#cod simon riley

[sai-int]

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | AO3 . MLIST

18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]

Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?

 It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity. 

You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.

The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony. 

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place. 

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it. 

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had  always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it. 

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way. 

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway.  Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes. 

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything. 

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness. 

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention.  The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark. 

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would. 

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen���snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter? 

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness. 

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement. 

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him? 

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is. 

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago. 

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet. 

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine. 

It doesn’t. 

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot. 

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it. 

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all. 

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating. 

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you,  arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you. 

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline. 

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure. 

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees. 

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

 “Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug. 

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants.  “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes. 

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before.  “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs. 

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you. 

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.” 

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.  

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering.  “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him. 

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is. 

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.” 

You could slap him. 

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him. 

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts,  “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

 “Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long. 

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before  shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder,  caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure. 

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you. 

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to  “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own. 

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

 “Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment. 

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls.. 

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried. 

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house. 

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi Poppy!!<333 How you doing?? I have no idea how i ended up on the maternity side of tiktok, but seems like there's a trend, where pregnant woman ask their partner if they can help them shave, how do you think 141 would react???

Soap is picking up that shaving cream and razor without a second thought. You don’t need to ask twice. He’s ready, willing, and able. Plus, it’s just an excuse to stare at one of his favorite things about you. He’ll do it all. Bikini line. Legs. You name it.

Gaz is saying yes because he’s a healthy, wonderful boyfriend/husband who wants to take care of you all the time. While getting to see you naked is always a plus, he uses this time for intimacy, to do something for you, to spend a bit of time together.

Ghost doesn’t need to be asked. Why? He’s already doing it for you. There’s been a routine between the two of you where he’s the one who shaves your body. He enjoys doing it, and that doesn’t change during pregnancy. Draw yourself a bath and indulge. Lift that leg and hang it over the side of the tub. He’ll handle the rest.

Price thinks it’s strange that you’re asking him instead of spending his money to have someone else do it, but he’s not complaining. He makes no promises on being thorough but he’ll try his best. While he does a good job overall, there are certainly some missed spots where he thought he’d might accidentally cut you.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[readwritealldayallnight]

Part eight of Bird Watching aka hot construction worker!Simon Riley x single mom!reader (18+ MDNI)

October 31st, one year ago

You had almost stayed home that night.

None too eager to spend the latter half of your Tuesday elbowing sweaty strangers as you shuffled around on a mysteriously sticky pub floor, you had at least tried to talk your way out of it, all in vain of course.

“I don’t even own anything that could remotely pass as a costume! What would be the point?”

“You own enough yellow. If we get you a big hat you could pass for the guy from curious George.”

“You know what, that may not be the worst idea-”

“No!” Your best friend had interjected, returning from the kitchenette with beers in hand, passing one over to her boyfriend in exchange for a kiss on the cheek as she sat on the old couch’s armrest. “She will not be going dressed as the man in the yellow hat, thank you very much. Besides, it’s a masquerade costume party, masks required. The monkey man will have to sit on the bench this year.”

“Oh well, I guess that leaves me out of luck.” You had shrugged, not in the least bit bothered by the idea of being left behind tonight.

“Yeah, nice try. I told you, go check in my room. We went through so many rejects before we landed on being superheroes.” She’d told you, pointing a manicured finger towards her bedroom down the hall. Her roommates had their own plans for the night, leaving her and her boyfriend to roam the city as they pleased, hopping from bar to bar dressed in cheap superhero suits from the sketchy costume store a few blocks down.

Though soon as she’d gotten word that you didn’t have any plans of your own for Halloween, your best friend was insisting that you join the two of them and come out, in spite of your adamant protests that you were fine staying in.

You didn’t have any qualms about Halloween, quite the opposite actually. You had countless fond memories from your childhood and youth, images of dressing up in costumes that looked ridiculous with puffy jackets stuffed underneath as mums instructed, going from door to door in hopes of gathering as much loot as your little arms could carry, being wary of the houses with decorations deemed too scary to approach.

You liked Halloween, you liked spending time with your best friend, hell you even liked her newest boyfriend more than the last few ones she’d brought around.

But work had been stressful as of late, the idea of showing up hungover the next day seeming less than appealing to you.

And so, you’d compromised.

You’d go out with them, take it easy on the drinks, and stay out until midnight. Soon as it wasn’t October 31st anymore, you’d be hightailing it back home to your warm bed and alarm clock due to go off in only so many hours.

“Fine, I’ll see what I can find in there.” You’d told her, shaking your head at the beer bottle she offered in your direction, making your way towards the assortment of costumes that awaited you.

That was how you had found yourself nursing an all too expensive gin and tonic in the back of an absurdly crowded pub that night, faux spiderwebs hanging from the ceiling illuminated each time the lights shifted and beamed upon the decor, paper ghosts and bats strung about, a corny Halloween playlist blasting through the speakers as a crowd of masked party-goers moved about.

Your friend had been right, she and her boyfriend really had gone through quite a few costumes before deciding on superheroes; there were pirates, Star Wars characters, vampires, classic masquerade masks, more than your indecisive mind really needed, to be frank.

Sifting throuhg the garments, your eyes had landed on a long, lacy white dress just as your fingers found the plastic of the mask belonging to its partner.

With only so much time left before your friend had wanted to head out, you’d decided that going as Christine from The Phantom of the Opera, while also wearing the Phantom’s half mask, was the best you were going out be able to pull off on short notice.

Part of you regretted choosing such a warm costume, constantly rolling your billowing sleeves up in hopes of getting just a sliver of cool air to relieve you from the heat of so many bodies in a small space, though from the looks of it, there wasn’t a soul in the room that wasn’t sweating in their attire either, save for perhaps the two shirtless lads pretending to be Magic Mike dancers in masquerade masks.

Besides, it’d only be another hour or so before you’d have fulfilled your duty as a best friend and could sneak off back to the comfort of your familiar four walls, you could manage the heat and music for a little while longer.

Your friend and her boyfriend were talking about something or another, and though they were right next to you in the booth, you could scarcely hear them over the pounding bass, opting instead to glance around the room at the creative, as well as the certainly put together at the last minute, array of costumes packing the room.

Gaze landing on the movement at the front door as the bouncers let someone else come in, you’d nearly choked on your drink when you spotted him for the first time.

Nearly a head taller than anyone else in the dimly lit room, his presence was one that didn’t have to demand attention, but instead earned it instantaneously.

He needn’t say a single word before the crowd was parting for him, as though his immense stature truly was one of biblical proportions, your eyes never once daring to blink as they followed his form through the sea of swarming bodies, only realizing that you were holding your breath when he stopped at the bar’s sticky counter.

The mountain of a man had hardly lifted a finger before someone behind the counter was turning to face him, prepared to take his order, the same bar that other patrons were waiting nearly ten minutes to get a drink from.

You hadn’t come out with the intention of seeking any fun outside of your trio of friends tonight, had never meant on straying from your plan to be home not long after midnight, hadn’t planned on even entertaining anyone who might’ve offered to buy you a drink or wanted a dance.

But you certainly hadn’t intended on someone like him walking in tonight.

Clad head to toe in everything black, the only contrast being the white of the skull mask he adorned, one which shone bright as a beacon guiding stranded ships to shore every time the pub lights flashed by him, not that anyone dared glance his way long enough to discern whether they were being led to safety or not.

You had perhaps given his oddly unique costume choice a second or two’s worth of thought before the rapid beating of your heart aginst your ribs decided for you that you didn’t care, perhaps he like you had to find a costume at the last second.

He’d been wearing a simple t-shirt, though the shadows cast across the taut skin of his biceps easily put the wanna be Magic Mike men in the crowd to shame, his physique resembling that of someone who didn’t exercise for vanity’s sake, but for a life that required such brute strength.

You were still trying to ignore the increasingly steady pulsing growing between your thighs when you’d been snapped out of your daydream.

“So what are we looking at?” Your friend had shouted near your ear to be heard over the fifth rendition of Monster Mash to be played through the speakers that night, before her lips were wrapping around the straw of her sour key cocktail, narrowed eyes following your gaze.

“Nothing.”

“Is it mister tall, dark, and scary over there?” She’d questioned, jutting her chin in the direction of the bar. You’d gone to rebuke her claim, to shut down her line of inquiry before it strayed further, but any words you might have come up with in your defence were futile when he’d lifted up the bottom of his balaclava with a single dexterous finger, inching the material up just enough to reveal a sharp jaw and a bobbing Adam’s apple as he downed his drink without flinching, despite the dark colour of the liquid telling you it was one that would’ve had you grimacing.

“No.” You’d managed to cough up after a second too long of not answering, grateful for the darkness of the bar hiding your redenning cheeks.

“It’s okay if it is. I get the appeal, dude’s fucking jacked.” She’d replied with a single shrug of her shoulder, a knowing smirk sent your way just as her partner in crime’s arm slung around her shoulders.

“Wha’?” Her boyfriend had asked, evidently already drunker than the both of you combined.

“She’s making heart eyes at the guy over there.” She’d turned to shout in his ear this time, pointing in the direction of the bar where skull face still stood.

“I am not.” You’d grumbled, though your words went unheard as everyone’s eyes were on the skeleton man in question.

“Wha’? The grim reaper?”

“Precisely.” Your friend had answered with a mischievous smile painted across her lips, turning to face you again, before passing her empty glass over to the man hanging onto her every word. “Go get me another one in the meantime, won’t you baby?”

As he’d agreed easily, you friend had stepped closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist as you both regarded the stranger across the room, the mass of bodies between you nothing more than a simple nuisance you hardly noticed when he was the view on the other side.

“You’ve been together less than a month and you’ve already got him this whipped?” You’d asked her, eyes never straying from the masked man who continued nursing an amber coloured drink.

“The sex is just that good. Speaking of which…”

“Don’t start.”

“And why the hell not?” She’d shot back at you, bumping your hip with hers as she leaned her chin down onto your shoulder. “You deserve some earth shattering sex every once in a while too. And skull boy over there certainly looks like he could rock your world.”

“I came out for you tonight, not to flirt.” You’d replied, though the confidence in your words was diminishing with each second you spent watching a pair of thick arms strain aginst a tight shirt.

“And I’m telling you, as your best friend, that you are more off the hook if you wanted to get laid tonight. In fact, I encourage you to do so.”

“What if he’s waiting on someone?”

“Then he’ll tell you so.” She’d replied simply, beginning to sway the two of you in place as Thriller came on over the speakers. “Besides, do you see anybody going up to him? He’s here alone, babe.”

“I’m not drunk enough for this.” You’d said, downing the rest of your drink in one swig before turning to face her head on, snapping your eyes away from the masked man for the first time since he’d walked in as your heartbeat pounded through in ears drums.

“Oh, relax.” She’d reasoned, putting two steadying hands on your shoulders and looking you in the eyes, as best as she could in the bar’s dim lighting. “Listen, we’re gonna do like we used to do with Yasmine, right? We’ll use my guy this time.”

“I don’t-”

“Girl, would you at least talk to him before you convince yourself you can’t do this? Look how big this dude is. Just imagine the size of his dick. Are you willing to let that slip?”

Daring to slide your eyes back over to his massive stature, you couldn’t help but to have gulped as you did in fact dare to imagine for one fleeting moment, just what it would be like to get a man of that size in your bed for one night.

“You’re right. I want him.”

“‘Ere you are, love.” Her boyfriend had said as he made his way back into your small circle, passing the drink along to your friend who instantly slipped it into your hand and tipped it towards your lips.

“You, drink this.” She’d instructed you, nodding as you downed the liquid courage without needing to be told twice, not if you were going to go through with this after all. “And you,” she’d added, focusing on the now confused man beside her. “You’re gonna help her get laid.”

“I’m gonna- wha’?” He’d questioned, increasingly baffled by the conversation he’d returned to.

“The guys in our friend group used to do this for one of our friends. You’re gonna pretend to be buggin’ her. She’s gonna go to the big man for rescuing and you’re gonna back off and come back to me.”

“Why would I do tha’? Surely she can just walk up to him?”

“Well if you wanted to see my tits tonight…”

“My lady.” He’d said quickly, offering you his arm as though he were a proper gentleman and not some drunk grad student in a superman costume eager to appease his girlfriend in hopes of seeing her boobs later that night.

Gulping down the last of your friends drink and chuckling at the wink she sent your way, you’d strolled ahead of her boyfriend fast enough that you couldn’t change your mind, the alcohol running through your system helping to pull you towards the bar with just enough bravado to properl you in his direction, hands unabashedly landing on a massive bicep before you could stop yourself.

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” You could hardly hear yourself over the music and the ringing in your ears, though you knew he’d heard you, was looking at you, when his gaze landed on your face for a second before following yours, eyes falling on a sweaty superman behind him.

“You’re expecting me to believe that this is your boyfriend?” He’d asked as steadily as he could, gesturing not unkindly towards the skull masked man you were still holding onto, hoping desperately that this stupid college trick you and your friends used to use would still work.

You’d been grateful to be leaning against the bar top as you felt your knees suddenly threaten to give out, seeing as the masked stranger had just slipped a muscular arm around your shoulders and spoke in a voice so deep it sent lightning shooting down your spine.

“Husband. Actually. Best move onto the next one mate. She’s taken.” His gravelly Manchester accent had cut through the clamour of the pub, the feeling of the very same arm you’d been ogling now wrapped around you was rapturous. You definitely owed your friend for this one.

Your friend’s mate didn’t need much more than that before he’d been slipping back into the crowd, almost certainly expecting a snog now after this victory.

“Jesus, he’s been hounding me all night, wouldn’t take no for an answer, but you say all of ten words to him and he’s over it? Ugh, men I swear.” You’d said, learning your elbows against the bar top as you went to wave down someone behind the counter, intent on another drink.

You were all to pleased to feel a heated gaze on the side of your face, tilting your head enough to catch the stranger’s eye and sending him a playful smile.

“Funny way to say thank you.” He’d replied, taking half a step closer into your orbit none too subtlety.

“Hey, I was getting there.” You had laughed genuinely, relieved if not in slight disblief that you had him talking to you, had his attention now. “Would a drink be enough to repay you for saving me?”

He seemed to have thought it over for a moment, mulling his answer befor shifting an increment closer to you, relaxing the arm still slung over you shoulders as he easily got the bartender’s attention, despite your best efforts to do the same half a second ago.

“Only if you’like have one with me. Got to keep up the appearance that we’re here together now, haven’t we?”

“Hmm, suppose so.” You’d agreed with him easily, quickly snatching up the barstool next to you as its occupant left. You couldn’t help the deep blush that spread across your cheeks when the man next to you all too easily reach a muscular arm behind you to grab ahold of the stool and drag you closer to him, appearing as though he’d hardly used any effort in doing so. “So, what’s my knight in shining armour’s name, then?”

“Call me Ghost.”

Had his lips been free, Simon might’ve found the decency to apologize for the state of his apartment, a disarrayed sight that would’ve brought his first CO’s to shame, but as it was, his lips were a tad preoccupied dancing against yours.

It’s not like he’d been planning on entertaining tonight anyhow.

Certainly hadn’t planned on this being the outcome of coincidentally walking into a pub hosting a fucking mask party, while he took his own mask on its farewell tour for a night of pity drinking.

Hadn’t planned a pretty little thing all but stumbling into his lap, hadn’t intended on having so many drinks with her, definitely hadn’t meant on finding the things she said so genuinely interesting, hadn’t meant on staying out until the lights in the pub turned on and the owners were telling patrons to leave.

Sure, he had been to one to lean in and kiss you outside under the flickering lamppost around the corner as everything else around you faded into mere background noise, he had been the one to grab your waist tighter when your arms looped around his neck, fingers slipping into hair and under clothing, he had been to one to ask if you wanted to go to somwhere else after the whoops and cheers of a passing group of boys bled through into your reality

What he hadn’t planned on was for your flat to be nearly forty minutes away from the pub, when his was a less than five minute walk, the decision on whose place to go back to being clear though not his preferred choice, though it was all irrelevant when the difference meant getting your naked all the faster

He hadn’t planned on needing any condoms that night, or any time soon for that matter, not a single one or be found in the flat, something you reassured him was fine seeing as you were on the pill, and if he just pulled out, something he all too easily agreed to when your dress slipped off your frame and pooled around your ankles on his floor.

One thing Simon did plan on however, from the moment he’d decided he was going to be bringing you into his bed that night, was that the mask would be staying on.

Yours had fallen off or been ripped off ages ago, whereabouts unknown and uncared for as his frame pushed forward, widening the spread of your thighs that much more, as a massive fist came down and gripped your ankle, propping the limb up against his broad shoulder as he thrusted again.

Simon was far from being anywhere near a lightweight, especially when it came to his drinks, though even he had to admit, he’d been a tad excessive tonight, matching your drinks each time with two if not three times the amount of alcohol inside his glass, losing track of the number as it reached double digits.

He was a smart man, a well-trained one, no matter how many drinks he might’ve had, Simon was also aware of his surroundings, constantly surveying for potential threats or dangers, never leaving his guard down entirely, lest it be the first and list time he does so.

No, his memories of walking back to his flat together, of stumbling through the door as you couldn’t keep your mouths of the others, of ridding each other of every piece of clothing hiding the others warm skin, of landing in bed together in a tangle of heat and sweat and sparks, wasn’t because he was drunk of his drinks.

Simon was drunk off of you.

Each sound you made as his hands roamed the expanse of your naked flesh, every dip and curve, had him feeling higher than an addict.

Every touch you pressed aginst him, every inch of his skin you caressed, squeezed, scratched, and held had his head spinning faster than an overdose.

Simon fully intended on getting every ounces worth out of tonight, on squeezing each bit of pleasure he could out of you and the feast you’d presented before him, on making the most of this fuck as he could, intent on this being the only time.

You were a lovely thing, a soft thing, a much too beautiful and delicate thing for someone like him, for the man beneath the mask he still could not relinquish, not while he was still broken in the way he was, all sharp angles and points that would inevitably leave you hurt, worse off for knowing him.

He would let himself have something like this, someone like you, tonight, but only tonight, just this once.

Though Simon certainly hadn’t meant on cumming in you that night either.

