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tojisteddy · 2 days ago

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What More Can I Say?

“You’re hurting me baby, you don’t know what it feels like.”

or: Simon is overly stressed from the everyday pressures of life and accidentally lets it out on you.

cw: 4.8k words, 18+ mdni, angst then fluff, no use of y/n, encounter with ex (not bad), fight with Simon, established relationship, miscommunication, cursing, reader! doubts themselves/ retreats into themselves, Simon being an asshole, meanie!simon, (if you squint) very lite dd/lg themes, inspo songs.

a/n: I’ve been working on this request since May, going back and forth on this. this is my final submission.

You are, in every singular way imaginable, the one person on this planet Simon cherishes the most.

And it’s not like you tried your hardest to get in his good graces. you just, fell from Heaven. You must have. A stray who looked up at him with such alluring eyes, the only option was to take you in. Learn to love just how a man should.

He hadn’t properly cared about anyone, not since his younger brother Tommy died. Of course, he cared for the other members in the 141, John was like a father to him, a proper mentor. And Johnny and Kyle were like having two twin brothers who got into mischief.

But there was something about you, something that made him want to take care of you, love you for exactly what you are— his lovely doll and his alone. His baby girl.

Couldnt get enough of you, had to have you in arms length if you went out, and the man knew you loved to dance. He wouldn’t stop you, just needed to feel you once, feel your tension roll away, melt in his arms. Even if he babied you in your tipsy state.

Or maybe when your talked about your favorite movie or artists, rambled on and on about the new winter/fall collections you liked, you’d stop mid conversation, see if he was there because you were used to people drowning you out when you got boring. But his hand would come to caress your nape, gently caressing it with his thumb, that look in low look in his brown eyes that made you feel like you could move mountains single handedly, “Keep goin,” he’d murmur, all but fixated on your pretty face, your eloquent voice, the little stutters from your heart pounding here and there.

And it always does the trick, knowing hes there for you. The little encouragement even when he didn’t talk as much as your past partners, that sweet look of admiration that swirled in his warm brown eyes as he looked at you, making you dinner, taking his large hand in yours and kissing it, using any excuse to see you on his lunch break. “I had a bit ‘f time ‘s all.”

Yeah, sure. Just to see that unconvinced beautiful smile, leaning against the wall of your work place and taking the lunch he ordered for you.

You weren’t a stressor, you were everything to Simon.

It’s just— life can be a pain in the ass. Maybe too much of a pain in the ass. So much so it created a tension under the Riley household.

A big mixture of everything— the stress of his job and the lower ranks lacking on missions, the leak in the roof he didn’t have time to get up there and fix, the floorboard that kept squeaking every time Simon would step into the dogs room on the base floor, he’d replaced it once before and yet it still squeaked. Then you, His loveable Angel, you. Through the mess of it all, he just wasn’t seeing eye to eye with you. Unable to see you through the fog of bullshit. And maybe the irritation of the things he couldn't control in the moment poured into the situation, into your loving home.

He wasn’t one for many words, always been that way. A nod is sufficient enough some days, clean cut direction is better on others, a dad joke on the easiest (or worst) days. And the blonde always made the biggest effort to be clear but gentle with you, even if the words came out more harsh than he meant to. You could understand the gist of it.

But lately, he doesn’t know what to say, or maybe he’s tired of all of the words he needs to be using. And you’re no mind reader, he knows that. Maybe it’d be clear to him if he started fucking acting like it.

It’s not like you or him meant for it to get to this point.

It’s just a quick storm passing through, just rain. But one slick comment lead to another, and a sarcastic reply to follow.

A yelling match.

It’s not just a breeze or drizzle, it’s the tornado, a whirlwind of anger and frustration. It’s annoyance and lack of communication.

Simon’s voice was loud, deep and yet, it’s the lightning. It strikes and pains even when it has no knowledge of it doing so, and hits every nook and cranny of the walls of the room. You are the thunder, furious and wild, willing to get loud if need me, raise your voice louder than you thought you could. Trying to understand where it went wrong, where it could be fixed. If it could be fixed. Pointing two fingers at him from where you sat at the kitchen table like a gun, saying some rebuttal you couldn’t even bother to remember, because it was stupid for him to yell at you like some- like some-

“If you want to bitch all night about the fucking laundry, go do that fucking else where! There are thousands of bitches that would give enough of a fuck about that, I’m so sure Simon!”

“It’s not just the fuckin laundry [+]-“

“—Then I should wait on you hand and foot to find out, on my knees and ask you word for word what you want-“

“— It’s like you’re ignorin the things I’m fucking sayin and purposely forgetting. ‘M asking you bare minimum. Don’t you realize I have my own shit to take care of?”

“So do I, but I’m not being so damn self centered about it! I’m trying to understand. But you don’t even wanna talk about it—“ You shake your head, sarcastic chuckle leaving your throat, “this fucking stupid, this is stupid.”

It only makes him more angry, bitter, “Me putting up with your shit is stupid. Me having to play your therapist when you can’t control yourself for once is stupid!”

You roll your eyes, “I’m not a fucking child Simon. I’m asking for you to be in a relationship with me! Care about the simple shit with me! Why can’t I get a little grace, just like I give you?!”

And he snaps, more than before, he yells, “So I have to look after you every second of the day? Are a fuckin needy bitch [+]?! Is that it!?” He stops for a beat, lightning striking, and it lands— “It’s never just one thing, it piles on to your bullshit. Fuck me, you can never do shit for yourself, can you?”

Maybe that’s what hurt, above all the other shit said tonight, that’s what takes you back. Makes you feel much smaller than you actually are, what you try to present yourself to be. Back to your ex’s, back to being the child who wanted to prove something to everyone in the family- to your siblings, to your mother— your deadbeat father.

It’s a late reaction but you flinch, shoulders slouching, defeated.

“It’s needy for me to want you to not ignore me?” Your voice is shaky, it’s practically a squeak. A question asked in disbelief.

“O-Or ask you for your opinion for the things that go on in my life? Or wanting to confide in you or wanting you to be able to confide in me?”

You want to laugh, but you don’t have the room for it, the strength for it. And you search in Simons eyes for something, anything. Maybe you’re too fast, looking away from him so fast that you can’t see the remorse as he stands where the tornado of your fight once was. In the broken pieces— Clarity. And that seeing the mess hes created pains him.

You nod, tears brimming your eyes, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that was me pushing it. I’ll watch myself from now on. Sure to not bother you.” And you walk around him, almost recoiling when he goes to grab your arm, A silent plea, that the words that fell from his lips he truly didn’t mean. But you dodge his touch, running up the steps, the dogs following quickly behind with the clanging of their collars.

But Simon’s throat is stuck even in stage painful quiet, it’s closed, the words never come out when he needs them to. He rubs his face, letting out a heavy sigh.

Leaving him alone in that quiet, dimly lit kitchen.

The faucet left dripping.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

You didn’t remember your apartment feeling so- so barren.

When’s the last time you slept over here though? A month? No, 3 months ago? You didn’t have a need to be here. Where you could still hear cars honking and passing in the early morning and late nights. You always just grabbed a couple things and scurried back to the car so Simon could take you back to his house.

You’d turned it into a proper home, the two of you. Your CD’s and records were in the bookshelf alongside his plethora of dvd’s and vhs’. The living room decorated to your liking, kitchen more simple yet homey. Both the dogs with getting new adorable dog beds in the shape of an egg and the other green with white flowers on it. Pictures of the two of you hung on the newly painted walls, mostly of you but that’s how he wanted it, little knickknacks and artwork filling up different spaces, plants filling in corners.

Something told you, you’d need an escape plan one way or another. Just in case. You plopped down on your bed after a long day of work with a huff, the few stuffed animals left here plopping around to the side along your pillows. You wanted to drown in your comforters.

And maybe this was good for you, a snap back to reality. Right? This- break? break up?- was a good thing. That’s what you needed. You’d been clinging onto Simon too much already, you forgot the girl you once were.

Independent, fierce, unflinching.

Finding solace in your aloneness.

Or this was just bound to happen, what karma had laid out for you in a past life. People get tired of you quickly, it’s a simple fact. It’s something you’ve felt your whole life. Maybe you stress them out, or you’re too boring, or don’t talk enough, and you’ve changed and changed as much as you could and it always leads to nothing. Always leads to wanting to crawl into yourself and fix whatever switches are “wrong” with you. This is just another reminder to keep people at their distance. Even people you love.

It didn’t make it hurt any less.

You cried and cried yourself to sleep, puffy eyes in the morning, breakfast missed and in a dash to get to work. Had a headache by lunch, ate the frozen meal for dinner. Washed it down with a nice bowl of ice cream, stared at the two missed calls from Simon for an hour before passing out on the couch.

You wouldn’t call him back, what for?

You couldn’t rely on that man forever. Or maybe not be as needy. Time apart is necessary. Not like this. Perfect for a time like this. Right?

Simon didn’t think you’d answer the first time, maybe not even the forth. But he called, even though it wasn’t like him. Once just to see if you answered at the top of the day. Another at the end of the day just for his sanity, to hear your voice through your voicemail.

Everything felt empty without you.

Even the dogs kept circling the door waiting for you, an evening filled with whines from Fish, his favorite toy in his mouth while Slugger laid down in the entry way, just waiting.

But you weren’t coming home. Not anytime soon.

It hurt to see your keys not where they usually were, or how you shuffled around the house his shirt with tired eyes from the day. Or the sound of your voice as you took a call, peaking your head out the bathroom to give him a wave, mid skin care routine, the roll of your eyes and middle finger when he teased and said you looked messy. How you ran your fingers through his locks in the middle of the night when all he wanted to do was just be, but with you.

