softh0neycomb

[softh0neycomb]

Simon Riley fulfills your dream.

cw: 18+ | fem!Reader; established romantic relationship; fluff

You've been married for a year now, and it's been peaceful. Blissful, even. All despite his high-stress job and absences due to his deployments and the responsibility of his rank.

Despite all of it, Simon makes it all worth it.

He's an attentive husband. A proper himbo inside your cosy home. Sweet and caring, nurturing and loyal to a fault. Grumpy sometimes, yes, but never towards you.

"Why would I be mad at the bloody sun?" It's a rhetorical question and a bad metaphor. He tugs you closer towards him under the duvet, grumbling: "Not my bloody fault if she's too hot."

And you haven't regretted marrying him once—even if he sometimes still likes to joke about it during quiet moments, almost as if he fears for your agreement one day.

You will never say yes to that particular question, though. Negative.

Especially not when your body has been changing so drastically since hitting your 30s, and with a hunk of a man like him around? Your ovulation phase could very well be compared to a warzone whenever it hits you.

More times than once did Simon jokingly speak into a broken walkie-talkie with a clean bullet hole piercing through it (which he refuses to throw away, claiming it's a souvenir), dryly asking for back-up when you approached him like a cat in heat for the third time that day.

This month, when you check your period app and see the blue tinted dates coming up, you crawl towards your husband—with a request in tow.

"Free use?" he repeats, lifting his cuppa to blow on the tea you brought him while he sits reclined in his armchair, watching rugby on the flat screen telly. "Means whot I think it means?"

You shuffle in one spot on your fuzzy socks, hands clasped behind your back as you nod sheepishly.

His tawny eyes drag over you from head to toes, darkening visibly as he goes, pondering your request.

"Ya sure? If we're gonna do tha'—" He inhales sharply, mind slipping him and envisioning it on the spot. A deep rumble reverberates through his broad, bulky chest beneath his hoodie.

"Olright," he sets the cup down on the side table next to the armrest, "but if we gonna do it, we gonna do it properly. Say yes."

Perhaps you should've thought about it more throughly, because Simon means what he says. There is no sugarcoating, ever.

And when you start ovulating, feeling the horny demon possessing you at dusk, as you approach him with that familiar, feral twinkle in your eyes while Simon is doing the dishes, he stops you before you can try anything.

"Go upstairs and undress. Face down, arse up, and wait f'me."

It's the way he doesn’t even bother to glance your way as you paw at his shirt while he gruffs out his command in a way that has already has your pussy quivering.

[softh0neycomb]

you'd do anything to fuck your boss. (18+, ghost x f!secretary)

well, he's not technically your boss. you report to captain price, but he never fails to remind his boys that there's a pretty thing that sits outside of his office that can file their paperwork and take notes for them. he's always volunteering your services to them, and all you can do is cross your legs behind your desk and smile. even if you didn't want to do it, you would never tell your captain no.

except for him—not for your favorite.

lieutenant riley is exactly the sort of thing you would ruin your career for. closed-off. angry. matter-of-fact. he dealt with no bullshit, and he said whatever he wanted to; he did not care for how anyone perceived his opinions.

there is something comforting about someone that does not wear a false face. ghost is not creepy nor is he mean (not unless you're asking for it). he tells it to you as it is, and he doesn't reserve room for comfort nor ease. he doesn't care, and that's what makes him feel safe to you. there is nothing to discover. he has no secret to hide from you. there's something transparent that he keeps close to himself, and in that way, you can't keep your eyes off of him.

oh, well—he's also built like a fucking tank.

you think often about what you might have to do to get him to look at you. he's so massive; you find yourself in meetings, watching the way he takes up whatever side of the room he's in. the chair creaking as he sits down, straining to take his weight. the top of the doorway nearly skimming his head. the way he pins you to where you are just with a fixed glare.

fuck. he's hot. when his reports come across your desk, you even feel yourself squeezing your legs together at the way he writes—eloquently, with expansive vocabulary, a keen eye for detail and a penmanship that isn't written in fucking blue crayon (you'll never forgive johnny for that shit).

capable, confident, killing machine—holy fucking shit, will you just forget you're in my bed for one night? please, please, please, please—

for fuck's sake, how hard could it be? he's just a man; and men are all the same.

it's late when you knock on his door. he likes this little corner of the base; a room with four walls and one measly window, tucked in with just enough yellow light to keep him settled. when he opens the door, you can smell the cigarette he must've been smoking. he's dressed down because of the hour; just in the shirt under his jacket and dark jeans, mask just under his nose as he blows the remaining breath of smoke he was holding to the side.

"'s late," he mutters. you're supposed to be off-base by now. at home, back in civilian life, back with people of the real world and not amongst the ones that hide from it. he talks like he doesn't care you're even there; like he didn't even notice your wet eyes.

"i-i know," you whisper. "i-i need some help. no one else is...up."

you hold up your hand, which is shaking now. the side of your hand has been sliced open—an office accident, a paper cutter in the wrong position. there's blood dripping down the skin of your arm, soaking through the thin napkin you're trying to use as a makeshift bandage. ghost tilts his head, looking down at it, and he shakes his head when he sees it.

"clumsy girl."

you sit on his desk as he flips open a first aid kit. it's quiet here, no music, no men, just the sound of the outside and the rustle of plastic as ghost fishes out a clean bandage. he already helped you clean up the cut over the sink; nothing but soap and water, big hand scrubbing at the cut until he was satisfied it was clean.

he uses his teeth to tear open a new package, and you keep your eyes on his as he smooths it over your hand. he's not looking at you; he's focused on your hands, keeping you still, and when he finishes, he finally looks at you.

"thank you," you whisper. ghost doesn't move away. he doesn't want to; if he did, he would already be out of your space. you don't flinch when he reaches a hand up, a gloved hand wiping under your eye. when your lashes flutter, ghost's nostrils flare, tongue coming out to trace along his teeth. you smile, so demure, so soft.

you look sweet; and a man has to eat.

you squeak when he takes a blade out of his boot. you meet his eyes, mouth dropping open in a pant as he licks across the metal before using the tip of it to cut the button of your blouse. you look down, a whine leaving you as he pops each button off of your blouse with a flick of his blade. the buttons scatter across the floor, clattering, and then he's closer, stretching your thighs apart, pencil skirt riding up as he slides those gloved hands up your legs until it scrunches around your wide hips.

"i know wot y'r doin'," ghost mutters. his forehead presses to yours, and you lift your knees, trapping him between your legs as you lock your ankles behind him. "think i haven't seen ya?"

"mmm..."

"oooohhh, now y'wanna play stupid, tha' 'ow it's gonna be, yeah?"

you'll play dumb and dumber until the day you die if he fucks you like this every time. the items on his desk scatter as he lays you over it, arms knocking pens and papers over as his mouth fits against yours and your little (compared to his own) hands fumble with the zipper of his jeans to get him just naked enough. he's eating you, stealing your breath, tongue laving over your teeth and around your mouth until there's spit gathering under your chin. he'd be a good kisser if he wasn't so fucking nasty about it, but it means you taste the ash that clings to him, and somehow it's good—so fucking good, take it out, take it out, take it out—

"knew you'd be big," you babble, soft hand cupping under his cock. he cradles the back of your head, tip catching between your folds, and you can do nothing but arch your back as he puts two thumbs against your pussy and fits himself inside.

he is big, in a nasty, terrible way. he's big in the way that must've turned other girls off. he's big in the way that must've made them gag, made them hurt, made them decide it was all too much and left before they could get his cock properly wet, and for that, you're taking this as a challenge.

when he presses a gloved hand over your belly and feels for the tip of his cock, you know you have him.

locked and fucking loaded.

he lets your fingers under the mask. your nails scratch over his buzzed hair under the fabric, and you hum into his mouth as he grips the outside of your thigh and pulls you even closer to him.

it'll never be the same again. you'll never be normal, not with this thing hiding you under their shadow. you'll never want another man, you'll never look at him the same way, you'll never feel as full as you at this very moment underneath him with his cock rearranging your insides and forcing your toes to curl in the heels you're still wearing.

your eyes water just as much as your pussy. you're leaking from everywhere—tears on your cheeks, slick along his cock, sweat at the base of your spine, drool in his mouth. you take it like the clumsy girl you really must be. your legs are dangling around his hips, body following his lead because you don't know what to do with yourself with how good he makes you feel.

you bare your throat as he grinds his hips. as your head tips back, his teeth catch your jaw, and when his cock punches somewhere soft, you push your hips up against his to meet him halfway. your body react on autopilot, but ghost forces you where he wants you with a stiff hand and a condescending huff.

"tha' good, innit?"

yes. yes, it's that fucking good, yes, it's the best you'll ever have, yes, you're going to make an excuse every single night so you can end up right here, underneath him, anchored against him for nothing but your pleasure. you'll do anything to come back.

you come just before him. your legs are shaking, hanging off his arms, and he buries his face into your neck when you feel his cum hot inside of you.

he pulls out slowly, chin against his thick chest as he watches the knickers he never took off of you soaked through now. he pinches the fabric between his gloved hands, sliding them off of you. he's a nasty man, and you expect him to pocket them, but what you didn't expect was his tongue to fall out, and you definitely didn't expect to see him wad up the fabric and stick it right into his mouth.

he grins, maniacal, as he sucks with a fervor before spitting it back out into his waiting hand. when your legs start to close, your thighs rubbing together for stimulation, ghost grits his teeth and shakes his head.

