kisses onto his chin, his neck, his jaw, you do everything in your power to lay a solid one on his lips. 

to no avail. 

forehead pressed to his chest, you sigh. “fine, mean bastard. you win. i give up. no kisses for me tonight, i guess.”

soaked, fingers pinch your chin, tilting your head back. you see simon’s eyes soften, drifting to your mouth before he leans in, grazing your lips with his tenderly. he doesn’t slip a tongue in, doesn’t deepen the kiss, just lingers, like he’s absorbing your warmth, processing the softness of your skin, and rejoicing in the comfort of being at home. 

“mmm, missed ya,” he says. 

you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close and pecking his lips over and over again. “i missed you too, si. always.”

he kisses your forehead. “won’t have to soon. i’ll do right by ya. promise.”

“i know.”

oh, but how little do we know when blinded by love and carried through only by faith and hope.

[backwzzds]

　　　　.⠀⠀⠀ ू❀𝆬　𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑　．　∔

⠀ ⠀❜❀⠀˙⠀simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader⠀(❁ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈)⠀˚

░⌦⠀ synopsis.⠀ ⠀domestic life with simon. 𖧷⠀⁺⠀

⠀. ⏝ི𓏶. ゜ imagine ⠀　being⠀ simon's　⠀wife⠀ ⋮

Simon didn’t think he could be a father. Not because he didn’t want to be—he did. Quietly, painfully. But he never believed he’d live long enough for it. He didn’t think there’d be a version of life where he could sit still, trade gunpowder for cradle songs, or let something so fragile as a child curl up on his chest and fall asleep without fear in the world. But then you came. And then… she did.⠀𓆉

He was terrified.

When you told him, his first reaction was silence. Heavy, still—the kind that made your skin crawl even though you knew he would never hurt you. He stared at the floor for a long time. Not out of anger. Not even shock. Just a weight pressing down on every piece of him, trying to make sense of a life where he could deserve something this soft.

He didn’t say anything for hours. But that night, while you lay in bed pretending to sleep, you felt his callused hand over your stomach. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought he might break both of you.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered so quietly, it could’ve been a prayer.

He wasn’t there when she was born.

Mission delays. A storm grounded his transport. He’d torn through his comms trying to reach anyone, anything—cursing the universe for making him a soldier first, father second.

But when he walked into that hospital room with dirt still on his boots and shadows under his eyes, and saw you holding her… saw her pink and alive and real in your arms…

He broke.

He didn't cry, not really. But his shoulders shook as he sat by your side and pressed his forehead to your temple. He stared at her like she was a ghost haunting his past—something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.

“She’s so small,” he murmured, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” you replied.

That night, he didn’t sleep. Just watched her chest rise and fall, afraid to blink.

Simon was awkward at first.

He held her like she might detonate—arms stiff, movements cautious. Changing diapers felt like defusing bombs. And baby talk? Forget it. He read her the back of his cereal box in a low, gravelly voice, and she cooed like he was reciting poetry.

He wouldn’t say much, but he did. Morning bottles already warmed before you woke. Midnight pacing when she wouldn’t stop crying. One hand rubbing small circles on her back, the other gripping the baby monitor like a lifeline when he had to leave.

He taught her to crawl by laying on the floor with her, inching backward like it was a stealth op. When she took her first steps toward him, he froze. It felt like watching a sunrise you never thought you’d see.

She follows him everywhere.

Like a little ghost of her own.

He doesn’t let many people see her. Doesn’t post pictures. Doesn’t talk about her on base. But he keeps a small photo tucked behind his dog tags. If anyone catches a glimpse, they know not to ask.

She’s curious. Smart. A little quiet—like him. She watches everything. Studies the way he moves, tilts her head when he speaks like she’s decoding him. When she starts copying his dry, deadpan jokes, you swear Simon almost smiles.

He lets her paint his face with glitter and stars when she’s bored. He sits there stone-faced, letting her stick pink butterfly clips into his blond hair. If you ask why, he just shrugs:

“She wanted to. Didn’t wanna say no.”

He teaches her how to be strong—not cruel, not hardened, just aware. He teaches her to pay attention to exits, to trust her gut. When she has nightmares, he’s there before she can even call for him.

And when she asks him why he wears a mask sometimes, he kneels down and explains it gently. That some things are meant to protect, not hide. That it’s okay to be soft, but it’s also okay to be careful.

And then he lets her try it on. It drapes over her face like a cape. She laughs.

“Look, Daddy. I’m just like you!”

“No, sweetheart,” he says, and this time, he does smile—small, but real. “You’re stronger than I ever was.”

Simon is a man full of ghosts.

But when he’s with her, they quiet.

You’ve seen it.

The way his shoulders relax when she’s in the room. The way his voice drops softer when he reads to her. The way he presses his forehead to hers before he leaves, and whispers, “You be good for Mum, yeah? I’ll be back.”

He hates going.

Every goodbye leaves a crack in him.

But every return—when she runs to him screaming “Daddy!” and tackles his legs with her little arms—that’s what mends it.

He doesn’t know if he’s doing it right. He’s always afraid he’s too broken, too cold, too late. But you tell him he’s the safest place she knows.

And sometimes, when the house is quiet and she’s asleep in the next room, he’ll hold you close and whisper,

“Thank you.”

She’s eight now.

She tells people her dad is a superhero.

Simon doesn’t correct her.

He doesn’t know what version of him she’s seeing—what stories she’s crafted in her head to explain his scars or the way he flinches when doors slam too hard. She doesn’t know what he’s done. What he’s capable of. To her, he’s just… strong. Invincible. Safe.

He doesn’t deserve it. But he lives for it.