How was he gonna fix it? What more could he say to get through to you? The anger and frustration ceased to exist, even at work it showed, nothing was worse than silence. And the men under him thought the worst was bound to come to them. Maybe they did fuck up that bad. But it was the opposite.

“You alright mate?” Kyle asked as they sat in the mess hall for lunch, Simon was mid bite of his food. Barely hearing any of the prior conversation.

“ ‘M fine.” He grunted, swallowing his food.

Kyle and Johnny gave each other a knowing look, “Ye don’t look fine.” Johnny raised a brow. “Know yer a quiet lad but you’ve got the wee babies thinkin yer gonna kill ‘em. Just think- well I think—”

“—Fuck do you want me to say?” Simon bit, louder than he intended to, the table looked over tat them wondering what was going on. He tensed, eyes growing weary from his own actions.

Kyle gave a reassuring smile, “Just sayin we’re here for ya man, if you need to talk. That’s all. John too.”

“Yeah…” he nodded, standing from his seat and walking away. And he knew that, that people are there for him during the hard times— that you would be there for him during those hard times. It’s just sometimes, something in his brain would over react or just wouldn’t remember it.

Well, maybe it’s not his boys he needs to talk to.

It’s his therapist.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

Five days, since your fight with Simon.

Five days of dreading getting off work and going home alone.

Five days of trying to pick up the pieces only to be left with cuts on your hands.

As long as you could make it to the weekend, is what you thought. You were practically flouting your way home as you walked through the streets of the city. It was busy with rush hour traffic, pedestrians just trying to get, home or to the pub.

Your hands shoved in your pockets mc trying to keep warm, you heard a yell from behind you and turned to see what was happening. You rocked on your heals as if you didn’t hear it, then you heard another yell over the music blaring from your headphones. You snatched them off, a confused look on your face till you met his gaze.

Issac, an ex who was probably the most ridiculous man you’ve been with. Ridiculously sweet yet too fucking silly, a cheater. But he was fun to be with. But truly he was not who you wanted to see right now. He’d be the exact person to flaunt their happiness in your misery stricken face without realizing it.

Not right now.

But you couldn’t slip away in time, giving him a tight lipped smile as he waltzed his was toward you in the crowd, gleefully saying your name as he wrapped you in a hug.

“Long time no fucking see. Damn, it’s been ages, hasn’t it?”

You shrug, “Perfect timing I think, you got on my last nerve the last time I saw you.”

“We had a little fight.” He muses, letting you lead the way, no problem with walking you to wherever you were going even if it was in the opposite direction. Catching up wouldn’t hurt.

“You picked up your shit with a gnarly attitude. I wasn’t the problem.” You scoff, pointing at yourself.

Issac shoo’s the idea away, “What’s in the past, is in the past,” he looks across the street your both about to cross and then towards you, your baggy eyes, “What’s up with you? How’s life? You look a little…”

“Tired?”

“Shit, actually.”

“Thanks for rubbing it in! That’s exactly what I needed to hear right now.” You said sarcastically.

“Sorry,” he gave you an apologetic look, “Just thought you were living it up since you looked so good on Instagram.”

“I always look good on Instagram,” you remind him.

“ ‘s that right?” He teases, pulling about a joint from his pocket to light. You can’t help but chuckle in annoyance, this little shit.

“Just- got in a fight with my boyfriend is all.” You finally confess. It’s no point in lying, at one point you two were close friends, before the relationship. But things change.

“Ahhh, tale as old as time.” He hums, “About?”

You sigh, brushing your braids out of your face, you decide with the simple answer, “The laundry.”

Issac bursts into laughter, almost dropping the lit joint in between his fingers. People around you give you questionable looks but continue walking.

“Oh fuck off! Never mind me, what about you? What are you up to?”

He thinks for a moment, gently bumping shoulder with you, “Modeling gigs, goofing off. Not much else, I’m living the single life.”

“For once.” You snicker.

“And only this once. I hate going home and the house is fucking empty, it’s boring all holed up even if it’s for a bit!” He groans but you wince. Did it really feel like that? So dreary?

No. Yes. Shut up.

“Sorry.” He mumbles, noticing the little silence, but your shrug, “You’re good.” You take the joint from his fingers, taking a drag, “It’s a tax.”

“My ass… but your boyfriend and you, fightin over something so simple…” he clicks his tongue, taking the joint back and smoking, “Damn, we’ve fought over less. The way I walk, was it, one time?”

And fuck did it make you feel like shit back then, but it makes you laugh now, how silly you two were, “We were young, we were trying.”

“Trying too hard. Least I was.” He shook his head, muttering that last bit. You cock an eyebrow but he doesn’t repeat himself. “But at least you’re thinking about it, making up. We used to fight and that would be it.”

And it’s true, maybe you two were too similar, you would fight, break up for a month and make up, especially he cheated. He wanted to make it work, something like his parents. Ignore the major flaw that shifted your entire relationship. But your gut would turn every time he went out. Acne flares, holing yourself in more than you were now.

Thank god you two broke up.

“I wouldn’t wanna break up with the guy I’m with anyway,” you glance over at Issac, trying to make up for the tiniest uncertainty in your own words, you smirk, “He’s taller than you.”

“Oh come on, I still got this gun show.” And he flexes his muscles, at least tries to, under his trench coat.

“And he’s definitely stronger than you, he’s in the military” you giggle, genuine this time. And the thought of Simon wrapping you up in his warm embrace swarms you, you bite your lip, but your words tumble out, nothing but love spilling out life water overfilling a glass. “But overall he’s just good for me. He understands me, or at least he tries his best to. And he takes care of everything when I’m in my head too much. And he has funnier jokes than you, a little rough around the edges but warm at his core. Makes me feel like I can do anything. He takes his time with me.”

You sigh, walking down the steps, to get to the station, “A-And I want to take my time with him. Just— shit, I don’t know. It’s one of those times we’re having a hard time listening to each other.”

“Well, all's settled right? You should be able to hear each other out now that you’re both not so angry.” He asks, tapping his pass.

You shake your head, tapping your pass and following behind him, “He’s probably just calling to see if I’m alive or not. Nothing serious.”

You’re so used to giving up, and maybe part of it is on you. You’re used to every game in this life being winner take all, and you being left with nothing, picking up the pieces. Hell, even Issac “won” at the end of your relationship. You would rather fold, with the little dignity you have left, go back to your ways. Free and searching for a new feeling.

But it’s never a new feeling, is it?

You just so desperately want to be wanted, the want to be needed. Even if it’s for a little while, it’s something you craved your whole life. Oh, you’d dance in the sunshine if you could get that feeling.

But it leads you to be so dependent and needy, right?

“—How will you know if you don’t try? You said you like him right? And if he’s trying to reach out, he must like you some kind’ve way.”

And it makes your heart leap up, a shiver rolling down your spine. It’s silly really, that thought of that brute having you on his mind makes you want to spin around and smell the Daisys. You bite the inside of your mouth, rocking on your heals as you stand in place. “And if it’s not worth it?” You mutter.

Issac bumps into your shoulder again, he clicks his tongue, “Fuck, you just said he was the man of your dreams didn’t you? Why would you run away from that? You gotta fight for what ya want!”

Fight for what you want? And what did you want more than anything right now? At this exact moment?

To see Simon.

And maybe the weight lifts off your shoulders, noticeably so. You shove your hands further into your pockets, you’d try. Just this one time, you’d try.

The ends of Isaac’s lip curves up, “I know, I know, I’m such an amazing guy for helping you out. It’s the reason the ladies love me”

“Yeah fuckin right.” The train begins the pull in, more people crowding around the entrances of the public transportation. The doors open, the train conductor calling out the station.

“You ever think we could get back together? Or made it work?” He calls out as you step onto the train. And it’s probably the most genuine he's been since you started this conversation.

You suck in a breath, but you can’t help the corners of your lips curving upward, heat rising on your cheeks, heart pounding faster, “Not a chance.” You take him in one last time, he’s completely changed since the last time you saw him. Long curly hair now short into a fade, looking refreshed and at ease, in business casual which he used to hate. You both had changed, and for the better.

And if that meant not seeing each other ever again, so be it.

“And honestly, I’ve probably fallin more in love with that guy just from talking about him with you.”

And with that, the doors to the train close. Issac takes a step back on the platform, gives you a waves with a solemn look on his face. Disappearing into the crowd as the train rolls away.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

If Simon would’ve known you would reply to his one singular text before his calls he would’ve texted you sooner.

He built up the courage to talk to you, find the words he needed to apologize. And he didn’t know if they would come out right, as if they ever did, but he was more than willing to try.

He sat on the bench, inside of the park next to the train station closest to his place. The sun was peaking through the clouds, and the sound of children giggling a little bit aways. Simon’s knee bounced in anticipation, tired eyes moving around the open space till he found you, still beautiful as ever. In a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt that was almost wearing you. Braids in a claw clip, you made his heart jump.

He doesn’t say anything when you finally get in front of him, just stands, avoiding your deep mocha eyes, that shy but uncertain look that’s written on your face. He hands you the warm cup of tea that he ordered at the coffee shop before coming here. “Just how you like.” His voice is ragged. Taking a sip of his own tea to relax himself, 3 sugars, a drop of milk, but it’s just barely helping.

He nods for you two to walk down the path, but it’s awkward, both of you don’t know what to say or how to act. The birds are tweeting, there are people riding their bikes— it’s serene.

Simon clears his throat, deciding to push his nerves away, “[+], I’m sorry.”

And he feels silly, he doesn’t even remember the last time he apologized like this. Raw and scared, and unknowing what reaction he’d get. You can apologize to superiors with a ‘sorry sir’, let them berate you until they’ve got the anger out or just sigh and wave you off, you’d sort out the problem some way, somehow. But it’s the silence that comes from you that makes him worried. That makes the 6’4 brute want to sink and hide deep inside his shoes.