“Please, Ghost! Fuck- I’m so- oh fuck!” Your cries had been the most beautiful symphony to his ears, no concerns about a heardboard banging against the wall when he had nothing more than a mattress and a sheet on the ground, his strong arms cushioning your head with every powerful thrust he gave your sore cunt.

“Oh? Wha’ was tha’? You weren’t about to cum were you?” He’d teased, slowing his pace to instead grind his pelvis against your throbbing clit, the pressure just right as you’d thrown your head back farther, Simon taking advantage of the expanse of your bare neck to press his warm lips to your pulse.

“I’m so close, Ghost- holy shit- don’t stop.” You’d pleaded with him fingernails dragging down the width of his back as you followed his rhythm.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He’d murmured in your ear, lips grazing the shell of your ear as he slowly picked his pace back up, getting you to that point of release for the fourth of fifth time that night.

He knew you were there when you tensed up around him, ankles locking behind his back and moans growing louder as you squeezed impossibly tight around his length, testing every bit of self-restraint he had left.

“Fuck, love. You’re so tight.” He’d grunted, still grinding his hips as to drag out your bliss. “Fuck- I’m gonna- wait- I-”

The words were lost on his lips as he couldn’t help but let out a guttural sound of his own, his heavy balls emptying into you without any hope of stopping it, warmth spreading through you as he continued rutting despite the overstimulation.

“Shit. I didn’t meant to-” He’d started, only pulling out of you after you’d both caught your breaths, leaning his heavy weight off of you and watching in slight horror and secret hunger as his cum covered cock pulled out of you, evidence of your shared release soaking the sheets.

“Shh, it’s okay.” You’d reassured him, glassy eyes staring into his own as your delicate hand held the side of his mask, thumb tracing the grooves beneath his eye sockets.”Like I said, I’m on the pill. And I’ll grab a Plan B on the way home.”

On the way home

He’d planned on you leaving, had planned on finding a way to avoid letting you linger in his sheets too long after it was all said and done, had intended on paying for your taxi fare and bidding you farewell.

What he hadn’t planned on was the odd pang in his chest when he heard you agree it was over.

“Si? What’s wrong? What is it? Simon?” You’d been trying to snap him out of his daze for at least a minute now, something suddenly happening in his brain to have him nearly unresponsive as he struggled to hear you over his thoughts.

“It’s me.”

“What was that?” As upset as you currently were with him, you still loved him, still wanted to help and support him if he was about to have an anxiety attack or something of the sort, his mumbling coming out too quiet and unintelligible for you to understand.

“It’s me.” He mumbled just a touch louder, more coherent, as his eyes began moving again, though not yet reaching you.

“You’re what, Si?” You tried to ask him, still perplexed as to what he was suddenly going on about, confused as to what revelation he appeared to have gotten in the middle of an argument.

“It’s me, love. Birdie, I- fuck.” He said, his gaze finally meeting your, eyes blown wide in apparent shock, an expression you’ve never sen before plastered across his face.

“Jesus, Simon. Sit, sit down, please.” You stood, grabbing his forearm and pulling him towards you where you were sat on a stack of moving boxes, helping him to do the same across from you, only letting go of him when you were sure the box would hold his weight. “What are you talking about? What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Love, I- I’m the dad. It’s me. I’m Rosie’s dad.” He said, gesturing towards himself with both hands, speaking as though this were breaking news.

“Si, I- I love that you call yourself her dad, I agree, but we’ve been doing that for months now-”

“No,” he interrupted you, leaning forward wit his elbows on his knees, a nearly crazed look in his eyes as he tried to reason with you. “No, birdie, I- I’m Rosie’s dad. I’m the one who got you pregnant last Halloween. I- fuck- I’m the dad.”

“Wha- what are you even talking about?” You stuttered, more than slightly flabbergasted that Simon would think this was something fun to joke about, knowing how sensitive of a subject this was to you. “That’s not even a little funny, Simon.”

“No, lovie. Listen to me- I swear to ya. O’Malley’s Pub, a fuckin’ Halloween mask party, right? You stumbled into me when some bloke was messin’ wit’ ya.”

If Simon noticed the blood drain from your face at his words, he didn’t comment, instead continuing in his explanation that left your ears ringing.

“You were dressed as that maid from the opera whatever, least ‘til I brought you back to my flat, round the corner from that same pub, am I right?”

“What- how could-”

“And then I fuckin’ came in ya, we spent hours in that bed and the last time of course I bloody fuckin’ came in ya.” He continued, sounding mad at himself as he recounted the events of that night, the possibility of it all being too astounding for your mind to comprehend.

“You’re lying again!”

“Birdie, please-”

“No! How could you possibly be her father? What are the odds that it was you that night, Simon? That you’re not only her father but when I walked up to that fence last year and every person on that damned crew told me to talk to you? That you were the one who showed up and came through for me. There is no way! I can’t believe you would-”

“Stand up.”

“W-what?” You asked incredulously, watching as his eyes never left yours, though his chin jutted out towards the box you were still sat atop.

“Stand up and open that box, love.” He replied simply, his calm demeanour unwavering you now more than anything else. You still felt red in the face, your pulse pounding in your head as you felt tears threatening to spill over.

For some reason you still stood, you still turned around and glanced at the box in front of you, one of Simon’s from the flat you’ve never visited before, not when he always came over to yours.

The box was simply labeled ‘Work’ in Simon’s sloppy hand writing, a black sharpie telling you this box was one you’d never seen the inside of before, should it be from his old career in the military and not his new one of hammers and nails and hard hats.

“Open it.” He told you, eyes softening when you tilted your head slightly to glance at him. “Please.”

As furious and confused and exhausted and conflicted as you felt at that moment, you still opened that box, still lifted up the folded camo print pants that were stacked at the top, sifting through the heaps of clothing until your fingers found something out of place.

Eyes locking with Simon’s, you’d hardly needed to glance down at your hand to confirm what you’d just pulled out into the open.

That damned skeleton mask.

If there’s anything I love more than a run-on sentence, it’s a cliff hanger… and thus the night Rosie was created 😉

We’ve only got two more chapters to go with this pair! I’ve been having so much fun writing this story, it’ll be bittersweet to watch it come to an end, but equally excited to tie it all together

- M 🫶🏻

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[laceymorganwrites]

Poly TF141 part 1

Poly!TF141 but it all starts with Simon and his wife

Simon´s wife is someone that just comes up all the time, Simon won´t stop talking about her no matter what. And honestly it makes sense, because TF141 is his family, they´re his brothers, he trusts them with his life and over the years of working and living together and especially after the others opened up to him, he finally feels safe enough to open up as well, he tells them about the only person who is keeping him sane. and not only that but happy. actually happy. everyone is shocked to find out he´s married. and not only that but for almost ten years now. he is just a master at keeping work and private life seperate. that is until his work life turns into his private life as well. because they´ve long since breached that line. it´s obvious with the lingering touches, Johnny´s good morning texts, the way Simon ruffles his hair so naturally at this point, Gaz and Price´s precious shared morning routine, Gaz treating Simon´s wounds, Price´s praise for his soldier feeling a lot more personal now. it all just happens but before anything happens too fast for him, he feels the need to tell his wife. of course she knows already since Simon tells her everything and she´s never once minded the attention he´s gotten from his teammates. he trusts them and so does she. she never once interfered with his work life, knowing it wasn´t her place and that Simon would always come back to her. and he does. his wife is the most important person in the world to him. and everyone knows that too. so when his feelings start becoming too much, when he doesn´t know what to make of it all he starts talking about her more than he did before, eventually leading Price to suggest her coming over on their next off time. they remain on base like usual, everyone´s excited but also kind of nervous. everyone pictures Simon´s wife differently. Price thinks it´s a high school sweethearts situation, Gaz thinks it´s teen pregnancy, Soap calls someone from the field. everyone agrees that is has to be someone shy and sweet, someone Simon can take care of and someone who can handle his roughness. they couldn´t be more wrong.

when she arrives there´s an air of authority around her that´s hard to miss. it even has Price cock an eyebrow. it´s not often someone like that appears. a woman who demands attention without even so much as blinking. Simon is by her side immediately, towering over her but looking like a small child the way he is reaching out for her hand. it´s obvious at first glance. the way she smiles up at him, the silent praise and reassurance in her glance, the gentle tap of her hand against his arm. she´s his anchor. they exchange a few words and Soap swears he sees Simon smile underneath that mask, he´s never seen his Lieutenant look so...soft. and it unlocks something in him. Johnny´s always been eager to please but in this moment he battles between wanting to be the one taking care of Simon or wanting his wife to take care of him. she just looks so capable, so beautiful, but then again he´s always had a thing for older women. she couldn´t have been more than four years older than Simon himself, but that alone was enough for him to affirm the dynamics playing out in front of him. everyone else noticed too. Gaz, unable to hide his smirk, just happy and proud of Simon for finding her. Price eventually comes out of his daze and invites her inside, stumbling over his words the way he hadn´t since the first time he´s been with an older woman. Soap catches it and gives him a smirk. Simon introduces you officially and suddenly there is no more work and private life. there´s just Simon. Simon who´s surrounded by everyone he loves, by everyone he can be himself around, without any walls or defenses. Simon whose voice is so fucking soft when talking about his wife, how proud he sounds when talking about how they met and how he was the one to approach her first. how scared he was, how nervous. but he just knew he had to know her. they were neighbors, back when Simon still worked closer to home. she always had a meal ready for him whenever he came back from a mission. she did his laundry for him when he was on leave. they watched movies together, she was the first person to ever make him laugh. it was scary to him how fast he fell in love, never thinking he could in the first place. but with her it´s so easy. sex too. he never knew he could actually find enjoyment in it, or want it in the first place. but with her there´s this need to just make her feel good. and make her proud. and let her make him feel good too. anything for her. she teaches him so much about himself. Simon never knew he was a sub, never gave it much thought. never knew he needed that dynamic, never knew how bad he needed a mommy until he found the perfect one. they moved in together quickly since Simon mostly stayed at her place anyway, he was the one to propose. both of them cried so much on their wedding day they could barely make it through the vows. and after so many years together it´s only natural to know each other inside and out. you need each other like air.

Simon never knew he was capable of loving someone so much. he never knew he could love more than one person at the same time. his wife helped him name the feelings he was getting for his teammates, for his captain. helped him fight the guilt and work with him towards acceptance. when she sits down with them all everyone is mesmerised, just hanging by every word she says. it´s never been so quiet on base. her being here makes everything make sense. and everyone just knows, she has to stay. she puts everything into perspective. she thanks the boys for taking care of her baby, how much it means to her and to him. how she can see the way Simon feels so safe and at home here and how happy it makes her. they talk for hours about what this all means and finally adresss the simmering feelings and attractions for each other, because with her here there´s no shame in it, and they are so glad that she doesn´t mind the attention her husband is getting. she encourages it. she wants him to explore these new feelings. it´s a lot to take in all at once and it should be overwhelming but it´s not.

"It´s okay, mommy´s here now"

her voice is so sweet, the men addicted to the sound of it already. it´s hard to say who melts first, Price or Johnny. Gaz just knows things are about to get a whole lot more interesting around base

[kanescrochet]

Make Me

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Bratty!Reader

War-torn intimacy, brat taming, emotional tension, control battles, NSFW

Warnings: MDNI, rough sex, light choking, spanking, emotional undercurrent, dom/sub power play (reader pushes, Ghost punishes), praise/degradation, soft aftercare

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door slammed harder than it needed to.

Ghost barely looked at you as he entered, soaked in rain and silence, the kind of storm he carried with him more often now. War stuck to him like second skin — every step a reminder he belonged to something you couldn't touch.

He dropped his gear piece by piece. Vest. Boots. Shirt. Silence.

You leaned back against the headboard, legs bare, tank top loose and falling off your shoulder just enough. A challenge hung between you like smoke.

“You could’ve called,” you said, voice sharp, eyes sharper. “But I guess you were too busy being someone else’s good little soldier again.”

That got his attention.

His eyes cut to you — narrowed, dark, unreadable. You didn’t flinch. You never did.

“What’s your problem?” he said flatly.

You tilted your head. “Maybe I don’t like being the last thing you crawl back to when the killing’s done.”

His jaw flexed. “You think I do this for them?”

You snorted, biting back a grin. “No. I think you don’t know who you do it for anymore.”

There was a beat of silence. A warning.

Then, “You wanna keep running your mouth, sweetheart?”

You pushed further, peeling your top off slowly and tossing it to the floor like a dare. “Maybe. Unless you’re gonna do something about it.”

The look he gave you could’ve burned through walls.

In two strides, he was on you — hand fisting in your hair, mouth slamming onto yours in something far too rough to be romantic. He kissed like a threat. Like you were the only thing that made him feel anything anymore, and that terrified him.

Your legs wrapped around his hips without hesitation.

“You need to be reminded who you belong to?” he rasped, breath hot against your throat.

“I belong to me,” you hissed, arching into him. “But you can try to convince me otherwise.”

He growled low in his chest and shoved you back into the mattress, tearing your panties down with practiced ease.

“You always talk this much?” he asked, fingers curling around your throat just enough to hold you still.

“Only when I’m bored.”

He slapped your inner thigh, hard enough to leave a print. “Let’s fix that.”

And he did.

He sank into you with no patience, no sweetness — just need. Raw and brutal. Like he was trying to fuck the ghosts out of himself. Like you were the only thing that reminded him he was still human. And you — you met him thrust for thrust, moan for moan, nails dragging down his back, gasping demands into his ear.

“Harder, Riley. Is this all you’ve got?”

He pushed your knees up, folded you in half, drove into you like the war never ended and you were the only home he had left.

Your bratty attitude crumbled fast. All the teasing dissolved into broken moans, fingers grasping, begging.

He didn’t stop when you came the first time — or the second. He chased every twitch and whimper, hand wrapped tight in your hair, his voice a low snarl against your cheek.

“That mouth of yours…” he growled, hips stuttering. “Made for sucking cock, not smart-ass remarks.”

You grinned, fucked-out and breathless. “Could be both.”

He laughed — dark and breathless — and kissed you like he was still starving.

When it was over, when you were trembling under the weight of him and your thighs slick with the wreckage of it all, he didn’t speak for a long time.

Then, softer: “I’m not theirs. Never was.”

You turned your head, brushing your lips against his jaw.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t share.”

He laid there with you, body wrapped around yours like armor. The kind he didn’t need to take off.

And for once, there were no orders to follow. No mask. No fight left.

Just you. And him. And the way your mouth curved even in sleep — smug, satisfied, his

[laceyfaeryy]

MDNI 18+

loner! simon riley being completely unaware that he’s largely endowed

mentions of: huge dick simon riley, loser simon riley, vaginal sex - part 2

just loner! simon riley with a huge cock that’s all

he was completely unaware of how big he really is, thinking it’s probably just average or maybe even smaller, and straying awkwardly away from any sex talk with his friends.

he was also completely unaware of how it literally swings when he walks, especially when he is alone in his apartment with no boxers just because they felt so unreasonably uncomfortable, like his cock was suffocating. his tight cargo pants always bunched up at the crotch area.

he was quite messy whenever he came whilst fisting his cock. his rough hands marred with scars moving up and down sloppily, lewd wet noises filling up the room as he leaned his head on the wall, his black skull balaclava in his mouth to stifle any groans.

his cock felt heavy, weighing down his hands and sometimes would even make his hands ache.

and he had a heavy load of cum when he came it would spurt all over his abdomen, making a sticky mess on his hands as he tried to wipe it with a towel, his actions sloppy due to the ache in his right hand.

so when he first fucked you he felt like an amateur, completely unaware of your gaze glued to his bulge as he freed his aching cock, looking already huge in his large hands. he struggled, like a lot getting it in.

he was so excited to feel your warm cunt around him, missing your hole multiple times.

“fuck, ‘m sorry luvie, don’t know why it’s not going in.” his cheeks beat up, a faint dust of pale pink as his fat tip nudged against your glistening hole, his hand steady trying to guide it. “jus’ a lil stretch,” he cooed as he watched the way his tip was enveloped by your cunt, a loud squelching noise before he finally sank in.

god he loved watching that small tummy bulge whilst fucking you.

he never thought he’d feel so good, your gummy walls so tight and warm around his cock, squeezing him like you wanted to milk him dry. simon was used to the feeling of his palms, the rough dry skin, but god it did not compare to the feeling of your cunt.

he came within seconds after you, his cum dripping out despite his cock being plunged so deeply into your cunt.

he swore that he saw your stomach swell just slightly due to his cum.

[witchthewriter]

Simon Riley who took you home after a night out, expecting sex but you couldn't go through with it.

You were both already naked, your hands on his chest, straddling the large man when you just ... couldn't do it. Being a virgin at this age felt embarrassing, and tonight you wanted to get rid of the title.

Simon, saw the dismay on your face and wrapped a blanket around you. Your face was bright red from embarrassment, god, what was holding you back?

"it's alrigh' love."

You felt the need to leave. You hadn't given him what he wanted...so you guessed it was time to hit the road.

So, both of you got up to do very different things.

You started putting on your dress and shoes, but when Simon turned around, he had a pair of his shirts and large sweat pants for you to wear.

His gruff voice was so gentle.

"You don't 'ave to leave..."

You weren't expecting this. There were no alarm bells, nothing in your stomach to say 'run.' But Simon Riley knew the dangers that women faced and he never wanted to make another woman feel that way.

"I uh, just want you to know, you can do whatever you like. I just ... fucking hell. What I'm tryin' to say is, I'd like to spend more time with ya...if that's alrigh' by you..."

He offered you a shower, and god did you want one. Surprisingly enough, Simon had pretty good products in his bathroom. None of that 30 in 1 shampoo. Clean towels. Everything was in perfect order; neat, tidy.

When you had changed into the perfectly oversized clothes (he is like 6'6?), and walked downstairs, Simon was waiting on the lounge with various drink options, and a sheepish grin.

"Thought you'd need some water, but I also have whiskey, coffee, tea..."

"Oh, thank you! Um, I'm fine with water...and maybe a tea."

"Woman after me own heart," he said with a grin and went on to make the best cuppa he's made in his life.