There are nights when the house is quiet and warm and she’s tucked beneath her galaxy-print bedsheets, one arm flung off the mattress and glitter nail polish chipped from the day.

And he’ll sit outside her room. In the hallway. Hands clenched between his knees.

He listens to her breathe.

He doesn't know why he tortures himself like that—why he waits for nightmares that never come, or for screams she’s long since outgrown. Maybe he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe he’s waiting to fail her. Like he failed his family. His brother. Himself.

He’ll sit there until his knees ache. Until the silence starts to feel like mercy again.

Then he goes to bed, lays next to you, and stares at the ceiling like there’s a sniper on the roof. Like peace is a trap he’s too smart to fall for.

She was never supposed to see it.

An old flash drive. Left in a drawer he thought was too high. She’d plugged it into her school laptop, probably looking for cartoons.

She didn’t say anything until hours later. She was quiet. Paler than usual.

“Daddy… you hurt bad people, right?”

He froze.

“…What’d you see, love?”

“Some men. You hurt them. But… you were saving someone, weren’t you?”

There was no panic in her voice. No fear. Just a question, small and sincere, wrapped in child-logic and trust.

Simon knelt in front of her. Took both her hands in his. Looked her in the eye like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever done.

“Yes,” he said. “I hurt bad people. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things I’d never want you to see. But I’ve never hurt someone innocent. Never would.”

She nodded slowly. And then—God, kids are strange—she just reached out and touched the scar on his cheek, the one beneath the corner of his eye.

“I’m not scared of you,” she said softly. “You’re my hero.”

And that was the first time in his life Simon wanted to cry in front of someone.

He held her so tight that night, you thought she might get smothered. But she clung to him too—arms around his neck like an anchor, like she’d never let go.

She gets more clever every year.

She steals his hoodies. Starts hiding his mask in ridiculous places—like the freezer, or under her bed—just to see how long it takes him to find it. She claims it’s to “keep him home longer.”

He pretends to be annoyed.

“You’re a little brat,” he mutters, tossing her over his shoulder.

“I'm baby!” she giggles back, kicking her legs.

They have their own games. Their own signals. A whole silent language between them. When she’s nervous at school, she touches her wrist twice—it means “I wish you were here.” When he’s home late from a mission, she leaves a plastic dinosaur on the kitchen table—it means “I waited.”

She tells him she wants to be like him.

A protector. A fighter.

He tells her she already is.

But inside, the thought terrifies him.

You’re the one who packs his bag now. She won’t help anymore. Not since last time.

She’d cried so hard she threw up. Told him he promised he’d stay longer. That “longer” shouldn’t mean “only six days.” She was angry in that way only children can be—grief-stricken and pure.

“I hate the army,” she said, clutching the edge of his vest.

He knelt again. Always kneeling, always trying to shrink himself to meet her where she is.

“You don’t have to understand, love. But I hope one day… you’ll forgive me for missing things.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned and ran to her room.

He left anyway. And it broke him.

He kept her crayon drawing in his vest pocket the whole mission. Folded and faded. A stick figure version of him holding hands with her beneath a smiling sun.

It’s still there.

And when he comes back, It’s always late.

You’ll hear the gate creak. The boots on the gravel. She’ll fly out of bed before you can stop her—barefoot and wild-haired, running down the stairs.

He drops everything to catch her.

She wraps herself around him like a vine. He doesn’t even get the mask off before her little arms are around his neck and she’s whispering “I missed you I missed you I missed you” like a spell.

“I missed you too, sweetheart.”

He holds her like she’s the only thing tying him to earth. And maybe she is.

Teenage girls are loud in their silence.

Simon learned that the hard way.

She doesn’t slam doors or scream. She doesn’t yell “You don’t understand!” or throw things across the room. She just gets quiet. Withdraws. Answers in clipped syllables, disappears into her hoodie, headphones in, eyes distant.

She used to run to him the second he came home. Now she doesn’t even look up from her phone.

She’s fifteen.

And sometimes, Simon thinks she’s slipping through his fingers, and he’s got nothing left but shadows and memory.

It started small.

She stopped asking him to braid her hair before bed. Said she could do it herself. She stopped leaving dinosaurs on the kitchen table. Stopped leaving notes in his rucksack.

He knew it wasn’t personal.

It was growing up.

But that didn’t make it easier.

“Give her space,” you told him gently. “She’s figuring herself out.”

He tried. He really did.

But he couldn’t help hovering near her doorway some nights, watching her back hunched over a laptop, music playing softly. Wondering if she still remembered how he used to sing to her in a voice barely above a whisper when she couldn’t sleep. Wondering if she remembered why he was gone so often.

Wondering if she still thought he was her hero.

It came up one night, out of nowhere.

She was setting the table. He’d been home for five days. The air was calm, the routine safe. And then:

“Do you wear the skull mask because you want to scare people?”

He looked up from the sink, heart stalling for a second.

He turned off the water. Dried his hands slowly. Looked her in the eye.

“No,” he said after a long pause. “I wear it because I used to think I was already dead.”

She blinked.

Didn’t say anything.

He almost regretted being honest.

“But then…” His voice caught. “Then I had you.”

The silence that followed was thick. Fragile.

And then she whispered:

“You’re not dead.”

He cleared his throat, chest aching. “No. Not anymore.”

She set down a fork.

Walked over.

And, for the first time in months, hugged him without needing a reason.

He didn’t let go for a long time.

The hardest part of fatherhood for Simon isn’t leaving. It’s letting her live.

She’s starting to go out more now. With friends. Late bus rides. Music festivals. Sleepovers at houses he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t sleep well on those nights.