You rub at your neck, you can try too [+]. Try to make it work. If it meant to change— “It's okay. I could’ve listened and controlled myself but I didn’t and—“

You cut yourself off when you look over at Simon, he’s frowning— almost scowling, “No lovie, god no. I- shit.” He curses a couple times to himself, running his fingers through his short blonde hair, stops in his tracks to face you and gently takes your free hand in his. It’s warm compared to his, it’s enough to feel you, know that you’re really there in the moment.

“I shouldn’t’ve talked to you like that. Or made you feel like that. Ever. This isn’t your fault.” He shakes his head. “ ‘Nd ‘m not just saying things you want to hear, I thought about it properly, even wrote down what I wanted to say, talked about in my group.”

“Group?” You ask.

“Therapy.” He clarifies, swallowing his pride, “I went after too long, I’ve been needing to sort some things out.”

“And I want you to rely on me. ‘Nd talk to me about anything. You’re not too clingy or needy, and even if you were I’d still want you to be that way with me because- I love you. I love takin care of you ‘nd bein there for you when you need me.” He breaths out, searching your eyes, “I know it’s no excuse for me to be- to be stressed from work and take it out on you by being some daft dick head who suddenly gives a shit about when the laundry is done. Or calling you out your name just because you want to talk properly. Shit, I’m just not used to it, expressing myself to you, or anyone. And I’d just- fuckin hell- I’d hate for you to feel annoyed by my own shit.”

You take a second to take in everything he's said, and that he’s being more than sincere in his words, the somber look on his face. You bite your lip, hesitant, “But that’s what a relationship is. To lean on your partner when you need them most. And I’d hate to sound repetitive, but I’m here for you. Whenever. It’s not just you taking care of me.”

“I-I know, I learned that these past couple days. And I promise, I’m going work on talking it out with you, instead of talking at you.” And he takes a step closer, entering your space, kissing your hand, “I need you more than anything in this life, [+]. Home doesn’t even feel right when you're not there. And Fish just won’t stop crying for you.”

“Can you forgive me? Please come home kitten. Please?” He pleads, looking down at you with those pretty brown eyes.

Your cheeks heat up, heart swelling, you give him a slow nod. Relief fills his eyes, gently tugging you into his arms and holding you like you’re the last person on earth. And you hug him back too, your eyes closing just at the feel of him.

“I missed you baby, god, I fuckin missed you.” And he breaths you in, the sweet smell of your shampoo filling his nose and he kisses the top of your head. The weight of his shoulders finally falling off.

He grunts, lifting you off your feet making you squeal, “Gonna take you home,” he mutters, continuously kissing all over your face, kissing your lips a few times for good measure. “ ‘nd take a nap. I’m exhausted, can never sleep a wink without you kitten.”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck,

“Same here Si, same here.”

a/n: this post is all over the place with plot holes and has lore that literally won’t make any fucking sense to any one but me. I know. Trust me, I know. And I know it might sound drastic for Simon to go to therapy just over an argument, but my hc is that meanie!simon (specifically) has past anger issues and sometimes he forgets the steps to regulate/properly express himself and his emotions. I know this isn’t what ppl wanted out of me after so long, I just haven’t been confident in my writing as of late but I really gave it my all with this post (I’m really not used/good at writing angst but wanted to try). Sorry for this long authors note. Much love.

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babyybrii · 2 days ago

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stalker simon pt.2 nsfw. part one

You wake to the weight of something heavy pressing into the mattress beside you—too slow and deliberate to be a dream. Your chest tightens before your brain catches up, before your eyes even open.

Then you feel it: gloved fingers sliding along your bare thigh. Gentle. Intentional.

Your eyes snap open.

He’s there.

Sitting on the edge of your bed like he belongs. Broad shoulders haloed in moonlight, mask pulled up just enough to expose the curve of his mouth. His lips curl when he sees the recognition in your face.

“Told you I’d come back.”

You open your mouth to scream, cry, yell—but his gloved hand is covering your mouth before you get the chance, warm and questionably gentle against your skin.

“Shhh, love” He shushes you, voice deep and quiet, thumb stroking your face softly, “Don’t ruin this.”

He shifts over you, laying you back down and hovering on top of you, using his legs to push your thighs apart so he can settle between them.

“You’ve been thinking about me. I know you have. Dreaming about this. Wetting your little panties every night hoping I'd come back.”

He drags the tip of his finger up your inner thigh, slow enough to make you shiver. You try to close your legs—some last, pathetic attempt at modesty—but he clicks his tongue and pushes them open again with his knee.

“No,” he murmurs, almost pitying. “You don’t get to hide from me. Not after you’ve been begging for this—even in your sleep.”

You shake your head, but it’s pointless—he’s already hooking a gloved finger around the waistband of your panties, tugging them down inch by inch.

“Look at you,” he breathes when they’re halfway down your thighs, his gaze flicking between your face and the slick he can see glistening in the moonlight. “You’re wet already. Fuck—knew you’d be perfect.”

He moves his hand towards your heat, using his finger to toy with your clit momentarily before bringing his finger up to his mouth, eyes on yours as his lips wrap around his finger—covered in your slick.

He hums, pleased, before bringing his hand back down, “You taste as sweet as you look, love.”

His hand slides back between your thighs, gloved fingers stroking you with an obscene familiarity, like he’s done this a thousand times already in his mind.

You try to twist away, but he shifts his weight, pinning you beneath him with effortless strength. His free hand grabs your jaw, forcing you to look up at him.

“Eyes on me,” he orders softly. “Wanna watch you fall apart.”

He starts to circle your clit again—slow at first, then a little faster. Every nerve lights up, your body arching into his touch in spite of yourself. You hate the way your hips begin to rock against his hand, desperate for more.

He notices, of course. He notices everything.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a ragged whisper. “Knew you’d be so fucking pretty like this—so fucking needy.”

You feel the heat building—fast, unbearable—and he can feel it too, the way you tense and tremble beneath him. His pace doesn’t slow. If anything, he rubs harder, determined to drag it out of you.

“Gonna come for me?” he taunts, lips brushing your ear. “Gonna make a mess all over my hand, sweetheart?”

You nod. You’re so close it hurts, your breath breaking into ragged little gasps. One more second—one more stroke—

And then he stops.

You can’t help the raged whine that breaks through your lips, head snapping up to glare at him.

He’s smiling, of course. You think you even hear a chuckle slip past his lips as he wipes your own slick off of his hand and onto the covers next to you.

“Not tonight.” He finally speaks, eyes amused as his hand strokes your face. “You don’t get to come until you admit you’re mine.”

You huff, embarrassed and way hornier than you’d like to admit, refusing to meet his eye as he continues stroking your face.

“Awe, don’t be mad at me, lovey. I’ll make it real good when it happens.”

He leans forward, presses his mouth to your ear, and speaks so low you almost miss it.

“Sweet dreams, love. Think of me when you touch yourself tonight.”

Then he’s standing—just as quiet as he came—leaving you trembling and ruined in the dark.

Taglist: @ittybittyboos @blueeyedbrat0716

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tobeholyistobeempty · 6 hours ago

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TASK FORCE 141 HEADCANONS

how your fwb would react to you sending a riskay pic and saying “do you like my necklace?:)”

reader afab. 18+. featuring: gaz, price, soap, simon.

KYLE ‘GAZ’ GARRICK

the moment he opens it, everything stops.

he’s standing in line for coffee - full daylight, in public, and you’ve just casually sent him something that looks like it belongs behind a goddamn password wall, captioned by an innocent little sentence: “new necklace, you like?:)”

he stares. squints. lowers the brightness on his phone like that’ll help.

then the corner of his mouth curves.

he calls you - you don’t pick up. then you get a text five minutes later, presumably after he’s removed himself from the general public’s vicinity.

“you are SO full of shit.”

you giggle like an absolute idiot and type back: “huh?”

he responds two seconds later.

“you send me the hottest photo I’ve ever seen in my life and ask about the fucking jewelry? that’s cold and you know it.”

the way he’s so riled up is exactly the type of reaction you were looking for. it only fuels you to keep going: “kyle. i just wanted to know what you thought of my necklace..”

“you want compliments? okay. the necklace’s nice. but the tits? phenomenal. stupidly good. brain-breaking.”

you don’t reply, too busy dying inside. a few mins pass before he sends you a final message:

“tell me when you’re free, no excuses. i’m making you repeat that pose.” followed up by: “but this time with your hands tied.”

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE

john price is a simple man.

it shows in the way he texts. he’s usually blunt, direct, rarely more than a few words when needed. he says it’s the most efficient way to get a point across.

but you, however, have a point of your own. and today, it arrives in the form of a photo:

you. on your back in the midst of golden hour. nothing on. legs spread just enough with a thin little chain catching the light where it rests against your chest.

no caption needed, but you send one anyway. because you know better than anyone that the best way to get a rise out of john price is premeditated bratting with intent.

“like my necklace, sir? :)”

the moment he opens it, he hears you loud and clear. doesn’t reply for twenty minutes and you just smile like an idiot for it because you know what his silence is saying.

then, your phone dings.

“yes.”

you barely process it before another bubble pops up.

“reckon ill like it more when it’s dangling over my face while you’re riding me.”

you think that’s the end. that he’s made his point. but then he sends one final, simply devastating message.

“keep the door unlocked. i’m getting you pregnant tonight.”