[sunlightandprayers]

jealous!lieutenant riley makes brain go brrr

warnings : explicit content, filthy mouthed simon & a molecule of praise

──────────୨ৎ───────────

jealous!lieutenant riley who nearly cracks a molar when laswell teams you and kyle up for an upcoming mission.

jealous!lieutenant riley whose fingers twitch towards his gun when she mentions you’ll have to act as a married couple.

jealous!lieutenant riley who, for the entire week leading up to the gala, barks at rookies nine hours a day and spends his evenings at the shooting range—allegedly imagining someone very real as the target.

jealous!lieutenant riley whose mouth goes bone dry when he sees you wrapped in an expensive floor-length chiffon dress that accentuates every gentle dip and feminine curve and—fuck but he’s half-hard already.

jealous!lieutenant riley whose eyes stay glued to you the entire evening, his thoughts straying much further than his simple assignment of guarding your six.

jealous!lieutenant riley who, the second the base’s gravel crunches under the slowing tires of the car, is wrapping a burly arm around the slope of your waist while actively glaring at the diamond on your finger.

jealous!lieutenant riley who backs you up against his quarters’ door, his amber eyes burning like molten lava as they rove the length of your legs in a slow trail upwards.

jealous!lieutenant riley who finally claims your mouth, glides his hot tongue against yours, nips your neck and kisses your shoulders—all while he slides the subtly glittering gown off, exposing more and more of your soft skin to his hungry gaze.

jealous!lieutenant riley who lays you out on his bed—your nimble hands fisting his sheets, your silky hair in a halo on his pillow, and your pretty legs hiked onto his shoulders as he lowers himself between the plush of your thighs.

jealous!lieutenant riley who only drifts back up once he’s had his fill, chin glistening from your slick and pupils almost swallowing all the bronze of his irises.

jealous!lieutenant riley who lines himself up with your puffy entrance, bracing his tattooed forearms on each side of your head as his fingers slip into your silky hair.

jealous!lieutenant riley who kisses your dampened forehead, before letting his stubbly cheek rasp against your blushing one, his hot breath bleeding into a drawl at your ear.

“'m goin’ to fuck that ring right off of you, dove. now spread y’legs and be a good girl f’me.”

[ebodebo]

shoot to kill mini series | vol. l guard dog

more

creepy ex bf

imagine your ex-boyfriend being so annoying, spamming your phone, and randomly showing up at your apartment, begging you to give him yet another chance.

at first, you felt pity for the guy.

even thought of letting him in a couple of times.

you didn't, but the guilt that gnawed at your throat nearly became too much to bare.

your hand drifted eerily close to the handle as you heard his pleas through your door.

the only thing that made you come back to reality was the pounding of a broom stick on the floor beneath, shouting for the man to shut the fuck up.

that was some days ago, but now, instead of feeling pity or guilt, you’re starting to feel just plain creeped out.

scared he might act on impulse and break into your apartment in the depths of the night.

you're sleeping has taken a plummet, even with a knife by your bed, nothing seems to coax you into relaxation.

that is, until you have the brilliant idea to go next door to your tall, scary, military neighbor, who goes by simon.

you don't know his last name; hell you barely knew his first.

the only reason you knew it was because you heard some girl he brought home moan it through your thin connecting walls.

you felt guilty as you pulled out your small vibrator, goading your sweet release as you heard him groan and curse with every harsh thrust.

even the guilt that swirled in your stomach couldn’t take away the guttural effects he was having on your body, even from so far away.

you ducked your head, avoiding his gaze from then on, until one day, while having trouble unlocking your apartment door, he trudged to your door after examining you for a moment, gently scooting you away and fixing it right before your eyes.

you claimed he was a magician.

he chuckled, deep and gruff, before his name fell off his tongue in greeting, making your thighs clench together.

you hurriedly introduced yourself, before rushing into your apartment, shutting the door behind you, and sinking onto the ground with a deep sigh and hot skin.

pathetic, really.

but, he didn't mind.

he thought you were cute—odd but cute—and you brought him cookies the next day as a thank you, so how could he think ill of you?

so if anyone could help you, it was simon.

“hey, neighbor,” you greet him when he opens the door. he is wearing a simple black long sleeve shirt and dark cargo pants.

he nods towards you. “hello.”

you smile brightly at him, somewhat forgetting your dilemma.

he tilts his head to the side, quipping a brow. “any particular reason you’re here?” he asks, voice rough as always.

you rock on your heels, fidgeting with your fingers. “i need your help.”

he leans against the doorframe. “go on.”

“i’m sure you’ve heard that guy that comes around,” you start, watching his squinted eyes.

“who hasn’t? that bastard is always here,” he says gruffly.

“he’s my ex,” you admit, cringing.

simon stiffens, eyes opening wider slightly.

“he’s, uh… become an issue. he won’t leave me alone, and i’m scared he’s going to break into my apartment while i’m sleeping,” you say, shaking your head, the tension in your voice evident.

“he’s not going to do that,” he shrugs.

your eyes widen at his dismissal, feeling slightly hurt. “how do you know?”

he turns to grab a backpack off a hook beside him. “because i’ll be there. won’t let him through the door,” he casually mutters as he steps out of his apartment, closing it behind him.

you feel a flutter in your stomach at his taking on the role of your protector so quickly—no enticement necessary.

“i really appreciate it, simon.” your voice is full of gratitude.

“don’t mention it, sweetheart,” he shakes his head, heading towards your door. “key?” he asks, reaching for your painted key hanging around your neck.

you hurriedly lean forward, mind completely fogging at the endearment.

his lip quips as he tugs the key up and over your head to unlock the door.

once he unlocks the door, he pushes the door wide open, stepping aside for you to go in first.

“and they say chivalry is dead,” you can’t help but joke as you slip in, a teasing glint in your eye.

he matches your humorous smile with one of his own. “do they? hadn’t heard that,” he murmurs, closing the door as he steps in.

you spin your head away from his gaze, opting to stare at a lonesome flower pot with a dumb grin on your face.

the next two hours are spent lazing until you find yourself on the cushion right next to simon on the couch as he occasionally glanced at the door, while you picked and prodded at reality show stars on the television screen.

But you and simon both stiffen when you hear the familiar hard knock on the front door, followed by a strained male voice pleading.

you look at simon who's already stalking over to the door; you uncross your legs and walk behind him.

with annoyance, simon pulls open the door, and you see your ex’s face whiten and his body sag at the sight. “can we help you?” simon gruffs, cocking a brow at his pathetic demeanor.

your ex stammers, stumbling over his words as he looks between you and simon. “who the fuck are you?” your ex demands, though not daring to try and overpower simon because simon easily has fifty pounds and eight inches over him.

simon crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging bigger as he does so. “you should lose this address,” he urges, voice so gruff and commanding it sends shivers down your spine. “i don’t take too kindly to guys stalking my girlfriend,” he says with an ease that makes you lick your drying lips.

“girlfriend?” your ex chokes out, unable to comprehend what he is hearing.

“that’s what i said, isn’t it?” simon almost sounds disinterested.

your ex’s eyes wander to you. “you're dating this guy?” he almost sounds hurt.

you shift under his gaze, feeling awkward.

“don't talk to her. talk to me,” simon interjected, feeling your unease.

“you can’t—you aren’t dating,” your ex begins, narrowing his eyes. “you’re just doing this to make me jealous, aren’t you?” there is venom behind his words that pisses simon off.

simon’s lips flatline, and just as you go to speak, simon turns his head, hand coming to cup your jaw to kiss you deeply, possessively.

your ex releases a short breath as the sight.

simon’s tongue moves across to skim your teeth, making you whine into his mouth, as his fingers tangle in your hair for deeper contact.

you release a shallow whimper of protest as simon pulls back, enjoying the sight of your ex so shell-shocked.

simon tilts his head forward, looking into his eyes intently. “this is my girl, and if i find out you’ve been botherin’ her, i’ll make you a dead man. you hear me?” his voice is so lethal it makes you squirm, but in a completely different way than your ex.

your ex’s eyes look like saucers as he nods his head fervently.

“good choice. now leave,” simon instructs.

without another word, your ex spins on his heels, looking like a hurt lamb as he leaves the complex.

simon lets out a dry laugh as he shuts the door behind him.

“thank you,” you murmur.

he gives you a brief smile, gesturing for you to sit back on the couch. you both go back to lazing around, now watching some cooking show you put on.

later that night, he insisted on setting up shop in your living room for the night… or just the next two!

it’s really not a big deal.

he just wouldn’t be able to continue on if something happened to his cute neighbor!

that’s all.

you’re so sweet and still shaken up by the interaction that you let him stay the night.

…and the next one.

…and the one after that.

you’re starting to think he never really counted on staying just one night.

you don’t say anything, but after the second week passes and simon is still around, you find yourself reeling as you start to see his socks and shirts tucked nicely in your drawers.

his coffee mug now kisses yours in the cabinet, and some magnets of the countries he’s visited cling to the fridge.

there isn’t a crevice in your apartment that simon hasn’t explored, or left a piece of himself in.

you should have known better than to invite simon into the same place he had fantasized about for the past six months.

the very place where he listened to your sweet moans, so loud, so tempting.

every. single. night.

he kicked his friends out of his place every time he heard your vibrator start up, so that they couldn’t listen to your breathy whines and so he could sneak away to his room, where your thin walls meet, to tug away at his cock imagining it was you stroking him until he came all over his hand and sheets.

such a sweet girl, you are.

letting a dog into your home to roam free, unaware of the way he watched you with a slobbering tongue and a primal hunger.

oh, sweetheart, you never stood a chance.

[rawme-price]

A quick part three to my reader and her dog riley post :] reader scolds riley😔

(part 4 here ig)

You start bringing riley to the base more often. The boys love seeing him when they drop off papers for you, and it eases some anxiety to be able to see riley safe and happy while you correct forms and whatnot.

At some point or another a dog bed appeared in the room, like a really nice dog bed. Better than the one you have for him at home and five times more expensive. You tried asking soap about it, but he just shrugged, and said something about another dog on base. So...useless.

Either way, riley has been comfortably hanging around your little office, gladly accepting pets (and treats that you pretend not to see) from the guys. So when ghost and soap walk in, youre not shocked at all that soap hardly says hi before kneeling down to riley.

You see whats going to happen before it does.

Soap sets down a half-drank water bottle so he can properly bury his mits in rileys fur, and you stand up to warn soap but its too late. Your beloved dog, light of your life, lunges for the plastic like a man on a mission. You know from personal experience that thing will be shredded, water all over the floor, with an upset riley because he hurt his mouth on plastic.

"Riley! Drop it!" You command, voice stern.

The bottle drops to the floor with a muffled thud, followed by a much louder slap as the small pile of papers ghost was holding also drop to the ground.

You hardly notice, jumping around your desk and prying your dogs mouth open. God, you love him but hes so clueless sometimes! You need to make sure he didnt cut himself on the plastic.

"Bad dog!" You scold, voice stern but not angry "you know better, riley!"

You dont see the red flush creeping over ghosts face, visible even with the mask. You dont see him silently exit the room, and you certainly dont see the boner hes sporting.

Soap does. The scot merely grins to himself, happy that his plan worked, though it would've been better if you actually noticed ghosts reaction. Oh well, guess soap will just have to try harder next time....

[skywwwalker]

Firefighter!Simon who meets you when your apartment goes up in flames, breaking down the crumbling excuse of a door to make sure that everyone had been evacuated from the building. Gaz was having a laugh about how someone ‘could sleep through that shit’ as Simon had to wake up this poor girl who just wanted to sleep after her stressful day. Firefighter!Simon who answers all your questions with a gruff tone, navigating through the burning building. On one hand, he’s glad you aren’t screaming and crying about the building but on the other hand he wasn’t used to people asking him questions. You ask him things like his favorite color, his favorite food, how many times he had punched people in the face, and about his opinion on everything under the sun. He was on his seventh ‘you need to stop talkin’, ma’am, yer wastin’ air’ when you started coughing.

When you got to the ambulance, Firefighter!Simon didn’t say no when you asked him to go with you to the hospital. Johnny raised an eyebrow at Simon as he maneauvered his hulking body onto the seat next to you. For some unknown reason, Firefighter!Simon didn’t want you- nosy and kind and pretty you- to be hacking up a lung by yourself in the presence of someone like Johnny. And when your breathing started slowing and you weren’t looking around with bright eyes, Simon let you slide your hand into his gloved one.

Firefighter!Simon who, miraculously, has the night off. He decides to stay in the hospital until you wake: thinking it would be the gentlemanly thing to do to make sure your friends or family were made aware of the devastating fire. But when you finally blink awake and Simon asks all his questions, he’s stumped when you hit him with a ‘I don’t have any family’. Simon can’t stop himself from blurting out ‘You c’n stay with me. If you want.’

It takes a full day for you to be cleared before Firefighter!Simon picks you up from the hospital to take you to his (more than) humble abode. He finds that you quickly find happiness in the kitchen, but are more than disappointed to see he has barely anything to cook or bake with. “A damn shame” you say. With the remaining daylight hours, Simon finds himself driving you to a little supermarket in the corner of the city he hadn’t had the time to be explore. You insist on buying everything, telling Simon (a man who you really knew nothing about) it was the least you could do since he saved you from homelessness. And dying.

The rest of your first day in your temporary home with Firefighter!Simon is spent cooking. You whip up a marvelous pasta dish with hearty meatballs that almost make drool seep from Simon’s lips. He sits at the island watching you move around his space like you’d been there millions of times, an unfamiliar feeling blooming in his gut similar to fondness. Since picking you up some new clothes, Simon had learned a little bit more about you than Simon thought healthy. It was unfortunate enough for him to have been unable to get laid in over three months, but it was even more unfortunate that he had such a pretty bird in his apartment making him food and insisting on being near him when he sure as hell couldn’t make a move on her.

Firefighter!Simon who gets comfortable in his routine with you. On the days he’s not at work at assfuck 0200, he’s up making a simple breakfast for you and him before rhe day starts. You’ll eat and concerse a little awkwardly but that wont stop you from asking all about how he slept and if his buddies wanted more of those monster cookies you’d made to thank them for saving you and your fellow tenants. Simon had to relay many praises of your work in the kitchen, only ommiting the details and sly jokes about how ‘Simon’s girl’ was already taking care of the family. You’d go to work by bus or train- depending on how you felt- and then come home and make dinner or reheat leftovers. If Simon was at work, you’d laze on the couch in the main room and watch television and read. If Simon wasn’t at work, you’d bring the softest blanket from the room Simon had placed you in and watch a movie. More often than not, you would scoot closer and closer to Simon before falling asleep against him. When you woke up, you were in your bed- undoubtedly carried by Simon. Oh well. Its what friends do.

Firefighter!Simon who sees you as a friend. It’s basing your third week in his home and he feel comfortable around you. You’re good at reading his silence- the set of his shoulders and the future of his brow say enough- and he can’t be more thankful of that. For someone so new to his life, you seem to know exactly when to let a comfortable silence fall between you and when to start chattering about them things that come to your mind. But when you are the silent, short-tempered, and fatigued one, Simon is more than scared to get in your way. “Needa talk?” He offers, sliding you a cup of steaming coffee when you level a glare at the mug that had irritated you at such an inconveniently early hour. You heave a sigh and your head crumbles down into your arms. “I’m a mess, Si,” you tell him. Though your voice is muffled, Simon hears the shakiness in your throat trying to escape. He rounds the corner of island and places a large palm on your back in his attempt to comfort you. You are wrapping your arms around his neck and buring your face into the frail fabric of Simon’s shirt before he even knows what’s happening. And- as avoidant as Simon is to physical touch that doesn’t occur during work hours or when you fall asleep on him or when you slid your hand in his gloved hand during The Ambulance Ride- Simon didn’t mind your arms and warmth around him. When you started shaking in his arms was when Simon had to clench his jaw. It pained him that it pained you- and he didn’t even know what was ailing you! Simon tried to soothe himself with the knowledge that he was giving you the best comfort he could offer.

A day later you wake up to a crime scene in your underwear in the middle of the night so you decide to take a midnight trip to the convenience store a literal block away without letting Firefighter!Simon know. I mean, hey, he needs sleep and you were not going to wake him up to let him know you would be gone for a total of five minutes! But when you were on your way back to his house, you noticed someone following you. As you turned right for the third consecutive block, you finally fumbled for your phone.

Hearing you say ‘hey baby’ at 0146 had Firefighter!Simon’s head spinning. He was a little dazed because of the abrupt awakening but your casual greeting was wnough to jolt him awake. “Y/n? Whadda ya- what-?” He couldn’t finish his question before you interrupt him. “Hey do you think you could pick me up? I think I got a little lost.” Simon shoots out of bed, hitting the speaker button as he goes to slip a shirt on. “Where are you? Do I need a knife? Are you okay, dove?” He slips his shoes on and is out of the door faster than he is when he gets a work call. “Yeah, I’d bring the knife, babe,” you answer on the other line, more than loud enough for the man who is following you to hear. “I’m about four blocks away, by the Casey’s. You have my location.” Simon peels out of his driveway and immediately clicks on your profile to find the map with your smiling face. “Talk to me, y/n. I’m almost there.” Your breath is shaking on the other end and Simon doesn’t want you to be scared. “I think I could go for some Italian, Simon,” you say truthfully. “A minute away” Simon tells you, tires squealing as he turns down the streets you were hightailing down. Simon steps out of the truck after shifting it to park and the guy scatters. You’re running into Simon’s open arms before he could take a third step toward you. “I’m sorry,” you murmur “I kinda… started my period and didn’t want to wake you but then-“ Simon just shushes you, running a large hand down your back. “Let’s go home, love.” Simon scooped you up easily, tucking the obnoxiously loud crinkling plastic bag into your lap as he easily carried you to the passenger seat. Home. Yeah, Simon and his place had become your home.

[sai-int]

IN CONTEMPT | simon riley

You tried to move on, but no one quite measures up; not to the way he touched you, not to the way he ruined you. But when he reappears, you can feel him even before you see him. The past has a way of punishing disobedience, and now, it’s here to settle the score.

✉️ SEQUEL TO: ‘ RETURN TO SENDER ’ | AO3 . MLIST

18+ AU, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, soft!simon, cuckolding, stalking, dirty talk, implied voyeurism, extreme exhibitionism, praise, rough sex w aftercare!, breeding kink if you squint, smidge of degradation, unprotected sex, cream-pie, oral sex (f!recieving) fingering, squirting [ 16.6k words ]

Fuck Simon for vanishing, for leaving you with nothing but a £21.90-shaped hole in your wallet.