You can see it—the way his leg bounces, the way he checks the time every fifteen minutes, the way he keeps his phone unlocked, her tracker app open on the screen.

“She’s not a target,” you remind him. “She’s a kid.”

But in his world, innocence doesn’t mean safety.

And light doesn’t mean there’s no danger.

When she comes home, he does the same ritual every time:

One look over her face.

A glance at her hands.

Eyes flicking to her shoes, her wrists, her neck.

A checklist of survival. It takes seconds. She doesn’t even notice.

But he does.

Only when he’s sure she’s safe does he let himself exhale.

The first time she really breaks—it’s quiet.

She comes home from school, bags under her eyes, and says: “I don’t think anyone really likes me.”

Simon is at the table cleaning a rifle.

But he puts it down immediately.

And for a long time, they just sit on the couch. Side by side. She doesn’t cry. He doesn’t pry. Eventually, she says, “I feel like I’m too much for people. Too weird.”

He looks at her then. Really looks.

And in the softest voice he can manage, he says:

“You’re not too much. The world’s just too loud.”

She leans into him.

He lets her.

She’s taller now, but somehow still fits under his arm.

“I don’t know how to be normal.”

He smiles, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

“Good. Normal’s overrated.”

She laughs, watery and real.

It’s the sound of his heart stitching back together.

Simon isn’t great with words. Not the soft ones, anyway.

But he shows her love in the way he always waits up.

In the way he replaces the lightbulb in her lamp before it burns out.

In the way he gives her his old hoodie when she’s sick and lets her keep it.

In the way he memorizes the names of her friends. Learns their schedules. Watches over them from a distance like a silent guardian.

She doesn’t say “I love you” as often as she used to.

But when she falls asleep in the car and mumbles “Dad” like it’s home…

He knows.

He knows.

She’s not a child anymore.

But she’ll always be his little girl.

And he’ll always be the ghost at her back—quiet, watchful, loyal.

Not haunting her.

Protecting her.

Always.

He never taught her how to drive.

You did.

She insisted.

He didn’t mind. Truthfully, the thought of her behind the wheel made his pulse spike. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because he knew the world. Knew how quickly things turned. He could pull a man out of a wrecked Humvee, but the idea of her skidding into a light pole because of wet asphalt made his vision go white.

So he let you take her.

Watched from the window.

She waved at him once from the driver’s seat, grinning like she owned the road.

And he waved back. Small, barely-there.

But it was enough.

It was always enough.

The house is quieter now.

She’s twenty-three.

Lives two cities over. Has a dog. A job. A life.

She comes home when she can, which isn’t often. You say that’s normal. That’s what kids do. But he still checks the front window around five every evening. Still listens for the sound of a key turning in the lock that doesn’t come.

He still sets her place at the table when you aren’t looking.

You find the folded napkins sometimes. The extra fork. He never explains. You don’t ask.

She doesn’t call him "daddy" anymore.

That’s what time does.

It sands things down.

She calls him Dad now. Or Old Man if she’s feeling playful.

He likes it. But it stings in a quiet way. Like finding an old picture and realizing you don’t remember the moment it captured.

There are still hugs. Still warmth. But she doesn’t cling to him anymore. Doesn’t bury her face in his neck. Doesn’t fall asleep on his chest while he reads boring manuals aloud to lull her.

Instead, she brings over wine. Talks about work. Politics. The rent.

She’s brilliant. Composed. Fierce in a way that reminds him of a younger you.

And sometimes, when she laughs, he sees the little girl she used to be—cheeks round, eyes bright, hands sticky from jam.

Then the moment fades.

And she’s grown again.

He doesn’t go on missions anymore.

Retired now. Officially.

He didn’t tell her right away. Wasn’t sure how. He expected a celebration, or at least a toast.

But when he finally said it over dinner—softly, plainly: “I’m done. Hung it up.”—she looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.

“Good,” she said. “You were always more than that.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and realized she hadn’t seen him as a soldier in years.

She’d seen the man.

The father.

The one who tucked her in and stitched her broken toys and waited outside ballet recitals with bloodied knuckles he never explained.

He had been trying so hard to protect her from the world.

But she’d been watching him—all this time.

Learning how to survive by the way he loved her.

One night he got sick.

It wasn’t life-threatening. Just a flu.

But he hadn’t been sick in years, and it hit him harder than expected.

She came home that weekend without asking.

Let herself in. Took one look at him bundled in blankets on the couch and said, “You look like shit.”

He coughed. “Nice to see you too.”

But her hands were gentle. She made him tea. Sat on the armrest of the couch, fingers brushing over his forehead like she was checking for fever the way he used to when she was small.

She stayed the night. Slept on the floor beside him like a sentry.

He woke at 3 a.m. and saw her curled up in an old hoodie of his, her phone clutched in one hand, screen still lit with some half-written message.

And for a second—just a flicker—he wished she were small again.

Not because he didn’t love who she’d become.

But because that time was so brief.

So unbearably sweet.

And it was gone.

It was raining.

She stood beside him under a grey sky, both in black, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.

It was his brother’s grave. The one he used to visit alone.

“I wish I’d met him,” she said quietly.

“He would’ve loved you,” Simon replied. “You’ve got his mouth. Same sarcasm.”

She smiled through the tears. Leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Do you ever miss being young?”

He didn’t answer right away. Rain hit the stone like fingers drumming.

“I miss you being young,” he finally said.

And she didn’t speak again. Just held his arm tighter.

One day, it happens.

She calls him—voice shaking, words rushed. Something about a near-accident. Someone ran a red light. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t know who else to call.

And Simon?

He was already in the car before she finished the sentence.