JOHNNY ‘SOAP’ MACTAVISH

you’re bored. haven’t seen johnny in a few days, and it’s starting to show - both of you restless, every conversation getting riskier. the tension’s thick - always is with him.

so naturally…you make it worse.

you send him the pic in the middle of the day.

he’s just finished a run, shirt stuck to his chest, breath still shallow, sweat dripping down his neck.

he glances at his phone and gets bloody flashbanged by your audacity.

full tits. bare skin. soft and smug and innocent-eyed wearing nothing but a delicate little gold chain, with the message below it reading: “like my necklace? :)”

you get four voice notes. immediately.

0:05 - “jesus christ-“

0:11 - “lass- fuck - ye cannae do that tae me in public. i almost walked into traffic - fucken hell-“

0:22 - “you’re sitten there looken’ like tha, asken about a fucken necklace? what necklace? i didnae see shite - i had tae go back and zoom in an nae ive go’ a problem. ive gone full blackout-“

there’s a brief lapse, a minute, maybe less. then:

0:07 - “yeah. nah. we’re fighten. i’m showen up, and you’re no walken right for a week.”

then he follows it up with a single text message, and makes your entire year.

“you do look beautiful by the way. can’t wait to rip that fucking thing off with my teeth.”

SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY

you know he’s deployed. you know he’s half a world away. you know it’s the middle of the night for him and you know damn well he’s been running back-to-back missions with no sleep.

you also know he hasn’t touched you in twelve days. hasn’t even seen you.

that’s exactly why you do it.

you wait until you know he’ll be checking in - brief comms window, satellite delay, whatever he can spare - and you send it:

a photo. close-up. bedroom light. completely bare, the thin gold chain you’re showing off just barely visible as it disappears down your chest and out of frame.

caption: “new necklace :)”

then, five minutes later, when he still hasn’t replied, you make it worse:

“been thinking about how frustrated you must be. poor thing.”

and then, to end your own life, you send one more:

“you’d cry if you saw what i just did with my fingers.”

the radio silence is so loud it’s deafening. you get no reply. no acknowledgment. nothing for hours. this doesn’t surprise you - simon riley is not a man to be teased. doesn’t matter where he is, what he’s doing, if he’s provoked in any way - he will be making good on it.

you wake up the next morning to a notification that he’s reacted to the picture with a heart, and a message - a text that makes your stomach drop and your thighs clench at the same time.

“you’re not going anywhere for three days when i get back. pack what you need. you won’t be walking when i’m done with you.”

then another, sealing your fate.

“be home tomorrow. next time you tease me mid-op, you better pray the enemy gets to me before i get to you.”

a/n: hope y’all enjoy this as much as i enjoyed making it. they’re all filth.

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jaesblogstuff · 12 days ago

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Probably your other Girlfriend

“Remember that little black ashtray you used to have?” Simon calls out from the kitchen, digging around like he’s gonna find something that isn’t his.

You don’t even look up from your laptop. “Ashtray?”

“Yeah,” he says, rattling a drawer. “ You know, black. Square. You always kept your lighters in it.”

You blink. “Simon, I don’t smoke.”

There’s a pause. The kind where you can feel him stopping mid-motion, mentally scrolling through his own memories like an idiot.

And you’re just sitting there, watching it click behind his eyes. That he’s not technically wrong. You did buy a little black dish like that once. Flea market, two bucks, no thought. Tossed your lip balm and keys in it. Forgot it even existed.

You smirk, eyes still on your screen. “Must’ve been your other girlfriend.”

Throwaway line. Joke. Light. Nothing mean. But of course Simon wants a say in it.

“Yeah,” he says. So fast. Like he was waiting to say it. “Could’ve been.”

Silence. Your head tilts slow as hell.

Just your eyes on him like you’re calculating the trajectory of the beer bottle next to him and deciding whether or not prison’s worth it today. “Ha. Ha.”

He freezes. Still holding the drawer like it’s a shield.

“You keep playing with me.” It’s not loud. It’s not even a threat.

But he knows better than anyone—that’s the danger zone. Because your tone doesn’t change. But the air does.

“You make another joke like that,” you nod toward the counter, “and that bottle’s going in your skull. And not the fun way.”

Simon just stares at you for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re bluffing.

You’re not. And he knows it.

Because last month, you ruined a man’s entire bloodline for lying to you during a debrief. Did it barefoot, in pajamas, eating chips. Didn’t even pause the show you were watching.

So no, you’re not the one.

He nods once. “Copy.” Smart.

He moves back to the fridge like nothing happened, but the corners of his mouth are doing that thing, barely-there smirk, like he’s impressed. Like he lives to piss you off.

Because this is foreplay for him.

He wants to see how far he can go before you finally snap and kill him in his sleep. And honestly? You let him.

Because who else is gonna carry the groceries and make you tea and know exactly where your shoulder blades like to be kissed?

He’s annoying. But he’s yours.

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succubusvalentine · 4 days ago

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King Simon Riley choosing you as his bride. Part I CW : Fingering.

Simon had never been a patient man. He hated when people made him wait. He was just about ready to take his anger out on his guards, when a servant scurried into his office.

"She is ready and waiting in your chambers, Your Majesty"

Simon immediately stood, leaving without a word.

When he entered his chambers, he saw you looking around the large room, taking in your ornate surroundings. Donned in a long white nightgown. Far cleaner than you were when Simon first saw you.

"Do your new chambers meet your expectations?" Simon rumbled, and you spin around, brows furrowed as though you wanted to scoff and insult the King.

"Why was I forced into this? Is this some purity fetish?" You accuse, expression guarded. A royal would never be seen speaking the way you do. Simon loved it. His cock already beginning to chub in his trousers.

"'Course not, love. I had the servants put you in white because I thought it was the safest option to avoid putting you in a colour you dislike" Simon shrugged, noticing the twitch in your brow. You clearly hated that he was being kind to you. That he wasn't giving you a valid reason to lash out at him.

"Well...thats-you are still giving me no choice in marrying you. In being here!" You say, Simon chuckling at your outburst.

"You will cease your complaints soon enough" Simon hummed, reaching out and grasping your hip. His thumb rubbing circles over the fabric of your nightgown, crowding you against the lavish bed behind you. "You haven't ever felt fabric this soft against your skin, have you?"

You shook your head, finally sitting on the edge of the bed, gasping quietly when Simon lifts the nightgown. "Look at tha'" Simon chuckled, two of his thick fingers swiping through your folds. "Fucking soaked, aren't you?"

You bit the inside of your cheek, glaring up at Simon. Gasping as he slipped his index and middle finger inside of you. You tried your hardest to stay quiet, to not let the arrogant bastard know how good it felt for his fingers to pump in and out of your now soaked hole.

But you couldn't help the moan that ripped from your lungs when Simon curled his fingers to rub against your g-spot. Your head tilting back, brows furrowed in pleasure.

"Y'can't help yourself, can you? Don' you see how your life is going to be from now on? Pretty thighs trembling" Simon teased, your cunt clenching around his fingers. "Can feel you clenching, love. Come on my fingers, you can do it"

You whined loudly, hips rolling against Simons hand, you would have been embarrassed at the loud wet squelching that betrayed your want for the man. But it was impossible to feel embarrassed when you were so fucking close to coming.

You cried out as you came, the pleasure sparking every nerve in your body in a way you'd never experienced before. But the moment you recovered from your orgasm, you glared at Simon again.

He merely smirked at you, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his fingers clean. "You'll come around after I give you a few more orgasms like that, won't you?" Simon hummed, watching you sit up on your forearms.

"Like hell I will"

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dead-flight · 7 days ago

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something something...

ghost has something for you when you're in a sundress. that something... a raging bulge in his boxers. it's not his fault. really. kind-of. it's your fault for being so pretty in his lap by the pool. you'd tried to convince him to jump in the water with you, and he'd given you a glare and a huff that he'd do it later--which was ten minutes ago.

in your eyes, 'later' had long gone. so you'd sat yourself right in his lap, looked him right in the eyes, and tried to command him to get into the water.

instead, you got a muttered, "look at m'like that again, an' i'm gonna fuck it right out of you."

so yes, it is your fault that you're bent over the pool bench. yes, also your fault that you'll be there until the sun sets, his fingers buried in the plush of your ass--keeping you right where he wants you.

there's no running now, little brat.

⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . dead-flight .ᐟ masterlist

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sai-int · 4 months ago

Text

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.

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.

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konigsblog · 7 hours ago

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Riding Simon Riley for the first time. (🌽 link)

It was something you’d always dreamt of trying. You’d been fucked senselessly by Simon in a plethora of different positions, from being in a matting press to doggy style. Yet, you hadn’t ever been on top, never asserted dominance over him.

You straddled his broad and muscular hips for the first time, your thighs stretched around his wide form with his scarred and calloused fingertips massaging soothing circles onto the sides of your thighs, your pulsing cunt leaking against his abdomen. Simon’s eyes were half lidded with thrill and excitement as he gazed up at you lustfully, watching as you positioned yourself above the pink tip of his leaky cock, slowly easing yourself down onto him, your lips parted through the stretch and sting, only allowing for needy and loud moans to escape from your throat.

“Fuck- that’s it, love. Take it easy” He whispered between hoarse and guttural grumbles, cursing out as he bottomed out inside of your slick heat, the veins along his thick shaft now running along your smooth walls. You whimpered in response, avoiding eye contact with the brute before feeling his fingers grasp your chin, turning your face towards him, a sleazy and smug expression on his face. “Look at me.” He ordered, a grin quirking the sides of his lips. You became mush beneath his intimidating gaze.

You took it slowly at first, starting to bounce on his lengthy cock, the position forcing him to press against your cervix. His hands rested on your plush hips, yours against his strong chest as you whined out and arched your back through the euphoric sensation between your soft thighs, eyes rolled to the back of your head. High pitched and soft moans slipped through your lips as you quickened your pace, rocking your hips back and forth at Simon’s encouraging praise.