"oi," he pushes your legs apart, stepping between them again. "not done with you."

no, maybe ghost isn't like other men.

he's hungrier. it'll take much more than that to feed him right.

[softh0neycomb]

thinking about fucking your lieutenant but now he won't leave you alone. (18+)

you thought he'd want to keep it a secret. ghost is the most quiet, secretive, mysterious man you know. he won't even eat in the same room as you to avoid showing you any part of his face.

you don't really know why it happened. you suppose, at the end of the day, ghost is just the kind of man you always gravitate towards—off-putting, angry, sarcastically nasty with the thickest thighs and an eager tongue. he's big all-over, and that might just be your weakness. big hands, pudgy stomach, long legs, perfect cock—the kind that stretches your insides and makes your tummy feel full.

ghost is mean, though. he doesn't play favorites. you've seen others try to get on his good side, try to kiss his ass, but he has none of it. he doesn't give anyone special treatment, and you don't expect it from him now. you don't expect him to even acknowledge you. you let him come inside of you, but that doesn't mean he won't make you run laps or drop and give him an agonizing amount of push-ups.

when you leave his room, you keep your mouth shut. you expect nothing but his back.

color you surprised when a whole group of people stop talking while you're sitting with them. your head in your hands, coffee cooling in front of you, and suddenly the lively table is clearing their throats and looking anywhere but up. when you turn your head, ghost is standing there, staring at you like a hungry animal.

he makes you stay behind after drills. corners you into closets, shoves you behind walls. you're so swept up in the butterflies as he hoists you up against the wall that you don't remember which round it is that day—can't get enough o'me, can ya?

but you don't expect the display. you're running through your demolitions training, soap at your side, and when you manage to untangle the wires and solder a few pieces together successfully, you were not expecting the heat at your back coming to praise you. the grip on your neck, the pull on you until your head snaps back, and then the hard kiss through the mask.

the most embarrassing part is soap who just grins like he expected it. like he knows a secret about you that you didn't even know yourself. when ghost pulls back, dark eyes lidded and heavy, you nearly fall through the floor when he kisses his teeth under the mask and mumbles the most diabolical, "tha's a good girl, int'she, johnny?"

ghost doesn't want to keep it quiet. ghost doesn't want to keep you a secret. in fact, ghost grabs your ass right in front of his captain, thick gloved hand in the back pocket of your cargoes that squeezes so hard, you squeak audibly in the mess hall line.

it makes other soldiers angry—so she gets special treatment cause she opened her fucking legs? it makes others jealous—why is she the only one that gets to have a piece? it makes a small number morbidly curious—what does she have that's good enough to come back for?

it doesn't matter what they say. it doesn't matter what they think. it doesn't matter if they hate you or want to be you or want to kill you. lieutenant simon "ghost" riley has all but claimed you, and that means no one puts a hand on you unless they want to lose it.

"why me?"

it's a simple question, but why is it so difficult?

you have such sad eyes. all wet, lips trembling. you're frustrated. did ghost know the implications of being less than discreet? did he know how people would treat you when they knew you let your lieutenant into your bed and kept him there? did he realize that parading you around like this would only make things worse?

"no one looks at me," ghost says. he says it with his face against the line of your jaw. he says it with his cock still inside of you, cum leaking down your thighs as he pulls out just to fuck himself back in to keep it there.

but you do, is what he doesn't say, and you know it, and it makes the butterflies turn into an ache, one that slips around your heart and tugs it low.

it makes you feel new again. it feels good.

so when a private with too much ego spits at your feet, you don't flinch—"i don't take orders from ghost's bitch."

he brushes a thumb across your cheek, touching where the bruising is starting to bloom. skeleton glove tracing a line down your face, over the split in your lip, over the bleeding cut across your brow.

"you give it back?" ghost asks. he leans down, crowding your space, forehead nearly against yours. you nod, lifting your hand, putting a hand on his wrist as he rubs his thumb across your bottom lip. "he broken?"

"fought a little dirty," you mumble, blinking up at him. you remember the look on the guy's face when the metal folding chair came flying towards his face. "but he had a mouth on him."

"'n 'ow is he now?"

"eating through a straw, sir."

ghost nearly purrs. it must take an enormous amount of self-discipline for him not to force you to bend over—he's done it for less, in more public places, but he's looking at you now, and you wonder if he loves you.

you wonder if he's capable of that.

[softh0neycomb]

mine

[softh0neycomb]

Killer buns

Tip jar

[softh0neycomb]

Margaritaville

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort.Or: the knocked up on vacation au Part 2 masterlist

-

For all your zoning out, you still know how to make the most of your vacation. 

Grains of white sand scratch the skin between your toes on the walk back from the beach, sun-fatigued and pruny-fingered. Synapses firing slower than usual. You nearly doze off on the shuttle ride back to the hotel until someone jostles you awake, the embarrassing snort you let out entirely unintentional.

It’s not your fault. Several hours in the sun and sea will do that to a person.

You can’t put John entirely out of your head though. The intent in his gaze still sizzles under your skin like a bad burn. It takes everything in you not to tell your friends that you’ll see them around and take the shuttle right back to the hotel to meet up with him. Knowing him, you’d probably find him in one of his usual haunts—lounging around poolside or still seated at the swim-up bar—pleased as punch to see you come crawling back.

You pinch your arm to snap yourself out of it. You’re better than that. You can take your mind off John long enough to focus on spending time with your friends and making the most of your vacation. It’s not like there aren’t plenty of activities going on around the resort to help take your mind off him. 

The silent disco is held on a small patch of sand in the atrium of the hotel, surrounded by couches and corridors leading to the other wings on all sides. There’s a DJ booth off to the side that’s mostly for show since the only music playing is what’s blaring from your headphones. 

Three hours spent dancing and drinking and you’ve practically sweated out all the alcohol in your system, which you’re more than happy to replace with another drink. You stumble over to the bar twice for a top up on your margarita before your head begins to spin something fierce and the sand somehow poses more of a risk than the ground given that it keeps slipping out from under you. 

You slip the earphones off your ears and turn to your friends, two of them still dancing together. The other is sitting on one of the couches nearby, hands folded over her belly and eyes pinched shut like she might throw up. 

One of your friends dances a bit too close to you and you reach out to tap her shoulder.

“D’you guys mind if I go upstairs?” you ask, slurring your words only a little. 

“Yeah,” one yells, only one headphone pushed to the side. 

You point over to where your other friend is still sitting on the couch. “Are you guys gonna—”

“Yeah, we’ll take her up, don’t worry. I only had one drink.”

Reassured, you say your goodbyes and dust the sand off your feet before putting your sandals back on. 

You barely make it a couple yards from the atrium dance floor when the exhaustion finally starts to catch up to you. Your feet catch on the grout line of the tile floor when you can’t seem to muster up the energy to fully lift your feet with each step, making you stumble forward a couple steps.

A hand catches you under your elbow when you nearly stumble right into a wall, reeling you in firmly.

“Hey, hey, hey—think you might’ve had a bit too much,” a gruff voice says, lightly scolding you, and you blame the way you instantly go liquid at the sound of his voice on the alcohol still clouding your head. 

“I’m gettin’ water,” you insist and he snorts, less amused than indignant. 

“You damn sure are.”

He herds you over to a couch and makes you sit down, growling at you when you try to get back up, insisting that you wait until he comes back. Alcohol might make you more petulant than usual, but the warning note in his voice doesn’t escape you, so you sit there with your hands in your lap, head spinning, until he returns a few minutes later, sitting down beside you and handing you an unopened bottle of water. 

It says something about the state of your fixation that you recognize exactly who came to your rescue by voice alone, despite having only spoken to each other the one time. It registers in the lizard part of your brain that makes you go almost servile, letting him put you exactly where he wants you and take what’s given to you.  

“Drink up—there we go,” John instructs when you take a long drink, nudging your chin up with his knuckle and nearly making you choke. “That’s a good girl.”

You drink your water with gusto, the plastic bottle crinkling under your fingers, condensation making the plastic label slide all over the place with your thumb. A bead of water dribbles down your chin and drips onto the floor. Your face burns from his touch and his words. 

It’s not the first time that you’ve seen him in something other than his swim trunks—that wouldn’t be appropriate to wear at the breakfast buffet—but the patterned Hawaiian shirt and board shorts combo is doing something unholy to your libido. His shirt is mostly unbuttoned save for the two in the middle, hiding his midsection but exposing his pecs at the top and the treasure trail of dark hair leading down into his shorts.

“Where’d you come from?” you ask dumbly. 

He laughs softly and your stomach flips at the sound. “The bar over there.” He points someways off and you squint until you can make out the shape of the bartender moving back and forth between the people sitting in front of him, submerged in cindery darkness. “You know, I’m on vacation too.”

“Oh. Yeah. I know.”

It’s healthy that you remember that every once in a while—that a whole world exists outside of your experience of it. John isn’t here as a manifestation of your libido, but as a real person on vacation too, one that just so happens to make your heart beat twice as fast when you see him. 

But a better time for introspection might be when you’re upstairs in your bed and not drunk off your feet. 