It’s humiliating, really—how twenty quid can leave such a deep dent in your otherwise empty pockets. But the alternative? A fate you couldn't afford to entertain—sleepless nights, baby-screeching, endless tears, and a lifetime tethered to a man who couldn't even be bothered to stick around longer than 5 minutes after fucking your brains out, taking your favorite pair of oversized sweatpants on his way out, too. So, you swallowed the morning-after pill and kept it moving.

The immediate days after he disappeared blur together in a heavy, sluggish haze. You still show up to work, still plaster on a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes—though it never did, even before Simon. Every shift is the same bullshit but somehow worse—customers testing your patience, coworkers draining the last bit of energy you’ve got, and a boss who somehow manages to be more insufferable than the rest combined, multiplied by ten, then squared.

Your life was shit before, but that’s all been exacerbated. Nothing feels right anymore. You don’t remember who you were before him, how you managed without his touch. Everything’s off-kilter, like the world shifted just enough to make moving through it a little harder.

You try to shove him out of your mind, slam the door, bolt it shut—for your sake. But when one door closes, a window inevitably opens—and he is the draft that seeps through, whistling through the gaps, curling around you and filling your lungs, regardless of how hard you try to shut him out.

The rational part of your brain tries, with dire urgency, to tell you that it was just sex; that it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. You made an offer—arguably reckless, maybe even stupid, but not regrettable—and he accepted. Weird, but simple. Clean. Done.

But even as you rationalize and deny his effect on your life, your body betrays you. It still remembers whether you want it to or not—the phantom heat of his massive hands branding your skin, the weight of him pressing you down into your creaky mattress, the primality of being wrecked, ripped apart, and haphazardly stitched back together.

It’s hard to fight the way your body craves—the pang buried deep in your bones, in your cunt, gnawing at you like a plague. It wears you down, sanding away every hard edge you put up against the hunger for him. Eventually, you stop trying. Stop pretending.

After a week, you begin to cling to the news channels like they hold your salvation, listening like their reports are scriptures to damned ears. You sit on the scratchy, cheap carpet in your living room, bathed in the cold, artificial glow of the screen nearly every night, waiting like a dog at the door for an owner who isn’t coming home.  You watch until your eyes dry, stinging as you blink, your fingers twitching around a carton of pad thai, stomach a tangled knot as you swallow each bite. Every time that breaking news banner slashes across the screen, your pulse spikes, breath snags—thinking: this is it. This is the moment his name finally breaks through the LEDs.

But it never comes. You envy how they can swallow it all down and forget him.

He’s gone. Not only from your life, but seemingly from existence itself. No reports. No shitty CCTV footage of him. No murmured speculations from tight-lipped officials. The world moved on within a couple of days as if they were paid to not to speak his name. As if speaking his name would plague them with the shadow of him as well. 

Days turn into a week, a week turns to two.

A fortnight, two weeks on the day since it all happened, and still, you can’t let go. The less you hear, the more you need him. The obsession burrows deeper, twisting its roots around your ribs like weeds, pulling tighter with every breath—suffocating, consuming.

Then come the dreams.

The first time you see his eyes in your sleep, you wake in disarray—your sheets tangled, your hair tousled and your skin sweaty. The imprint of him lingers, burned into the backs of your eyelids, in the goosebumps on your neck.

You can't deal with it anymore. 

You can’t cope with the way he haunts you. It’s cruel, really, how he lives up to his name. How he’s gone, yet has never truly left.

You download the BBC app and turn on notifications. Each alert is a spark, a fleeting moment where your breath catches in your throat, where your heart stutters against your ribs. You cling to the possibility, to the thought that maybe this time, there will be something—some sliver of information, some sign that he still exists in the world beyond your memories.

Every vibration, every chime sets you on edge. Your fingers twitch, your stomach knots. You find yourself unlocking your phone without thinking, scanning headlines with eagerness that borders on despondency. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. Playing detective. But deep down, you know better.

You need him.

It’s pathetic, really, the way your mind latches onto every news clip, every report, dissecting vague mentions of overseas conflicts, covert operations, missing operatives. You read between the lines, searching for something—anything—that could be him. A shadow of a man. A ghost in the margins.

You probably look like an addict going through withdrawals—waiting, itching, restless. 

In a way, you are. You couldn’t get enough.

The second you feel the faint buzz in your pocket, your breath hitches, your pulse kicks up. Your fingers twitch before you even register the movement, scrambling for your back pocket, ripping your phone out like it’ll tell you exactly where he is, what he’s doing, when he’s coming back. But it never does.

You keep watching. Waiting. Because something must surface eventually. Because if you stop—if you let the remnants of him settle—it makes him real in the past tense. And you can’t stomach that. Not yet.

Notifications pile up as you go to work, then come home, go to work, then come home—rinse and repeat. War, corruption, scandal, catastrophe—but never him. Instead, you choke on the taste of useless knowledge, drowning in politics you couldn’t care less for, memorizing names of leaders who mean nothing to you right now.

How could they mean anything when the weight of it all feels so Orwellian? You constantly think back to a time when breathing was easier, when you weren’t so voracious—so infinitely, pathetically hungry. But now, Simon is the Thought Police, and you, like Winston, can feel something coming—stalking, circling, tightening the trap.

You tell yourself you won’t stoop to his level—that you wouldn’t degrade yourself, touching yourself to scraps like he did to your letter, your messy, faceless scribblings. But the truth is that you’re worse than he, because you don’t need a piece of paper. You’re already pent up, already had a hit of him, and that’s all you need. He’s there, beneath your skin, in your blood, indelible in every sense of the word.

You cave, slipping your fingers beneath your panties, knowing how futile it is. You can’t touch yourself like he can—can’t make yourself feel the way he does, the way his hands, his mouth, make everything feel alive. Make everything feel worth it. That hollow emptiness—the dark, insatiable void that is him; it will swallow you whole. But what else is there? What can you hold onto when nothing else has ever come close? It’s all you have.

Though, when the wind blows, when you're alone in your room, your legs trembling from the soft circles you trace on your clit, it doesn’t feel like you're alone at all. There’s something there, the faintest sense that someone’s eyes are on you—not intrusive, but there. Observing, spectating..

It’s that feeling—that feeling of being vulnerable, of being prey that gets you going. The final puzzle piece clicking into place, the last push before your back arches and you’re coming undone, gasping—no, howling his name, until it reverberates off the walls of your room.

You feel it all the time. A prickle down your spine when you lock your door at night, a sudden hitch in your breath when you pass by your bedroom windows after a shower. A pit in your stomach when you walk home from the railway station, some shadows out of place, some that stretch too long beneath the streetlights, like they’re reaching for something. Or reaching for you. 

There’s something that consistently lurks in the alley across from your flat. A narrow sliver between homes, shrouded in shadow—an odd, latent presence that doesn’t quite fit, too still, too tall to be a dumpster. You swear it’s there almost every night, the air thick with it, but whenever you try to get a closer look, from your front door or wherever, it’s always gone—vanished.

It could be a trick of the night, a cruel illusion it could be anything, anyone—but would you be this wet if it was? Would your breath falter, thighs pressing tight, when the curtains stir just enough to frame the shadow across the street?

You feel it, a slow creep along your spine. A presence you can never name, but know all the same. It feels like him, each goosebump shouting and hissing his name. It’s a connection that defies reason, something deeper than instinct, sharper than memory. A pull, a whisper in your blood, like an unspoken language only the two of you understand. You’ve never felt anything like it before, never known a presence so visceral, so consuming. If this is madness, if this is nothing more than a delusion stitched together by longing and desperation—so be it.

You’d welcome insanity if it meant he was really here.

The shadow lingers. Not moving, not retreating. Just watching. Waiting.

A whisper curls in the back of your mind, sultry and insistent—go to the window. Let him see.

You leave it open now. Always.

The only thing you’ve gained since losing your virginity to Simon is a strange, newfound confidence—like a secret only you know, a mark he’s left on you that no one else can see. The longing isn’t new anymore; it’s settled in, familiar, woven into the fabric of your days. It doesn’t sting like it used to, but it never really leaves either, just hums beneath the surface, constant and quiet.

But the irony isn’t lost on you. Because for all that confidence, you’ve never felt emptier.

You’re four hours deep into your shift. It’s a quarter past four in the afternoon and you’re standing in the detergent aisle, one hand gripping the pricing gun, the other peeling discount stickers off the roll and slapping “Clubcard Exclusive” onto bottles of Persil like a machine. Mindless. Repetitive. A perfect, numbing distraction.

Four lousy weeks since Simon. Four weeks of gaps where his presence used to be, of clawing at scraps just to feel something real. Now, all you’ve got is the fluorescent hum of the overhead lights and the sharp scent of artificial “Spring Fresh” assaulting your nose.

And then comes Keith.

Fucking Keith.

His footsteps are light, but not light enough. Like a predator who thinks he’s stealthy when, really, he’s stomping through the underbrush, scaring off anything with a pulse. You always know when he’s coming, when he’s about to invade your space. It starts as a shift in the atmosphere, an overwhelming surge of something cloying, thick, unwelcome. It seeps into your personal bubble like a scent you can’t scrub off, a presence you can’t ignore no matter how hard you try.

"Hey, love," he drawls, his northern accent grating the moment it reaches your ears. He sidles up to you with that same cocky ease, the kind that might almost be impressive if it weren’t so painfully unwarranted—like he truly believes he belongs at your side, like he’s convinced himself you want him there.

You don’t look at him. You keep your focus on the detergent, pressing the sticker against the plastic with a little too much force. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint this time.

Though, he never does.

“Didn’t think I’d find you today,” Keith continues, leaning against the shelf with that stupid, self-satisfied smirk. As if you’ve been playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game rather than actively avoiding him. “Been hidin’ from me or somethin’?”

You exhale sharply through your nose, and internally count to three.

He’s not ugly. Not by any means. He’s tall-ish, broad-shouldered but lanky, with sharp green eyes that never seem to blink, like they’re waiting for something to happen. His jaw is set, strong, but there's an unsettling tightness to his smile—like he’s always hiding something just beneath the surface.

His confidence is anything but charming; it’s suffocating. It pours out of him in tides, clinging to you like obnoxious, over-sprayed cheap cologne, like the lingering stench of stale Lynx body spray that seems to follow him, no matter where he goes.

“I’m working, Keith.” Your voice is flat, clipped. Not an invitation.

“Oh, I see that.” He gestures to the bottles like he’s just now noticing them. “Riveting stuff. But, y’know… if you ever wanna take a break, I could keep you company. Maybe grab a drink after the shift?”

The same fucking offer, over and over. Like if he keeps throwing it at you, eventually, you’ll crack.

You sigh, setting the pricing gun down with a little more force than necessary. “I don’t drink.”

Keith chuckles, unconvinced. “Everyone drinks.”

Jesus Christ.

You finally turn to look at him—a mistake. His grin widens, taking your attention as a victory. His eyes rake over you, lingering a little too long in places that make your skin crawl.

“C’mon,” he says, voice dipping into something meant to be sultry but only makes your stomach twist. “I’d be good to you, y’know.”

There it is. That undertone, that expectation—the same fucking entitlement you’ve seen on him a million times before.

Your fingers twitch, itching to whack him over the head with the pricing gun. Instead, you grab another sticker, slap it onto the next bottle, and pretend he doesn’t exist.

But he isn’t done.

“You’ve been different lately,” he muses, watching you too closely, eyes raking up your body, to your face, and back down. “Real quiet. Distracted. What’s up with that, honey?”

Your jaw tightens. You press another sticker down, smoothing out the edges.

“Nothing.”

Keith hums. “That right?”

You grit your teeth. You hate this. You hate that he’s noticed. Hate that he’s perceptive enough to see the cracks. Hate that some part of you, some stupid, pathetic part, is sort of enjoying the attention —even if it’s coming from him.

Because it’s something.

Because it’s not radio silence.

But it’s not him. It’s not him, and you fucking hate that. You hate Simon for leaving you ravaged without so much as a goodbye. He ruined you, twisted everything you thought you knew, and then just vanished like you were nothing. And that’s what cuts the deepest—that you were never even worth the closure.

You should've known better, back then. But you sure as hell know now.

Usually, you’d brush Keith off with a simple excuse—a friend you don’t have, a date that doesn’t exist. A lie. You’ve perfected the art of deflection, wrapping yourself in a comfortable mask that keeps him at arm's length. He’s persistent, but you’re sharper. Always have been.

But when he presses again, you hesitate.

“C’mon,” Keith says, his voice too casual, “Just one drink, on me. What do you say?”

You feel the old reflex kick in, the instinct to shoot him down. But you hesitate. The words hang there, suspended in the air, ready to be said.

Maybe it’s the loneliness gnawing at you, sinking its claws deeper into your skin with every passing day. Maybe at this point, you’re craving anything—the heat of another person, the touch, the distraction. Anything to fill the space Simon carved out and left behind, like a hole in your chest that nothing’s been able to fill.

Or maybe it’s just a fuck-you to Simon. A fuck-you to the way he still haunts you, weaving through your mind like wind through dead branches, whispering questions that will never be answered. To the ache burrowed deep, winding through your ribs like roots splitting through concrete, relentless in its hold. 

You suck in a breath, the tension fizzling and popping inside you, and before you even realize what’s happening, you hear yourself say, “Alright. Fine. One drink.” 

At least it was on him. 

Keith’s expression shifts, his eyes widening in shock, like the idea of you saying yes never even actually crossed his mind. The surprise on his face is almost comical. He stumbles over his words, trying to mask his confusion with a quick laugh.

“No way,” he says, shaking his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Really? I—uh, I thought you’d shut me down again.”

You don’t answer, just shrug. The words feel too heavy in your mouth like they don’t belong to you. But they’re out there now, hanging between you like a promise neither of you fully understands yet.

Keith’s smile widens, but there’s something gross behind it now. Something triumphant.

“Well, if you’re sure,” he says, stepping a little closer, the air thickening with the scent of his cologne and something darker, more insistent. “I know a place nearby. Not too far. We can grab a pint or two, talk... maybe get to know each other better.”

His gaze lingers on you, too long, too shallow. His eyes flicker down to your lips for just a fraction of a second, then back to your eyes, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. Ugh.

It should make you step back, re-think what you’re jumping into. 

But you don’t. You can’t. You need Simon out of your head and gone. For good.

“Alright,” you say again, this time with a little more force as if you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as you are him. “One drink.”

Keith grins like the Cheshire Cat, the satisfaction in his eyes clear as day. “I’ll pick you up at 9,” he says, voice low and assured. “Plenty of time to get home and change, right?” He lets out a small chuckle, his confidence oozing from every word like he already knows the night is his to win.

You nod mechanically, a brief pause before you speak again. “Yeah… I’ll uh—I’ll text you my address.” The words come out flat, detached. It’s no big deal. Totally.

His smile widens, smug in a way that makes your stomach churn. “Good. I’ll see you then.” He turns to head back toward the break room, giddily gliding down the aisle, like he's walking on air.

You just stand there, frozen for a second, watching him go. The store hums around you—distant chatter, the clinking of metal shopping carts, the soft shuffle of customers weaving through the aisles. It all feels like a blur, the noise distant and muffled, as though you're submerged in water. Your mind is far away, caught in the thick fog of uncertainty.

You don’t even know what you’re doing, but maybe this is what you need.

Simon lingers in the back of your mind like a shadow you’re always reaching for without thinking—an instinct, a reflex you can’t unlearn. And the thought of replacing that longing with something so fleeting, so hollow—something so… Keith, feels like a betrayal. Like carving out a piece of yourself and handing it to someone who will never understand its weight.

A sigh escapes you. You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you look at the glowing numbers. Your heart flutters, unease building with each second that passes. But you don’t stop yourself. 

You type out your address slowly, each letter feeling like a weight added to your chest. It shouldn’t be a big deal, right? It couldn’t be that bad. You’ll just go out and try to make the best of it.

You hit ‘send.’

So much for getting to know each other. 

Keith hardly bothered to ask anything about you; the conversation is dominated by the insufferable droning on about his crypto investments. You aren’t really listening.. Your mind keeps drifting, thinking of his absence.

Simon’s absence. 

God, it bothers you how deeply he’s imprinted on your mind. Was it the fact that he took your virginity? There’s no way it could have been that chemically altering. Yes the sex was amazing, but how could he haunt your thoughts so extensively after barely saying a word to you, only ever muttering filthy things while fucking your brain numb?

Stop thinking about him fucking you. This is a problem. 

You pull yourself back to the present. The date’s going... fine. Nothing special. You’d pulled on a simple pair of jeans, a black top. Nothing too flashy, nothing that screamed you were trying—because you weren’t. What did it matter? Not like you had anywhere to go, or anyone to impress anymore. Clothes didn’t mean much when your world had narrowed down to this: a quick escape.

The pub is crowded for a Thursday night, an odd mix of tired regulars and middle-aged men—DILFs you’d much rather be accompanying. They laugh loudly, their voices thick with the warmth of too much liquor; they’re the ones you should be with, the ones who seem to care, to be alive in a way that doesn’t feel so desperate.

But instead, you’re stuck with Keith. His voice drones on in the background, talking about Bitcoin and intermittent fasting like he’s just discovered the secrets of the universe. His words are empty, meaningless in the moment, but you smile and nod, letting the noise of the pub drown out whatever nonsense he’s spewing. The drinks are good—strong, surprisingly so—and it burns its way down your throat, a welcome distraction. The alcohol settles into your chest like an old friend, warm and familiar, a little dangerous, but comforting all the same.

You’re a pint and a half deep, just enough for a pleasant buzz, for the edges of your thoughts to soften. Keith, on his third, is looser, expressive, leaning into your space a bit too much, his knee brushing against yours beneath the table. The alcohol makes it easier to stay present, to focus more on the moment instead of the static in your head.

He cleans up decently. The dim lights of the pub soften the harsh hazel-green of his eyes, take the tension out of the lines around his mouth. After a pint, he’s not as awful to look at. As you near the end of your second, he’s not too hard to listen to. His presence in the booth next to you isn’t suffocating anymore. The uncomfortable tightness has faded, replaced by something more manageable—a comfortable numbness that lets you go through the motions without feeling every single heartbeat. The kind of numbness you can live with for a while if you don’t think too hard about it.