“That’s it- Good girl, just like that.” He managed, your wide hips moving at a mesmerising pace he couldn’t peel his eyes away from, especially with your gummy walls tightly wrapped around his aching boner. He could feel the way you ached and pulsed around him, pearly beads of your arousal coating his length and mixing with drops of his milky semen until a sticky, foamy ring of his arousal surrounded his drooling cock.

You dug your blunt fingernails into the skin on his chest, your thighs quivering around his waist as waves of pleasure rushed through you, your jaw agape and lips trembling as you reached your addictive high.

But, you weren’t finished. Just as you slowed down, Simon’s hand whipped your rear impatiently, his fingers digging into your hips until they left marks, ordering you to continue. And so you did. Your smaller hands cupped his stubbled jaw, soft lips pressed against his as he tried to control himself from thrusting up into you and bucking his cock further into the warmth of your tight hole as he spurted ropes of his white release into you.

You two sat there huffing and puffing, your clammy and sweaty chests pressed together with his softening cock still stuffed and drooling inside of you, holding in his potent seed.

#orla speaks #cod x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon riley call of duty #simon x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x female reader #cod x reader smut #soft simon riley melts my heart

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honey-on-your-tongue · 1 day ago

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Simon Riley eating you out (nsfw)

His mouth slanted all over your pussy, tongue sliding down between your folds to your entrance before traveling back up to your clit.

He tastes you, drinks your slick patiently, forcing himself to not bite you. He loves the way you smell, loves the way your wetness gets all over his mouth, his chin, his nose.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide from lust as he watches the way you moan, the way you quiver. Your chest heaving with each breath, hips bucking against his mouth in search for more, more, more.

And he gives it to you.

He slides a finger into your cunt as his mouth focuses on your clit. He adds a second finger, curls them up, and your legs start shaking.

“Si, please—” you gasp in a broken moan, shaking.

He hums in response, a sound of acknowledgement, and runs his teeth over your clit.

It sends you over the edge, makes you shake and gasp and cry out his name as your hands move to grab onto his hair and hold his mouth to you while you ride out your orgasm.

He laps up your slick eagerly, moaning at the taste, cock rock-hard. And then you come down, slowly, boneless and spent. And Simon kisses his way up your body, kissing your mouth, making you taste yourself as he sinks his cock into your heat to get more of you.

---

Taglist

@booboobear-12 @lilychristine01 @smzyyx @mxsatorisimp @akkahelenaa @crypticlxrsh @m-0-ssy-m-3-ss @actualpoppy @dawnnightshade666 @dethspllz @massivecandycrusade @mentally-unstable-hottie13 @shushyoudontknowme @readinggeeklmao @despairingrat @h0lydrag0ns @poseidonsbichild @sillylittlereader @vanillarosekiss @jangles-the-clown @lem-hhn @doubledizzy22 @http-bell @readingthingy @velvetdimond @thegaywitchofwhimsy @weaniebeaniebaby @havoc973 @lucienofthelakes @keiminds @8pmismybedtime @i-wanabe-yours @happysmappy @jp600fox @moonbluff @hobiebrownenthusiast @dragons-flare @canyonmooncreations @foxintheferns @dreamland08 @fertilise-me @dravenskye @hobiebrownenthusiast @liidiaaag @viviansvault3 @alwayzmsbehavn @nicolebarnes @tysukier @icouldntthinkofanythingclever @cd-mr

*if you wanna be added to my Ghost taglist, lmk 💛

---

Ghost masterlist

#ghost x female reader #ghost x reader #ghost smut #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #simon x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley cod #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #x fem reader #x female reader #x fem!reader

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babyybrii · 11 hours ago

Text

nsfw

“you look so pretty when you’re scared,” simon murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek as he eyes you from behind the mask. your face flushes when you lean into his touch.

“‘m not,” you whisper back, voice low and weak. you can barely see him smirking, eyes amused.

“i want this.” you try again, voice louder this time. you meet his eyes, trying to look confident under his stare. “i really want this.”

he takes a step towards you, backing you closer into the wall. “you don’t even know what you’re asking for, love.” his arms come up, huge biceps caging you between him and the door. he uses his knee to push your legs apart before stepping between them, moving impossibly closer. “i’ll make it so good it hurts.”

your breath hitches when he tilts his head, studying you like he’s deciding whether you deserve the mercy of an answer.

his gloved hand drops from your cheek to your throat, just resting there—warm and heavy and threatening.

“think you’re ready for me?” he murmurs. “think you can handle what you’re beggin’ for?”

you swallow, and he feels it under his palm. his eyes darken.

“say it again.”

your voice trembles, but you don’t look away.

“i want you.”

he leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“then you’ll take everything I give you. every. fucking. thing.”

his knee presses higher between your thighs, the pressure making your legs shake.

“and you’ll thank me for it.”

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autumnheartsprice · 3 days ago

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why is this so hot

‘SO YOU CAN LISTEN….GOOD.’ | simon ghost riley

📊 result of my poll found here.

WARNINGS - 18+ smut mdni, (amt) engineer!reader, asshole!ghost but with motives, slightly stalkerish!ghost, ghost is a cocky bastard but reader is too, so much verbal sparring, enough tension to choke on, reader afab, ghost is a munch and has a unique way of saying sorry, oral f!receiving, religious undertones, fingering, enemies to something worse then enemies, dubcon bc consent verbally unstated, so much dirty talk it hurts, canon warped a bit.

A/N - this ended up being so much longer than i intended but dear god it needed that build up. ghost makes a real wild first impression. 12k.

Today was just another day. Just another day.

At least, that's what you kept telling yourself as you grabbed your data pad from the terminal and made your way toward the front of the hangar — pulse thrumming, blood pressure undoubtedly a tad higher than usual. Perhaps today was just another day, but to say that it didn't hold slightly more merit than yesterday would be a fucking lie.

Today marks the date of your six month performance evaluation. Today is the day you finally find out if you nab that promotion or not.

And maybe you’re overthinking, maybe you’re nervous for no reason. Did this promotion make or break your career? Would not getting promoted singlehandedly destroy everything you've achieved and accomplished over the last however many years? No.

But it would definitely feel like a real kick in the ass given everything that you've done for this place since you got here.

The day you first got that damned data-pad, you should have known this job would be a complete shitshow. Still, you pulled up yourself up by your bootstraps and did your duties just like every other day — and that day like all the previous ones since you graduated. You’d been all over the world at this point, as an AMT you go wherever you’re needed and usually remain however long you’re needed for. But this transfer — to an unnamed, unmarked base in the middle of goddamn no where — is different then anything you’d ever done before.

The hours are different, the people are different, the pay is different. It was unexpected, but when their last head AMT simply vanished without a fucking trace — it seemed as though they scrambled, and took the next best thing they could find (or so you like to tell yourself).

It’s all a little…strange, to say the least.

And of course, there’s been talk about what happened to their last head engineer, speculations, but it seems no one actually knows for certain. It’s one of those things that everyone low rank whispers about, but no one high up with actual informative intel dares to speak on — which only made the chatter worse.

Along with your nerves.

Regardless, you didn’t have a choice, and the first day of your transfer was a baptism by fire — stepping into the aftermath of utter chaos they'd left behind.

Your job isn’t to save lives in the heat of battle, or to clear rooms, or to conduct stealth operations. No, your job is to repair aircrafts torn to hell and back and continue to keep them functional. It’s rather thankless, and often you'd find yourself overworked and under-appreciated — which, granted, goes hand-in-hand with your overall life summary — but the hangar at TF141’s main base was a sight to behold, and not in any positive sense. Neglected and battered machinery lay strewn about, with debris haphazardly scattered in every fucking corner imaginable. By the time you'd reached the actual aircraft's you were almost afraid to look at them — and for good goddamn cause.

TF141 has two main helo’s: MH-6 Little Bird and an AH-6J Little Bird. Upon first inspection of them, you’d almost thought they'd been through a war of their own — hastily patched together with little regard for proper repair. The evidence of prior negligence was glaring, and you were fucking fuming.

You'd expected some clean up, but not that much.

And to top it all off, you were given clear instruction by General Shepherd himself to keep your mouth shut and your head down, do your job and mind your own. On your way out of his office he informed you, surely out of the sheer kindness of his heart, that although he couldn't tell you what exactly happened to their prior head engineer, you could easily suffer the same fate if you weren't careful.

Which was more than enough to shake the very foundation of your so very deeply engraved attitude problem.

No matter how pissed off and irritated you’d been during your start here, you kept your emotions bottled up until you were back inside the privacy of your barracks and could freely let it explode. It's been a little maddening almost, the solace. You'd been here half a year and the only person you've had an actual conversation with outside of the other engineers is 141’s Captain, and that was only when he was looking for a debriefing on your recent repair work.

However, amidst the avoidance and the uneasy silence that you experience on a daily with the others, there seems to always be one fucking exception;

Ghost.

You'd seen photos and heard a lot about him prior to this assignment — the mysterious Lieutenant with a reputation that preceded him as if the Grim Reaper himself were present on earth.

But meeting him, being around him, well that was something fucking else entirely.

He routinely shows up at random hours, never muttering more than a few words to you before pissing off — disappearing into the shadows or taking out one of the birds. It’s always odd. He is odd. And the cryptic comments coupled with his rather bizarre reputation continue to leave you tangled between the dangerous desire to learn everything you can about the man, and the primal instinct to avoid him at all fucking costs.

Though, even if you had the choice, it wouldn't matter.

If and when Ghost decides to present himself to you, it is impossible to prevent it. His approach is as translucent as his namesake. You'd never fucking know he was coming, and if you did, it’s with purpose.