He found her on a curb, hands trembling around a coffee cup someone had handed her. He didn’t ask questions. Just crouched in front of her and pulled her into his arms.

She broke. Sobbed into his coat like she was twelve again.

Like she was small and scared and needed her dad.

And he just held her.

Kept one hand on the back of her head.

The other over her heart.

“You’re safe,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Later that night, she curled up on his old couch, wrapped in his blanket, and whispered,

“I didn’t want to call you. Thought I was too old.”

He shook his head.

“You’ll never be too old to be my girl.”

And one day…

One day, it’s just the two of them on the porch.

You’re inside baking. The sun’s going down. Her eyes are softer now.

She says, “Do you ever think you could’ve had a normal life?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just watches the wind move through the trees.

Then:

“This is normal. For me.”

She leans her head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t flinch anymore when touched. Not by her.

“You were always enough, you know,” she says.

He swallows. Tries to look away. Fails.

And then she adds, quieter, “You saved me. Even when I didn’t know I needed saving.”

He closes his eyes.

Because in that moment, it doesn’t matter what he’s done.

Who he’s killed.

What haunts him.

Because this is what remains.

This girl. This woman. This life they made.

And that… is enough.

He never thought he’d grow old.

Never imagined it.

He used to think men like him didn’t make it past 40 — not without a bullet or a blaze or a quiet disappearance somewhere no one would bother looking. There was always something inside him waiting for it — like his bones expected to be abandoned.

But now?

Now his body aches in new ways.

His knees click when he gets up too fast.

The hair at his temples has gone silver, and his hands have lost their steady, deadly stillness.

But you’re still here.

Still brushing your teeth beside him. Still humming while folding sheets. Still asking if he wants tea or if his shoulder hurts when it rains.

And it guts him. Every single time.

That you stayed.

That you chose to grow old next to a man who never expected to live long enough to deserve it.

Your love has changed.

It’s not fireworks now. Not firelight and breathless kissing in hotel rooms after too-long deployments.

It’s quieter. But deeper. Warmer.

It’s how you always leave the light on for him, even when he forgets to ask.

It’s how he sets out your slippers without thinking, so your feet don’t touch the cold floor in the morning.

It’s how you never ask where he’s going when he disappears into the garage, and how he never questions the way you cry at old home videos, even though you’ve seen them a hundred times.

There’s a kind of intimacy now that goes deeper than touch.

A knowing.

A weightless ease, like your hearts have learned how to lean on each other without needing to speak.

You’ll brush past him in the kitchen, and he’ll place a hand on the small of your back — not to move you, not to guide you, but just to feel you. To remind himself you’re real. Here.

Still his.

Sometimes he just watches you.

He won’t say it out loud. He’s too old for poetry, and too hardened for flowery things. But sometimes, when you’re reading by the window, your glasses slipping down your nose and the light touching your cheek just right—

He stares at you like you’re something holy.

Like you're the last beautiful thing left in a world he once thought he’d never understand.

He’ll pretend to be half-asleep on the couch, or too focused on whatever’s in his hands — but he’s watching you. Memorizing you again and again, like a man trying to hold onto something too big to keep.

Because he knows.

He knows time takes things.

He’s lost too many people to pretend otherwise.

So he watches. And he commits you to memory. Every wrinkle near your eyes. Every gray strand of hair. Every sigh. Every smile.

You catch him sometimes. And he always looks away like a boy caught daydreaming.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

He shrugs. “I always do.”

He still has the mask.

It’s in a box now. Top of the closet. Buried under old jumpers and Christmas decorations.

You told him he didn’t need it anymore, and he agreed.

But he kept it. Quietly. Respectfully.

You found him once, years ago, just sitting with it in his lap. The house was silent. The air still.

You didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him.

He looked at you, eyes far away, voice quieter than you’d ever heard.

“I wore this to keep the world out,” he said. “But somehow, you still found your way in.”

And you leaned against him.

And he let you.

And neither of you moved for a long time.

He loves you differently now.

Not less. Not softer.

But heavier.

There’s a weight to it now. A depth.

He knows what it means to have someone for a lifetime. He knows what it costs to stay — what it takes to love a man who wakes from nightmares, who still pauses at loud noises, who forgets he’s safe even now.

And he sees what it cost you, too.

He saw it in your eyes when the baby was crying and he wasn’t home.

Saw it when you had to explain to your daughter why “daddy” missed her school recital.

Saw it in the way you smiled through the loneliness, always so patient, always so good.

He never said thank you. Not enough.

So now he shows it.

In every slow dance in the kitchen.

In every cup of tea made before you ask.

In every time he reaches for your hand during a movie, just to feel your fingers between his.

He asks you one night.

“Do you regret it?”

It’s late. The moonlight’s dripping through the window, and the sheets are tangled between your legs. You’re half-asleep, but his voice pulls you back.

You turn toward him. Find him already watching you.

“All of it,” he says, quietly.

And you reach for him, tuck your fingers beneath his chin like you did when you were younger. His beard is whiter now. His eyes softer.

“I’d do it all over again,” you say.

And he believes you. With every beat of his scarred, stubborn heart.

You fall asleep like that — your fingers in his, your breath slow against his skin.

And somewhere in the dark, in a house full of years and silence and everything you've both endured...

Simon smiles.

Because in the end, despite everything he’s done, everything he’s lost—

You stayed.

And that made all the difference.

It starts with small things.

Keys. Names.

What day it is.

Where he left his book.

At first, you joke about it. Call it “old man brain,” and he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering something about brain damage and too many concussions.

But then he starts calling the dog by the wrong name.

Asks where your daughter is — even though she just called.

He forgets the kettle is on.

Leaves the tap running.