You welcome it, more than you welcome the shit storm you’ve been for the past month.

You let the minutes pass, letting yourself be carried by the momentum of it all. You finish the pint, your focus drifting to the sensation of his hand brushing against yours, to the faint, gnawing in your heart as it cries for affection. It was all so simple. So much easier than you’d expected, this little dance, this surface-level distraction.

Then, a few minutes later, it happens. Keith leans in, his lips parting, the space between you closing like a slow, inevitable collision. His conviction wraps around him like a cloak, thick and heavy, as if he knows exactly how this will unfold. The warmth of his breath grazes your cheek, his scent faint but persistent, a mix of cologne and something stale, like the night’s beer. His eyes flicker with implicit expectation before they flit shut, his lips a mere centimeter from yours.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t have the energy for that anymore. Not for the back-and-forth, the push and pull of deciding what’s right and what’s not. You’ve been worn down, layer by pitiful layer until all that’s left is this: the heat, the need, the emptiness that drives you to reach out and accept whatever is offered. You let it happen, your lips parting to meet his, the kiss tentative at first, but growing more insistent as the seconds pass.

It’s not good. His lips are too stiff, too small against yours, moving with a clumsy eagerness that reeks of desperation—like he’s been waiting for this and has no idea what to do now that it’s happening. But it’s something.

Something to dull the ache, to quiet the static in your mind long enough to pretend you’re not suffocating. Something to ground you, to remind you that you’re still flesh and bone, not just longing and regret. Something to forget in the morning.

Because why not?

Maybe if you drown yourself in something else—something that isn’t honey-brown eyes and a mask that hides too much—you can finally erase the impression Simon left behind. Finally silence the ache, the apparition of his touch that you still feel under your clothes, even within the pub. Even with Keith by your side. 

Maybe if you let yourself unravel into someone else, scatter the pieces of what Simon broke and stitch together the fragments of what came before him, you’ll be able to move on. Maybe if you swallow it all, stretch yourself wide, dislocate your jaw just to fit it all in and swallow—you’ll get by. You’ll manage. Even if it never digests. Even if it all bleeds through the cracks anyway.

So, you push further. Let your fingers ghost over his knee, lean in close—just enough that your breath brushes his skin. You whisper, low and saccharine, asking if he wants to get out of here—head back to your place. A distraction. A mistake in the making.

Keith practically yanks you from the bar, his grip firm—too firm—as he steers you toward his car with single-minded determination. His fingers dig into your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, like he needs to keep you tethered. The street lights flicker overhead, casting fleeting shadows across his face, sharpening the hunger in his eyes.

The drive is a blur of speed and silence, the tension between you both is thick enough to choke on. His knuckles are white around the steering wheel, foot heavy on the gas, cutting the fifteen-minute trip to your flat down to five. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. There’s nothing to say. Just expectation hanging in the air, dense and stifling, laced with something desperate, something thoughtless. You let it wrap around you, pull you under.

Then you’re at your door, and he’s on you. His chest flush against your back, hands already gripping your hips, body pressing close, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. His teeth graze your skin, just barely, like he’s tasting his kill—like he already knows he’s won.

God, you feel like a slut.

The world keeps spinning. Traffic hums in the distance, the wind howls through the alleyways, life presses ever forward, indifferent to the choices you make. But here, as your hands tremble against the cold metal of the lock—it all shrinks to this. The frantic thrum of your pulse. The too-firm grip of his hands, insistent and wandering, pressing into places they have no right to be.

Because you don’t belong to Keith.

You don’t look back at him. You can’t. Because if you do, if you meet his lustful, haughty gaze, you might stop.

And you can’t afford to stop. Not yet.

When you both make it inside, you shut the door and Keith tries to kiss you, to make this something it’s not—some messy, desperate collision of lips and teeth, a lustful explosion—but you’re not down for that. You tilt your head and give him your neck, dodging his lips like it’s second nature. He doesn’t notice as you guide him to your room, too lost in the idea of getting his dick wet to realize you’re steering this whole thing.

And wet, he gets it.

He fucks you on your bed, and it’s got to be the most boring experience of your life. He’s got you prone, on your stomach, and you don’t look at him. You can’t look at him—because that would make it real. That would solidify the fact that you’re here, in your own bed, fucking Keith of all people.

You keep your gaze fixed ahead, on the dim sliver of moonlight seeping through your window’s curtain, as he ruts into you. The pace is off, mechanical like he’s following some half-baked porn script in his head. You have to fight the urge to ask if it’s even in, if he’s just finger blasting you. With Simon, you didn’t have to wonder. The stretch, the burn of him splitting you open, the way he had you trembling, leaking down your thighs before he even properly fucked you—that was something else entirely.

Keith leans over you occasionally, breath hot and panting against your ear, his attempt at dirty talk making you cringe.

“You like that, love?”

No, Keith. You’re jackhammering my cunt with your pencil dick.

You don’t answer out loud. You just lay there, belly pressed against the mattress, and try to conjure the feeling of someone else—someone bigger, rougher, someone who knows what to do with you. But even in the dark, even facing away, you can’t bring yourself to lie. This isn’t Simon. It’s not even close.

You wait. You endure.

Finally, he shudders and spills into the condom you made him wear, and you silently thank the universe that the miserable ten minutes are over. Simon had you writhing for at least thirty. After eating you out, too.

You continue staring ahead as Keith collapses beside you with a satisfied groan, murmuring something, pressing a kiss to your forehead like this meant anything. You don’t react. You barely register his voice.

Because out the window, across the street, there’s that shadow again.

Still. Watching. Waiting.

And for the first time all night, you feel something genuine.

You definitely could’ve found better than Keith. But God, he’s easy—easier than a prostitute in the back of a bar, and just as desperate.

It’s been a month since you first fucked him—two since Simon—and he’s like a goddamn pest, lingering, clinging, always there. But you don’t push him away, either. Not completely. Because if you’re being honest with yourself, it is nice to have someone in your bed, someone to text, someone to pick you up when you don’t feel like taking the train. He’s convenient. Reliable, even.

But his affections are only tolerable in small doses before they become suffocating. He’s a lovesick puppy, always trailing after you, those hopeful, stupid green eyes searching for something you’ll never give him. And God, you feel horrible for using him—horrible, but not enough to stop.

Each time he’s between your legs, each time his name pops up on your phone with a good morning, love, each time you toss him a scrap of attention—a lazy smile, a half-hearted hug, a peck on the cheek if he’s especially lucky—you see it. That flicker in his eyes, that glimmer of something warm and delusional, like he thinks this is leading somewhere. Like he thinks you’ll wake up one day and want him the way he wants you.

And maybe that’s the worst part. The way he clings to every half-truth, every unspoken maybe, every quiet moment that isn’t outright rejection. He’s a fool for it. And maybe you’re cruel for letting him believe in something that doesn’t exist.

But you did warn him. Laid it out in blunt, undeniable terms—this isn’t love, Keith. Just sex. No strings, no expectations.

But you suppose, for someone like him, being something to you—no matter how small, how insignificant—is still better than being nothing at all.

Simon doesn’t linger in your mind the way he used to. Not as much. Not as sharp. You shut off notifications for BBC, but couldn’t bring yourself to delete the app. Just in case. 

But every time Keith is on top of you—grunting, sweating, trying—you’re reminded of what you had. What it felt like to be wanted in a way that left bruises, but you’ve accepted the fact that Simon is gone. Gone with the wind; traceless, like he was never here to begin with.

Keith stays over some nights, always making sure to slip out in the morning. Per your request.

At first, he obeys. But then the edges start to smudge. Morning lingers too long, bleeding into midday, stretching into afternoon like melted wax. Before you know it, he’s still there. Still there when you’re making coffee, still there when you just want to be alone in your dingy flat.

You wake up one morning to an empty bed and the smell of eggs sizzling, the sound of your cabinets opening and closing. You drag yourself out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and there he is, standing in your kitchen, bare-chested and humming some god-awful tune as he tends to eggs and flips pancakes with a spatula that hasn't been used since you bought it.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, flashing you a grin like this is normal, like he’s your boyfriend.

You blink at him, groggy, disoriented. “Where’d you even get pancake mix?”

“Had some at my place,” he says, as if that’s a completely reasonable explanation.

You texted him last night for him to come over and fuck you, and he brought food—from his own flat—to cook in the morning. Was this supposed to be romantic? Jesus, fuck. You turn back to your room, ignoring the smell of breakfast permeating your walls, and throw yourself back under the covers.

It only gets worse from there, though.

He starts using your shower, stepping out smelling like your shampoo, like your soap, like your space isn’t your own anymore. 

Even when he’s not here, he finds ways to insert himself into your day. You’re halfway out the door, ready to catch the train to work, when your phone vibrates in your pocket.

Keith: Hey, on my way to pick you up

Your stomach sinks. You didn’t ask him to do that.

You sigh, rubbing your temple as you type out a quick, You really don’t have to, I can take the train.

Keith: Nah, babe, I’m gonna.

And that’s the problem. It doesn’t matter what you say. He just does it anyway.

You’re on your lunch break one day, tucked away in the breakroom, enjoying a moment of peace with a granola bar you snagged from the petrol station days ago. The store is busy, but back here, it’s quiet—just the faint hum of the coffee machine and the distant chatter of coworkers.

Then, something tugs at a strand of your hair, pulled tight in your ponytail, making your head jerk back just a little.

Your throat tightens before you even turn.

Sure enough—Keith.

He plops down in the chair next to you, all smug, too close, legs spread wide as he leans back like he owns the place.

“How’s my lovely girlfriend?” he asks, tone playful.

Your fingers tighten around the granola bar, the wrapper crinkling. “I’m not your girlfriend, Keith,” you say, feigning a small, polite smile. “But I’m okay, thanks for asking.”

Keith just chuckles like you’ve made some kind of joke. “Yeah, totally. Y’know, we’ve been at this for a while, lovey. Think you’ll let me meet your parents soon?”

You freeze mid-bite.

There’s a slow, nauseating churn in your gut, a deep unease that coils tight around your ribs, squeezing, festering.

“You can’t—” you pinch your nose bridge, “You’re not meeting my parents,” you say, firmer this time, staring at him, hoping—praying—that maybe this time, he’ll get it.

Keith just shakes his head, still grinning. “Awh, that’s alright. You’re just scared, dolly. I can wait for you.”

Your mouth goes dry. You don’t even bother dignifying that with a response. You just shove the last of your granola bar into your mouth, chew like you’re forcing down something bitter, and push back from the table.

“Gotta get back,” you mumble, standing, already heading for the door.

Keith doesn’t follow, but you can feel his eyes on you as you leave.

The more he smothers you, the more you wish you never started this shit in the first place. What were you thinking? You should’ve just put on your big girl panties, pushed the memory of Simon as far down as you could, and moved on. But each time you think of Simon, it’s like a knife twisting in your gut, because God, just the thought of being able to moan his name makes you want him all over again. You crave the way he fit, the way he understood you without all the effort. You want him to give you what you need—what you crave, even though you know deep down that it’s a fool’s wish.

With Keith, the cracks are starting to show. In bed, he starts trying too hard, like he’s desperately trying to prove something to you. He’s fishing for praise, waiting for some kind of validation. He’ll ask, “That was better than last time, right?” as though the answer matters to you. As if you’ve been keeping score.

You aren’t. You never were.

Your room smells like him now—like cheap cologne and sweat. He just gave you the most disappointing dicking yet, and he’s already passed out. The light is off and you’re lying there, forced into a state of calm that’s not really calm at all. You can feel him beside you, his breath steady as he sleeps, completely oblivious to the storm inside you. You turn away from him, laying on your side, staring blankly at the wall in front of you, your heart hammering in your chest.

Fuck, what the fuck are you doing? Why the are you doing this to yourself? It feels like punishment. Like you've shattered some unspoken rule, a silent code, and now you're paying the price. You just wanted an escape, a moment to breathe. Not to be someone’s charity case. The questions spin around you, but there are no answers. No clarity. Just endless doubt.

You let out a soft sigh and toss back onto your back, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest as your head rests on the pillows. Your eyes catch the sight of Keith's hoodie, thrown carelessly over the desk chair.

As you stare at the hoodie, lying there where you first saw Simon, you truly feel it—he’s really gone. No longer in the fragments of your room, no longer in your bed, slouched in your desk chair, lingering on your dresser.

The room is suffocating, thick with heat that presses down on your chest, suffocating you with every breath. It’s heavier than it should be, the air stale and still, clinging to your skin like a second layer. Keith insists on keeping the windows shut. He hates the drafts. You hate him for it.

You sit up, your skin sticking to the sheets. The weight of the night lingers like a fog, clouding your thoughts. You sigh, lethargic, your body sluggish as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the coolness of the floor greeting your bare feet. Your panties are discarded somewhere in the mess. You find them and pull them on absently, the fabric sliding over your skin

You round the bed quietly, your footsteps muffled against the worn carpet as you approach the bedside table next to his sleeping form. Keith’s pack of cigarettes sits there, unassuming, but it calls to you. You tug one out, the familiar crinkle of the cardboard grounding you for a moment. You take his lighter next, the flick of the flame a cruel reminder of how the nasty, expensive habit has settled into your bones. You never meant to start smoking. You swore you wouldn’t. But now, it’s just another part of the routine, a pointless comfort you’ve grown too used to, another reason you should’ve never gotten with Keith.

You walk to the shut window and lift it open with one hand. The cool night air rushes in immediately, cooling your skin. You lift the cigarette to your lips, sparking it, and watch as the tip ignites. The glow is soft against the dark, the only light in the room for a brief moment before the flame dies and the smoke curls up, wrapping around you like a secret. You take a drag, inhaling deep, the burn of the nicotine settling in your chest, grounding you, if only for a second.

You lean against the window frame, half-sitting on the bottom portion as you lean to let the smoke escape outside. The night is unnervingly quiet. You guess it’s just about midnight, but you don’t bother checking your phone. You take in the sight of the street, the houses on your block, There's nothing across the way tonight, just the empty stretch of alley, and you find your gaze drawn to it, unable to look away. The stillness wraps around you, and the faint echoes of your own thoughts seem too loud in the silence.

Something coils sharp and tenacious in your chest as you stare into the emptiness. You let Keith in, let him slither into the cracks of your life, and now it’s rotting you from the inside out. You’ve been shoving anything you can into the hollow space he left—distractions, vices, fleeting touches—but it only stretches wider, gaping and endless..

A part of you aches for that shadow to appear, if only once, just to feel something. Because  another part of you knows what it is—who it is. Knows that he’s gone.

And that, more than anything, stings.

The cigarette is nearly burned down to the filter, the last embers glowing weakly in the dark, a pale orange against the quiet night. A gust of cold wind bites at your skin, snapping you back to reality with a sharp chill. You turn to look over your shoulder, and Keith is sprawled across the bed, mouth hanging open in that obnoxious, ungodly way he sleeps. A snore rattles through the silence and your eyes instinctively roll.

You take a final drag, the smoke bitter on your tongue, and then snuff it out against the window sill and toss it, watching it smolder into the dirt below. You stand up, stretching your stiff limbs, and close the window, leaving just a small crack for the night air to filter in. 

Fuck Keith and whatever it is he wants. This is your house. You’re not his mom, his girlfriend, or whatever the hell else he thinks you are. If you want the window open, then so be it 

You turn back to the bed, your body aching for the solitude of your own sheets. You crawl under the covers, pulling them tight around your shoulders. The warmth is a small comfort, but it’s enough. Sleep tugs at your eyelids, beckoning you into the quiet. Your hands cover your ears, trying to block out the guttural snoring coming from Keith’s side of the bed. It’s like a fucking chainsaw cutting through the peace you crave. But you hold on to the stillness, the promise of escape—if only for a few hours.

You’re dead asleep when the sound cuts through the thick haze of unconsciousness—a soft, broken whimper. Barely a sound at all, more like a breath hitching in a throat, swallowed before it can fully form. It weaves itself into your dreams, threading through whatever meaningless fragments your mind had pieced together, distorting them into something unsettling.

Your body is heavy, limbs weighed down by exhaustion, but the noise needles at you, persistent in its quiet agony. You groan, eyes still shut, rolling onto your side as you mumble something incoherent—something about Keith shutting the fuck up, that you have work in the morning. Whatever it is he’s doing, you don’t want to hear it.

For a moment, silence settles over the room like a thin sheet, barely there but present enough to lull you back into the pull of sleep. Then the bed shifts. A slow, deliberate movement, like someone rising carefully, trying not to wake you. A footstep follows, then another, the faint creak of floorboards. You breathe a little easier, thinking maybe he’s leaving—maybe he’s finally getting the hint.

But then it comes again. This time, distant, muffled. A cry, higher-pitched, threaded with something frantic. It makes your skin prickle, not with concern, but with irritation.

You frown, eyes still shut, brain too fogged with sleep to process much beyond vague annoyance. He’s either having a nightmare or, worse, a wank in the corner. Neither interests you. You don’t even want him here, in your bed, taking up your space.

You sigh, pressing your face deeper into the pillow, trying to will yourself back into unconsciousness. Whatever it is, it’s not your problem.

Seconds later, you hear it again, more desperate this time, like a wounded animal with its throat ripped out, struggling to breathe. It grates against your nerves, pulling you further from sleep, until frustration bubbles up in your chest.

With a groggy grumble, you push yourself up, your movements sluggish and heavy with exhaustion. Your right arm props behind you for support as you rub at your face, knuckles pressing into your tired, shut eyes.

“Keith, will you shut the fu—”

Your voice cuts off mid-sentence, throat tightening as you finally blink the sleep from your vision. The dim light from the streetlamp outside casts long shadows across the room, bathing everything in sickly, pale yellow streaks.

Keith isn’t in bed with you.

He’s in the chair—your desk chair—against the wall and facing your bed, bound with ropes that are wrapped so tight they cut into his arms, legs, wrists, chest. A rag from your kitchen, dark with spit, is stuffed into his mouth, held in place by a strip of fabric wrapped around the back of his head. His chest heaves, his nostrils flaring with panicked breath as he stares at you with wide, frantic eyes, veins bulging against his skin.

Your body locks up, breath snagging in your throat.

“What the f—”

You barely get the words out before Keith starts thrashing against his restraints, his muffled cries breaking through the stagnant air of your bedroom. His whole body shakes with the force of it, the chair rocking slightly under his weight, but it doesn’t budge. The ropes hold firm.