Nevertheless, you couldn't worry about him, or any of the other nonsensical bullshit today. You had other matters on your mind such as ensuring the hangar was in perfect condition for inspection later that evening. Price let you know rather early in advance that a hangar and aircraft inspection are part of your performance review — which clearly means the state of them would determine whether or not you passed.

There would be absolutely no room for error, and no one to complain to when it didn't go your way either. If this inspection failed, it would be the result of your own incompetence — and you were well aware of how that would be perceived. You didn't want to give any reason, any chance to end up like the former Engineer, after all.

So today is about one thing, and one thing alone, proving yourself worthy of that promotion.

With your data pad in hand, you began a quick sweep of the hangar, ensuring the guys hadn't made too much of a mess overnight or early this morning before you arrived. A few things were out of place, but for the most part, everything looked good.

Well, except for one thing — which was currently barrelling toward you at a dangerous fucking speed.

"Bloody fucking hell..."

Your data pad nearly fell from your grasp, your jaw dropping in disbelief as your ears rang — no, damn-near wailed — a deafening roar shattering the silence you'd just found yourself in, accompanied by the shrill whine of metal grinding against metal. You couldn't believe your eyes, your feet absentmindedly carrying you closer to the destroyed helo landing on the far side of the hangar, smoke billowing from its battered frame, obscuring the air with a veil of grey.

And as you got closer, you realized it only got worse — a door was missing, torn from its hinges, and half of the exterior was brutally ripped away. You didn't even realize you were clenching your hands into fists until you felt the glass of your data pad crack beneath your fingers.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You’re all but yelling as you take in the damage. "Today? Today. Of all goddamn days! Bloody ignorant bastards.”

As soon as those words were past your teeth, there’s movement from inside the cabin — heavy laden set steps — two iron slabs clanking against the metal floor, quaking the ground underneath your own feet, too. The air thinned slightly, but you didn't notice, too inebriated off your anger to think of anything other than cursing the hell out of whoever was inside.

You came to a halt in front of the now door-less opening, coming face to face with a pair of rich brown eyes peering down at you.

"Care t’repeat tha’?" A deep, low voice rumbled from under a faded, skull-faced balaclava. You swear the ground trembled as he jumped down. "...I'd like t’make sure I heard y’right."

You’d have to imagine he was grinning under that mask, and it only made your fucking blood boil.

"Ghost, why didn't you tell me-“

He cuts you off mid-sentence with a gesture of his hand.

"I need permission t’take out my own helo now? Huh.” A shake of his head. “Y’should know I was told to test your repairs. Bosses orders, sweet’eart. Take it up with him if you’ve gotta’ problem.”

"You-" your lips part, but words elude you. Due to his admission or the nickname he used, you aren’t entirely sure. "What?"

Ghost blinks, sight sweeping the empty hangar for a fraction of a second before fixing back on you.

"Y’heard me." He steps closer, smoke billowing behind him. "Or d'you need me t'repeat it again?" A pause, twitch of his lips. "I can speak slower, if you’d like.”

What a dick.

You pull your own lips thin, trying to trap the profanity desperately wanting to fly his way. “I think you’ve done enough.”

He just hums.

"Way I see it, y’got two options.” He starts, and you long to tell him to shove his options somewhere the sun don’t shine. “Get pissed off with me, which is futile, since I ain’t the one y’actually got a problem with. Or, y’can get back to work and fix er’ up before Price comes down in an hour. Your choice 'ere."

An hour. A fucking hour? Is he clinically insane? This is easily about three days of work. And that’s if the bloody stars align.

"You’re unbelievable.” Scowl laden, you frown at him, words dripping venom as you shake your pounding head. "How nice of you to give me the option of choosing. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude, truly."

A beat of silence, unreadable eyes flicking over you.

“S’that sarcasm, engineer?” And then, he takes another step closer.

It never gets easier — the way he fills the space, how much bigger he is when he’s this close, broad shoulders cutting the world around you down to just him. He could crush you if he wanted. You’ve never forgotten that.

Your lips part, but before you can get a word out he’s already speaking.

"Y'know," he peers down at you with a slight tilt of his head. "A simple ‘thank you' wouldn't be the end of tha’ world."

You deadpan, biting back the scoff threatening to escape. Thank him? He wants you to thank him — for blowing a helo out of the sky an hour before the biggest inspection of your life? No. He’s not insane. He’s out of his goddamn mind.

“Thank you for what, exactly?” You force the words out, fighting to keep the sarcasm at bay, to sound even remotely genuine.

It doesn’t help that he’s right there, close enough to reach out and touch. You’ve been through enough in your time with the military to handle pressure, but there’s something about him — the bulk of him, the way he commands the space around him, the fact you can never read his facial expressions — that makes it hard to breathe.

Not to mention the tac gear he’s always dressed in. Layered thick like it’s meant for a frozen wasteland instead of the stifling summer heat you’re currently experiencing.

“F’givin’ you a passin’ grade,” he says, like that means a damn thing to you.

This game is getting old.

“What the hell do you think you’re talking about now?” Heat flares beneath your skin, frustration mounting. “If that was a test, then it was a goddamn shitty one. You didn’t fly it. You destroyed it.”

He steps in again, exhaling like you’re the one wasting his time.

“M’giving you an opportunity. Take it or leave it.” You’re ready to bite back, to tell him exactly where he can put his opportunity, but then— “How’re you s’posed to prove y’worth somethin’, when no one thinks you’ve got it in ya?”

For the third time today, he shuts you up. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. This is, without a doubt, the strangest, most infuriating first interaction you’ve ever had with anyone in your entire life.

“Wow.” That’s all you manage. You knew being one of the only female engineers here would put you at a disadvantage, but this? Blowing up the helo just to test if you can fix it? It’s beyond comprehension. “That’s great, Ghost. Thanks.”

He doesn’t blink—just steps closer again, crowding you until you have to tilt your chin up to keep his gaze.

“Lieutenant.” Flat. Unyielding. But there’s something about the way it drips off his tongue that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. It’s not a request. It’s a correction. “Say it.”

Oh.

Heat licks up your neck, pooling at the base of your skull, and you’re not sure if it’s from anger or something else entirely. You swallow hard, forcing down the lump wedged in your throat because technically he is still your superior, regardless if he holds power over your job or not.

“Thank you,” you start again, your ego turning purple. “Lieutenant.”

You don’t look, but you feel his head tilt. You’d bet your life he’s smiling.

"So you can listen." Warm air skims your throat, and you’re not sure if it’s coming from him or from the heat of the burning aircraft - but it stings. "...good."

And then, when he realizes you’ve most likely bitten your tongue in half at this point, he takes a step back. You watch him now, eyes like a laser as he turns and heads for the door without another word. And almost immediately after he vanishes out into the hall you take the opportunity to suck in air like you’re starved of it, not realizing how fucking tense you were until he was out of sight.

Leaving you with a burning helo, an hour of time to fix it, and a whole lot of fuckin’ irritation.

“You bastard.” You mutter under your breath, staring at the wreckage before you.

If there was another option, you sure as hell didn’t know it. But no matter how impossible this seemed, failure wasn’t on the table — not after the years you’d put into this, the money, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices. You didn’t crawl your way up through this goddamn system just to crash and burn now.

You needed a miracle.

And for the next two hours in the hangar, chaos was the only thing you knew.

You’ve never worked this fast in your life. The moment you got down to business you started barking orders, pulling maintenance techs and engineers off other projects, shoving tools into hands and sending them where they’re needed. There’s no room for hesitation, no time to second-guess — the aircraft has to be back in the air, and it has to be now.

And within minutes smoke steeped the hangar, sparks bursting like firecrackers from stripped wires. Everyone’s locked in — shouts, curses, the groan of machinery being pushed and pulled back together reverberating. It’s frantic, relentless, like a pack of starving wolves tearing at a fresh carcass, and you’re right there in the thick of it, teeth bared, fighting to hold the whole damn thing together.

But the euphemism falls short, because this wasn’t just a carcass torn open, in need of some stitching. It was worse — much worse.

The helo wasn’t just damaged; it was obliterated. Every inch of it had been shredded to ribbons, from the engine to the exterior frame, internal wiring snapped and twisted beyond recognition. Whatever the fuck that maniac had done, he hadn’t just tested its limits — he’d taken a sledgehammer to it and kept swinging.

You’ve seen aircraft’s in bad shape before, but nothing like this. It was a wreck, a heap of smoldering metal and sparking circuits, and somehow, you’re supposed to pull it back from the dead. But there’s no time to dwell on the impossibility of it — not when you’re hauling replacement parts back and forth, hands slick with oil and sweat, not when you’re welding and soldering with the kind of precision that would make your professors weep, not when the only thing keeping you moving is sheer goddamn will.

And then, after what feels like hours, you hear it—footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, the kind that don’t belong to someone who helps—but someone who watches.

“My, my.” You recognize the voice instantly—Captain Price. “What in the bloody hell happened here?”

You practically fling yourself to your feet, dragging a sleeve across your forehead, smearing grime over skin already slick with sweat. You almost groan in exasperation, but you swallow it down, clenching your jaw, praying to whatever god might be listening for the strength to not say something about Ghost that’ll get you court-martialed.

“Sir,” you greet him with a respectful nod. “I was informed, rather late mind you, that there was a scheduled test flight.”

A beat.

“Test flight,” Price repeats, brow lifting with something you can’t quite name. “Right. Test flight.”

A sharp bark of laughter leaves him, short and humourless, shaking his head as his eyes rake over the half-patched wreckage sprawled before him.

“And this,” he turns back to you. “This is the damage from that test flight?”

You hesitate—just for a fraction of a second—before nodding, breath held tight in your chest. It’s useless, really. You both know there’s no universe where a few minutes in the air could inflict this level of destruction. Price might’ve ordered Ghost to take the bird up, to test your work a little more personally—but there’s no way in hell he told him to annihilate the goddamn thing.