“You need any help getting back up to your room?” John asks.

You grunt, shaking your head and regretting that action almost immediately when the room starts to spin all the more violently and your stomach lurches. 

“That’s a yes then,” he says, shushing you when you start to protest. “Don’t argue. Drink your water.”

Exhaustion leaves you boneless, no fight left in you to object to his words. Besides, he’s not wrong. With the way your head is spinning, you’ll be flat on your ass tomorrow if you don’t drink water now. 

You guzzle the rest down with both hands until there’s nothing left, blindly handing the empty bottle back to the man sitting beside you who leaves for not more than a second to toss it. He comes back to find you slumped over, your elbows braced on your thighs and your breath coming out short and shaky. 

“You gonna be sick, hun?” John asks, kneeling beside you and holding a new, ice cold water bottle to your cheek, an instant balm to your suffering.

“…No,” you sigh, suppressing the urge to shake your head. “Just need to lie down.”

He nods. “Okay. Wanna give me your key and we’ll get you up to your room?”

Your eyes crack open a hair to stare suspiciously at him. “…You’re not coming to my room with me.”

John shakes his head. “Didn’t mean it like that, honey. Just not sure you can make it up on your own right now.”

Though he isn’t exactly off in his judgement, you’re still not sure how you feel about a strange man walking you back to your hotel room in this state. You’re tempted to go back to your friends instead, and maybe he sees that in your gaze because he reaches into his back pocket to pull out his wallet and then hands you his driver’s license. 

“Take a picture and send it to your friends—anything happens to you and they can hold me responsible.”

You don’t know why that statement of all things nearly leaves you breathless. You listen though, snapping a quick picture of his license before sending it to one of your friends with a quick little message to keep her from worrying. 

“Good?” John asks, lifting an eyebrow. You nod, mouth still dry from drinking too much.

The ease with which he hoists you up onto your feet briefly renders you speechless. Wide-bodied man that he is, he seems twice as large stood beside you, the arm linked with yours one big slab of muscle. He keeps you braced to his side as he starts towards the elevators. 

True to his word, after the long journey back upstairs with your arm hooked through his to keep you on the straight and narrow, John lets you go at the door, though not before handing you the unopened bottle of water still in his other hand. 

“For tomorrow morning,” he says.

“Oh,” you reply, all raspy and unsure. “Thank you.”

For a second, you almost think he’s going to follow you in. You’re not sure what you’d do or how you’d feel about it. There’s not much you’d be able to do if he really wanted to force his way in—even sober, you’d have a hard time putting up much of a fight. 

So when he takes a step forward into the room, your heart skips a beat and your stomach drops, only for John to grab the handle and pull the door shut behind him, leaving you in the empty room alone. 

The girls are piled together on the other bed when you wake up the next day, still out for the count despite the alarm going off on one of their phones. They must have gotten in not long after you, but they look twice as knackered, makeup smeared around their eyes and still in their clothes from the night before. No one must have bothered to sit them down and forced them to drink a bottle of water before passing out for the night. 

Your head buzzes at the thought. Instead of focusing on it, you turn your head to look down at your bedside table where the extra water bottle and Advil are waiting. Heat flickers briefly into your cheeks when you remember who was responsible for making sure you’d be alright in the morning. 

The day slows to a crawl when you’re by yourself. It’s quieter somehow, late enough that most of the families have already left for the beach or the more kid-friendly pool on the other side of the resort. The girls only crack open their jaws and yawn good morning around noon, long after you already went downstairs for coffee and breakfast, enjoying the morning to yourself for once. 

“I think my head’s going to explode,” one complains, collapsing into a chair. 

Despite your own mild hangover, you’re not void of sympathy. “Want me to get you guys some food?” you ask. 

All three look over at you with big, pleading eyes. You take that as a yes. 

The breakfast service from earlier in the morning has already been swapped for the lunch service. Too late to grab something from the omelette station or a full English breakfast. From the state of your friends, you don’t think they’d turn down anything carb-heavy though, so you head to the pasta station with a tray big enough for two or three plates. 

Head in the clouds, you don’t see him coming until he’s suddenly there. All it takes is the slightest tilt of your head to catch him from the corner of your eye, John all the way at the front of the line, big and imposing as ever. Even more so in the light of day. 

When he feels your stare on him, he looks over, winking when he meets your eyes. 

There’s nothing to bury your face in and hide what wink does to you. All you can do is smile at him awkwardly and turn to the cook when she hands you back three plates, which you pile on your tray one by one. 

Your friends are in various states of collapse when you return to their table, heads resting on folded arms. There’s a round of drinks in front of them from a passing server, though only one of them has the wherewithal to pop the straw into the corner of her mouth and drink.

“Hot guy’s over there,” one of your friends grumbles, pointing as discretely as possible. You follow her finger to find John at a nearby table, minding his own business. If he feels your stare on him, he doesn’t acknowledge it this time.

“Yeah…I saw him in line,” you admit.

“He’s good eye candy…” another muses. “But…we should make some kind of pact.”

“What kind?”

“No one tries to fuck him. We’re supposed to be on vacation together—it won’t be any fun if one of us leaves the group to shack up with the only hot guy on the resort when we’re supposed to be spending the rest of the week together.”

Not a chance in hell, you almost blurt out, swallowing your words at the last second. You’re more offended at the thought that any of them would try than at the idea of you not being allowed. 

Another one of your friends snorts. “He’s not the only hot guy around.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Seriously—there’s a group of frat bros that checked in the other day. I saw them at dinner the other night.”

“I saw them too and please be so fucking for real. They were nowhere near as hot as the other guy.”

A medley of snorts breaks the slight tension. “Okay, whatever, it doesn’t matter. Are we all in agreement?”

“Why bother making a pact?” you ask, annoyance flickering in you like a lizard scuttling up the wall. 

The one who brought it up turns to you, unimpressed. “You texted me his ID last night, dude.”

You cringe, just now remembering that you did in fact send her the picture of his ID the night before. “Oh, that’s just—he walked me back up to our hotel room last night after I left. He didn’t, uh…come in or anything.”

“Yeah, sure,” she says, not buying a word of it. 

“He made me do it actually. Just to be safe.”

“Well, that was nice of him,” another snorts, fork clinking against the plate as she starts digging into her food. “Guess that means he only wants to fuck one of us.”

“Oh my god, stop,” you beg, hands covering your face so you don’t have to look at any of them. You do take some pleasure in her saying that though, however guilty that pleasure may be. 

The only thing that brings you back to Earth is glancing over at John’s table again to find him still oblivious to your staring, too preoccupied with his breakfast to pay you any attention. That stings a bit. It’s as good a reminder as any that despite him wanting to fuck you or not, he won’t be sitting beside you on the plane at the end of the trip. It’s your friends that you’ll have to face back home if you sideline them on your group trip.

You turn back to them, pinky finger out for them to take. “Okay. Promise.” 

And you almost believe it when you say it. 

But promises made in peacetime aren’t easily kept in times of strife. Days of unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts and sunglasses sitting low on the bridge of John’s nose prove that to you. 

Your resolve wavers like a bear shaking fruit from a tree—standing up on its hind legs with both paws braced against the tree trunk and giving it a few powerful shakes before checking around to see what came loose. 

His complexion deepens as the days go on, tan setting in and sunburn fading away. When you see him through the glass walls of the fitness centre on the way to the pool in the early morning, it’s all you can do to keep walking. 

Now that you’ve broken the ice, John isn’t shy to track you down around the resort. Not that he ever was. Maybe before he was just biding his time, waiting to see if his advances would be reciprocated, and now that you’ve given him the greenlight, so to speak, his reservations have vanished into thin air. 

The attention feeds your ego to the point of critical mass. You can’t stop imagining yourself from an outside perspective, obsessed with the thought of what you might look like to John from afar, in the throes of a perpetual out of body experience. 

It’s just addicting to think about a man like John being interested in little old you. Makes you look at yourself in a whole new way. In the morning, you put on your sunscreen in front of the bathroom mirror and take an extra few minutes to appreciate all of your features, turning this way and that to admire your form, insecurities plucked out one by one, his desire refracted in the prism of your chest and reflected back out.

The frustrating part is that you know you’re doing the wrong thing by indulging him when you shouldn’t be even entertaining his flirtatious overtures. You came all this way to spend time with your friends, not follow a hot man back to his hotel room. If it were any of your friends and not you toying with the idea, your anger would come swift and righteous. It’s hypocritical to not think they’d ask the same of you.

But—you chew your lip when he makes eye contact with you from across the restaurant at dinner—like everyone else, you have a breaking point. You’re only human at the end of the day.

“Ah, ah, ah, there we go,” John rumbles right in your ear, hot breath panting down the side of your neck. 

You don’t know how you wind up back in his hotel room hours later with your knees draped over his shoulders and his voice low in your ear telling you to count to ten while he pushes in, gasping every time his hips punch forward, cockhead nearly nudging your cervix and filling you all the way up, close to overspilling.

Too much, too big; even though he stretched you out on two thick fingers for what felt like hours, it still forces all the oxygen out of your lungs when he bottoms out. 

“Gonna have to pry you open, huh,” he chuckles in your ear. You don't get what's so funny about that, but in fairness you can barely wrangle enough sense together to form a thought. 