Stares at the cupboard, confused, trying to remember why he opened it.

And one day, you find him standing in the hallway, still as stone, holding one of her baby toys in his hand.

“She used to chew on this,” he says, quiet, “didn’t she?”

You nod.

“She’s twenty-seven now, Simon.”

He blinks at the toy.

“Oh.”

You learn his patterns.

He doesn’t like loud noises anymore.

Doesn’t like too many people in the house.

Gets tired easily. Confused quickly. Frustrated at himself more than anything.

But he’s still him.

He still drinks his tea the same way. Still looks for your hand under the blanket when you watch old movies. Still walks beside you in the garden, pointing at flowers like he remembers what they’re called — even if he doesn’t.

“Is that one the… the purple one?” he asks.

You smile. “Lavender.”

“Right. Right, I knew that.”

He didn’t.

But he likes when you pretend he did.

Sometimes he has bad days.

Days where he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is.

Days when he looks at you and his face folds — not in anger, but in heartbreak.

“I’m supposed to know you,” he says once, voice shaking. “Aren’t I?”

You take his hands. Place them on your cheeks. Let him feel the shape of your face.

“You do. You always have.”

He breathes in, trembling.

“I’m scared, love.”

“I know,” you whisper. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

And you don’t.

You never do.

But there are still good days.

Days when he laughs at your terrible jokes.

When he remembers how to make your tea before you do.

When he tells you a story from the army — one he swore he’d forgotten.

And there are still evenings where he pulls you in, slow and careful, kisses the corner of your mouth and says,

“Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Even with the wrinkles?” you tease.

“Especially with them,” he grins.

You cry in the kitchen after that one.

Quietly.

Not because you’re sad.

But because you still get to have this.

And then one morning, he doesn’t know your name.

He wakes with a start. Looks at you.

And doesn’t say anything.

Not confusion. Not fear. Just… blankness.

You speak gently. Smile.

Tell him your name like it’s the first time.

Tell him you’re safe. That he is too.

And he nods.

“Alright. If you say so.”

But later — later that same day — when you bring him tea, he takes your hand and murmurs:

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

You freeze.

“Do you know who I am?”

He blinks. Thinks.

“No. But I know I love you.”

The days stretch longer now.

He’s quieter, softer — not from peace, but from the slow unraveling of time. There are whole mornings where he doesn’t speak at all. Just watches the trees, the clouds, your hands in the garden. Like his soul has moved somewhere deep inside, and he’s just floating now.

He forgets more often than he remembers.

But he still holds your hand.

Even when he doesn’t know who you are, he finds your fingers. Rubs his thumb over your knuckle. Leans into your shoulder like a man who’s known only one comfort in his entire life.

And he has.

You.

He sleeps more now.

Sometimes all day.

You sit with him. Read aloud. Tell stories he once told you. Some of them are true, some of them aren’t — he wouldn’t correct you now even if he knew.

But he smiles sometimes. At the sound of your voice.

Like part of him — the part too deep to lose — still knows you.

And when he wakes, slow and blinking, he always asks:

“You’re still here?”

And you always answer, soft and warm:

“I’ve always been here.”

It happens on a rainy morning.

There’s nothing dramatic about it.

No gasp. No panic. No final words.

Just a stillness.

You wake first. His hand is still wrapped around yours. His chest still, his face soft, relaxed — like he simply drifted somewhere quieter. Somewhere gentler.

He doesn’t look afraid.

He looks young.

Somehow.

Like the weight finally left him.

And for a long, long time, you don’t move.

You just rest your head on his chest, where his heartbeat used to be, and whisper the only thing that ever mattered:

“You made it, Simon. You’re safe now.”

You bury him beside the lavender.

The spot he always loved — where the bees hummed and the light hit just right in spring.

Your daughter helps. The grandkids each place a flower on the earth. You keep your hand on the stone long after everyone else has gone.

There’s no mask on it. No rank. No war stories.

Just:

Simon Riley

Beloved Husband. Father. Safe, at last.

And you keep living.

Not out of duty.

Not out of guilt.

But because he would want you to.

You still drink your tea the way he made it.

Still hum old songs while folding the laundry.

Still leave the porch light on, out of habit.

Some nights, you sit alone with the rain on the window and close your eyes — and you swear you feel it:

His hand on your shoulder.

The breath of him.

The warmth.

You speak into the dark like he’s still beside you.

“I’ll be there soon. Not yet. But soon.”

Because real love never ends.

And the life you built together — the quiet, the pain, the laughter, the child, the years — it doesn’t vanish when he goes.

It lives in you.

In your daughter.

In every soft, ordinary, beautiful thing he once thought he could never have.

Simon made it home.

And home was always you.

You can help me by reblogging my works with the tags and please do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms.

[backwzzds]

soft simon hcs because he's a softie actually.

simon riley who probably freezes up when kissing you because he's just not used to it, not used to how soft you are against him, how when he touches you he feels like he's gonna explode.

simon riley who whines when you get up, mutters something gruff in your ear about how you must be trying ta torture him, gettin' up so soon when you've been cuddling for the last three hours. he follows you like a sad, kicked puppy to the bathroom--god forbid a girl need to take a piss.

simon riley who takes you through the shops and stops every time he finds something he thinks you might like. (even if you definitely don't need it.) "are y'sure, luv? this'd look nice with those pants y'have..."

simon riley who's unintentionally dominant too--he's got a firm hand on the small of your back when you're walking through the grocery aisles, leading you methodically through the lines, prioritizing aisles with less people so you can avoid getting stuck in an awkward shopping-cart-traffic-jam.

simon riley who's gently grabbing your wrist and pulling the plastic bags from your hands when you try to grab them from the trunk, pulling your wrist up to his mouth to give your knuckles a placating kiss.

simon riley who's coaxing you inside with a head tilt, and you're just complying, the poor guy completely blind to how he's got you wrapped around his finger without even realising it, because he thinks he's undeserving of you!!! he's the one who's head over heels, not you!!!

simon riley who proposes to you in bed when you've helped him through the aftermath of a nightmare, quietly whispering against your ear, "you should marry me." because he's realising that he can't do it without you.