You start to move, heart hammering, the slow creep of realization curling up your spine like a cold finger tracing each vertebra.

Then you feel it.

A large, cold, calloused hand slowly traces the curve of your upper back, dragging upward, a ghost of a touch against your spine. It lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the back of your scalp, tightening just enough to make your breath hitch.

Every muscle in your body locks up, your breath shuddering out in uneven bursts. The room shrinks, walls closing in around you. The grip on your hair tightens—not a yank, not yet, just a firm hold that makes your scalp prickle.

Then, a shift. A press of something solid and warm against the crown of your head. The unmistakable drag of breath as whoever inhales deeply, like he’s committing you to memory. A low, gravelly hum rumbles from his chest, thick with something unreadable. Satisfaction. Possession. Maybe both.

He's right beside you. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him, that his presence warps the air around you, suffocating, intoxicating.

You don’t dare move.

Because you know exactly who it is.

The scent of him just like you remember—gunpowder, sweat, something faintly woody—clashes with the lingering staleness of your room. It seeps into your lungs, an old ghost resurrected, clawing its way back to the surface.

Then, finally, a voice—rough, undeniably Mancunian, curling at the edges with something almost amused.

“Been busy, huh, pet?”

The words slither into your ear, smooth and deliberate, sinking their hooks into you like they never left.

You swallow hard, the heat pooling low in your stomach at the deep, deliberate pull of his voice. It scrapes against something raw inside you, something that never healed right. Your heartbeat stutters, then picks up, but not from fear. 

Still, you don’t move. You don’t look.

If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up—wake up and risk him being gone again.

Your eyes stay locked onto Keith’s, wide and frantic in the dark, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. He looks at you like you’re supposed to do something, like you’re supposed to save him.

But before you can, Simon makes the choice for you.

The grip in your hair tightens—no longer just a hold, but a command. He tugs, slow and controlled, and your head tilts back whether you want it to or not. Your breath hitches, your fingers twitch at your sides, but you let him. You’ll always let him.

And there he is.

Maskless.

Your breath snags in your throat, brain stalling, tripping over itself. You need a second—one long, aching second—to make sense of it, to stitch together the face you only ever caught in fragments. A shadowed jaw, a flicker of his mouth, the barest glimpse of his nose when he was buried between your thighs all those weeks ago.

But his eyes, his eyes don’t lie.

They’re the same eyes that have haunted you for weeks—dark, relentless, burning into you even in sleep. The same ones that linger behind your eyelids, that you’ve conjured in the dead of night, that you’ve chased with trembling hands and gasping breaths, desperate for something that feels like him.

And right now, they’re burning into you, unreadable as ever.

He’s here, in the flesh.

His bone structure is cut from marble—sharp cheekbones, a strong brow, a subtly clefted chin that adds to the undeniable masculinity of his face. Soft blond stubble shadows his jaw, catching the dim light as he tilts his head, studying you with those dangerous, all-consuming brown eyes.

Scars carve their history into his skin, some thin and white, others pink and freshly healed. One splits through his eyebrow, another drags across his cheek, and two more pull faintly at his lips. They settle among the freckles dusting his nose, a contradiction of softness and violence, of things that should never coexist but somehow do.

He’s devastating.

His other hand has found your throat, palm rough and massive against your skin. He could snap your neck with half a thought, with an eighth of his strength, and yet, all he does is trace along your jugular, feeling the rapid thrum of your pulse beneath his fingertips. It’s possessive. Calculated.

His grip shifts, sliding up to cradle your jaw, just before his thumb drags across your bottom lip. He presses forward, slow, deliberate, until his thumb slips past your teeth, resting heavy on your flat pad of your tongue.

You don’t think. You just react.

Your lips wrap around the digit without a second’s hesitation, without him even needing to ask.

And the look in his eyes?

Like he never expected anything else.

With his thumb hooked in your mouth, saliva pools at the corners of your lips, threatening to spill. You can’t swallow, can’t do anything but sit there, pliant and open for him, while he holds you in place like some helpless, caught fish.

His grip in your hair loosens, but only so he can guide your head forward, tilting your chin with the hand still in your mouth until your gaze lands back on Keith.

He’s wide-eyed, panic threading through every inch of him. His breaths are ragged, desperate, as he tries to piece it all together—his wrists bound tight, the ropes cutting into his skin, the oppressive weight of the man looming behind you, and the sight of you. Sitting there, silent, pliant, unresisting.

Keith’s mind races, but there’s nothing he can do. No words, no pleas that will untangle this mess. You can see it in his eyes—the confusion, the fear, the realization that he’s powerless. He’s looking at you like he doesn’t even recognize you anymore.

Simon hums, low and contemplative, a deep rumble that vibrates through your very bones.

“This y’plaything, baby? What you’ve been fillin’ y’time with?”

You try to move your head, to make some kind of response, but his thumb presses down, firm, stopping you before you even begin.

His tongue clicks, a disappointed tut that rolls through your ears like a warning. Like he already knows the answer and doesn’t like it.

“Know I left you... Wasn’t very nice of me, now, was it?”

His voice is thick, rich with something unreadable, but his grip tells you enough, a warning and a promise all at once. He tilts your chin back up, forcing you to meet his eyes again.

You want to tell him no, it wasn’t nice, that he ripped something out of you when he left. That you’ve spent every goddamn second since trying to fill the void he carved. But all that escapes is a strangled, pitiful “mm-mm,” your lips parting helplessly as spit slicks your chin.

His smirk deepens, eyes darkening as they flick down to your mouth, to the mess you’re making of yourself.

“Wasn’t very nice of you, though, was it? Goin’ ‘round openin’ your legs for the first man y’see, hmm? First one willin’ to put his cock in what ain’t his…”

The words strike something deep, hot, and ugly inside you. His? If you were his, then why the hell did he leave? Why did he disappear like smoke, slipping through your fingers, leaving you clawing at the air, grasping at nothing? What is he doing here now, after all this time—after breaking into your home, tearing through your life like a storm and vanishing just as quickly, leaving you to sift through the wreckage alone?

Anger surges, reckless and unthinking, and you bite down on his thumb—hard.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even flinch. Just smirks at the pain like you’re some unruly little puppy testing its limits. His eyes gleam, a slow, predatory amusement playing across his features as he finally, finally pulls his thumb from your mouth.

You wipe the drool from your chin with the back of your hand, straightening as much as you can under his hold. “I’m not yours,” you say, low and firm, but your voice lacks the conviction you wish it had. “If I was yours, you wouldn’t have left so suddenly, you dick.”

His expression shifts—less amused now, more exasperated, like you’re missing something so glaringly obvious it physically pains him. He pops the same thumb into his mouth, licking the taste of you off like it’s second nature, like he’s reclaiming something.

"‘Course I left, love. Was on the run.”

You blink.

Oh.

He watches the realization flood your face, that sudden shift in your gaze that’s almost embarrassing to witness. You can feel the heat of his stare, the sharpness of it, cutting through the tension in the room. Simon leans down toward you, dropping to one knee to be at your eye level, his movements slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of your discomfort. His hands rest casually on his thighs, but there’s nothing casual about the weight in his voice.

“But,” he says, a playful edge in his tone, but the undertone is sharp, cutting through the soft hum of the room like a knife. “I guess if y’not mine, then I guess I should go, huh?”

The words hang between you like a challenge, testing your resolve, pushing at the walls you’ve built so carefully. You feel your heart pound in your chest, your throat tightening. You open your mouth, but the words catch before they can form. You shake your head, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

He stands up then, straightening to his full height, and it’s almost like the air shifts around him, “Fine then,” he says, his voice low, almost amused. “No problem. I’ll leave. Y’can stay here with Keith, yeah? Let ‘em keep y’ company.”

The words hit like a gut punch, a shock to your system as you realize you’ve completely forgotten about Keith. He’s still there, bound and helpless, and a grimace pulls at your face as you glance over at him. Sure, he was annoying, but this? This isn’t what he deserved.

How Simon knows his name is a mystery, but somehow, it doesn’t surprise you. It never does with him. Keith’s name slipping from Simon’s lips is an ugly reminder of something you’d rather keep buried. Something you regret.

Simon starts to turn, heading toward the door, and the world tilts on its axis.

You can’t let him go, can’t let him walk out like that—again—like it’s nothing, like you can just let him leave and keep pretending that none of this matters.

Your legs feel weak, like they might give out from underneath you, but you manage to stand. Slowly at first, then with more urgency, your hands reaching out toward him without thinking. They land on his forearms—massive, firm, like steel wrapped in skin—and you grip him hard, pulling him back just a little, just enough to make him stop.

Simon’s body tenses under your touch, but he doesn’t say anything right away. He simply turns back to face you, his expression unreadable. The quiet between you two stretches.

He lets you stop him. He knew you would, he wanted you to. 

You glance at Keith, who’s dumbfounded as he struggles to comprehend what’s unfolding. Then you look up at Simon, where that insufferable, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t,” you say, voice tight.

He cocks his head, brows furrowing slightly, though amusement lingers in his dark eyes. “Don’t what?”

You swallow, feel the words stick in your throat before forcing them out. “Don’t go.”

Something in his expression flickers, shifts just slightly before settling into something heavier. He doesn’t waste time. He steps toward Keith, bending at the waist until he’s face-to-face with him, a lion looming over an antelope with its throat already torn open, arterial spray painting the dirt, limbs twitching in useless protest as the last dregs of life seep out.

“Hear that, lad?” Simon drawls, voice thick with condescension. “She doesn’t want me to go. Wants me t’stay right here—stuff her full o’ my cock, yeah? Bet she doesn’t want that from you.”

Your mouth falls open, lips parting in shock. Not because he’s wrong—Jesus, he’s not wrong—but because he says it like it’s the simplest fact in the world, like he’s reading it straight from the book of universal truths.

Keith is trembling now, his whole body shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. He looks so small, so pathetic compared to Simon’s hulking figure.

Simon doesn’t look away. He watches him, studies him, his gaze slow and calculating before he hums, almost thoughtful. His voice is deceptively quiet, laced with something deceptively soft. “Think that pencil dick does ‘er wonders, eh?”

Keith whimpers, eyes wide, body rigid, already feeling the metaphorical teeth at his throat. Simon just reveles in it, feeding off the fear like it’s sustenance. And you’re dumbfounded. 

And aroused.

You shouldn’t react to this the way you are. You shouldn’t feel your cunt growing wetter than it's been in months. shouldn’t feel your breath hitch at the way he’s openly claiming you without hesitation, without shame. But you do.

Because even if Simon doesn’t have the right to stake his claim on you, doesn’t have the right to act as if you still belong to him—doesn’t he?

You signed your name at the bottom of that letter all those weeks ago.

And to Simon, that was the dotted line. The confirmation.

You swallow, the sound too loud in the thick silence, your body frozen as you watch Simon’s one-man pissing contest unfold. It gets his attention, though. His head turns sharply, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pins you in place, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.

Despite the draft floating through, the air is thick in the room; it presses against your chest as you stand frozen, caught between two men—one holding you hostage with his eyes, the other trembling with frustration and fear. Simon’s smirk doesn’t falter as he straightens up, glancing over his shoulder at you with that same cold gleam in his eyes. He’s toying with you. You know that. He has been. But there's something different now. Something sharp and jagged in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s definitively claiming the space between your hearts, drawing lines you can’t ignore.

Keith’s eyes flicker between you and Simon, darting like he’s searching for an escape. You imagine he thinks Simon is some crazy ex, some jealous, unhinged thing from your past. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He whines through the make-shift gag like he wants to say something, to demand an explanation, to plead. But he’s frozen, paralyzed, locked in place as it all crumbles right in front of him, powerless to do a damn thing about it.

Simon, however, is unfazed. Barely even interested. His eyes flick back to Keith, sharp and dismissive, like he’s looking at a stale loaf of bread.

“You, lad… are just a stopgap. Temporary. Got that?”

Simon’s voice is steady, calm—like he’s explaining something simple, something Keith should’ve already known. Then, without warning, he grips Keith’s hair, yanking his head up from the scalp and forcing him to look into those cold, unrelenting eyes.

Keith lets out a sharp, choked noise as he makes Keith’s head bob in a mockery of a nod.

“Yeah,” Simon murmurs, voice laced with amusement. “That’s right. Now you’re gettin’ it.”

Simon releases Keith’s head with a sharp flick of his wrist, sending it snapping backward. Keith groans, but Simon doesn’t spare him another glance.

Instead, he turns back to you. Fully. His gaze is heavy, piercing—digging beneath your skin like he’s peeling back layers, searching for the fight in you, daring you to contradict him.

But you don’t. You can’t.

And he knows it.

You want to scream at him, to remind him that you’re not a prize to be fought over or a possession to be claimed. But the words die in your throat, stifled by the raw, undeniable tension curling in the pit of your stomach. Because he’s right.

He stalks toward you, closer and closer until you’re forced to crane your neck to meet his gaze. The room feels smaller, quieter, as if the world around you has paused in reverence of him. You can’t escape his eyes, those brown depths that see right through you. They peel back the layers of your mind.

His lips curl into a dangerous, knowing smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. “Thought y’could just disobey, sweet thing?” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with venom. “Thought y’could just fuck off and be so… disrespectful?”

His words slice through the air, every syllable hitting you like a lash against your skin, the sting burrowing under your flesh. His eyes darken, becoming something primal, like he’s waiting for the moment you finally realize just how much he controls you. “Thought I wouldn’t know?” His voice drops lower, almost a growl. “Thought I wouldn’t do somethin’ about it?”

You try to hold your ground, to summon the will to look away, but the weight of his gaze pins you in place. His eyes bore into yours, unblinking, unrelenting. There’s a coldness there that you never thought you’d see from him.

It’s unmistakable now. The contempt he feels for you—disrespecting him, breaking his trust—it’s palpable in the furrow of his brown and the frown lines on his lips.

Your throat tightens, a mix of shame and anger swirling inside you. You want to argue, but how could you? After everything? He’s right, isn’t he? You did disrespect him. You did go to someone else, let another man touch you.

You didn’t think he’d come back, but deep, deep down you knew he would. You knew he was still there, always watching, you just didn’t want to accept it. And now, as you stand in front of him, feeling the weight of his gaze, you realize the kind of power he has over you. Not just physical, but mental. Emotional. And that power isn’t something you can run from, no matter how much you want to.

His hand reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, the touch soft, almost affectionate, but you can feel the danger lurking just beneath the surface. 

His breath skates along your ear, scorching in its proximity, his lips barely touching but still branding you like a slow drag of a candle stick on paper. His other hand settles on your throat—not choking, just securing, owning. Like he’s collaring you, like he’s locking you back in place where you should’ve been all along.

His voice is low, every syllable laced with quiet fury. “Gotta show y’little plaything who y’really belong to, huh?”

Your breath stutters, your pulse hammering beneath his fingertips, but you nod, eyes wide, body betraying you in how quickly you submit. His heat rolls off him in waves, seeping through your flimsy shirt, wrapping around you like a smothering embrace. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

“Words,” he murmurs, his grip flexing—just a tease of pressure, just enough to make your stomach drop.

“Yes,” you rasp, the word trembling as it falls from your lips.

And then you’re moving—you don’t know how, don’t know if he shoved, pulled, or if you just folded for him, but suddenly you’re laid back on the bed, looking up at him.

He towers over you, broad shoulders blotting out everything else, his presence suffocating in the way that makes your lungs tighten and your blood rush south. You stare up at him, and he stares right back, gaze heavy and dark, like he’s been waiting for this.

Like he’s already decided what he’s going to do with you.

Simon’s voice, a low, guttural growl, fills the room. “Look at him,” he commands, his fingers snapping the buckle of his belt. The metallic click echoes, a sharp, ominous sound.

You turn your head to the side, gaze locking onto Keith's. His eyes, wide and terrified, dart between you and Simon's hulking frame. His hands twitch against the restraints, his legs kicking feebly, a desperate, futile struggle.

The leather of Simon's belt snakes through the loops and he tosses it aside, metal clanking on the floor. Then, a sharp tug on your ankles yanks your hips towards the edge of the bed. You gasp, your head whipping back towards Simon, shock and fear battling for dominance in your expression.

But his hand clamps down on your chin, his grip like iron, forcing your gaze back to Keith. He leans over, his lips brushing your ear. “Look at him,” he repeats, his grip tightening. “If y’so much as blink, if y’look away, this stops. And we're done.”

The threat hangs in the air. A whimper escapes your lips, a small, broken sound of surrender. “‘kay,” you whisper, your voice trembling, your eyes glued to Keith's terrified face. “... Okay…”

The fabric of your panties rasps as he yanks them down, a swift, decisive motion that leaves your pussy bared to his hungry eyes. A gasp escapes your lips, a mix of surprise and a sudden, unwelcome heat blooming between your legs. Without warning, he’s on his knees and his mouth is on you, hot and wet, his tongue a relentless, insistent invasion. He licks and sucks, his ministrations both brutal and exquisitely precise. 

Instinctively, your eyes flick downwards, seeking his own. His gaze, dark and intense, is already locked on yours, a silent, predatory command. He pauses, his tongue hovering just above your swollen clit, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air.

You wrench your gaze back to Keith, your body trembling with a mixture of fear, embarrassment, and arousal. You fight the involuntary arch of your back, the way your face wants to contort in pleasure, the sounds that threaten to spill from your lips—sounds Keith has never heard, expressions he's never earned. The shame burns, a hot, corrosive acid, mixing with the raw, undeniable pleasure that pulses through you, a traitorous betrayal of your own body.

Simon senses your restraint, the tension that coils within you, the silent battle raging in your soul. It only fuels his desire, a cruel, possessive hunger. He slips his fingers inside you, two, then three, crooking them in a teasing rhythm, stretching you wider and wider.His lips tighten, nearly swallowing your clit, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity through your core. A loud, involuntary whine spills from your lips, a desperate, animalistic sound you can't suppress. Your back arches and you can’t help but look at him, your hips lifting off the bed, as he holds your thighs hostage against his shoulders, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

Keith’s panting, his chest heaving, still fighting against the restraints. But something’s shifted. His struggles are less frantic, less desperate. His eyes are half-lidded, glazed with a sheen of arousal. A flush creeps up his neck, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts. The sight of him, both terrified and aroused, is a brutal contradiction, a twisted reflection of the conflicting emotions tearing you apart.

Simon’s fingers move inside you, stroking your g-spot while his tongue continues its work on your clit, slurping and sucking so lewdly. “Missed this fuckin’ pussy, God,” he murmurs, his voice heady with lust. “Needy girl, y’taste so good,” he groans as he makes out with your folds. He thrusts his fingers deeper, his tongue swirling and teasing. 

“Look at him” he commands, releasing your clit with a pop, his voice a low growl. “Look at how hard y’makin’ him, girl. He wants you, don’t he? He wants t’be the one doin’ this t’you.”

You feel your peak building, the pressure mounting, a wave of sensation threatening to overwhelm you. 

Your hand instinctively clutches at Simon's cropped hair, your fingers digging into his scalp as the pleasure intensifies. You drag your gaze back to Keith, his body a twisted tableau of arousal and restraint. His hips buck against the chair, a frantic, rhythmic movement, and he gnaws at the rag gagging him, a desperate, muffled sound. His eyes, glazed and dilated, are locked on yours.

You can’t handle it—you tear your gaze away, the weight of his shame, his helplessness, too much to bear. It’s unbearable, looking at him when the only man you’ve ever truly wanted is the one between your legs.

You hate that Keith is watching. Hate the way his eyes track every movement, every shift of your body. But fuck—if it doesn’t send a pulse of heat through you, knowing someone is.

You try to look away, to break the connection, but Simon's eyes hold you captive. They're dark, intense, burning. This time, he doesn't force your gaze away. Instead, his eyes silently beckon you, Come, they say, Come in my mouth, baby.

Your orgasm coils low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, heat licking up your spine like a flame searching for air. It swirls, thick and consuming, a molten ache that makes you want to cry. You arch your back, your body convulsing as you call out his name, a desperate, raw plea that fills the room. A wave of pure pleasure washes over you, and you unravel, gushing into his mouth.

Simon groans, a low, guttural sound of satisfaction, as he savors the taste of your release. Unbeknownst to you, he'd been rhythmically grinding his hips against the edge of the bed throughout your orgasm, his own arousal building each time you clenched around his fingers. He takes his time, meticulously licking you clean, his tongue lingering on your swollen flesh. 

Eventually, he pulls away from your pussy, but not before slapping your sensitive clit, the sound echoing in the room. The force of the impact sends a jolt of overstimulation through you, a lingering tremor that makes you twitch and gasp. He chuckles at the reaction. Asshole. 

You instinctively clutch at your shirt, pulling it off, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from your core. Your senses are reeling, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves to straddle your hips, his large, powerful thighs rooted on either side of your hips, anchoring you beneath him. He leans over you, planting his forearms on either side of your head, effectively caging you. His eyes bore into yours.

The space between you is barely a breath, just the warmth of his exhale mingling with yours. His lips are still slick, shining with the remnants of you, his cheeks streaked with evidence of just how deep he went—messy eater. You watch as his gaze flickers down, lingering on your mouth like he’s thinking about it, like he wants it, but he doesn’t move.

You mirror him, flicking your gaze from his lips back to his eyes, searching for something—an answer, an intention, a reason why he’s hesitating. Your brows pull together, your voice soft, uncertain. “Simon?”

A grunt. That’s all he gives you. A quiet, low vibration in his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable.

Your fingers creep up, threading into the short, soft hair at the base of his skull, anchoring him in place. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop you, just breathes. His eyes keep flicking down, but he still doesn’t close the distance. It’s unlike him. Unbecoming of him. A man who takes what he wants without hesitation—why now, when you're right here, does he stall?

“Won't you kiss me?” The words are barely above a whisper, but they break something in him.

He nods slowly, like it’s unpracticed. Like he’s never done something so intimate before.

He nudges his nose against yours first, like he’s testing the waters, feeling out the moment before he lets himself sink. And then—his lips press to yours.

Soft. Gentle. Everything you didn’t expect from a man who just slapped your overstimulated cunt.

Your eyes flutter shut as the kiss deepens, slow and unsure. His lips are dewy from where he’s been, the taste of you lingering, and for once, you have to guide him—slowly, patiently molding your lips to his, showing how to do something other than take.

And he lets you.

The kisses start slow, tentative, like he’s learning you. But it doesn’t last. Hesitation melts into something more primal, more insatiable, and you can’t help but reciprocate. His lips part against yours, and when your tongue brushes against his, he groans low in his throat—deep, guttural, vibrating against your lips.

It sets something off between you, a chain reaction of need. His hands start to wander, dragging over the curves of your bare skin, rough palms mapping the places he’s missed. His fingers press into your waist, then skate down to your hips, your thighs, then back up again, as if he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

You arch into him, your body betraying you, craving the heat, the weight of him. His touch grows firmer, his grip tightening like he needs to feel you under his hands to prove that you’re real, that this isn’t just a fever dream.

Somewhere between gasps and swallowed moans, he pulls back just enough to yank his shirt over his head, revealing broad shoulders and a torso carved from marble. He’s still in just his boxers now, and it’s almost unfair—the contrast between his near-nakedness and your own, how he’s still clothed while you have nothing left to hide.

But then his eyes rake over you, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, gaze dark and full of intent. He reaches out, slow, reverent, fingers tracing the dip between your collarbones before sliding lower, down the valley of your ribs, spreading warmth everywhere he touches.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

You smile bashfully before your eyes flick to the corner, catching movement—or rather, the absence of it. Keith.

You’d once again forgotten he was still here.

He’s unnaturally silent, his breath shallow, his body frozen. But even in the dim glow of the room, you see it—the damp patch spreading across the front of his sleep shorts, dark and unmistakable.

He came in his pants.

Something cold prickles down your spine, a mix of disgust and something else, something twisted. The shame on his face is unbearable, carved into every trembling breath, every flicker of his glassy eyes. His face is utterly wrecked, drained of any fight, any defiance. Like he already knows he’s lost. Like he knew it the second tied him up. 

Simon follows your gaze as he gets off of you and leans back against the headboard, legs spread, arms resting lazily at his sides. His gaze flicks between you and Keith, amusement curling at the edges of his lips. He scoffs, shaking his head as he watches the pathetic, trembling mess still tied up in the corner.

“Jizzed his pants? Christ.” His voice is dripping with disgust, but there’s something else there too—something utterly pleased. Like Keith’s shame only serves to highlight his own triumph.

Your breath is still uneven as you turn back to Simon, watching the way his fingers stroke absentmindedly over his own stomach, dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers. He exhales slowly through his nose, then lifts his hand, trailing fingers up into your hair, brushing over your cheek in one slow, deliberate stroke.

The touch is gentle. And maybe it’s that contrast, the tenderness hidden beneath all that violence, that makes you instinctively lean into his palm, nuzzling against it like you belong there.

Something flickers in his expression—something unreadable, something deep. But it’s gone just as quick as it came, masked behind an air of satisfaction. He stretches, cracks his neck, and then settles back against the pillows, arms behind his head, looking up at you with expectation.

“Go on then,” he murmurs,  patting his upper thigh. “Give the bloke a reason t’cry.”

You glance at Keith again, slumped against the chair in the corner, his face burning with ignominy, his breaths uneven. His teary eyes are flicking between you and Simon, his hands twitching in his restraints like he doesn't know whether to cover himself or reach out for something that will never belong to him.

Simon watches you, tracking every flicker of emotion across your face. He tilts your chin toward him. His grip is firm, but not forceful—just enough to remind you of what he expects.

“C’mon, pet,” he drawls, his thumb tracing slow circles at the hinge of your jaw. “Let ‘em see what he was never gonna have.”

 You don't hesitate, your body moving eagerly. Simon reclines, his fingers already toying with the elastic waistband of his briefs, a silent invitation. You crawl over him, straddling his hips, the rough fabric of his briefs a stark contrast to the slick heat between your legs. You settle your bare, slick cunt onto his clothed cock, a kaleidoscope of butterflies shooting through your core as you feel the girth of him beneath you.

Now, your back is to Keith. You can't see his face, but you can imagine the look that must be twisting his features. Simon’s enjoying the spectacle, reveling in the power he holds as he cucks him.

And, you admit to yourself, a dark, shameful part of you enjoys it too. The knowledge that Keith is forced to watch, to witness it all, fuels a perverse excitement, a thrill that makes you slicker than Simon’s touch alone does. The realization is sickening, but exhilarating.

Simon’s hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, urging you to grind against the clothed length of his erection. The fabric of his boxers, rough against your swollen clit, sends a jolt of pleasure through you, eliciting a soft mewl from your throat. His cock twitches beneath you, a hard, insistent pulse, and he hisses at the rhythm of your grinding, a low, guttural sound of barely contained desire.

You meet his gaze, your eyes wide and seemingly innocent, your hands resting lightly on his chest. “Can I fuck you now? P… please?” you ask, your voice soft, almost pleading.

“Fuck, sweets,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “Take it—it's yours.” He pushes his boxers down to his knees, and with your eager assistance, reveals the full, throbbing length of him. He cups his cock in his hands, pumping it lazily, his eyes fixed on the way it reaches just below your belly button. A low groan rumbles in his chest. “Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, his voice ragged.

He reaches for your hips, helping you lift them, guiding you as you position yourself above him. The anticipation is a tangible thing, a thick, heavy tension that fills the room as you slowly lower yourself onto him.

You hesitate, hovering above him, the anticipation a sharp, almost painful thrum in your core. Then you lower yourself onto him. The initial stretch is intense, a sharp, almost burning sensation that elicits a low moan from your throat. You bite your lip, bracing yourself, as you take him inch by agonizing inch, savoring the feeling of his thick length filling you, stretching you wide. A whimper escapes your lips, a sound that's both a cry of discomfort and a raw expression of pleasure.

He feels impossibly large, impossibly full, as if he's somehow grown even bigger since the last time. It's an overwhelming sensation, a raw, visceral fullness that borders on pain, yet is laced with an undeniable, addictive pleasure. It's the ultimate release, the scratching of an itch you didn't know you had.

When you finally take him all, a guttural groan erupts from Simon’s throat. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your ass, kneading and urging you on. His eyes, dark and possessive, are fixed on you, watching every movement, every subtle shift of your body. “Look at that,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “Look how you take me. So fucking tight.” His gaze lingers on the way his cock distends your abdomen, stretching your skin to its limit, a visible testament to his size.

Too lost in the pleasure, you barely register Simon's occasional, smug glances towards Keith, the subtle shifts in his expression as he watches. 

You begin to ride him, slowly at first, savoring the feeling of him filling you, stretching you, the friction building with each rise and fall of your hips. The rhythm quickens, escalating as your body adjusts to his impressive girth, the pace becoming more frantic, more desperate.

The room fills with a cacophony of sounds: the slick slap of skin against skin, the wet, gasping moans that escape your lips, Simon’s rough whispers, a torrent of the dirtiest words imaginable, painting the air with sex. And beneath it all, Keith's muffled whines, the rhythmic bucking of his hips against the restraints, a constant, jarring counterpoint to your pleasure, a stark reminder of how he’s watching. 

The muscles in your thighs begin to tremble, a burning ache that spreads with each thrust. The sensory overload, a chaotic mix of the lingering aftershocks of your previous orgasm, the constant, invasive feel of Keith’s eyes on you, Simon’s roaming hands, and the insistent, stretching pressure of his cock, begins to push you past your limits. His pubes, coarse and rough, scrapes against your swollen clit, sending jolts of raw, almost painful pleasure through you. It's too much, a tidal wave threatening to drown you.

Simon senses it all, the subtle shift in your rhythm, the way your breath hitches and catches the way the sodden walls of your cunt clench around him. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, and he stills your movements, halting your grinding just as you teeter on the edge. He holds you suspended, your bodies locked together, the tension building to an almost unbearable degree.

Simon pulls you close, your foreheads touching, your breaths mingling in the humid air. Both of you are slick with sweat, your bodies still thrumming with the aftershocks of your shared climax. He murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle, “Do you trust me?”

You nod, the affirmation barely a twitch of your head, your trust in him a strange, almost instinctive thing.

With a sudden, almost effortless movement, he lifts you off his cock, setting you aside on the bed as if you weigh nothing. He rises to his knees, his eyes dark and intense, and grabs you again, manhandling you onto your stomach. Your chest presses flat against the mattress, your ass raised high in the air, and your’re directly in sight of Keith

You clutch at the bed sheets beneath you, your knuckles white, as you brace yourself. You feel Simon's hand smooth over your ass, the touch both possessive and caring. Then, two sharp, stinging slaps land on either ass cheek, making you jolt. A gasp escapes your lips, but beneath the sting, a traitorous heat blooms between your legs, your cunt leaking.

He leans over you, his cock pressing flush against your ass, hard chest against your back, the heat radiating from him. He rasps in your ear, “He’s gonna watch, sweetheart. He’s gonna watch as I fuck y’till y’brains leak out y’ears, ain’t that right?” He continues. You whimper, a small, broken sound of acceptance, your body trembling.

Keith looks utterly defeated, his face a mask of exhaustion and a strange, twisted arousal. The dark stain on his shorts has grown exponentially. A flicker of guilt pierces through the haze of your cock-drunk stupor. A pang of remorse, a whisper of conscience, tries to surface, but it’s quickly swallowed by the need that simmers within you. The shame is there, but it’s overshadowed by the throbbing between your legs.

You're repulsed by the situation, by the violation of Keith, by the way Simon is using him to make a point—as a pawn in this twisted game. Yet a shameful part of you revels in the power, in the dominance that Simon exudes. 

Simon leans back, his eyes dark and predatory, and grabs his cock, circling your entrance with the slick, glistening tip. He teases you, the anticipation stretching the moment into an unbearable eternity. “What do we say, hmm?” he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “When we want something?”

Your face is half-smushed against the bed, the rough fabric digging into your cheek, and a muffled plea escapes your lips. “Please,” you whisper, the word barely audible.

He continues to torment you, the tip of his cock dipping in and out of your swollen entrance, each teasing touch sending a jolt of desperate need through your body. A string of pleas spills from your lips, “Please, Si—” you beg, your voice thick with desire. “Please—I need it— I need you—”

Simon’s eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he watches your desperation. “Awh, baby,” he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery. “Don't ask me. I’m not the one y’need to convince.” He hums.

He reaches out, his hand weaving through your scalp wrapping around your hair, and he yanks it back sharply, forcing your head into an unnatural, painful angle. Your neck strains, and your eyes are forced upwards, locking directly with Keith’s.

“Ask him,” Simon commands, his voice a low, menacing growl.

Your eyes meet Keith's, and you whisper, your voice thick with shame and desperation, a string of broken pleas.

Simon's grip tightens on your hair. “Say it proper, pet,” he instructs, his voice hard. “Say, ‘Please let Simon fuck me, Keith.’”

You instantly repeat the words, verbatim, the phrase a humiliating echo of his command. Unshed tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill if Simon so much as grazes your clit again.

Keith looks between you both, his gaze shifting between your prettily arched body and Simon's monstrous, towering figure behind you. A flicker of something that might be resignation crosses his face. He nods lazily, a slow, almost imperceptible movement.

Simon smirks, a triumphant, possessive expression twisting his lips. He releases your hair, the sudden freedom making your head loll forward. “See what happens when you ask nicely?” he murmurs, his voice laced with a dark satisfaction.

And then, without further delay, he inches in, the head of his cock pressing against your swollen entrance.

He slides into you, the angle intensifying the stretch, filling you even deeper than before. The sheer size of him steals your breath, the slow, deliberate intrusion forcing the air from your lungs. You claw at the sheets beneath you, your knuckles white, tears wetting the fabric.

He grunts as he sheaths himself fully, then pulls back before plunging in again. He watches as your cunt clenches and drools around him, sucking him in with a desperate, hungry grip. “Greedy pussy,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “She’s so fuckin’ greedy.”

You whine, a broken, helpless sound, your body trapped beneath him, forced to endure his thrusts. There's no escape, no reprieve, only the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, stretching you, dominating you.

Gradually, he picks up the pace, the rhythm becoming faster, more brutal. You howl, your drool soaking the sheets beneath your face. He’s hitting spots you didn't know existed, stretching you to the brim, the feeling bordering on unbearable. You can barely focus, your vision blurred by tears, the world reduced to the relentless pounding of his cock, the wet squelches from your pussy, and the raw, visceral sensations that rip through your body.

Each thrust forces a wheeze of air from your lungs, a sound that more closely resembles a death rattle than a moan. Your whole body is ablaze, and he’s the one who struck the match—watching as you burn, as the flames lick higher, consuming everything in their path.

Simon suddenly hauls you upward, his hand looping around your upper chest, pulling you flush against his sweat-slicked chest. His hips don’t falter as they continue to snap into you, your body arching involuntarily with each powerful stroke. His other hand grips your waist, anchoring you, while he leans into the crook of your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there.

Your entire body, a raw, exposed spectacle, is laid bare before Keith. Your mouth hangs slack-jawed, your tits bouncing with each rapid, violent thrust that jolts through your frame. Even though he’s seen you naked before, he’s never witnessed you like this: so utterly debased, so completely at someone’s mercy.

He’s never seen anyone like this.

Simon licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your neck to your ear, his tongue tracing a path of fire across your skin, all while continuing to fuck you, his rhythm unwavering. You’re limp in his arms, your head lolling back, your eyes rolling towards the back of your head. The pleasure is so overwhelming, so intense, that you can barely even manage a sound, your vocal cords paralyzed by the raw sensation.

He harshly whispers in your ear, his voice a low, guttural growl, “Y’gonna cum,? Can feel y’clenchin’ ‘round me—fuck, y’so tight, baby—”

You manage a garbled, broken attempt at a “yes,” your voice thick with unspeakable pleasure.

“Good,” he murmurs. “‘M close too and y’gonna take it all— Gonna fill this cunny—fuck,” He pauses, his voice hardening, “And y’better not take a fucking’ Plan B this time.”

The words, a brutal reminder of your vulnerability, snap the last vestiges of your control. A wave of raw, unadulterated pleasure crashes over you, unlike anything you've ever experienced. You gush, your orgasm violent as you squirt, your release spraying across his cock and the sheets.

He continues to fuck you, his thrusts relentless as he chases his own high, his hands squeezing your tits, urging you on. “Atta girl,” he grunts, his voice thick with lust.

You go limp, your body leaning against him, your mind a blank canvas of pure sensation. Then, with a final, shuddering groan, he empties himself inside you, filling you to the brim, his cum a hot, pulsing tide that leaves you feeling utterly spent.

He stills, holding you close, his arms supporting you. He’s truly fucked you senseless, leaving you a shell of your former self.

Slowly, gently, he pulls out of you, the withdrawal leaving a strange, hollow ache. He lays you on your side, his touch surprisingly tender, and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. You let him, your body and mind too exhausted to offer any resistance.

He rises, his movements fluid and predatory, and stalks towards Keith. From your position on the bed, you can see the hard planes of his naked form, a stark, imposing figure standing before the bound man. He speaks, his voice low and menacing, the words barely audible. Keith looks up at him, his eyes wide with fear.

Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Simon retrieves a knife he’d apparently left on your desk, the blade glinting in the dim light. He swiftly cuts through the ropes binding Keith, freeing him from his restraints.

Within seconds, Keith scrambles to his feet, his movements frantic and desperate. He doesn't look back, doesn't offer a word of explanation or apology. He simply runs, fleeing the house as if pursued by demons.

You lie there, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of Simon's brutal possession, your mind struggling to process the scene. You don't know what Simon said to Keith, but the fear in the other man's eyes, the sheer urgency of his escape, speaks volumes. It couldn't have been anything good.

The front door slams shut, the echo reverberating through the quiet house. The sound of hurried, stumbling footsteps fades into the night. Keith is gone.

Simon exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, before setting the knife down exactly where he had left it earlier. The metal clinks against the wood, sharp and final.

You haven’t moved.

Your body still hums, every nerve alight, the aftershocks of everything that’s just happened still pulsing through you. Your heart slams against your ribs, beating an erratic rhythm you can’t quite slow down.

Then, warmth—solid, steady, unshakable.

Simon sidles in behind you, his presence swallowing yours whole. One thick arm loops around your waist, the other sliding up to your sternum, pulling you back into his chest, into his heat. You don’t resist. You don’t even think to.

He presses his chin to your shoulder, his breath warm as it fans across your skin. His grip is firm, possessive, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Still with me, love?” he murmurs, voice rough, threaded with something unreadable.

You swallow hard, blinking yourself back into the present. Your fingers twitch at your sides, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

You choose the latter. Your hands settle over his arms, feeling the solid muscle beneath your palms, the way he holds you like you belong to him.

You hum in response, soft and instinctive, nuzzling just slightly deeper into the warmth of his chest. It’s comforting in a way you don’t fully understand—how you can feel so at ease wrapped up in the arms of a man who is anything but safe.

Your fingers trace idle patterns along the skin of his forearm, feeling the scars, the ridges, the history carved into him. You tilt your head slightly, voice still a little breathless as you ask, “What did you say to him?”

Simon chuckles. “Told ‘em if he so much as breathed a word about this, I’d track him down, carve his tongue out, and mail it t’his mother. After I made him swallow his teeth, o’ course.”

Your eyes widen. “Jesus Christ.”

“At least I didn’t go with my original plan.”

You hesitate, blinking, your heart skipping. “What plan?”

Simon leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, completely unbothered, “Killin’ him. Tossin’ his sorry corpse into the Thames.”

A beat of silence.

“…Oh.”

Simon laughs—an actual laugh, deep and rumbling, like you just told the funniest joke in the world.

And it’s only now, sitting here, still bare against his heat, his arms caging you in, his scent thick in your lungs, that you remember he’s still a criminal.

Simon holds you close, his chin resting against the top of your head, arms locked around you like he has no intention of letting go. His body is warm, steady—like he belongs here, like you belong here.

Then, quietly, he murmurs, “Y’mine now.”

You let out a small chuckle. “Yeah, I got that part.”

His chest vibrates with a quiet laugh, one of his hands slowly dragging up and down your arm, fingertips tracing your skin like he’s memorizing you. It’s gentle—too much so for a man like him.

You shift just enough to glance at the analog clock on your nightstand. The dim glow of the numbers makes your stomach sink.

“Shit.”

Simon hums in question.

“Sun’s coming up,” you sigh, rubbing your face, “and I have work in three hours.”

He doesn’t even pause. “Nah, y’don’t.”

You let out a tired laugh. “That so?”

“Mhm.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and sure. “Told you. Y’mine. That means y’don’t have t’work.”

You blink up at him, frowning. “Simon, I have a life here. A job, a flat. I can’t just give it up.”

He shrugs, lips twitching. “I’ll get your lease terminated.”

 You turn to face him in his embrace. “Without penalties?”

His smirk is slow, lazy. “Don’t worry about it.”

You stare at him, not even bothering to ask what that means. You already know. You also know you’re too damn tired to fight about it.

With a long exhale, your fingers trace the pink scar just below his collarbone. “Where would we even go?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. 

“How do y’feel about Manchester?”

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THIS IS THE FINAL INSTALLMENT OF THE RETURN TO SENDER UNIVERSE. I WILL NOT BE WRITING ANOTHER PART.

[differenteagletragedy]

Ways in which Boyfriend Simon Riley is absolutely unhinged but trying so hard:

sees you playing a cute lil farm sim and goes out the next day then comes back with actual farming supplies because "it's like your game, love, but in real life"

gets a tattoo for you super fast, and when you freak out about it tells you "I've got a lot of regrets, you're never going to be one of them"

stares down that weird guy from your office at the Christmas party hard, even when you tell him he's too big and too imposing to get away with that

goes to Price with literally any question/concern about the relationship because he trusts him implicitly

I mean he calls Price in the market when he's trying to pick up some tampons for you like "how do I know if she wants the green flavor or the yellow flavor"'

you find out somehow that Simon asked about tampon "flavors" and you are just dumbfounded and he goes "just wanna be sure to feed her what she likes"

doesn't learn from the farming sim fiasco and takes you to the shooting range after he sees you playing a new game

this is more acceptable though because it doesn't end up with you crying in the backyard after dropping a bag of soil on your foot after three hours of trying to figure out how to work a hoe

he gets real turned on watching you with the guns obviously

before he goes on a mission he asks if he can use one of your old black shirts to make a new mask so it smells like you

[readwritealldayallnight]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who from the moment he laid eyes on you, has only ever referred to you as his wife

You, this sweet little thing, running through the halls on base one day when you turn a corner and nearly run headfirst into the Lieutenant, who’s walking alongside Soap

“Oh! Sorry about that, sir.” You told him, never slowing down in your hurried pace as you snuck around his large frame and continued down towards whatever you were evidently late for

The only reason his gaze had followed your retreating form, was that unlike everyone else, you had met his eyes when you spoke, even smiled warmly up at him

That one smile and he was done for

“Who was tha’?” The sergeant had questioned, seeing Ghost’s attention still fixated on you.

“Think that was my wife.”

“Yer what?!”

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who makes it a point to let everyone know that you are in fact his wife

Well, everyone apart from you apparently

He would certainly never abuse his position as a Lieutenant, but some new recruit had the audacity to whistle at you as you walked by? Well 100 laps around the base don’t exactly run themselves

Another soldier saved you a seat next to him in a briefing? He can enjoy scrubbing toilet seats for the next week in that case

Someone actually had the bollocks to ask you for your phone number? Perfect, he needed a volunteer for demonstrating hand to hand combat to the recruits, medics on standby of course

By the time he properly introduces himself to you for the first time, it’s understood by everyone else around that you are, for all intents and purposes, Mrs Riley

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who listens to you tell him your name in a voice that resembles music to his ears, hardly bothering to remember your last name, seeing as it’ll be changing soon enough anyway

“You can call me anythin’ you want, love.” His deep, gravelly voice had sent shivers down your spine, cheeky smirk widening beneath his mask. “So long as you call me, that is.”

By the end of your first date, (you were sitting alone in the dining hall and he wordlessly joined you what do you mean this isn’t a date) he’s wondering if you’ll insist on a ceremony or if he can sweep you away to the nearest courthouse and make this official, slipping a ring onto you finger and himself into you

You had laughed when he put his number into your phone and named himself ‘Husband’, certain that the man was only messing with you, some kind of hazing that you apparently weren’t aware Lieutenants played on the new communications hire, but it was only fair seeing as he’d saved your contact under ‘Wife’

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who is over the moon every time you play along, even if he knows you believe you’re only playing

“Ach, thanks Lt. Just what I needed.” Soap said, seeing Ghost’s approaching form enter the common room, holding a steaming cup of tea in each hand

“S’for my wife. Get your own.” The older man gruffly replied, sliding the mug onto the side table next to where you’re curled up on the couch, reading a book

“Aw, thank you honey.” You giggled, smiling up as him with an expression he thinks would taste even sweeter than honey if he were to run his tongue across your upturned lips

“Happy wife, happy life, sergeant.” Ghost shrugged, ignoring the other man’s pout, landing next to you and reaching an arm behind you across the back of the couch

“God, maybe I really should keep you.” You’d laughed, reaching a leg out to dig your socked toes into his muscled thigh, teasing him

Grasping your foot into his large, strong hands, he began massaging it, uncaring that you were only two of the many people in the common room, not when you looked at him like that, smiling together as though you truly were nothing more than a married couple

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who surprised you one day, insisting he needed your help with something crucial off base, and drove you to a local shopping outlet to look at none other than dresses

“Is there some sort of party happening?” You’d questioned, confused out of your mind

“Suppose you could consider it a party.” He’d answered, leading you through the many racks of dresses, you noticed were all, very conveniently, white

“Now while you’re lookin’ through dress sizes,” he’d added, taking your left hand in both of his. “You know your ring size? Got my own shoppin’ to do ‘round here.”

Series masterlist

[holeforzenin]

❝​REPAYMENT​❝

Synopsis - Oh no! What happens when the big, massive strong man that saved you during a very dangerous war, wants something from you in return for his bravery?

Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!reader

Warnings - Dub-con, mentions of killing people, creampie, ass play, size kink, he stuffs his gloves in your mouth, he's possessive, mentions about keeping you with him. Dark content. this was kinda rushed so sorry for any errors!!

Art credits @umkochannart on twitter!

A/n - I NEED HIM, SOMEONE PLEASE

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

“Oh my— fuck! Sir, please we shouldn't be doing this, someone might see!” you stammered, legs trembling as your panties lazily pooled around your ankles. You mewled at the feeling of his hard, cold gear slapping against the mound of your ass, making the flesh ripple against his clothed pelvis. You keened as the wooden table dug into your stomach as you held onto the edge for dear life.

His cock was so thick and long—perfectly curved as it stretches open your tight, compressed walls to alter his girth. He grunts, feeling your tight little pussy eagerly fluttering around his invasive dick as you blabber on and on about your little worries about getting caught. Of course, you minded that a stranger man was destroying your pussy, but that was the least of your worries right now. The thought of getting caught and someone seeing your vulnerable self—almost naked, being pounded against a small table in the supply room by a big solider that's fully clothed, except for the crotch of his pants that's zipped down to free his aching cock, that's currently having your cunt drooling—making a mess all over his thick combat pants, made your mind hazy and your cunt throbbing in both excitement and frustration.

“Aww don't worry bout' that darling—I’ll just kill them for you so they won't say anything, will that be better?” he chuckles, his gloved hands digging into your hips as he deeply thrusts himself inside your dripping pussy relentlessly, fucking every single brain cell out of you. For someone who is “scared”, your pussy sure as hell was soaked and aroused.

He smirked under his skull mask at the feeling of your sweet pussy throbbing in tight circles around his cock to his words. “Oh? What a dirty little slut, does my talking about killing people make you horny? Such a sick little bitch, this pussy is clenching around me like it's fucking addicted to my cock, you a virgin, darling?”

Your eyebrows furred together at his sick wordings, you felt on the verge of losing your mind as the feeling of pure pleasure clouded your mind. “No, M’not!” you whimpered out, your tits grazing against the wooden table as your gushy pussy leaked all over his veiny shaft, every thrust had your pussy coating his cock even more with your filthy juices—as if you were enjoying it, or maybe you were?

“Oh yeah? Well, your cunt sure is fucking tight and warm—squeezing me so hard for someone that's a whore, whaddya say I keep you here and split open this little pussy whenever I feel like it?” he chuckles darkly, a huge palm slapping your bouncing ass as it jiggles against him, you moaned, tears prickling at your tear line as his thick, filled balls slaps against your poor clit, creating even more friction that had you seeing stars.

“No! Sir—can't, you promised you'll let me go after this!” you muttered, feeling so stuffed by the big man’s cock. “Shh, shhh I'm just joking with you doll” he laughs wickedly, perverted eyes moving down to where the two of you were lewdly connected. His eyes fixated on your other little neglected hole, which's already coated with some slick from your pussy. He eagerly pulled off one of his gloves and placed it on the table. You jolted unexpectedly when he stuffed a thumb deep into your mouth, he pressed his weighted chest onto your smaller back—getting closer to you as he whispered, “Get it all wet and lubed up, it's for your own good, darling”, you were confused and oblivious to what he'd be needing his thumb for but obeyed him anyways, not wanting to make the big man angry.

You whirled your tongue around his finger, making sure to get as much spit on it as possible. After, you hummed, letting him know that you were done. He pulled his finger out, sticky drips of spit coating him. Your eyes widen with fear when you felt his fat thumb circling your virgin asshole, he spreads the spit all over the shy, fluttering hole before sinking it in little by little. “Fuck! Sir—please be gentle, never had anything in there!” You yelled as you cried out in pain of your untouched hole getting stretched out. He quickly picked up his glove and shoved it into your mouth when there were footsteps heard thumping outside the room. “For heaven's sake, please shut the fuck up or I’ll really kill someone. I'm not joking darling. You’re mine now and I won't let other eyes see what's mine” he said in a stern tone. He hissed lowly at the feeling of your asshole swallowing his whole thumb in, all the way to the hilt.

“Such a tight little asshole, M’honored I’ll be the first one to break open this pretty ass”. Your muffled cries got louder as he pounded his hefty cock harder into your pussy, making it gushing all over him as he fucked out more and more juices out of your body. Soon the pain turned into pleasure as he started wiggling his thumb inside of you, feeling it exploring your tight walls. Your moan grew sweeter and more fucked out as you felt your orgasm washing over you—his huge cock tip nudging against your G-spot bullyingly, making your mind hazy. He felt it—felt the way your pussy grew more wetter and tighter around his length, taking him in all the way in as he pants. “Fuck darling are you gonna cum? Go on baby, you can cum, cum all over my cock, you slut”. He ordered, letting his thumb hooked into your butthole as he uses three other fingers to rub wet circles around your clit.

You moaned out, standing on your tippy toes as you clenched both holes tighter around him, making him hiss as you squirted all over him—your filthy mess splattering all over his uniform and gear as he fucks more and more juices out of your dirty pussy. He groaned loudly as you made a mess all over him—he never had someone squirting on him before, so it drove him fucking crazy. He lands slap after slap on your ass cheeks—making the flesh red as you whimpered. “Such a messy little whore, you really squirted on a random man you don't even know? You really are a little slut, I'm definitely keeping you darling” he laughs out, feeling his orgasm following him. “I’m gonna stuff this cute little pussy so full of my seed, gonna drain it so deep inside you baby, it'll come out your mouth” The whole room reeked of sex as he towered over you, his massive cock snugly engulfed by your little pussy, so tight and warm for him. He moans louder, splitting out a few curses as he pulled out his thumb out of your ass, making your little hole wink at him at the loss of his finger. He used both hands to grip your hips, holding you steady as he used your body as a little fuckdoll, manhandling your little body to meet his cock halfway as you felt his cock twitching inside of you.

“No please! Sir not insi-” Too late, hot ropes of warm sticky cum spurted into your poor hole, filling it up as your eyes roll back. “Fuckkk, ohh fuckk yesss, such a good little cumslut for me” he moaned out with ecstasy as he emptied into your warm pussy—after so long.

Tears rolled down your cheeks as he stilled himself into you. He bent over once again, his chest and gear touching your back as he whispered to you. “Don't worry sweetheart, I’ll take good care of you, will fucking kill anyone if they dare look in your direction. You'll be mine forever, pretty”.

[kanescrochet]

Threaded together

Simon riley x reader

Fluff

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“Okay, but like… just imagine it,” you said, holding up the halter top triumphantly. “Ghost. In this. With his abs peeking out the bottom and the underboob hole just—mwah.”

Simon raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, still shirtless and suspicious. “That’s not a shirt. That’s yarn flirting with the idea of being clothing.”

You grinned. “It’s fashion. Now shut up and lift your arms.”

He grumbled under his breath, but he did it anyway, letting you slide the black-and-white halter over his head. It stretched across his broad chest, the webbed cutout sitting perfectly below his pecs, giving a very suggestive peek. You bit your lip.

“Oh my God, you actually look hot.”

Simon looked down at himself, then into the mirror. “…Why do I look like I belong on a music festival flyer?”

You burst out laughing, nearly dropping your phone as you tried to snap a photo. “You’re the ghost of Coachella’s past.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t take it off. “You tell Soap about this, I’ll stuff your yarn into a frag grenade.”

“Oh no, not my yarn stash,” you teased, dramatically clutching your chest. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He turned, giving you a little spin, just to be sarcastic. But honestly? It worked way too well. The top hugged him in all the right places, the drawstring tied in a cute little bow behind his neck.

You held up the white one next.

“This one’s next. It’s got maximum underboob potential.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You trying to kill me or seduce me?”

“Yes,” you said sweetly.

Simon leaned in, dropping his voice. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know,” you said, handing him the next top. “Now put this one on before I lose my mind.”

He took it, grumbling again—but with the tiniest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

Ten minutes later, you were crying laughing again as he attempted to strike a pose—arms overhead, giving you the most awkward wink.

“This better not end up on Instagram,” he said flatly.

“Oh, it’s not,” you said, hugging your phone to your chest. “This is going in our special folder.”

Ghost crossed the room, lifted you off the ground with ease, and tossed you onto the couch like a sack of yarn. “Then you better be ready to model for me next.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

But he was already rifling through your crochet basket with dangerous enthusiasm.

“Oh look,” he said innocently. “A matching thong.”

You screamed. He grinned