You’d bet your entire career the bastard did not have permission to go this far.

“Fucken’ typical,” Price mutters, pulling off his cap as he begins pacing around the bird, taking in the carnage from every angle. “Damn near destroyed the thing.”

That’ll be your fault, you think grimly. You’re the one who gave him the fucking order, after all.

But you keep your mouth shut, trailing behind him as he circles the wreckage, eyes sweeping over the mess of half-patched repairs. When he stops short, turning on his heel so fast you almost stumble back, you know what’s coming before he even speaks.

“How long’s this gonna’ take to fix?”

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself. Swallow, but your throat stays dry. It’s not hesitation—it’s knowing the answer is one he won’t like. You don’t even like it. Because with the kind of damage Ghost inflicted, there’s no way in hell you’ll have it ready for any type of inspection today.

“For proper repairs and testing?” You exhale, shaking your head. “Days. At least two, sir.”

You brace yourself for impact—for the reprimand, the frustration, the inevitable do better speech. But it doesn’t come. He only sighs, nodding once before readjusting his cap.

“Two days, then.” He’s already walking away, halfway to the hangar doors when he glances back over his shoulder. “Performance review postponed.”

Those last three words make your stomach churn, and then Price is gone.

“Goddamn it. Asshole.”

The curse leaves you sharper than intended, loud enough to carry across the hangar. You don’t care. How could you? The moment you’ve bled for—postponed—because one insufferable bastard decided to make a spectacle of himself. You want to scream, to hurl every goddamn tool in reach straight at his smug, masked face.

Instead, you inhale deeply, exhaling through gritted teeth before turning to the crew.

“Call it a night, guys. I appreciate the help.”

A few nod, murmuring about leaving their assignments to meet early and help with the rest of the repairs, but their voices barely register. You’re exhausted, and you need a fucking shower — so you just mutter some type of agreement and head for the door. You walk the path back to housing, hardly even noticing that it’s nightfall now. Price must have come later than planned, though you really have no idea the hour because in all honesty you weren’t keep track of time. Either way, your boots hit the threshold of the barracks before you even realize you’d made it inside, your full focus on forcing your mind to keep busy.

You head straight for the showers, not bothering to grab fresh clothes. If you stop now, you might start thinking again — about the disaster of a day, about him, about the sheer fucking audacity — and that’s the last thing you need.

You tear off your disgusting uniform in seconds. The water is scalding, but you don’t flinch. If anything, you lean into it, letting the heat work its way into your bones, washing away the sweat, the grease, the tension coiled tight in your shoulders. You brace a hand against the tiled wall, exhaling sharply.

Fucking Ghost.

Your mind takes over now that you lack distraction, and the name alone is enough to set your teeth on edge. He didn’t just make your job harder—he deliberately threw you into the fire, watched you scramble, tested you like you were some new recruit fresh out of training. And the worst part? He got exactly what he wanted.

You hate that you rose to the challenge. That you had to. You just can’t figure out why. Why he did it — where his motives are.

Steam curls around you as you drop your head, water hammering against your spine, drowning out everything else. Your breaths come heavy, dragging in and out of your chest like you’ve just run a goddamn marathon, so busy in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shift in the air, the faint tremor in the ground beneath you.

You don’t hear the footsteps until they’re too close to ignore, breaking through your sorrows, coming to a halt just beyond the dividing wall. For a long, heavy moment, there’s nothing. Just the steady rush of water, the sound of your own breathing.

Then—

“Y’done sulkin’ yet?”

Fucking hell.

You snap to attention, the sound of that voice like a gut punch. Verbal inflection so intense that only after a few conversations (if you can even call them that) you know you’d recognize it in your sleep, and it takes all of your willpower not to react with more than just the involuntary stiffening in your muscles.

You blink the water out of your eyes, trying to center yourself.

“Do you make a hobby out of sneaking in on people while they shower?” You ask, forcing your voice to stay light, to not betray the rush of heat in your chest. You should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve known this wasn’t the end of the goddamn shitshow. “Or am I just that special?”

"Didn’t know I had t’make an appointment for a communal shower.”

God, that does something to you, and you hate that it does. He’s taking your attitude and he’s feeding it right back to you — and the taste of your own medicine has never been so bitter.

Then, you hear his boots against the floor again, his voice accompanying. “Seems there’s alot I don’ know about ya.”

And again. It’s that tone. The way it drags, measured, like he’s thinking out loud. Like he’s taking you apart in his mind piece by piece. Trying to figure you out.

And you—stupidly, impulsively—throw it back at him.

“I’d say we’re even, then.”

It slips out before you can stop it, and you know it’s a mistake the second the words settle. Because he stops moving. The air tightens. A beat stretches long between you. You take the opportunity to reach for your towel, turn off the water, anything to not feel so vulnerable — but it doesn’t help. Not when you’re suddenly so acutely aware of how close he is. How little space separates you.

How very little there is between you at all.

You swallow, forcing steel into your voice. “I don’t even know your name.”

Then, the softest sound — amusement, maybe.

“Not sure y’need to.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, pulling the towel tight around your torso. Of course.

“Not sure I want to.” You mutter, more to yourself than anything.

But he catches it anyway.

You hear the shift of his stance, another hum of amusement. “Coulda’ fooled me.”

And that does it.

You know you’re walking straight into the trap he’s setting, but you don’t care anymore. Your patience is gone, worn to the bone, and you won’t be able to sleep tonight if you don’t get to glare him right in the eyes and tell him to fuck off.

“Cut the shit, Ghost.” The stall door slams open as you shove it wide, padding forward until your bare feet nearly touch his boots. “Why the hell are you even here?”

You don’t expect to hit a brick wall, but that’s exactly what it feels like. He’s missing a layer of tac gear now, hands stuffed into the pockets of his cargos, shoulder propped against the support beam like he’s been here all night. His gaze flicks over your face, your neck, the way water drips from your skin.

You fight not to pull your towel tighter.

“Cap’s orders.” He states, voice easy, right as rain. “Told me t’make amends.”

He has to be kidding.

“Make amends.” You repeat the words flatly, tasting them, turning them over in your mind like they might somehow make more sense on the second pass. “He told you to make amends.”

They don’t.

And when he nods — you huff a laugh, humourless.

“Right. And you thought the best way to do that was to sneak into the showers and stand there like a fucking serial killer?”

“Didn’t sneak,” he says simply. “Walked in same as you.”

You blink. You have this sick feeling he’s enjoying this. Enjoying every reaction you’re giving.

“Yet your intent is not the same as mine.”

He looks at the door, then back to you. “Ain’t it?”

You inhale sharply through your nose, hands tightening around the towel at your chest. You know better than to engage with this — than to let him push and prod and get under your skin. But it’s too late. He’s already there, and you’re too goddamn tired to claw him back out.

“Look,” you sigh, shifting your weight, fighting not to admire the bulk of his chest at your eye level. “Whatever Price told you to do, consider it done. Apology accepted. Now get the fuck out so I can forget this conversation ever happened.”

A long beat. You don’t know what kind of response you expect, but the way he just stands there considering you is somehow worse than all the possible outcomes you’d imagined.

Then, finally—finally—he moves. But not to leave.

Instead, he pushes off the beam, straightening to full height and moves closer. Not much, just enough to make you feel it — the shift in the air — the heat radiating off him.

“Y’sure about that?” His voice is quieter now, head tilting down toward yours. “Seem a little too wound for someone who’s ready t’forget about it.”

A huff. “And you seem a little too invested for someone who’s just here on orders.”

It's stupid. It's really goddamn stupid how he's able to do this, to turn your words into a rope he can use to drag you around the way he wants. You know that. But still, you’re useless in stopping the way your stomach keens as he leans closer.

"Y’gonna deny you’re still pissed at me?” He whispers.

You shake your head. “Never said I wasn’t still pissed.”

"Mhm." He nods along with it. "But pissed don't fully describe it, does it?”

"It’s an improvement from murderous,” you retort, as pointedly as you can muster. “Count your blessings.”

Another hum, eyes dragging slow over your face, like he’s searching for something. Or maybe just savouring it — the way you bristle under his scrutiny — the way your fingers twitch where they clutch at your towel.

“M’grateful for y’kindness. Truly.” It takes you a second to register it—the cadence, the words, the mockery. He’s parroting you. Throwing your own attitude from earlier back in your face. “But y’know, yeah? I only did what I did ‘cause I knew y’could handle it.”

You go still, pulse hammering in your throat.

Bullshit. Bullshit.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ghost.” Your voice wavers, choked by realization that everything he does has motive. “And definitely don’t flatter me. Not now.”

A slow exhale, warm against your chilled skin, hooded eyes flicking to your ear like he’s considering something.

“S’not flattery. Just truth.”

And then— closer. Close enough that the breath between you is thin, almost nonexistent.

“M’not a good man, sweet’eart. M’a filthy, vile thing. But you—” a pause. He breathes in, your hair shifting with the exhale. “Mm. Y’good. Clean. I knew y’could take it. Needed Price t’know it too.”

Well, fuck.

Your head is spinning now, but even through the vertigo you realize your second mistake. You know it’s a mistake the moment it happens — rather, the moment before it happens — but when your head shifts, just enough that your ear brushes against fabric of his mask; you realize it’s the type of mistake you can’t come back from.

And so, you breathe him in. It’s reckless. It’s ruinous. It’s completely unavoidable.

“My gut is telling me you’re patronizing me.” You whisper; something softer, something you shouldn’t allow. A pause. Your lashes flutter. “But god, I can’t figure you out.”