[backwzzds]

Oh, Simon is just so smitten by you.

Now, he wasnt a soft man, no. Rough. Scars, sick mind, bad past and with a cold look that would have anyone sit on their ass and shut up.

But when it came to you? His doll. How could he be that way to you when you look at him with the sweetest look in your eyes and just love him for who he was? Answer? he couldnt and he wont.

"You know i love you right?"

He looked at you. You said it a million and one times over but it just doesnt seem real how he had you for over 7 years and married for 2. It always just seems to sound better everytime he heard it from you, cause thats what you do.

You make him...better.

"Yeah, baby...I do. Always."

a/n: "So how about some cute shit, huh?"

[backwzzds]

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🍸 welcome to solè’s bar 🍸

tonight’s special: reiner braun, heavy hands & the breakup you didn’t cry about

→ reiner x black!reader

→ smut | sneaky link au | post-argument tension turned nasty

→ tags: f!reader, oral (f receiving), fingering,backshots, spit play, creampie, face-grabbing, filthy talk, aftercare

a/n: this one is for you @th3pinkphant0m <3333333

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you slide onto the barstool like you’ve done it a thousand times because you have. same corner seat. same dim lighting. same strong drink.

the second you sit, one of the usual bartenders looks over at you and grins. glances over and smirks. “reiner,” he calls toward the back, eyes still on you. “your girl’s here..”

and that’s when you see him.

reiner steps out from behind the swinging door like he owns the place. black tee hugging his arms, towel slung over his shoulder, that usual lazy smirk tugging at his lips. he doesn’t even say anything at first. just walks over slow, reaches for your hand, and kisses it soft, warm, a little dangerous.

“your usual?” he murmurs.

you nod, trying not to smile too much. “mmhmm.”

he starts making it without another word, like he already knew. like he expected you tonight.

“so,” he says, sliding the bottle across the counter. “what brings you here?”

you glance down at your phone, pretending to check the time. “date night.”

he stops mid-pour. “and you came here first?”

you shrug, casual. “wanted a drink before the date.”

he raises an eyebrow, gives you that look. “or you just wanted to see me.”

you stare at him for a second. sip your drink. don’t answer. because yeah, obviously. but you’re not about to say that.

he grins like he already knows.

and you just keep sipping.

you guys still arguing?” he asks, leaning forward a bit, arms resting on the bar like he’s not even trying to act casual about it.

“yeah,” you sigh, swirling your drink. “i think i’m gonna break up with him.”

he raises an eyebrow. “you sure?”

you nod, not even hesitating this time. you were tired. done. “mhm.”

“want me to look out for you?” he asks, quieter now. there’s something in his tone low, easy, like he already knows the answer.

“i mean… you can,” you shrug, “but i think i’ll be fine.”

“we can meet up,” he says, voice dropping even lower, “after my shift ends. soon.”

you give a small smile. “sure.”

your phone buzzes against the bar. you glance down at it, then blink. oh. right. the reason you were even here.

“he’s here,” you say, setting your glass down, mostly empty. “i’ll go to our table.”

you tip the rest of the drink back, trying not to look at reiner too long, but he’s already grinning.

“see you later,” he says, winking.

you roll your eyes, standing up, smoothing your dress. he watches you the entire way to your table, the smirk never leaving his face.

a soft whistle leaves him as you walk away. fuck. he was in trouble.

you sit down at the table just in time to watch him walk in. he’s already smiling like everything’s fine comes up, hugs you, kisses your cheek like you didn’t almost block his number yesterday. you roll your eyes. he sits across from you like this is just another regular night.

he leans forward a little. “you look nice.”

you shrug. “thanks.”

“so…” he clears his throat. “how was your day?”

you blink at him. “you really wanna talk about my day?”

he hesitates. “i mean… yeah. i’m trying.”

you shake your head. “why do you always try when we’re one argument away from being done? like, you don’t see a pattern here?”

he frowns. “what are you talking about?”

“i’m talking about the fact that we fight every week. we barely talk unless we’re apologizing or trying to fix something. this isn’t a relationship anymore, it’s just damage control.”

he sighs, rubbing his face. “so what, you wanna break up?”

you nod, simple. “yeah. i do.”

he scoffs, leans back in his chair like you’ve just stabbed him in the chest. “wow. just like that?”

“it’s not ‘just like that.’ this has been coming for a while. i’m tired.”

“you’re tired?” he repeats. “you’re tired but i’m the one that’s been chasing you around for the last three weeks trying to talk.”

you laugh under your breath. “chasing me? you mean blowing up my phone after gaslighting me for two hours straight?”

“gaslighting? are you serious right now?” his voice rises, a little too loud for a nice bar. “i never gaslit you. you always twist shit, like i’m the one in the wrong.”

you glance past him. reiner’s behind the bar, watching.

he mouths, you okay? want me to step in?

you shake your head. not yet.

“you know what your problem is?” your boyfriend goes on, jabbing a finger toward the table. “you’re never satisfied. i try. i try and you always act like it’s not good enough.”

you blink slowly. “because it’s not. i don’t want the bare minimum anymore.”

he leans forward now, voice quieter but sharp. “so that’s it? you’re really doing this?”

you lift a brow. “i’ve been done.”