One big hand effortlessly pins your wrists over your head. His grip isn't even that tight and you can't wriggle out of it. Your heart quickens when you realize that. 

He worships your breasts like a man that prefers tits over ass and he tells you that too: got a lovely set on you, honey, and then sucks a nipple into his mouth. 

You shouldn’t be here. Your friends are all down by the pool soaking up the sun and getting their feet wet while you’re in John’s room on the other end of the hotel getting railed within an inch of your life. You should’ve known that it would end up here. You should’ve known that you were always going to end up in his bed. 

Nothing but experiencing his broad body suspended over yours and rutting between your thighs could’ve prepared you for the reality of it. Smothering, oppressive; tacky skin sliding against yours, friction making your skin burn, the hair on his pecs and belly all sweat-slicked and dragging against your chest. Broader and heavier than you could’ve imagined. 

One time, you tell yourself. One time and then never again, just to know what it would be like. Just to know what fucking a man like John would do to you. One time and then you can go back to your friends and act like it never happened, like a man didn’t just fold you in half and drive his dick to the root into your pussy.

The hand holding your wrists together disappears and reappears at your waist. Both of them this time, snug on either side of you, scooping under your low back and lifting it up to get more leverage before driving his hips down, plunging his shaft deeper into your hole, the tip of his cock nudging against something that makes your leg spasm and your breathing go choppy. 

“Oh—f—fuck,” you grit out, squeezing your eyes tight. 

It’s deeper now. Deep enough in you that his cock might well be butting up against your cervix. You’ll have to waddle back to your friends after this or ice your pussy until it stops aching from having too many inches of dick shoved inside it.

“There we go,” John says. “That feel good?”

He asks that like he doesn’t see your eyes rolling back into your head, like there isn’t a line of drool leaking down your cheek. 

There's a condom wrapper on the bedside table that you don't remember him putting on. He must have though, you think blearily and then he repositions his knees and drives forward hard enough to make your teeth clack together and whoops, there goes any chance at forming a coherent thought again. He must have because what man would forego a condom before turning you over onto your belly and slipping a hand under you to palm the flesh there, hips flexing forward and groaning when you squeeze him a bit too tight. What man would run the risk?

“Careful,” John laughs into your hair. You don't understand. “Gonna take a little souvenir home with you if you keep that up, sweetheart.”

Your stomach swoops at that. His meaning, as always, comes clear as day, but this time the shock of it ripples through you like an electric current, mind wiped clean of anything apart from the sound of his voice.  

He pumps into you with a single-minded intensity, not giving you an inch to breathe. Smooth, measured strokes, an intent to his fuck instead of a mindless, frantic search for his end. It’s a treat to be with someone who knows what he’s doing—and fuck, does John know what he’s doing.  

“John—hgn, ah—fuck—” you gasp, so close to the edge that your voice almost gives out altogether. Taut as a tightrope. Charged as a live wire. “Wait, wait, wait—”

He thrusts one last time to the hilt before stilling, petting a hand down your spine to reassure you of his attention. “You alright, love?” 

“You—ah, um—c-condom?” 

It must come out too soft, too breathy, because he doesn’t catch your words at first, ducking his head to hear you better. “What’s that?”

“D’you have a condom on?” 

It’s the wrong time to ask the question, far too late for it to matter, but you ask it anyway. You should’ve confirmed it earlier when he didn’t have you flat on your belly with your hips canted up, pussy soaking wet and throbbing, so desperate to cum that you’d accept any answer so long as it meant he wouldn’t stop fucking you.

His fingers dig into the flesh of your belly. “Saw me take one out, didn’t ya?” 

“Uh huh,” you slur. When you turn your head, you see the foil wrapper on the bedside table, ripped only halfway open. Maybe just enough to stick a finger inside and fish the condom out. 

Your cunt clenches around his dick involuntarily and you swear you can feel the thin rubber against your walls. You swear you can. 

“Then quit askin’ stupid questions,” John growls into the crown of your head and drives his hips forward again.

Cold air from the AC wafts over your sweaty body as you lay stretched out on the mattress, cum drying between your thighs and chest still heaving with every breath. Goosebumps ripple across your flesh like tall grass swaying with a gentle breeze. 

John’s somewhere else in the hotel room. Probably in the bathroom from the faucet you can hear running in the background. He’ll probably gently coax you out in a few minutes. Give you just enough time to come back to yourself before helping you get dressed and seeing you to the door. It’s the kind of dalliance that you’d expect from a man like him—a good fuck, a solid effort to make you come, and then a gentle but firm hand on your back leading you to the door. You won’t be surprised when it comes. 

That’s good though. Now that you’ve gotten it out of your system, he won’t be as much of a distraction anymore. You’ll finally be able to leave behind any guilt that you felt before and devote yourself and your attention entirely to your friends, your little tryst a careful secret shared just between you and him.  

Catching your breath, you slowly lift yourself up, throwing your legs over the side of the bed and drawing your body to the edge. Allow yourself one last glance around, intrigued by the sight of his suitcase tucked away in the corner of the room, open face on the luggage rack. It says something about him, but you’re not sure what. Like he’s always ready to leave at a moment’s notice. 

“In a hurry, sweetheart?” John asks from the doorway, startling you. A glass of water dangles precariously from between his fingers. 

You figured he might come out in a robe or towel, but he’s as naked as when he left the bed, flaccid cock resting against his thigh and the dark thatch of hair at the base of his shaft still damp with your cum. He leans against the doorframe like he’s got nowhere to be and no one to answer to, all lazy confidence and assumed authority.

“Well, I figured…” You gesture towards the door with your thumb, lip caught between your teeth. 

“Figured what?” John asks, prompting you to keep going. 

He takes a step forward, heavy cock swaying with the movement of his hips. It’s big, even soft, flushed and spent against his thigh. The dull ache between your legs reminds you of where that shaft was buried not too long ago. It looks almost brutish in the light of day, heavy like a hammer and marbled with veins. 

“Figured that you’d—” Your voice trembles into nonexistence the closer he gets. “Figured that you’d maybe…want me out of your hair…”

The thunk that the glass makes when he sets it down on the bedside table makes your pulse jump. Muscled thighs covered in a thick dusting of hair fill your vision, his cock unavoidable this close to your face. 

A big hand wraps around his cock while the other braces itself on the back of your head, drawing you in. “You at least gonna clean up your mess before you leave?”

There’s no point in pretending like you don’t understand what he means, not when the evidence is right in front of your face, so close that you nearly go cross-eyed staring at it. Wrapping one hand around his shaft, he guides the soft, blunt head of his cock to your lips and pries your lips apart with his thumb, hips guiding it the rest of the way in. 

“There we go,” John sighs, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. His breath comes out heavy. “Y’can leave after. Won’t be more than—ah—a minute.”

Throat stuffed with his cock, your moan comes out muffled, eyes already watering from the strain. Your thoughts go soft and fuzzy when he drags his thumb over the bulge of your cheek, stroking the skin there tenderly. Almost affectionately. 

One time, you tell yourself as he draws his hips back and thrusts forward again. One more time and then never again.

[softh0neycomb]

[softh0neycomb]

splinter [1]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 4.5k words cw: ehh. none. 18+ mdni

your car breaks down in a snowstorm. a crude stranger takes you in from the cold.

Solitude was as familiar an organ as his liver. 

It had been with him since birth. A congenital defect, bulbous and ugly, wedged somewhere between his lung and his stomach. 

Inoperable. Harder to kill than a liver, too. Liquor alleviated the ache in the short term, a brief reprieve from feeling it nudging against his ribs — but he wasn’t ignorant to the fact that booze was a nostrum. Fed it like tributaries to a lake, diameter stretching every year, and it wouldn’t be long until he drowned in it.

He didn’t concern himself with the long-term, though. Not much point in it. He’d tell himself that he’d cross that bridge when he got to it; but, in truth, he never imagined himself reaching the bridge in the first place.  

He wasn’t in a hurry to die, by any means. There was some gratification to be found in surviving one day at a time. Gave him the feeling he was proving someone wrong. His father, maybe. The Captain. Himself. Didn’t matter — that spite was what fueled him, and as long as there was still gas in the tank, he’d keep driving. 

The safehouse he had been holed up in for the better part of two years was good for him in a bad way. 

The perfect place to fester, let his apathy rankle into something cold and vindictive, to the point that crossing peoples’ paths irked him and their smiles struck him as insults. He hadn’t considered himself antisocial as a young man, because wherever he went there were people around, to either his pleasure or annoyance. Kids at school, barrack mates, brothers-in-arms. Pretty birds, too, back when he used to be pretty himself. 

Proof was in the pudding, now that he was tucked away in the backwoods at the base of Mt Thomlinson, with a counterfeit Canadian passport and specific orders to stay under the radar. Human interaction was something he needed to seek out, to actively pursue — and he didn’t. 

The thought made his jaw tight, in fact. Gone long enough without it that the very notion of it nettled him. He’d answer with two words maximum when the Captain checked in. He’d offer the worker at the nearest supermarket a single greeting when he checked out and a single thanks when he left. Most words he exchanged were with his dog. 

It wasn’t social anxiety that turned him reclusive. He wasn’t shy, wasn’t reserved out of some bashful worry that he’d say the wrong thing — no, what kept him alone was anger. 