And again, you don’t know what reaction you expect from him. Maybe you don’t expect one at all. It’s been an exceptionally odd 24 hours, so you’re certain nothing can surprise you at this point. But what you definitely don’t count on is the continued brush of his mask against your cheek, or the way your toes long to curl against the damp floor—

"Y’not suppose to." His voice is so deep you feel it in your bones. “S’don’t try too hard.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but you do know you should step back. You need to step back.

But you don’t.

You stay right there, still as the air between you, every nerve suffocated by the viscosity stretching between his words and yours. The scent of him—gunmetal, something dark and earthen—settles in your lungs like smoke; curling, clinging, refusing to leave.

And so, you breathe him in for the second time. A dangerous temptation. “You came here to make amends, didn’t you?”

The words leave you quieter than you mean them to, tinged in something close to breathlessness — something you wish to god you didn’t hear. Something you hope to god he didn’t hear.

Because atleast now, you can say you know how he is — how he listens, how he picks the quirks out of you and files them away for later — how he knows what to do with the things he finds in people, how to use them like leverage.

And you should be immune to it.

You’ve spent your entire career training for moments like these. All the military training you went through, tactical and aerospace alike. You’ve been thrown into war zones, fixed and pulled aircraft’s out of burning fields, run repairs under enemy fire with nothing but your hands and your own goddamn heartbeat when the situation called for it.

You know what fear looks like. You know what death smells like. You know what it means to be hunted.

And yet—this? You never saw this coming.

Never saw him coming.

“Y’want an apology?” He mutters, and you can hear the smirk in it. “Y’want m’to say I’m sorry?”

“That’d be a good start.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just watches you, the smirk in his voice lingering, curling at the edges of the silence between you.

Then, he hums. “How ’bout I do y’one better?”

You barely have time to process the shift before you feel it—his hand—rough, calloused palm grazing slow along the towel covering your hip.

“Let m’spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow,” he murmurs, fingers tracing lower with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. “Get y’feelin’ just how much I mean it.”

For a moment, you forget everything.

All the reasons, all the lines. The ones he's crossing — or maybe the ones you're erasing with every second you let his massive paw of a hand touch you. God — you aren't supposed to want this. You don’t know even know him. Don’t know his name, what his face looks like. You don’t know anything about him except that he’s dangerous, and that he’s made you fucking ache.

You exhale — when the moment passes and you remember where you are — a long, almost shaky breath, and it doesn't escape you the way he notices. Watches you through those thick lashes, like he's enjoying the reaction he's been working so hard for.

You wish you could hate him for it.

“Make me feel it then,” you whisper, all pathetic and trembling and borderline wanton as his fingers find the end of your towel, and brush against goosebumped flesh. “Lieutenant.”

And for a moment, you think you’ve made your third mistake of the evening. His title slips out like a curse — and something in your chest roars with how much you mean it.

He's so goddamn cocky. So sure of himself and you hate that you're the one he's so sure of. But when you call him by his rank — when you push that sarcastic mouth of yours just a little bit further, you can feel his reaction instantaneously by the way he stalls — eyes glinting in the low light.

"She wants t’bring rank into this now, yeah?” And when you don’t reply fast enough, he replies for you. “Get in the stall, engineer.”

There's a thousand reasons this is a bad idea. A million reasons you should be saying no right now. But when he looks at you like that, with those eyes like fire locked on yours and practically daring you to refuse him — he has to know he’s not going to get it.

His hand comes up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “Now.”

And that, is your fourth mistake of the night.

You turn, padding back into the stall you’d showered in only moments before — tiles still beading with diamond droplets, gleaming up at you as you step inside. You turn as he follows you in, crowding you against the wall, broad shoulders taking up all the width in the already cramped space as he shuts the door behind him.

And then, he’s on you.

It's so abrupt and so visceral that it takes your breath away entirely. Your hands go up automatically to catch his chest, steadying yourself when he slots his knee between your legs, pinning you against the wall. Your towel is barely clinging around you, and it’s a shocker it still is — but you forget about it when he starts dipping his head down.

"Feels good, don’t it? Bein’ told what t'do?” He murmurs, fabric covered lips grazing the shell of your ear. "M'bettin’ y’don’t experience this much anymore. Tha’s why you’re melting for it.”

And god, the fact that he’s right. He shouldn’t be, but he is.

Somewhere between your rank and your title and your pride, you’ve forgotten the last time you had someone looking at you like this. There’s a part of you that wants to fight it, to bite and scratch and insist that you're nothing like he's saying — but then a hand slips up around your throat, and the other down between the space separating your bodies, thick fingers catching the end of your towel — and your eyes flutter.

“M’not hearing any apologies.” You manage to mutter, just before those same thick digits find your inner thigh, working up higher.

You're deflecting. The both of you know it. The same pride that drove you to where you are is the same pride that drove him where he is. You think he’s going to call you on it, but then you realize he won’t. Not when the hand at your throat tightens just barely, not when his voice drips into your ear.

"Y’gonna feel em’ soon.”

And then, you do.

You feel the grazing of calloused flesh against sensitive, damn-near celibate flesh. There’s another sound. A low, wanton, filthy moan, and you’re about 94% sure it came from you as beastly fingers slide along your slick slit, exposing the extent of your need to his ego in its entirety — once, twice, curling toward your sopping entrance before you feel the thunder of his hum.

Mocking. "Christ. S’like m’workin’ a faucet, yeah?"

His lips are on your neck now, mouthing slow and deliberate along your jaw even while covered by fabric — and the whimper that slips out is pathetic, even to your own ears.

"Wha’s that?” He all but growls. "C'mon, use y'words f’me. Or d’you only know how t’spit insults?“

You do know how to use your words, actually — and they're usually good ones. You've got a sharp tongue, a mouth just as foul as your temper. So you don't know what to do when every curse, every name, every string of insults you keep in stock gets caught in your throat. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but try not to gasp when his fingers slide up to your clit and swirl.

"Fucking hell." Your jaw goes slack under the hand that holds it. "You—really are vile—“

This whole goddamn thing is vile. The way he can ruin you like this — make you quiver like this — in moments without so much as a name or face to attach the memory of it to.

If he's vile, you know you're not much better.

"Yeah. Tha’s right. I know you’re feelin’ it." He murmurs, fingers circling your clit firmer, faster. "Look how y’squirmin’ for it.”

You have half a mind to spit in his face for that. You have half a mind to tell him to go to hell. You have a million other things you should be doing right now other than clawing at his chest just to stay upright as he brings you to the brink of ruin.

"T-there you go again—mmf—“ your words are so breathless it’s pathetic. “Flattering yourself.”

It’s a futile attempt at a rebuttal, a stupid one because you already know the response he’s going to have to it. Pathetic. You are squirming, and you want to hate him for it, so you do. Your nails bite into his chest, dragging, raking slow and hard as if you could tear through the fabric covering it. You know you wouldn’t. Couldn't. But it's still good enough for him to grunt, hand around your throat tightening just enough to make you gasp in response.

"S’not flattery. Just truth.” He parrots himself again from earlier, and you think you’re on the verge of losing your mind because you know him well enough now have to predicted it. “Y’fuckin need this, don’ you?”

It's not a question. He doesn't need you to answer, because you both know how it ends anyway. But god damn him and his words. Because his filthy mouth is the second most dangerous thing to ever happen to you — right behind his fingers. You need to reply. Need to answer. He's going to force a reaction from you one way or another.

But he doesn’t give you the luxury of even trying.

His fingers still with a suddenness that makes you cry out in frustration — silver platter feeding him exactly what he was fucking looking for.

"Mhm. S’what I thought." He murmurs, hand sliding from around your throat to the back of your head. “M’guessing it’s been years. Least’ a couple.”

And it’s then, that you get it.

You get why this man is feared. You get why he’s so fucking dangerous. He’s worse than the name you know him by — because you’re certain even ghosts aren’t this knowing. This brutal. This consuming.

And through the haze in your head, you try to think back to the day you first met him. There had to have been dark signs — omens in your skies — a warning.

Yet, you can’t think of one.

“F-fuck you.” You spit it at him, because it’s apparently all your mouth is good for. “Stroke your ego any harder and it might just fucking cum before I do.”

He laughs, and then you feel it. The grip tightening in your hair, the palm slapping at your inner thigh to work your legs wider.

“Judging by tha’ mouth, y’never been fucked right either.” He mutters, fingers slipping up the slick coating your thighs. “S’alright. M’here to apologize, yeah? I’ll pay m’penance.”

Bullshit.

He’s not going to apologize by any means — if the last however many minutes aren’t proof enough of that. This is punishment in its worst form, and even that’s not enough. If you want him to make it up to you, you’re going to have to take it.

"Get on your fucking knees, then.” You’re so unbelievably wired that you hardly even realize what you’d said. You hardly even realize when you continue. “And use that mouth for something other than self elation.”

If you thought this was dangerous before - you’re not sure what the fuck this is now.

If someone had asked you an hour ago if you'd ever considered you have a death wish of this caliber, you’d have laughed. If someone had asked you if you were capable of saying half the things you’re saying right now, you’d have laughed even harder. But the fact that they’re leaving your lips - your lips that are now trembling with the realization that you just ordered one of the most dangerous men in the world to kneel — is enough to make you dizzy.

But then, he does it.

He sinks to those knees, cargos sponging the cold showered tiles as he does.

And you don’t think— not really — not for a moment.

Because if you did, you might have wondered if your pride and your dignity are even worth the way he’s looking at you right now — like he wants to eat you alive. You might have wondered if you were dreaming, if this was even physically fucking possible — the nameless, faceless man who has scared people shitless with just his reputation, kneeling between your fucking feet.

“Fuck.” It slips out in an exhale, and you don’t even hear it.

He does, though.

And in response, he holds your eyes while pulling at the edge of his balaclava. