jaesblogstuff

[jaesblogstuff]

Attitude, no problem pt.2, ~pt.1~

oral (f receiving), choking (light + consensual)...smut all around man

The door shuts behind you with a soft click. You toe off your boots, still tasting the spice of red curry on your tongue, and Simon’s jacket brushes your back as he follows close—too close. You barely get your coat half-off before his voice cuts in from behind, low and guttural.

“Been watchin’ you pick at your food all night,” he says. “Figured you’d either start talkin’… or you’d need to be reminded how to use that mouth.” The coat slips from your shoulders and hits the floor. You sigh, just feeling the weight of him behind you. “Simon just forge-“

“You were quiet,” he interrupted, fixing your eyes to him. “Not in a way I like, thought I told you to fix that.” Then his hand wraps around your throat, not tight. Just there. A promise. A warning.

He drops—drops—to his knees like he’s being called, like worship’s second nature. His hands grip behind your thighs, lips already parting as he yanks your pants halfway down your legs. “We're gonna have a little talk, isn't that right?” is he talking to my-

You choke on a moan when his tongue slides up your cunt in one long, filthy stroke. His groan vibrates into you like it pisses him off how good you taste. He tongues your clit with slow, brutal circles. Just enough pressure to drive you insane. No hesitation. No restraint.

You gasp, hips jerking, and his hands tighten, yanking one of your thighs over his shoulders. “You always get quiet when you’re like this?” he mutters into you. “Or just when you’re tryin’ to pretend nothin’s wrong?”

You tremble. Fingers in his hair. His tongue flicks just right and your head thumps back against the wall. “I—I wasn’t pretending,” you manage, breathless.

He hums, like he doesn’t believe you. Lips slick with you, tongue working in slow, punishing strokes. “Don’t lie to me,” he growls, voice nearly lost between your thighs. “You forget who the fuck you’re dealin’ with?” He sucks your clit hard and you cry out, back arching off the wall. Your hands claw at his scalp, and it only makes him groan louder, like he likes being pulled apart.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” you whisper, broken and raw. “Was just a rough morning” His mouth pauses. Just a second. That’s all it takes. He feels the shift—the hesitation. Feels you go quiet. And he stops, just enough to make you notice. He licks once, slow and deep, then breathes against you:

“Say the rest.”

“there’s nothing more…” he fucking stops. With a forceful suck before he lets go and looks up at you.

“I—” You swallow; he continues.“Fuck—I’m… I’m drowning in reports. Price just keeps dropping shit on my desk like I’m his fucking secretary, and Soap—Christ—he keeps asking me to do his tasks ‘cause—fuck, Simon, slow down—‘cause his ego’s too fucking big to admit he can’t handle them”

Simon groans. Deep. Wrecked. Like your honesty just shattered something in him.

“That’s it,” he mutters, voice rough with something between hunger and satisfaction, like he’s been waiting for that. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

But then, He pulls back again. great. Just enough. Fingers still buried in you, but his mouth gone, heat gone, the drag of his tongue gone, and it’s a betrayal so sharp you actually whine, hips bucking, chasing the friction he just ripped away.

“Simon,” you gasp, dizzy, frantic. “What the fuck—”

“You think you get to come after the way you talked to me today?” His voice is low. Dangerous. Almost smug. “You think I forgot that fuckin’ tone? That little attitude you’ve been throwin’ around all goddamn day? Nah, sweetheart.” His fingers curl deep, just once, slow and devastating. “You’re gonna sit with it.”

“Are you…” You bite back a sob, thighs shaking. “You’re seriously punishing me?”

“Not punishin’.” His lips brush your inner thigh, featherlight, maddening. “Just remindin’ you who’s in charge of that pretty little cunt.” You glare down at him, wrecked and furious and dripping for him. “You’re a fucking asshole.” He grins. Licks his lips like he tastes your fury. “Maybe.”

And then he’s kissing you. Filthy. Deep. Letting you taste yourself on his tongue while he lays you back across the sheets, eyes dark, full of something too big for words. He doesn’t stop. Not until you’ve said it all. Not until you’ve come again with his name in your throat and your fears on your lips. You don’t even remember when he stripped— just the heat of his skin against yours now, the weight of him between your thighs, the thick slide of his cock dragging across your slit, smearing you open.

He doesn’t press in right away. He waits. Watches your eyes. Palm still cupping your jaw. Like this part—this slow unraveling—is what he’s been craving all along. “You sure?” he murmurs, voice pitched low, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s grounding you to the moment. “I need to hear it.” (a man of consent yes)

You breathe, shaky. Still wrecked. Still open. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please, Simon.” His name sounds small on your tongue. He groans, like it guts him. And then he presses in.

Thick, slow, unrelenting.

You gasp, hips twitching, legs spreading wider to take him. He moves like he’s afraid to break you, but desperate to fill you, to feel every inch of you wrapped around him. “Fuck,” he breathes. “So tight—still fuckin’ twitchin’”

He sinks deeper. You claw at his shoulders, mouth parting in a soundless moan as he bottoms out, your walls clenching around him like you don’t want to let go. And he just stays there. Not moving. Just breathing against your throat. Letting you feel the weight of him. Letting you get used to it—to him.

Then his lips find your ear. “You don’t need to ask for help,” he murmurs, voice low and burning. “You need to take it. From me. Always.”

He rolls his hips. Once. Deep.

It knocks the air from your lungs. And then again. Slow, deliberate thrusts that drag against every swollen, sensitive nerve he already unraveled with his mouth. He fucks you like he’s trying to build you back up one stroke at a time- steady, grounding, anchored in something real.

Your nails dig into his back. You whimper. He groans, mouth at your throat.

“You needed this, didn’t you?” he rasps. “Needed me to shut your head up for you.” You nod, barely, eyes rolling back as your body tightens around him. “Yeah,” he mutters, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear. “I know. I fuckin’ know.”

Your hips buck. Your eyes burn.

“Simon…”

You sob into his mouth when he kisses you again. This time deeper, tongue claiming yours like he’s desperate to steal your silence, your sorrow, your shame.

His thrusts grow harder, never fast, Just deep. Measured. Every one a promise.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, over and over, like a prayer. “You hear me? You’re not goin’ anywhere. Not leavin’ you to drown in it.” Your body starts to quake again. The pressure builds fast—your cunt fluttering around him, oversensitive from his mouth, your second orgasm rising like a flood. And he feels it. Of course he does.

“Let go,” he groans. “Don’t hold back this time.”

You fall apart with a cry. Clenching around him, back arching, fingers gripping his forearms like a lifeline as your body spasms through another high, softer than before, but deeper. Devastating. It leaves you wrung out, voice caught in your throat, chest heaving.

He buries himself to the hilt, head tucked against your neck, groaning like it splits him open. Warmth floods you, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe—just holds you like the world outside the bed doesn’t exist.

Minutes pass. His hand cradles your jaw. He kisses your temple, once, slow. “Next time,” he murmurs, breath still catching, “you ask for what you need, yeah?” You nod, wrecked. Quiet. And you don’t miss the way he holds you tighter after. Like he already knows it’ll take time. Like he’s not going anywhere until you believe it.

[jaesblogstuff]

Attitude, No problem. Simon knows how to handle it.

we all know where this is headed...don't we now, i’ll think about a pt.2 (i thought about it)

It happens, wrong side of the bed today. Didn’t wake up plotting to be a menace. But something about today’s been off since your feet hit the floor. Your shirt didn’t sit right. Coffee tasted burnt. The recruits acted like they were sharing a single brain cell and juggling it between drills. You snapped—nothing major, just enough to charge the air around you. A muttered, “fuckin' recruits,” under your breath. A scowl that hadn’t left since 0800.

Simon clocked it before anyone else. of course he did.

You could feel his eyes on you all day. Subtle, sure—but there. Tracking you. Watching like a man waiting for the other shoe to drop. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. But he noticed. In the hallway, on the range, during debrief. Like he was cataloguing every scowl, every clipped reply, every shrug you weaponized like a shield.

And when he finally finds you alone, it’s like he’s already decided how this is gonna go.

You’re in the armory. Polishing a sidearm you don’t even need. Just something to do with your hands. You needed the quiet. The distance.

Then he walks in. Boots heavy. Shoulders loose. That calm, unreadable thing he does when he’s already two steps ahead.

“y'all right?” he says.

You don’t look up. “Fine.”

He comes closer, leans against the edge of the workbench, arms folded. “Was thinkin’ we’d grab food after shift. That Thai place you like.”

You shrug. “I don’t care. Do whatever.”

It hangs in the air like a dare. You don’t mean it to, but it does. He licks his lips before they form a thin line. The door clicks behind him, and he walks up behind you. Not touching, but hovering close to your ear.

There’s a pause.

Then his voice—low, quiet. That particular kind of still that comes before a storm.

“You’re gonna fix that attitude,” he says, “or am I gonna have to fuck it out of you?”

You freeze.

His eyes are steady. Fixed. He says it like a warning. Like a promise. Like he’s already halfway to making good on it. And the worst part? It works. Your gut flips. Heat curls at the base of your spine. You know that voice—know what it means when he drops it like that. When he stops being soft.

“Now i’m going to ask again, Was thinkin’ we’d grab food after shift. That Thai place you like.”

You blink, throat dry. “Yeah. Thai sounds good.”

His head tilts slightly. Jaw flexes once. Then, flat and final-

“Good. that sounds better.” leaving a nice tap to your ass.

And then he’s gone, leaving you there with nothing but the hum of fluorescent light and a pulse you can’t quite settle.

Whatever’s still simmering under your skin?

He’ll handle it later. Exactly the way you need.

[jaesblogstuff]

The ‘Mistress’, never the ‘Missus’.

He fucked you with his wedding ring still on, and you thanked him like it meant he chose you.

He only shows up late at night. Never a call. Never a warning. Just the sound of your door unlocking with the key he never admitted to taking, the soft click of it swinging shut, and the heavy, dragging footfalls of a man who shouldn’t be here. A man who doesn’t belong to you.

You’re always awake. You pretend you aren’t—lying still in bed, back to the door, listening to him strip the war off his body like it offends him. Jacket, boots, holster. You hear it all. Sometimes, you think you can hear him breathe, like he’s trying to steady something in his chest before he lets himself touch you.

Tonight, he doesn’t hesitate.

“Get up,” he growls.

Your body moves before your brain catches up, like muscle memory, like survival. He drags you up by the wrist, not rough, but not gentle either—like he doesn’t trust himself to ask twice. His mouth is on yours before you can speak. Teeth. Tongue. No softness.

You taste blood. You’re not sure if it’s yours. “Missed you,” you whisper against his lips, just to say something. He freezes. Just for a breath. Like that hurt. Like that mattered.

But then he flips you over like you’re nothing but a body and presses your face into the mattress, shoving your thighs apart with a knee. The sound he makes isn’t human, it’s hunger and guilt and a thousand things he’ll never let himself say. You know how this goes. No prep. No patience. Just the sharp sting of intrusion as he pushes into you, thick and fast and merciless.

It hurts. It always does. You moan anyway.

You clench around him, desperately trying to pull him deeper, trying to feel wanted even if it’s a lie. His breath stutters against your shoulder. His hand wraps around your throat. Not tight, not choking, just possessive. Like he owns you. Like she doesn’t exist. But she does.

You see it every time he pushes your shirt up, every time he grabs your hips, every time he fists the sheets beside your head. The wedding band he still wears on his left hand. Tarnished. Worn. Like a noose around a vow he’s too ashamed to break.

He touches you with it. Fucks you with it.

That gold band catches the light and presses to your skin like a brand, like a punishment. It digs into your jaw when he grips your face. Presses to your hip when he holds you down. Hangs heavy around his neck with his tags when he’s away, like a fucking relic. Like she blessed him before he left and he carries her prayers like penance.

You want to ask, Why not me? But you already know.

“Simon,” you gasp, body arching into him. “Look at me.”

He doesn’t.

He fucks you like you’re a sin. Like he hates what you make him feel. Every thrust is a punishment. For you, for him, for the fact that he keeps coming back. You reach between your legs and rub your clit, desperate for something to hold onto, something that’ll make this feel like love instead of ruin.

“You see her today?” you ask before you can stop yourself. Your voice breaks.

Simon stills.

His cock twitches inside you. For a second, just one, you feel him tremble. Then he pulls out, flips you over, and slams back into you so hard the bed frame cracks against the wall.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk about her,” he snaps.

But he’s angry. Not at you. At himself. You can feel it in the way he starts to lose rhythm, like the shame is eating him alive even as he chases his release. You cradle his face in your palms. He lets you. Eyes closed, jaw clenched.

“Do you think about me?” you ask. “When you’re with her?”

Simon shakes his head, once, twice, and then comes with a broken, strangled groan, spilling into you, hips jerking like it hurts. He stays there, buried deep, not moving. You feel him soften inside you. You wait.

He pulls out without a word. Stands. Finds his shirt. Lights a cigarette with shaking hands.

That’s when you see it again—his hand trembling slightly as he holds the lighter, and that ring, glinting dully under the room’s yellow lamplight. Not hidden. Not even ashamed. Just there.You stare at it. The same way you’d stare at a knife in your chest.

“why do you wear both?”

You mean the band and the chain. The one she gave him. The one that rests next to his dog tags like it belongs there.

You think he might walk out without answering. He’s done it before. But then, so low it could be mistaken for thunder.

“Because I promised her forever.”

You sit up like you’ve been shot.

He says it like it’s an apology. Like it’s a curse. His back stays turned to you, tall and straight, like if he lets himself bend, he might break. The light catches the wedding band again, and it gleams like guilt.

“I would’ve given you forever,” you say, barely louder than a breath. And that’s the moment. That’s the one. The one that cracks something in him. Simon leans forward, presses his hand against the doorframe. Like the weight of you, of this, is too much. His head drops. You watch his shoulders heave once. Then again.

You realize, with a sick kind of clarity, that he’s crying. Silent. Still. Like if he lets the sound out, it’ll never stop. “I know,” he whispers.

That’s all he says. And then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him like the end of a dream you never wanted to wake from.

You sit in the bed you let him ruin, his come still inside you, his hands still on your skin like ghosts, and you stare at the space where he stood. You stare until your vision blurs.

Then you curl into yourself, naked and raw, and scream into the pillow he never sleeps on. You pretend the tears on your cheeks are sweat. You pretend the scent on your skin is love.

You pretend a lot of things.

Outside, a car starts. Drives off. Inside, you choke on the truth— You were never his, but you loved him like he was already dead.

[jaesblogstuff]

Voice Note – Received

I recently went through a little break up so this is just me self projecting a lil sorry plus adding Simon in it. (that’s why i have so much time to write but i actually don’t)

⸻

It comes through late.

No name. Just a quiet ping in the dark. He doesn’t open it at first. Doesn’t need to…he knows it’s you.He always knows when it’s you.

Eventually, he taps play. Only once. At first.

~click

“I wasn’t going to call. I swear. I wasn’t…I deleted your number twice. Twice, Simon. And I still know it by heart. Fuck you for that.”

His face doesn’t change. Doesn’t move a muscle. But something inside him does. A shift in his chest. Subtle. A little colder. A little tighter.

“I keep telling myself I’m better off. That if you walked, I should let you stay gone. You want to protect me, right? You want to be noble? Fine. Die a fucking hero.”

His jaw clenches. Slowly. Deliberately.

The kind of tension that works its way into the bones.

He stares straight ahead, like he’s not even listening.

But he is.

Every word.

“But then I wake up and still check the door. Like maybe you’ll be there. Like maybe you’ll take it back. Isn’t that pathetic?”

His eyes flicker— just once. Barely a shift. But enough to betray him. He exhales through his nose. Not a sigh. More like restraint.

“You left like it was mercy. Like you were doing me a favor. But if you loved me, if you really loved me, you’d have fought for this. For me.”

There’s a silence in the room that feels like it might crack the walls.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. But his hand curls into a fist, slow and quiet on his thigh.

“And I hate that you might’ve been right.”

A muscle in his cheek jumps.

“I hate you, Simon Riley.”

Stillness. Pure, perfect stillness.

But then your voice softens. A final blow:

“But God help me, I still love you more.”

~click

He doesn’t react. Not visibly. But his thumb taps the screen again.

And again.

The audio replays. The silence after it grows longer each time. He sits there. Alone. Rigid. Unmoving.

And when he finally sets the phone down, he stares at it like it’s bleeding. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t shout. He just sits in it. Quietly unraveling.

Because you said his name like it still belonged to you.

And deep down—it always will.

[jaesblogstuff]

shit post

𖤣𖥧⋆˚˖° Nature’s Disguise 𖤣𖥧⋆˚˖°

┃An escape, retreat. (smut in the mix)

He needed to get away.

Not from you—never from you—but from everything else. The grind, the orders, the noise. The team could handle a week without him. Price didn’t even blink when he said, “Got somewhere to be. Just me and the bird.”

They all assumed it was somewhere hot, maybe near the water, somewhere the both of you could drink and sleep and disappear.

They had no idea it was a hidden lodge in the hills of Switzerland (a dream really). A place so deep in the woods that the nearest neighbor was half a mile out, and even they only showed up once a season.

He chose it because of you. Because somewhere along the way, between the shootouts and the silence, he’d realized you were building your own little world inside the apartment—one plant at a time.

Every time you said you were “just running errands,” you’d return with arms full of green. Sunlight catchers. Ceramic pots. Creeping vines, blooming things, leaves that touched the ceiling now. You talked to them like they were your babies. And he loved it.

He’d watched it happen without saying a word. Then quietly, without telling you, found a place where the world matched the one inside your head.

And when he brought you there—when he opened the door to a hand-built lodge tucked into the trees, with windows that stretched from floor to sky and the scent of pine wrapped in the wind, he didn’t say this is for you. He just watched your eyes soften, and smiled.

But that’s only half of it.

The other half, the one no one else would understand, is that he brought you out here so he could love you fully. Loudly. Shamelessly.

So he could touch you like you deserved.

So he could fuck you like he was made to.

And out here, where no one could hear, he did.

He kept his promise.

⸻

You don’t remember which night it was, the second? The third? But you remember the way he looked at you from across the kitchen, shirtless, drinking red wine and leaning against the counter with that low, heavy heat in his eyes.

You remember him walking toward you slow, like a man who had nowhere else to be but here, between your legs, on his knees, in your throat.

He took you apart in that soft, sprawling bed until your legs trembled. Until your nails left marks on his back. Until you could barely speak.

He fucked you with his mouth first. Long, slow drags of his tongue, groaning into you like he’d starved for weeks. Then his fingers. Then his cock.

Deep. Unrelenting.

Each thrust pulled another sound from your lungs until you were clawing at the sheets, moaning brokenly, barely able to cry out his name.

And even then, he hadn’t stopped. Hadn’t let up. Had only leaned down, kissed the corner of your jaw, and whispered, “I want to hear you again. Louder. C’mon, love—let me have it.”

And you gave it to him.

Every breath. Every whimper. Every shattered cry of Simon, please—

Until the next morning, when you woke up and couldn’t say a damn thing.

⸻

He took care of you after that.

No teasing. No smugness. Just quiet pride and careful hands.

You hadn’t raised a finger since the trip started.

He’s cooked every meal—woke before you just to slice fresh fruit and make you coffee. He’s drawn your baths with lavender oil. Rough hands, gentle touch, he creamed your skin in silence, like worship.

And in the quiet of the pool out back—surrounded by nothing but pines and wind and late spring sun, he kisses you like the world ended and only you two made it out.

Slow. Careful. Like you’re something ancient and sacred.

You float, legs around his waist, while he holds you against his chest, the water warm and still.

You try to whisper something; something like thank you, or I love you, or even just his name, but it’s still not there. Your voice, completely shot.

He smiles, presses a kiss to your throat.

“S’alright,” he murmurs. “I know what you’re saying.”

And then, quieter, against the shell of your ear:

“If this is all we ever had, I’d be just fine.”

Because for the first time in forever, the world is silent.

And it’s just the two of you.

Just how he wants it.

i hate this, kinda

[jaesblogstuff]

Nature’s Disguise

┃An escape, retreat. (smut in the mix)

He needed to get away.

Not from you—never from you—but from everything else. The grind, the orders, the noise. The team could handle a week without him. Price didn’t even blink when he said, “Got somewhere to be. Just me and the bird.”

They all assumed it was somewhere hot, maybe near the water, somewhere the both of you could drink and sleep and disappear.

They had no idea it was a hidden lodge in the hills of Switzerland (a dream really). A place so deep in the woods that the nearest neighbor was half a mile out, and even they only showed up once a season.

He chose it because of you. Because somewhere along the way, between the shootouts and the silence, he’d realized you were building your own little world inside the apartment—one plant at a time.

Every time you said you were “just running errands,” you’d return with arms full of green. Sunlight catchers. Ceramic pots. Creeping vines, blooming things, leaves that touched the ceiling now. You talked to them like they were your babies. And he loved it.

He’d watched it happen without saying a word. Then quietly, without telling you, found a place where the world matched the one inside your head.

And when he brought you there—when he opened the door to a hand-built lodge tucked into the trees, with windows that stretched from floor to sky and the scent of pine wrapped in the wind, he didn’t say this is for you. He just watched your eyes soften, and smiled.

But that’s only half of it.

The other half, the one no one else would understand, is that he brought you out here so he could love you fully. Loudly. Shamelessly.

So he could touch you like you deserved.

So he could fuck you like he was made to.

And out here, where no one could hear, he did.

He kept his promise.

⸻

You don’t remember which night it was, the second? The third? But you remember the way he looked at you from across the kitchen, shirtless, drinking red wine and leaning against the counter with that low, heavy heat in his eyes.

You remember him walking toward you slow, like a man who had nowhere else to be but here, between your legs, on his knees, in your throat.

He took you apart in that soft, sprawling bed until your legs trembled. Until your nails left marks on his back. Until you could barely speak.

He fucked you with his mouth first. Long, slow drags of his tongue, groaning into you like he’d starved for weeks. Then his fingers. Then his cock.

Deep. Unrelenting.

Each thrust pulled another sound from your lungs until you were clawing at the sheets, moaning brokenly, barely able to cry out his name.

And even then, he hadn’t stopped. Hadn’t let up. Had only leaned down, kissed the corner of your jaw, and whispered, “I want to hear you again. Louder. C’mon, love—let me have it.”

And you gave it to him.

Every breath. Every whimper. Every shattered cry of Simon, please—

Until the next morning, when you woke up and couldn’t say a damn thing.

⸻

He took care of you after that.

No teasing. No smugness. Just quiet pride and careful hands.

You hadn’t raised a finger since the trip started.

He’s cooked every meal—woke before you just to slice fresh fruit and make you coffee. He’s drawn your baths with lavender oil. Rough hands, gentle touch, he creamed your skin in silence, like worship.

And in the quiet of the pool out back—surrounded by nothing but pines and wind and late spring sun, he kisses you like the world ended and only you two made it out.

Slow. Careful. Like you’re something ancient and sacred.

You float, legs around his waist, while he holds you against his chest, the water warm and still.

You try to whisper something; something like thank you, or I love you, or even just his name, but it’s still not there. Your voice, completely shot.

He smiles, presses a kiss to your throat.

“S’alright,” he murmurs. “I know what you’re saying.”

And then, quieter, against the shell of your ear:

“If this is all we ever had, I’d be just fine.”

Because for the first time in forever, the world is silent.

And it’s just the two of you.

Just how he wants it.

i hate this, kinda

[jaesblogstuff]

so obsessed with the idea of a man who is just so obsessed with your body that he knows it better than you do, he notices the smallest changes. boobs are a little bit bigger, hair grew a little bit longer, skin is a little softer. but also…he notices when you…taste different. little sweeter or a little more salty than normal. doesn’t say anything at first, but then after a couple days he mentions it. makes you take a test….kinda mumbles to himself “i knew it” when he sees two lines instead of one…cause he knows your body.

[jaesblogstuff]

[jaesblogstuff]

He doesn't listen I fear.

You know those instances where you’re a kid at school and your parents have to pick you up from school because you’re sick. That reminds me of Simon only time he’s much more stubborn and doesn’t take no for an answer most times.

⸻

You told him not to go in.

That morning, watching him drag his shirt over trembling fingers, you knew something was off. His shoulders slumped just a little too far, his voice caught in his throat when he said, “Just tired, that’s all.” And the heat rolling off of him when you touched his forehead—hellfire, even then.

“You should sit this one out, Simon,” you said quietly. “You’re running a fever.”

He grunted. Kissed your temple. “I’ve had worse.”

You didn’t argue. Not really. You just watched him lace up his boots and walk out the door like the stubborn bastard he is.

⸻

It doesn’t take long.

He holds out through briefing. Through training updates. Through a round of morning paperwork where he stares at the same page for twenty straight minutes. Nobody says anything, yet, but Price is watching him closely. Always is.

Then it happens.

Mid-conversation, Simon loses his balance. He rights himself fast—too fast, but not before his hand slaps against the edge of the table for support. He’s pale beneath the mask, which makes the red flush on his neck stand out even more.

“Riley.” Price’s voice cuts through the air. Calm. Measured. “Med bay. Now.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re burning up, son.”

Simon opens his mouth to argue again—but sways instead.

Price sighs. “That’s it. You’re done. You’re no good to anyone like this. Go. And we’re calling your emergency contact.” you

“No—no, I’m good,” he rasps.

“Not asking, mate.”

⸻

The number they dial is the only one listed.

Just “Mrs. Riley – Home.”

When you answer the call, your voice is calm but laced with expectation. You excused yourself from the meeting you were in. “Let me guess. He didn’t make it through the morning.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then, “That’d be correct, ma’am. Captain Price here. I’m sorry to call out of the blue. He’s in the med bay now—won’t let anyone near him. We’d like you to come collect him.”

You’re already getting your keys. “I told him this morning to —. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

And you are.

⸻

The base is quiet when you arrive—at least the part they bring you through. You’re escorted by a corporal who keeps glancing at you like he doesn’t know what to make of you. Neat coat. Composed expression. Eyes like polished glass. You move like someone used to command, but not in the military sense—something quieter. Older.

They don’t know who you are, not really. They’ve heard of “the missus.” Simon’s muttered references. A few quiet mentions of home, of normalcy. But none of them have seen you before.

Until now.

You step into the med bay and everything shifts.

There’s Simon—half-sitting on the cot, mask still on but sweat plastering his shirt to his back. He looks miserable. Barely holding himself upright. The medic stands a few feet away, clearly not trying to get too close.

You don’t speak loudly. You don’t need to.

“Simon.”

His head lifts.

The change is instant.

His shoulders relax. His breathing slows. He looks at you like salvation has just walked in wearing your coat.

“Love,” he croaks. “Didn’t want them to call you.”

You walk straight to him, planting yourself at his side.

“You should’ve stayed home.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re delirious.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Lets you rest your hand against his forehead. His skin is scorching. You look at him for a long second, then reach to gently peel the mask up and off.

The medics blink. Soap, lingering in the hall, actually stares.

You’re the only one he lets touch him like that.

“Let’s go,” you murmur. “Now.”

And he follows.

Like a shadow. Like a man undone.

Nobody says a word as you lead him out—his massive form leaning on you like he’s hollowed out, his head bowed slightly, his steps heavy but obedient. He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t argue.

The sergeant at the desk stares openly. One of the privates murmurs under their breath, “That’s Mrs. Riley?”

Price just nods once to himself, looking quietly satisfied. “Told you she was the only one who could get through to him.”

⸻

He’s out before you hit the highway.

One arm folded against the window, cheek pressed to his sleeve, breath slow and raspy. His body sinks into the passenger seat like it’s the first safe place he’s had all day.

You glance over at him, your fingers tight on the wheel. A small sigh escapes your chest.

“You never listen,” you whisper. “But I’ll always come get you.”

[jaesblogstuff]

my computer watching me upload another brain rot after i said i was going to study for the exams coming up.

[jaesblogstuff]

Here me out (mentions of pregnancy) From the moment Simon put a ring on your finger, you’ve been bent over every surface in the house. kitchen counter, dining table, even the washing machine mid-spin (i make myself laugh LOL) So it’s no surprise you ended up knocked up. Honestly, it was kind of the point. He wanted to see you like this. Full. Round. Swollen with his baby.

Now, months later, your back aches, your belly's heavy and your husband’s hands are right there, soothing, lifting, holding you together with a kind of reverence that makes your knees weak.

Because if it was his goal to get you like this… then it’s his job to take care of you now that you are.

-------

From the moment Simon put that ring on your finger, he made a quiet, devastating promise with his body as much as with his words.

You’d been bent over every surface in the house. The kitchen counter, hallway wall, the back of the couch, his lap in a dining chair, gasping his name into the crook of his neck, legs trembling while he kept you right there.

It was no surprise, really, that you ended up pregnant.

He'd wanted it. Wanted you round and full with it—his. Not out of ownership, but out of something deeper. Legacy. Healing. The need to build something softer than the war-torn world he came from.

Now, months later, your belly swelled gloriously with the proof of all that want. His want.

And tonight, it hurt.

Your back screamed from the weight, pressure clinging low and stubborn as you leaned over the kitchen counter in the dim glow of the fridge light. You were trying not to cry, not to wake him. But Simon always knew.

You heard his footsteps before you felt him, that quiet shuffle down the hall. And then—

“Back again?” came the rasp, sleep-heavy and warm behind you.

You nodded without turning. “It’s… too much tonight. I can’t get comfortable. I feel like she’s pulling my spine apart.”

Simon stepped closer, hands coasting over your hips, then around to your belly. He didn’t ask, just moved with quiet knowing, slipping his hands beneath the curve of your stomach and slowly lifting the weight off your aching back.

Your knees buckled slightly from the release, from how the ache dissolved under his touch. A long, broken sound fell from your lips, something between a sigh and a whimper and you melted into him completely.

“Oh my God,” you exhaled, your head tipping back to his shoulder. “Simon…”

Simon didn’t say anything at first, just held the weight of you both in his hands. His lips pressed to your temple, then down to your cheek.

“You carry her all day,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Let me carry you.”

Your heart ached in the best way as he held you there, hands beneath your belly, supporting all the strain, all the pain. You let yourself sag into his body, trusting him completely.

“You’re so good to me,” you whispered, arms curling back around his waist.

Simon was quiet for a beat, his voice soft as velvet when it came. “You gave me a home I didn’t know I wanted. You gave me this…” His hand splayed gently across the side of your belly, where your daughter shifted softly beneath the skin. “I’d do anything for you.”

The silence that followed was heavy with love. The kind that needed no words.

Eventually, he helped you back to bed, slow and careful, cradling your body like a sacred thing. And when you curled into his chest, belly pressed to his side, you swore you heard him whisper thank you into your hair.

Like he still couldn’t believe he got to have this. Got to have you.

[jaesblogstuff]

Simon absolutely seems like the kind of man who tells you to use his rank in any sort of intimacy. Like, he’s so used to commanding respect, it turns him on to hear it whispered into the crook of his neck, low and breathy. You say “Lieutenant” and suddenly he’s grabbing your hips harder, muttering “That’s it” like he’s been starved for it. You don’t get to call him Simon—not until you’ve earned it. Not until you’re good.

Anyways, here’s my brain rot idk

⸻

He was already half-dressed when you stepped inside. Black tee clinging to his chest, mask rolled up just enough to show the hard line of his jaw. The door clicked shut behind you, but neither of you said a word.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just muttered, “Didn’t expect visitors.”

Your heart thundered, but your voice was steady. “I needed to see you.”

He turned then. slow, deliberate. The room dim and warm from a single lamp. You couldn’t read him, not through the way he looked at you, like you were something dangerous. Like you’d walked in here with bad intentions and he wanted to see you carry them out.

“What for?”

You swallowed. “I just…”

You took a step closer.

“…couldn’t sleep.”

That was a lie.

You came because you wanted him. Wanted that voice that always dropped a pitch when he used your rank. Wanted to feel his hands, his mouth, the command in his gaze.

He arched a brow. “Didn’t know I was your bedtime remedy, Sergeant.”

“You’re something.”

Your voice was softer now. Honest.

And when he closed the space between you, one hand slipping beneath your chin to tip your head back, your breath caught.

“Say my name, then.”

It was a test. A dare.

You hesitated. “Simon—”

He clicked his tongue, thumb pressing lightly to your lips. “No.”

His mouth was close now, breath hot, lashes low.

“Try again.”

“Lieutenant,” you whispered, obedient this time.

That did it. His grip tightened just enough to ground you, his mouth brushing your jaw.

“That’s it, love.”

A low growl.

“That’s what I like. Good girl.”

And you knew; oh boy you knew, wouldn’t be allowed to say Simon until your body was wrecked from obeying every filthy command that came after.

oh fuck me

[jaesblogstuff]

Jackman, PLEASE 😭😭😭😭

[jaesblogstuff]

I UH- i need to get back to my anatomy studies. I have block 3 exams to ace :(

content: NSFW +18, explicit sexual content, slow and reverent intimacy, religious/symbolic references, soft dominance, mutual worship, aftercare ish idk. Simon “Ghost” Riley x f!reader.

——————————————————————————

Love, in its rawest form. Worship, in the shape of ruin.

—

The night wrapped itself around the city like a velvet cloak. heavy, warm, and soaked in secrets. Rain streaked the windows of the apartment, the soft hiss of it against glass the only sound that dared speak aloud. The candlelight flickered low, throwing shadows across bare walls and skin alike.

She stood in the doorway of the bedroom, robe hanging loosely from her shoulders, the soft silk clinging to the curve of her spine, to the places his eyes always lingered. He saw her before she saw him. Sitting at the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his thighs, shirt discarded somewhere behind him. His breath hitched the moment she stepped into the light.

There was nothing hurried about it—only devotion.

When he rose to meet her, his fingers ghosted over the place where her collarbone met her throat, like a man unsure if he was allowed to touch something so holy. Her breath trembled at the contact. Not from fear, but from anticipation.

His mouth found her skin first, lowered to kiss the hollow of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, the space behind her ear that always made her sigh. He unraveled her robe slowly, like he was peeling away layers of myth. She was no goddess, but he looked at her like one. And she worshipped him in return, with hands, with gasps, with whispered curses that dripped like honey from her lips.

The bed welcomed them like a sanctuary.

He laid her down with a gentleness that bordered on reverent, lips brushing her knee, then her thigh, then higher. She reached for him, desperate and dizzy, but he only smiled. Slow and dangerous, a man with all the time in the world.

“Not yet,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint. “Let me.”

And she did.

He touched her like scripture. Kissed her like penance. Drew every moan and tremble from her body with deliberate slowness until she was begging—softly, sweetly, so close to unraveling that her hands trembled when she touched his face.

He didn’t take her until she was pleading. Until her voice broke on his name like prayer.

When he finally sank into her, it was a quiet kind of ruin.

Their bodies moved together like the only truth in the room. Nothing hurried. Nothing wild. Just deep, drawn-out worship. His mouth on her jaw, his fingers locked in hers, their chests pressed so close it hurt. Every thrust was slow, aching, too much and not enough. She cried out softly when he angled just right, his name tumbling from her lips again and again like she didn’t know any other word.

He kissed it from her mouth.

Tears caught in her lashes. The beauty of it. The ache of it. The weight of being seen like that—laid bare, adored, wrecked by a man who loved her like it was a sin he’d gladly die for.

They came together in silence. no thunder, no cries. just a desperate exhale shared between mouths. Just his forehead against hers, their bodies trembling in the afterglow, slick and shaking, neither of them speaking. There were no words holy enough.

Later, he pulled her into his chest, burying his face in her hair. She laid there, boneless and blinking, while his hands roamed her back like he was still trying to memorize her. The candles burned low, the rain softened, and the silence between them was thick with meaning.

He pressed a kiss to her temple and whispered, “You’re all I believe in.”

And that was enough.

[jaesblogstuff]

I’m about to resurrect this bitch, don’t mention it. I was just re listening to lil nas x and then thought idk. Enjoy you filthy people. I’ve got studying to do. Explicit / NSFW. WARNING: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT PLEASE. SMUT 16+ (fem!reader) ⸻ You caught it bad yesterday. The first message from him came at 11:54PM. “You up?” Two minutes later: “Leave it unlocked.” You were already out of bed by the time the second message hit.

It had been two weeks since you’d seen him. Two weeks since you last felt his teeth against your throat, the weight of his body caging you in, those gloves sliding down your thighs like sin made flesh. You hated how badly you wanted him. Hated how you let him crawl back into your bed every time, no matter how long he was gone. But Simon Riley wasn’t the kind of man you said no to. And maybe that’s what made it worse. Because he never said yes either. Just come here. Just shut up. Just let me in. ⸻ The door creaked open at 12:09AM. He didn’t knock. Never did. He was wearing all black, hood pulled low, jaw tense. You caught a glint of sweat on his neck as he stepped inside, shoulders wide, knuckles bruised. The moment the door shut, he turned to you with that dark look in his eye, the one that said he wasn’t here to talk. “You gonna stare, or get on your knees?” he rasped. Your breath hitched. The heat rolled in low through your belly. You didn’t answer. You sank. He didn’t even touch you at first. Just watched with that twisted little smirk while you unbuckled his belt, pushed down his pants, and took him into your mouth like you’d been starving for it. Because you had. “Fuck—yeah, that’s it,” he growled, one hand gripping your hair, forcing your pace. “Been thinking about this mouth.” He wasn’t gentle. He never was. Your mascara smudged, tears streaking your cheeks. You choked around him, felt the way his thighs tensed when you swallowed him deeper. He didn’t praise—just used. But the way he twitched in your mouth? That was praise. ⸻ “Call me when you want, call me when you need.” The night melted into a blur of skin and sweat. Clothes hit the floor in a trail to your bedroom. He bent you over the mattress before your knees even touched it. His palm flattened against your back, holding you in place as he slid inside, slow, deep, overwhelming. You gasped, hand clawing at the sheets. “Yeah,” he muttered, leaning close to your ear. “That’s what I fuckin’ wanted.” His hips snapped against yours. Hard. Unforgiving. You moaned, loud and broken, and he covered your mouth with his hand, fingers digging into your cheek. “Quiet,” he warned. “You want your neighbors to hear how filthy you are for me?” You nodded anyway. Your walls fluttered around him. Every thrust pushed you higher—your body trembling, thighs slick, crying for more. He shifted his angle, hit that spot that made your eyes roll back. “God—Simon—” you cried, muffled. He pulled out and flipped you, dragging your leg up over his shoulder. His hand found your throat, not tight—just there, just enough to make you feel owned. His eyes burned into yours. “Call me by my name,” he said. You whimpered it. Whispered it. Cried it. “Again.” “Simon—fuck—Simon.” “That’s it. Good fuckin’ girl.” ⸻ “Tell me you love me in private…” After the second round, your limbs jelly, your body spent, he stayed. Not to cuddle. Not to talk. But he lay there next to you, chest rising and falling, sweat drying on his neck. You dared to reach out, dragged your fingertips over his stomach. He didn’t stop you. “You don’t stay like this with anyone else, do you?” you whispered. Silence. Then: “No.” You looked over. His eyes were closed. His face unreadable. But you heard what he didn’t say. You were different. And he hated that. So did you. ⸻ The sun was bleeding through the window when you woke. Alone. But on your phone, a message waited. “Call me when you want.”

[jaesblogstuff]

Actions speak louder than words

A/N: First fic back from exams? either way enjoy the brain fart at 2 in the morning.

WARNING: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT PLEASE. SMUT 16+ (fem!reader)

A tear-stained face you knocked at Miguels' door at 3 in the morning, unusual yes for a hookup, better yet just talking. You could hear feet shuffling across the floor on the other side of the door, stopping just by the door. He was tired of course from his sleepy expression moreso confusion overshadowing his face as he opened the door to see you there. Dressed in no more than a boxer, his lean figure was exposed for you to see.

“y/n what are you doin?-”

Your kiss cut him off, his hands quick to hold the small of your back. 

He was somewhat used to this. You and your boyfriend fought which more times than not left you in tears. You come knocking at his door to “vent” and ends in you writhing beneath him.

So he knows what *this* is all about.

Instinctively, he taps the side of your thigh, hoisting you up, legs draping over his waist. Your tears mixed with the kisses which had no rhythm but a sense of urgency as if you two were searching for something. This was no night, rather a morning of conversation, but chasing and fulfilling that need.

Miguel carried you to his room, placing you on the bed and proceeding to line your body with kisses. He slowly moved down as if to love and praise every part of you until he reached where you most needed him. He was teasing, of course. Kissing the inner parts of your thigh but blowing slightly on your aching area. You knew what he was doing though, tugging him slightly letting him know this was not the time nor the place.

He caught on, licking a strip down your centre earning a gasp from you. One thing Miguel knew how to master was his eating you out and gaining more pleasure from it than you. He would occasionally use his fangs to tease your clit. Your hip involuntarily jolts up at the pleasure, Miguel's hands quick hold you in place.

Oftentimes than not, he gets lost in eating you out and forgets that someone is also receiving the pleasure at the other end. You were getting close, he knew from the way your body reacted; legs threatening to close around him, jagged breaths, and grip ever so tightening on his hair, but, he continued. He gave you one good look from below signalling for you to let go. You came down from your high but he was still lapping in your juices. You were getting louder and overstimulated by his tongue, it becoming too much. You grabbed his head, pulling him away from you, a smirk creeping across his face.

Hands now on your waist, he moved back up to lather kisses on your upper body, especially at your neck which was likely to put you in a moaning mess. You could feel his hard-on, and he looked into your eyes searching for an answer, “Can I?” and a simple not from you was all that was needed.

He aligned himself with your entrance, your hand, balling the sheet as he bottomed out. He waited a few moments for you to adjust before thrusting at an unbelievable speed. Head falling back to meet the pillow and eyes rolling back which was guaranteed to see the inside view of your head and tears of pleasure but also emotion, he was going at a ravishing pace. He held you by the chin forcing you to look at him.

“Up here. I'm up here.”

This night in particular he was not being lenient with you. The wet sound of your bodies in contact filled the room as well as the moans which he drew out of you. You're more than sure his neighbours would be having the last laugh in this situation. You were coming to your second orgasm, moans becoming shorter and high pitched but he didn't slow the pace, rather quickening to also reach his own climax.

The knots were there in your stomach when he moved his free hand down to your clit, drawing 8s over it. You were far from gone at this point, white flashes coming over you. Miguel also came unbeknownst to you. He held himself up on his elbows over you catching his breath before slowly moving out, causing a groan to leave his lips from the loss of fulfilment.

He got up, went to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and a warm towel. When he came back to the room, tears still on your face seemingly from the sex you just had, he came over to you and placed the water on the nightstand beside you, wiping your tear-stained face, and slowly got to cleaning you up, gasping at the sensitivity. He finished and got beside you, holding you in his arm and hand running through your head, enough to draw you into a slumber state. But he knew the rules in the book You’d come, you'd fuck and you'd leave just before the sun showed its face. And this was true. The next morning, Miguel woke up to an empty bed, just left with the scent of *you*.

[jaesblogstuff]

until next time, i guess.

A/N: angst again..I just have a lot of angst in my drafts rn so might as well get rid of it :)

also, this might be my last fic in a while with exams going on and burnout so yeah 🧍‍♀️

Content warning: mentioned abuse, slight language, angst

Having arguments with Jack was not a usual thing. He promised you at the beginning of this relationship that he doesn't like to shout, never did, but something did take a turn during these past couple weeks.

After the tour started, he started to grow more and more agitated at you, reason being? You had no clue but whatever it was, you tried to subtly keep your distance from him. An argument broke out at your shared apartment, foul language being thrown left, right and centre with slight degradation in the heat of the moment.

During the argument, not being able to think straight, you began to pack up your suitcase.

“Where the hell are you going?” he questioned following you.

But you ignored his question, scavenging and continuing to pack your clothes.

When you were done packing, grabbing whatever you could think about at the moment, you were about to leave his bedroom when standing at the door frame, he snatched the suitcase from your hand.

“Stop.” There was deep pain and regret in his voice.

You stopped.

“Stop and look at me…”

Slowly you raised your head and looked him dead in his eyes. They were swelling with tears but he was trying his best to hold himself together.

“You can't just run away when things get hard y/n..”

“Why not Jack? Why not. You've been ignoring, treating me like shit and frankly i've had enough.”

“You love me right?”

“Yes- “

“Then stay.”

You frowned, shaking your head. “No jack..”

You grabbed your suitcase from his hand and quickly ran down the stairs. Before you could reach the door handle, he shouted your name.

“Swear to god..” he shouted “If you walk out that door I will never, ever fucking look for you again, do you understand me?” you knew this was just a lie to try and get you back, and he would come back to find you.

You ignored him, pulled out your car keys and stormed outside of the apartment.

He started up again. “Wait wait. I didn't mean that..”

You put your suitcase in the trunk. He was standing in the way trying to stop you from leaving.

“Move Jack!”

“You're my everything.” he said, still blocking your path. “Without you, I’m nothing, my love.”

You grew tired of hearing him go on and on and finding ways to possess you to change your mind, you rolled your eyes. The relationship keeps going nowhere every time you try to forgive him when you let go of his anger on you. It was time to take a break, maybe end it.

“Please.” he begged, “Don't break me.”

But it was already too late. Your mind was already made up.

“No.” you said, pushing him back, “I’m done with you.”

He stumbled back and you saw his jaw clenched. You looked down at his hands which were balled in a fist, which made you frightened of his next move. You began having flashbacks from when your ex would constantly hit you and Jack promised and made sure he wasn't the type to assert his anger through violence.

He just stood there in defeat as he watch you left the driveway, not even a kiss to say goodbye.