Anger with nowhere to go but out. A creature in itself, starved, hankering for another being to consume. To infect. His simmering rage was confined within the walls of his cabin when he was alone, safely restrained, hidden from sight. The simple presence of another heartbeat threatened to tip the balance, to pop the balloon he had been steadily inflating with every breath he exhaled since his sergeant was shot in the head. 

Being alone was fine by him. Preferable, even. Beholden to no one, and no one to him.

His monthly supply run had come a week early, in anticipation of the snowstorm they had been blathering about on the radio for the past few days. The three-hour drive to Smithers was rarely a pleasant one, winding roads that were carved into the tall mountain faces, poorly maintained chipseal riddled with waterlogged potholes – but this time the snowfall was especially heavy, and the dicey trip took him an hour longer than usual. 

He wasn’t complaining. Empty time to sit in silence and smoke a whole pack. 

The bird at the Safeway checkout wasn’t particularly bubbly, something Simon always found a relief. Made him feel like less of a prick for not reciprocating even a single smile. Probably at the end of her shift, pissed off that he showed up fifteen minutes before closing with five-hundred dollars worth of groceries. She gave him a half-roll of her eyes as he loaded his goods onto the belt; not quite subtle enough to avoid notice, but he had as little interest interacting with her as she did him, so he said nothing. She sent him off with his receipt and a muted stay warm and he responded with only a grunt. 

He left the township with enough supplies to fill the bed of his truck, secured tightly under a tarp — cans, jars, bags of milk, three cows worth of beef that would find home in his chest freezer. Toilet rolls, pancake mix, couple blocks of chocolate. Few jerry cans. Diesel and gasoline. Liquor, but that went without saying — enough to kill an elephant, but he was only replenishing his dwindling reserves. Hopefully just enough to last him the rest of the month. 

The weather had turned for the worse on his way home. Someone with a stronger sense of self-preservation would have pulled over and waited for the blizzard to pass, but he had his husky waiting for him by the hearth, and a bottle of Redbreast calling his name. Besides, his truck was built for it — four-wheel drive, locking differentials, deep tread tyres with alpine snow chains. 

Even still, the emergency alert lighting up his phone was enough to put him slightly on edge. Snow squall warning in effect until 03:00 PDT. Slow down.

Bit fucking late for it to be of any use to him. He could see it out the damn window. See was a stretch, even — the snow beating on his windscreen was so dense it was near blinding, glowing bright white in his headlights, and despite knowing the road like the back of his hand he begrudgingly slowed to twenty to avoid careening off the side of the mountain. 

Small miracle that he did. 

Right as he went around a bend in the road, the smallest flash of an orange light cut through the sheets of white — smack in the centre of the road ahead. He slammed his foot into the break, cursing as the truck screeched along the salt-covered road, planing slightly on the fresh snow — kept the truck under control, though, and he managed to veer off into the shoulder, narrowly missing the trunk of a lodgepole. 

He sat in the silence for a beat as he came to a stop. Just long enough to take a breath. Bit down on the adrenaline-riled rage that threatened to erupt through his jaws as he kicked open the driver side door and jumped out into the snowfall, leaving the engine running. 

He heard the harried voice before he saw its origin through the whiteout; “Are you okay? I’m so sorry!”

Finally spotted the young bird yelling out to him through the blizzard — standing by a multi-decade-old Toyota Starlet with the hood popped and the hazards on, spun out in the middle of the road. 

“The fuck are you doing?” He roared on his approach, arm up to shield his eyes from the blisteringly cold wind. 

“I’m really sorry,” she pleaded, wetness in her throat, “I was — I was trying to push it out of the way, but I—” 

“No, girl, what are you doing out here in the middle of a fuckin’ snowstorm?” He barked, forgoing his initial reaction to deride her for attempting to push the damn thing; mousy wee bird that she was, amused that she would even attempt it. 

“I drove over some ice, and I — I don’t know what happened. I slammed on the brakes and heard a crack and — and now the car won’t start—” 

Only as she started rambling and his fury waned to an impatient frustration did he hear the panicked tears in her voice. Stupid fucking girl — driving a tin can like that in the middle of nowhere, amid forecasted blizzards, alone. The pith of his anger quickly shifted from exasperation at the near-miss to the fact that she would have gotten herself killed if fate hadn’t placed him on the road when it did. 

Wearing a hoodie and leggings, for shit’s sake. As if those Ugg boots would have kept her feet warm in the double negatives. 

“Should’ve waited in your damn car,” he grumbled, as he marched past her and squished himself into the open driver side of her Starlet — fucking clown car — and twisted the keys in the ignition. No use asking for her permission, and she put up no fuss. Probably did her the favour of quashing her need to ask for his help. 

The car was screaming at him, dashboard practically a light show — but the cause and manner was unambiguous in the slick whirr of the engine. No catch. Wheezing like a dying man. 

“Can you tell what’s wrong?” She asked eagerly, leaning down to peer into the open door, arms wrapped tight as constrictors around herself. Shaking like a puppy. 

“Timing belt,” he grunted, as he pushed himself out of the car. Must have found him intimidating, because she shifted to her hind foot once he stood up straight. He was used to that.

“What?” She spluttered, worry creasing in her brow, “is that — is that bad?” 

He snorted. “Yeah, it’s bad. Engine’s dead.” 

Her face crumpled like a tissue when he said that. “Shit,” she sobbed, gritting teeth, “Can you — is there any way to fix it?” 

“No,” he said bluntly. 

Stupid girl, swallowed it again so that she didn’t have to hear it — clear in her expression she thought it as much as he did, as she rubbed her face with flat hands, elbows tight to her chest. Those little hands would be black with frostbite if he left her out in the cold much longer. 

He made up his mind. Resolved to lumber to the back of her car and crack open the boot. She was quick to protest; “What are you—”

“Get in the truck,” he ordered. 

She dithered by her open door, quivering and moaning as she battled for any reasonable dispute she could mount. Must have known as well as he did that whatever she could have mustered would have fallen flat, because there weren’t any. 

There was a suitcase in the boot with a sock sticking out of the zipper, overstuffed to the brink of bursting. Found himself fleetingly curious where she was heading with her whole life packed in softshell luggage, driving through the Canadian wilderness in the middle of the night. Running from something, girl?

Not his business. He yanked it out and carted it towards his truck. 

“Hey, you can’t just—”

“Don’t make me tell you twice,” he snapped, tearing open his back door and tossing the cumbersome suitcase into the backseat. 

“But, my car — there m-must be something you can do,” she begged, as if he might be able to pluck a more agreeable alternative out of the aether and present it to her. 

“Yeah, I can get you out of the cold so you don’t fuckin’ freeze to death,” he said, leaning into her open car door to grab her purse from the passenger seat. Tossed that in his truck alongside her suitcase. 

“Will you take me t-to a — a nearby service station, or s-something?” She stammered; clear the cold was sinking deep, because he could hear the strain of her full-body shivers in her throat, voice grinding out through gritting teeth.

“Nearby?” He scoffed, “do you have any clue where you are?”

“I was on the w-way to Hazelton,” she said, an endearing attempt at certainty. 

“Get in the damn truck. Last time I’m asking,” he grunted, fuse running short, as he went to put the car in neutral and began pushing it to the side of the road. Size of a go-kart, he probably could have picked it up and carried it if he felt so inclined. 

She snivelled. “Can you t-take me to Hazelton?”

“D’you hit your fuckin’ head, girl?” He growled, slamming shut her door once the vehicle was off the road.

Wee thing was frozen solid. He could see it in her lips as he stomped towards her, grey and cracked, crystallizing in her eyes as she squinted in the wind. Shivering bordering on convulsion. No doubt her hypothermia was becoming severe enough to affect her judgement. 

“‘Nuff pissin’ around,” he grumbled, taking her bicep in a fist and hauling her towards his truck. 

“Wait — but I don’t — I don’t even know you,” she blubbered, but put up no tangible resistance. Let him drag her along like a pup on a lead. Lucky, because even if she had fought him he’d have thrown her in the truck kicking and screaming. Wouldn’t have another corpse on his conscience, whatever was left of it. 

“Too bad,” he said. “Not leavin’ you out here to freeze to death.” 

“I’m n-not ev-even c-cold.” 

He almost chuckled at that. Daft girl. Brain all mushy from the chill of the snowstorm blowing in through her ears. Not a good sign.

In any other situation, he might have considered her reluctance understandable. Rational, even — pretty young thing alone on a backcountry road, carted off in a strange man’s truck, no cell service, nowhere to run — didn’t look good. The alternative, though, was leaving her to wander into the snow at the behest of hypothermia-induced psychosis and die where nobody would ever find her. 

“Hey — you can’t—” Still whingeing as he lifted her with two hands under her arms and plonked her into the passenger seat. Mouthy little thing. 

“Knees in,” he said, no interest in entertaining her grousing. 

Did as she was told, at least, petulant huff notwithstanding. He threw shut the door once her legs were clear of it and went back to her car for a final once over — didn’t want to hear the bitching if anything was left behind, because he wasn’t coming back for it. 

Found an insulated drink bottle, a phone charger, and a beanie with a silly little pompom stitched to the top. Nothing else beyond old receipts and empty cans of diet coke. 

He chucked his spoils at her as he hopped up into the driver’s seat and they landed in her lap, but her shaky little hands did little to prevent them from dropping onto the floor between her feet.  

He cranked up the heater once he shut his door, full blast, and held the back of his hand to the vent that he turned to pump in her direction. Took a minute to get to max heat, but eventually he felt the warmth bloom across his thick skin. 

“C’mere,” he huffed, gesturing with a beckon of his fingers for her to give him her hands. When she failed to realise what he was asking for, he grabbed them, pivoting them by her wrists until they were palm-up. 

Frigid to the touch. Stiff and waxy. 

“Feel that?” He murmured, pinching the tip of her middle finger, and she sucked her teeth. 

“Kind of,” she gritted, then let out a high-pitched chirp when he pinched a bit harder, squishing her nail bed. “Ow.”

He let out a puff of air. “Good,” he said, before forcibly maneuvering her hands so each palm sat flat against a heating vent. “Keep ‘em there.” 

She said nothing in response as he put the car in drive and took off down the snow-blanketed road. He had always preferred driving stick, but the truck was prescribed to him by one of the many governments that had him in their employ — and he couldn’t begrudge the thing. State of the art. Something built for the arctic tundra, so rugged and fit-for-purpose that it seemed like an insult to drive it on sealed roads. 

Not to mention — good fucking heating. The interior of the cab was a balmy twenty-five celsius within five minutes. 

“Where are we going?” She finally piped up, squeezing her hands into fists and twisting them so the backs of her knuckles had a turn in the heat. “You didn’t — um… you didn’t tell me.”

Proper bundle of nerves, now that her wits had returned with a stable body temperature. Focus shifted from surviving the cold to surviving the stranger that threw her in his truck. 

Couldn’t blame her. He could practically see the terror dawning on her between every syllable, the stark realisation that she had asked him no questions, had no bearings, and there was no escape. 

He had no intention of harming her, but he lacked the ability to make that apparent. Couldn’t exactly say I won’t hurt you without inviting suspicion that the very thought had crossed his mind. 

He was self-aware enough to acknowledge his presence alone was threatening, great ugly beast that he was. Scarred and knurled and frayed around the edges. Eyes that carried death with them. Teeth a bit crooked and canines far too sharp. Not least the size of him — served him well in the military, but in the pitch-black wilderness it rendered him something of a cryptid. A sasquatch in a gore-tex jacket. Towering. Beady-eyed. Communicating only in growls and grunts. 

Could tell that she was thinking as much, watching in his periphery as she flicked her gaze to him for short bursts, flinching every time he moved. Timid wee thing. Felt just a touch of guilt that he so clearly frightened her, but then he was reminded that he had just saved her from certain death, and her trepidation suddenly bordered on insulting. 

Only when she let out a shaky little breath, sinking into her seat like she might fold up into it, did he realise he hadn’t answered her question. Just let the worried words float in the air until they decayed into a denied plea. 

“My place,” he said firmly, far too late for the answer to be any succor, because his silence was a threat in itself. 

“Oh,” she eked, eyes darting around the car as if to soak in her surroundings. He hoped she wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and open the door, but he resisted the urge to hit the locks, because he knew the second she heard that sound her quiet nerves would erupt into base terror. “Is it, um, how far is it?” 

“Not far,” he said. “Twenty-odd minutes.” 

“Is it safe to — to drive in snow like this?” She asked worriedly, and he snorted at that.

“You tell me,” he chided. 

She huffed. “I didn’t think it would get this bad,” she muttered. “I had to — mh. Doesn’t matter.” 

His curiosity was piqued, but he didn’t press. He resolved to remain silent unless prompted, focusing on what little of the treacherous road he could see through the whiteout, cruising at fifteen now that he had more precious cargo aboard. 

She regarded him with a caution that made the back of his neck feel hot. Evasive blinks in his direction. Eyes on his hands as they hung from the steering wheel. 

No good could come from enjoying it. How he troubled her. How she looked at him with a faint curl in her brow, eyes wide and ears pinned like a cornered cat. Might have spoken to a latent thirst for control that not even being a lieutenant could slake. Could just as likely have been the fact he liked birds with a bit of scratch in them. 

“What’s your name?” She asked tightly, hunting for dirt on him rather than asking out of interest. He smirked at the thought, that she was collecting all of the leads she could to feed to the cops once she escaped from his clutches, as if he had taken her against her will. 

“Simon,” he said frankly. She was quiet after that, picking at her fingernails and staring out the window, so he returned; “Gonna tell me yours?” 

She had to think about it for a bit. Like sharing her name with him might present some risk. When she told him, she only mumbled it, with enough reluctance that he wondered if she had lied. 

“Pretty,” he murmured. 

Knew he shouldn’t have been complimenting her given the circumstances, but maintaining etiquette was not his strong suit. There was no filter between his brain and his mouth and he had no interest in installing one.

Didn’t help that she was a lovely thing. Sweet enough to bite. Soft-cheeked and glossy-eyed. Might have acted too soon in taking her to his cabin with him. 

She drew in a careful breath. “So — tonight, you—”

“Y’can crash at mine,” he said simply. 

She looked affronted by the suggestion, head cocked back and all. “For the night?”

“Wouldn’t leave you to sleep in the fuckin’ snow, would I?”

“No, I — I didn’t think I’d be sleeping at your house,” she groused, “I just thought that we’d, I don’t know, wait out the blizzard and—”

“Y’expect me to stay up ‘til five in the morning so I can play taxi for you all the way to Hazelton?” 

“Well, it’s just—” She faltered, “I don’t even know you.”

“Sure you do,” he said. “I’m Simon.”

“Simon who?”

He grinned at that. Little bit of moxie slipping out when it probably wasn’t wise to let it. Never know, girl, because he could have been all that you feared he was, and that little bit of fight could have been his excuse. 

“Riley,” he said, entertaining her. Not often he threw that around. Didn’t even match the name on his fake passport, but he was sure she’d never lay eyes on the thing. 

She blinked at him for a moment. Hunting for the next clue. “You got a wife or something?”

He chuckled wryly at that. “Worried I’ll get in trouble bringing a bird home?”

“No,” she spat, repulsed by the unsubtle implication. “Just — just wondering.”

Want to make sure you’re not a sociopath, was what she clearly wanted to say, because no doubt a wife and kids at home would at least give him the benefit of perceived normalcy. Unfortunate that she kept asking questions she wouldn’t have liked the answers to. 

“No missus,” he said, and she nodded rigidly, an attempt at polite acknowledgment to conceal her assumedly staggering disappointment. 

Her pussyfooting was beginning to irk him — wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand the quiet suspicion, the coy little questions about his life as though he had endangered her by rescuing her from a snow squall. Course she couldn’t ask it outright, but he hated watching somebody walk on eggshells almost as much as he hated walking on them himself. 

She was twitchy, held her knees together, shuffling in her seat. Waited a long interval before she spoke again, like it was a risk just to talk in his vicinity. 

“So it’s — it’s just you? Living in your cabin?” 

He let out an irate sigh. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not a serial killer.” 

She glared at him like he had just confessed to the opposite. Jaw a little slack, eyes all bulgy. 

He rolled his eyes. “If you’re so damn worried I’ll hurt you, I can pull over and drop you and your shit on the side of the road.”

“No — sorry, I wasn’t—” She blurted, and his frustration was quick to melt. “I wasn’t saying that.”

Then he felt guilty. Sudden temper like that would not have done much to quell her scepticism, and while he enjoyed teasing her worries he didn’t necessarily want to prove them right. Not if he was going to have her tucked up in his cabin like a stray cat. 

“S’alright,” he grumbled. “Cute bird like you gotta keep her wits about her.”

Her lips flattened and she looked out the window again. He certainly wasn’t doing himself any favours. Maybe he was indeed a sociopath. 

“If I — If I stay on your couch tonight, can you take me back to my car tomorrow?” She asked, after a short while, arms crossed now that her hands had warmed up. 

“That car is dead,” He jeered. “Y’wont be driving it anywhere.” 

She let out a sharp sigh. “I could just wait by it and hitchhike, or—”

“You’d be waiting a week.”

“How would you know?” She hissed. “I’m sure truckers drive by all the time.”

“Think a trucker’ll be nicer than me?” 

A fraction of a second was long enough to betray that she didn’t think so either. 

Strangers on backcountry service roads were hit and miss, and for a bird like her, most likely more misses than hits. He bet the first bastard to have picked her up would have been a cash-swindling hick or a leery old rapist, and God only knows where they’d be headed to or from. She’d eventually come around to realising he was probably the best she could have hoped for. 

“Haven’t been that mean, have I?” He pushed, sardonicism on his tongue, glancing at her with a smirk. 

“A bit abrasive,” she grumbled, looking directly out of the windshield, no doubt his gaze was making her uncomfortable. 

“Abrasive, eh?” He chortled. “Nice way to put it.”

“I just — I just want to make sure I can get back to civilisation,” she murmured. “Will you please drive me to Hazelton in the morning?”

She wouldn’t have liked the truth, so he decided not to tell it to her — that the likelihood of the roads being driveable by morning was slim to none. That the snowstorm was forecasted to last a few days at the least. That the dumping of snow was unseasonable and unprecedented and the meteorologists on the radio were calling it indisputable evidence of climate change. Something we haven't seen since St. John’s Snowmageddon, they said, stock up on emergency supplies and stay indoors. Stay indoors. Stay indoors. 

“Sure,” he huffed. “If the road’s open I’ll take ya.” 

She deflated at that. Shoulders softened with a long sigh and a feeble nod. Knot of tension in the air unwound with it. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

He’d deal with the fallout come morning. 

[softh0neycomb]

Tease

“You cannot be serious” you scoff, “Kyle quit playing around, you’re the one who barged in complaining about my timekeeping” 

You know you’re goading him, being petulant on purpose, letting the word timekeeping sound more like a taunt than a fact. 

Waiting, no, expecting him to back down. 

He doesn’t. 

“Strip.” 

[softh0neycomb]

I BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS

Either have your age present in a pinned post or your header or get tae fuck.

My content is very, very much 18+

Idk how much louder I have to scream.

[softh0neycomb]

when you said you'd fuck your lieutenant, you never meant for him to overhear. (18+)

you were sitting with a group of girls in the mess. a typical thursday after training, scooping terrible mushy peas into your mouth and trying to pretend like you cared at all for the unseasoned mash it was in your mouth.

a classic game of who would you do? a game that wasn't very hard on a military base⏤the men might be the scum of the earth, but they worked out for hours a day and were the only warm bodies near you for a majority of your time. the group of girls you had befriended had an unspoken rule not to hook up with each other⏤shit gets messy when you're in close quarters, so you keep it tactical and go for the brainless studs that walk around you (no matter how much you all complain about getting head that finally feels good).

the 141 are not unpopular choices that always come up. nakeema drools over gaz. emily constantly swoons over soap, who she refers to as her "fellow countryman." a few of the girls have intense daddy issues and try not to giggle like schoolgirls when they bring up captain price.

you're apparently the weird one when you mumble out ghost's name between bites of cold ham.

"huh?"

you get a flurry of wide-eyed stares and surprised scoffs. you keep chewing, looking around.

"what?" you shrug.

"ghost? the one with the shittiest personality in the entire world?"

"are you kidding me?" you roll your eyes. "we're not talking about future husbands. i'm thinking about huge man in my bed. besides, you're really gonna tell me that i'm the weird one, when you're panting over some meathead that licks the seat after you get up from it?"

"i thought soap was a panty-stealer."

"he's a dog, that's what he is," you roll your eyes again.

"and ghost is literally the most closed-off, weirdest guy...i mean he doesn't say anything. and he just stares...like he's looking right through you. it's off-putting."

you pick up your tray and stand up.

"yeah, well...fifty quid says his dick is the size of my forearm."

the girls laugh, and you try to hide your smile as you go to drop off your tray. when you turn, you pause momentarily. in the doorway, staring right at you, is none other than your lieutenant.

you tighten your grip on the metal of your tray. you have no idea now how loud you were. did he hear you say his name? did he hear anything you said about him?

oh shit oh shit oh shit, my ass is gonna get handed to me by HR⏤

he just blinks your way, and then he disappears. your heart releases, and you let out the breath you were holding. you need to be more careful and keep your voice down.

after you drop your tray off, you push the doors open to the mess hall, turning to make your way back to your quarters. when you step out of the building, ghost is there. he's standing, leaning against the wall, eyes on the door as if he was just waiting for the opportunity for you to come out.

you stop there, looking at him. for a few seconds, you just meet his eyes, trying to feel him out. there is no denying the way your throat closes up at the way he looks you up and down.

he definitely heard you.

you freeze up when he stands up straight and starts to walk towards you. it's then that you realize how much bigger ghost is. when he comes to stand at your side, the top of your head barely reaches his shoulders. you swallow as he tilts his head down, dark eyes lidded, and then one gloved finger traces a line from the bone of your wrist to your elbow. he kisses his teeth under the mask, and he shrugs.

"mmm..." he hums lowly. "not quite, love."

oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck⏤

"ngghhh..." your mouth falls open as he spreads his legs, pulling down his zipper. like the nasty man he is, he's not wearing any underwear, and your tongue flops out when he pulls his cock free and lets it hang heavy before he takes it into one gloved hand and gives it a nice stroke.

for the third time, you make sure the door to his office is locked, and then you're getting onto your knees, crawling towards him.

"we can lie," you whimper, resting your cheek on his thigh. ghost chuckles low as he thumbs over the weeping tip, red and angry as he squeezes. "you're nearly there, anyways...so big...just like i knew you'd be."

"yeah?"

"mhm," you bite your lip. "knew you'd be nice, too. not so scary."

"y'r not scared o'me, love?"

"not when you're about to come in my mouth."

"right...fuckin' hell⏤"

you spit it back into his mouth after. tongue on the underside of his cock, letting his cum linger inside. you climb into his lap after and push his mask up, kissing him wet and sticky as you use the slick on your palm to get him nice and hard again. when you sit down on him, he groans, big body all tense and heated as you bring it back down on him heavy and hard.

fuck, he's in your throat, in your guts, you might be hallucinating the bulge in your belly, but you're going to fantasize about this for days when you sit with the girls and have to lie about the most insane lay you've ever had.

ghost might be fucking weird, but his cum is warm inside of you, and his tip curves just right to touch that soft spot and make your vision go blurry. does it matter that he can't hold a conversation when he can wipe your thoughts with a few thrusts of his hips?

does it matter that the girls called him scary? that he struggles to break eye-contact? that he doesn't know how to change his tone so people can tell the difference between a bad joke and a horrible insult? does it matter that he has the most insane, horrifying dead fish eyes when he's making you forget your own name in favor of his own?

you suck it out of his mouth later. after you've sat on his face and ruined his mask, after you've cum on his tongue and nearly deafened him with how hard you squeezed your thighs around his thick head, you put your mouth to his and lick it from between his teeth with a hot groan. he's weird, and he's blunt, and there's no room for anything but perfection when you're under lieutenant riley's command, but right here, in his bed, there's no rank. there's just a really fucking awkward, giant bear-man, and a dick to match that energy.

when you wince trying to sit at the table at breakfast, the girls are all over you. you're staring into dead-fish eyes when you smile and say, "i'll be taking that fifty quid now."

[softh0neycomb]

It’s for…research 😇

[softh0neycomb]

downed

[softh0neycomb]

Bite Marks

.“No, I mean, I consented to this.” You explain “I asked him to do it.” A smirk “goaded him really.” 

You watch as realisation floods his features, eyes darkening. 

“Oh…didn’t take you as a masochist, love.” 

“I’m not,” you admit, “I just don’t submit easily."

Tease

One Shot

[softh0neycomb]

I CAN BE YOUR SANCTUARY

[softh0neycomb]

blunt!simon!riley during your honeymoon

cw: dubiously consensual language / power imbalance, breeding kink / pregnancy kink, possessive + degrading language, obsession + ownership themes, implied somnophilia (waking you up with sex) marking, bruising, overstimulation, territorial behavior / isolation kink, objectification

a/n: divider by @bernardsbendystraws

he doesn’t take you to a beach. no cute sandals, no cocktails. he takes you to a cabin in the woods with no cell service and blackout curtains.

“honeymoon’s for makin’ sure it sticks.”

you don’t leave the bed for days.

you’re wearing nothing but his t-shirt and your wedding ring. your thighs are sore. your voice is gone. you’re leaking everywhere, and he won’t stop pressing his palm to your belly like he’s checking.

“doesn’t feel full enough. think i need to try again.”

he eats you out in the kitchen. fucks you over the balcony railing. carries you from room to room like a doll. he lets you nap only so he can wake you up by slipping in slow and whispering:

“’s your honeymoon, sweetheart. you want me to take care of you, yeah?”

you lose track of how many times he finishes inside you.

and he keeps whispering that same promise into your ear, every time your belly tenses up or your breath catches or your thighs shake:

“gonna give you a belly, yeah? a bump. little ring on your finger and a fuckin’ baby in you. real wife now.”

[softh0neycomb]

need to catch my breath

it seemed like a nice idea going swimming with your nieces. they’d just built a new slide at the local water park and it’d give your sister a few hours free to herself for the first time in too long.

it’s just once you got there, it felt like someone was watching you as soon as you stepped through the door.

you tried to shrug it off when you payed and again when you got the girls in their own changing room, but you couldnt help how it got you feeling self-conscious in your swimsuit. floating in the lazy river you’d felt the need to cross your arms over your chest and stomach and again while watching the girls from the side as they played on the smaller slides; you wished you'd brought your towel out onto the chair to lay over your lap.

you caught sight of a lifeguard walking past more often than you’d thought was usual or necessary given your spot at the shallow end of the pool, but the thought didn’t linger when your nieces tried to start a splash war. if the staff were being extra vigilant while it was busy over the holidays then you wouldn’t be complaining, and the required uniform consisting of red shorts and a tight white tee were particularly flattering on the tall, tattooed worker you’d seen lingering around most.

by time the kids were pruny and tired, you were just as ready to leave, so you herded them to the changing rooms to get dressed.

“dry off as much as you can girls, we don’t want your clothes getting soaking wet,” you said and then muttered quietly to yourself. “or my car seats.”

“can we go to maccies on the way home?” your eldest niece asked. you could already picture her wide eyes and exaggerated pout.

“pleaaaaseee,” the youngest added, whining through the thin walls of the changing rooms.

you snorted, remembering doing the same with your sister when you were their age.