“you don’t even wanna try?” his voice cracks a little, like he’s actually shocked. “you’re really just gonna walk away?”

“what is there left to fix?” you say. “we keep doing this. over and over. i’m tired.”

“so what, that’s it?” he mutters, eyes narrowing. “you’re just giving up.”

“no,” you say. “i’m choosing peace.”

he goes quiet. jaw clenched. fuming.

you glance past him again. reiner’s still behind the bar, watching. this time, he tilts his head gesturing toward the back, just barely. come here.

you look down. laugh to yourself, just once.

“you know what?” you stand, grabbing your purse. “i’m done.”

“you’re seriously leaving?”

“you seriously thought i’d stay?”

you push your chair back and walk off. he calls your name like it means anything now, but you don’t stop. you don’t even look back.

you walk into the room, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click. it’s a little dim in here, warm, the low hum of music spilling in from the bar.

reiner’s already waiting, leaning against the table, arms crossed. he looks at you like he’s been doing nothing but waiting.

you set your purse down. exhale.

he comes toward you, slow, like he knows you need a second. “you okay?” he asks.

you nod.

he raises an eyebrow. “words.”

“i’m okay,” you say, soft.

he watches your face for a beat. “i didn’t like how he was talking to you.”

you shrug, a little smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “good thing i broke up with him.”

“yeah,” he says, stepping a little closer, voice low. “but no man should ever talk to you like that. ever. you understand me?”

you nod again. quieter this time. “yes. i do.”

“exactly.” his voice drops a little deeper. “that won’t ever happen again.”

your eyes flick down to his mouth.

his drop to yours.

you reach for him fist curling around the waistband of his pants and pull him in, crashing your lips against his.

he kisses you back, hands already sliding under your dress, grabbing your ass without hesitation. his mouth trails to your neck, warm and open, kissing, biting, sucking until you sigh his name against his skin.

he lifts you up like nothing sets you on the table, steps between your legs, doesn’t stop kissing you. your hands tug at his shirt, his at your thighs, the tension crackling like it’s been waiting to snap all night.

you don’t need to say anything. you already did

he kisses you like he’s starving like he’s been waiting for this. like he needs it. his mouth moves down your body, slow, teasing, until he’s on his knees in front of you.

he pushes you back a little, big hands spreading your thighs, and fuck he just looks for a second. like he’s admiring something precious. something he’s not rushing. he runs his hands up your legs, dragging them over your thighs, then under your dress, tugging your panties down.

“these in the way,” he mumbles, tossing them somewhere behind him.

you’re already squirming, propped on your elbows, watching him like you know what’s about to happen.

he leans in and kisses the inside of your thigh. then the other. slow. patient.

then, finally, he licks one long stripe up your pussy tongue flat, pressure perfect and you let out the softest “fuck…”

he groans against you. you can feel it. the vibration. the way it goes straight through you.

he’s into it. like, really into it.

he starts to work his tongue in circles around your clit, then sucks it into his mouth, wet and slow, and your hips jump. you gasp, grabbing at his hair, anchoring yourself.

“oh my god…”

he doesn’t stop.

his hands grip your thighs tighter, holding you still while his mouth moves everywhere licking, sucking, teasing. like he’s trying to memorize every reaction. and the sounds?? wet and nasty and loud like he’s not even trying to be polite about it. he wants you to hear it.

you can’t stay quiet. your breath stutters. your moans come out soft at first, then higher, faster, all broken up. your back arches. your thighs try to close around his head but he doesn’t let them.

“reiner—” you moan, breathless. “shit—”

he hums into your pussy. on purpose. his tongue flicks over your clit just right and you twitch, damn near sobbing.

and then then he slides two fingers inside you. slow at first, then curling just right. just deep enough. and it’s a wrap.

you’re fucking done for.

you throw your head back, one hand gripping the edge of the table, the other buried in his hair. your legs are shaking. you’re trying to close them, trying to run, and he just grips you harder.

“uh-uh,” he murmurs, mouth still on you. “take it.”

and you do. you fucking do.

you can’t even control it anymore. your hips grind against his mouth, chasing the pressure. his fingers fuck you slow but deep, curling up against that one spot that makes you see stars.

you start babbling—“fuck, fuck, fuck, oh my god, don’t stop, please—” and he doesn’t. he won’t.

your orgasm hits so hard it snatches the breath out of your lungs.

you moan his name, long and high and shaky, and he keeps going, tongue flicking over your clit while his fingers drag it out, make you ride it.

your whole body trembles.

you go still. soft. weak.

he finally pulls back, lips shiny, licking them slow like he just finished a meal.

he looks up at you.

“told you,” he grins. “that shit’s mine now.”

he pulls back with a wet kiss, breathing hard, mouth shiny from everything he just took. you barely get a chance to recover your chest still rising fast, your legs still trembling before he stands up, towers over you, and grabs your face to kiss you again.

deep. messy. all tongue.

his lips crash into yours like he’s trying to taste what he just made you do. like he missed your mouth the whole time he was down there. he kisses you with both hands on your face, then down your sides, then gripping your waist as you pull him in closer.

your hands move fast, reaching for his belt. fumbling, needy. and he’s just watching you do it with that look his eyes on your lips, your face, your fingers.

he unbuckles the rest himself, pulls his pants and boxers down in one motion, and that shit swings. hard. thick. already leaking.

you glance down and your breath stutters. like damn.

he doesn’t give you time to think about it.

“come here,” he mutters, voice low and dark.

he pulls you closer to the edge of the table by your thighs, spreading them wide, holding the backs of your knees as he positions himself. you lean back on your hands, legs up, open for him heart racing, pussy still pulsing.

he rubs the tip against you, slow at first. just teasing. slick already.

you moan, biting your lip, hips twitching.

“yeah?” he says, voice deep, eyes locked on you. “you want it?”

“yes,” you breathe.

he pushes in slow.

and it’s a stretch. a deep one. he’s thick, heavy, and he goes in inch by inch like he’s savoring every part of it.

you whimper, head dropping back.

“fuck…”

“you take it so good,” he groans, jaw clenched. “just like that.”

once he’s all the way in, he leans over you, one hand braced on the table, the other gripping your throat not tight, just resting there. just enough to make you feel it.

he starts to move. slow strokes at first. long. dragging all the way out and sliding back in deep.

the sound of your pussy welcoming him is loud, slick and wet, and he leans in close to your ear.

“you hear that?” he whispers. “that’s mine.”

you’re moaning with every stroke. it’s nasty. grown. his hips slapping into you as he fucks you deeper, harder, the table creaking underneath you.

his hand on your neck tightens just a little. not choking just a reminder. just enough to make your eyes flutter.

he kisses you again. messy. tongue dragging against yours while he fucks into you. you’re whining into his mouth, grabbing his shoulders, trying to hold on.

“look at me,” he says. you do.

and that’s when he does it.

he pulls you up by your neck, just slightly, and spits in your mouth. slow. on purpose.

you moan, eyes wide, letting it hit your tongue.

“say thank you,” he says, not stopping his thrusts.

“thank you,” you breathe, barely able to get it out.

“good fucking girl.”

your back arches. your mouth stays open. and he just keeps going.

he pulls your legs up even higher, folding you a little, pushing deeper, his thrusts getting sharper, faster.

“that’s it. take it,” he growls, hips snapping against you. “you fucking take all of it.”

your body shakes again. you’re close. your legs trembling, your moans getting higher and faster.

“reiner—i’m—i’m gonna—”

“do it,” he says, breathless. “cum on this dick. i want it.”

your orgasm hits like a wave. hard. you cry out, hips jerking, thighs clenching around him as he fucks you through it, eyes locked on your face.

and even when you come down, he’s not done.

he pulls out, panting, grabs your waist, and turns you around.

“get up.”

you do.

he bends you over the table, presses your chest down, ass up. he spreads you open with both hands and groans under his breath.

“fuck… look at you.”

he slides back in like he never left.

you moan.

he starts pounding you from the back no warning, no warm-up just straight power. depth. skin slapping. the sound of your ass clapping against him echoing off the walls.

pow. pow. pow.

you’re gripping the table. moaning. sobbing. biting your arm.

he grabs both your wrists and pins them behind your back, holding them with one hand, the other on your waist.

drooling. shaking. the only sound in the room is the smack of his hips, the wetness between your legs, and your breathless cries.

he pulls you up by your arms so your back is arched into him. his mouth is right at your ear.

“pussy still talking”he grunts. “she don’t wanna let go.”

you whine something desperate.

he kisses your shoulder. your neck. still fucking you.

his pace doesn’t slow. it just gets nastier.

you’re so loud. not even trying to hide it. moaning through your second orgasm as he holds you close.

“i got you,” he whispers. “let go for me.”

you cum again this time harder, legs shaking under you, knees giving out. and he still doesn’t stop. he keeps fucking you through it until you’re whining into your arm.

then he starts to lose it.

his breath gets ragged. his hips stutter.

“where you want it, baby?” he groans, grabbing your ass tighter. “inside?”

“mhm,” you moan, breathless. “cum in me…”

“say that shit again.”

“cum in me.”

he groans loud, grabbing your hips, slamming into you a few more times, and finally, he lets go. deep inside. he fills you up, groaning your name, collapsing over your back.

and you both just breathe.

sweaty. panting. ruined.

he kisses your shoulder again, still inside you, whispering, “you’re fucking mine.”

and you just smile. weak. shaking.

“i know.”

he grabs a towel and gently wipes you down, still kissing your thighs between every pass. you flinch a little when he gets too close still sensitive but he hushes you. “i know, baby. almost done.”

he pulls your panties up slow, making sure they’re not twisted, and then grabs your jacket. nah his. he wraps it around your shoulders and helps you into it, then zips it up for you. you’re still catching your breath, legs trembling a bit when you try to step down.

“shit,” you mumble, grabbing the edge of the table. “my legs…”

he chuckles. “it’s okay. i got you.”

next thing you know, he’s lifting you into his arms, bridal style. “told you i’d carry you,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

the place is quiet now. lights dimmed. doors locked. bartender’s wiping down the last glass behind the counter, smirking to himself like he already knows. you don’t even look his way.

reiner pushes the door open with his back and walks you out, slow and steady like he’s not in a rush for the night to end. he gets to the car, opens the door, and gently sits you down inside. straps your seatbelt for you. smooths your hair back from your face.

then he walks around, slides into the driver’s seat, starts the car.

you lean your head on the window. you don’t say anything, and neither does he.

he just… drives.

[backwzzds]

Simon loooooovees a chubby girl.

So much to hold and sooo much to squeeze. He always has to have a hand on you. He's never been much for pda but with a bird so plump he doesn't mind resting a hand on your ass waist the whole time you're out together.

He loves to show off how strong he is. Picking you up like it's nothing. His huge hands gripping the plush of your thighs. No matter how big you are, he always relishes in dwarfing you with his size.

And god, don't get him started on your tits. The way they bounce when he fucks you. Jiggling hypnotically with each thrust. He's obsessed. Sometimes you have to wear baggy clothes around the house just to get shit done. Because if you show even a hint of your soft curves he's all over you in seconds.