“fine. if you’re done quick, i’ll get you both a mcflurry,” you said, knowing you’d take them even if they were in there messing for another hour.

you pulled out your dry clothes and set them aside on the bench, looking for your underwear first. you frowned when you couldn’t see them even though you remembered putting them near the top. oh well, maybe you’d shuffled it all around when you grabbed your wallet from your bag to buy a snack for the girls halfway through the swim.

you set everything out of your bag and felt a bit of panic build when your panties simply weren’t there. a pang of embarrassment filled you as you imagined they’d fallen out without your realising; you ducked and looked at the floor outside near the lockers you’d used, but couldn’t see anything lying in a little clump.

fuck. part of you was tempted to stay in your full swimming costume just so you weren’t going bare beneath the flowy summer dress you’d worn out, but it was a full one-piece and it’d soon soak through the top half of your dress as well as the arse when you sat in the car.

you could just go through the drive-thru at mcdonald’s but you knew the girls would like the extra time out of the house, an added excitement of getting to gab over their happy meals toys, and it’d give your sister that precious extra half an hour.

going in soaking wet at the tits and arse wasn’t an option, and if you suddenly felt too self-conscious winnie the pooh-ing it - even when it was a knee length dress and not a little red crop top like the yellow bear rocked - then you could go drive through last minute and at least your swimming cozzie wouldn’t be visible through the top half.

you swore under your breath as you made the decision and got changed quickly when you heard your nieces giggle in the stall next door.

——

simon noticed the tense way you held yourself as you left. the scrunch of your shoulders and the quick, small steps you took were an easy clue as to what decision you’d made after he’d broken into your locker while you’d been busy swimming.

he grunted a quick, “goin’ on break,” to johnny as he passed the front desk and scanned his card on the way out of the side staff exit. grabbing his pack of cigs from his locker, he moved quick to make sure to catch you at the front in time.

the sound of his lighter flicking gained your attention as the two girls ran ahead to the car, excitedly chatting with one another.

you smiled politely at him and waved when he lifted one hand, the other shoving his lighter back into his left pocket. at the same moment that you lifted your hand from where it had been stiffly held by your side, a brisk wind picked up and lifted the front of your dress, the flowing skirt flashing him for two seconds that felt closer to an eternity before you slapped your hands down over the material.

he bit hard into the butt of his cig to keep from smiling too wide at the clear view of bush and cunt and thighs that he’d gotten, knowing you were mortified from your wide eyes and the swift duck of your head as you quickly made your way back towards the car the two girls were now stood next to. your hands were clenched tight in the skirt holding it close by your sides until you pulled your car keys from your bag and got the two sisters settled in the back.

simon closed his eyes and rested his head back against the brick, trying to replay the memory over and over in his head until it was burnt into his eyelids. the drop of your mouth, the gasp he heard on the wind, the flustered movements of your hands as you scrambled to right yourself in front of this hulking stranger.

he could be happy with the memory alone if he had to be. and he would have to be.

his plan of calling over and offering swimming lessons for your two brats was kaput after you practically sprinted away from him, the humiliation too much for you despite how delicious he’d found it. he’d have to trade in the possibility of seeing you again any time soon for the immediate satisfaction of seeing you bare in the sunlight.

he let out a long breath, smoke furling between his crooked, teeth.

“i’m so sorry.”

his eyes snapped open and he lifted his head from the brick to look down at you.

skittishly you shifted from one foot to the other, your hands still held firmly at your sides, keeping your dress stable, though your bag was no longer hooked across your chest. his eyes flicked to the car and back.

“i-i just wanted to apologise an-and explain,” you continued when he stayed silent. “i didn’t realise it was windy and i’m not purposely… i don’t do that. not weari—“

“you don’t go ‘round flashing ya cunt to every stranger havin’ a fag?” he asked caustically, smile just bringing to peel at one corner of his mouth.

“no,” you answered, still meek from the ebbing embarrassment, but slowly and visibly growing pissed off at his less-than-sympathetic response. “i don’t.”

“hmm. just for me then.” he smiled around his cigarette when you sputtered and frowned, doing your best to reiterate that this was an accident, and that your underwear had gone missing, and you’d just meant to wave at him politely.

the pair of knickers you were missing burnt a hole in simon’s back pocket as you spoke and he had to resist the urge to stick his hand in and rub the silky material between his fingers, to pretend the warmth that had seeped from his own body was fresh from yours instead, as though you’d only just taken them off.

he could imagine the outrage that’d twist your features if he brought them out to take a deep whiff in the car park right now. he’d originally thought you’d get upset, rush back to your car and ring in a complaint from the safety of your home, but the fire hidden behind your eyes when he’d barked at you had him thinking now that you’d maybe try to snatch them back from him.

he stayed still.

“that’s bad luck that, love. y’should keep better care of your things in the future. wouldn’t want this happenin’ again, would we?”

he could see the way you seethed as you stood facing him, hands in fists by your sides, no longer flat against the material of your dress but scrunching it up in order to keep calm. cute.

“i’m not usually so clumsy,” you found yourself explaining. you don’t know where the need to defend yourself to him came from, but the words kept forcing themselves from your mouth before you had the chance to think, to just leave again.

he hummed and dropped the fag to the floor, scuffing it under his trainer without taking his eyes off of you.

“might be able to help you out. we’ve got a lost n’ found. could be in there if you’ve got five minutes,” he said, his eyes drifting back to your car again. “we find all sorts.”

you checked over your shoulder but both of your nieces were watching their ipads in the back seat still. you pressed the lock button on the keys and watched the car lights flash and nodded to him. “five minutes.”

you moved to walk back to the front entrance, but he huffed and nodded over his shoulder to the staff exit around the side of the building.

“this way’s quicker,” he said and turned around the corner into the shade, knowing you’d follow him. he subtly checked over his shoulder to see you were within arms reach and not in the immediate eye line of anyone in the car park and turned around in your path so you had to stumble to a stop or smack into him.

“what’s—“

his broad hands spanned your ribs and pushed you towards the wall of the building. you let out a soft oomph as your head grazed the brick and gasped again when simon dipped down to kiss you before you could say a word.

the sting of pain was quickly forgotten in lieu of his tongue forging its way forward between your teeth and carving a place for itself beside your own, as if it belonged in your mouth just as rightfully.

your fists beat against his heavy chest and pushed to gain some breathing room, but he crowded further forward and slipped his hands towards your front, pinning you in place and giving him access to your breasts.

he pawed at you, squeezing heavy handedly and thumbing roughly at your nipples beneath your dress. he swallowed your moans with a panting desperation and groaned wetly against your lips when he pulled a nervous squeak from you, pinching a touch too hard.

your own hands had stopped attempting to push him away and had twisted into the stretched material of his lifeguard shirt, tugging him forward as you arched up into his hold. all thoughts of ‘just five minutes’ had left you.

simon’s hands trailed lower, down your ticklish sides and towards your plentiful arse. he tugged the dress up roughly, but when it caught on the wall, he span the pair of you so he was the one leant back with you stood between his legs.

with your dress hiked up around your waist, your lower half was bare and free for anyone that may walk around the corner to see.

he’d kissed you stupid, keeping you pliant and wanton in his arms enough that you didn’t smack his hands away and cover yourself back up, you didn’t even spare a thought to the possibility of one of his coworkers stepping out of the door directly to your left.

simon squeezed your plump cheeks and chuckled when you tugged at his shoulders in response. one of his hands slipped lower, between your legs from the back, and he ran two fingers through the drenched lips of your pussy, skirting pressure at the entrance just to hear you whine.

you sucked on his lower lip, running your tongue over the rough texture of the thick scar that ran through it and continued down his chin and hummed in pleasure.

you were hot and sticky between your thighs just like simon had imagined and as badly as he wanted to fall to his knees to catch a proper taste of you, he knew gaz would come looking for him after he heard simon had gone on break from johnny, so he needed to hurry this up.

his fingers dragged a glob of your arousal back up to your arsehole and he pressed insistently for moment, listening to you keen and pant against his neck. your hips pushed against his, trying to run from his probing finger and rub your clit against his thick bulge.

he let you go, pulling his hand back to slap your arse with a resounding crack and laughing at the low, surprised moan you let out against his damp skin.

“you should probably get the brats home, yeah? need to get back to their dad, d’ya?” he crooned, a touch condescending and mean, the thought of another faceless man getting to touch you only serving to rile him up.

you shook your head and dragged your nose across his shoulder as you tried to gain steady footing. “they’re my sister’s,” you explained croakily. you shook your head again, this time to clear it, and pushed away from his chest.

he took the opportunity to duck down for one last all encompassing kiss, his tongue slipping back into place alongside yours in a flash. he pulled back with a bite to your lip and a string of spit connecting you.

he could feel the flustered heat coming off of you in waves from your face and you mumbled against his lips, “i should go. i’ve got the kids in the car. i should—”

he pet along your side, digging his fingers into your soft curves.

“aren’t y’sweet for caring for ‘em, taking ‘em out like this,” he cooed. “shame i can’t pamper ya for it right now, eh? i’ll just have to do it another time.”

you sucked in a shaky breath as he sucked his two glistening fingers into his mouth with a loud slurp before he hammered in the final nail to your coffin.

“could maybe be convinced to put one of your own in ya even.”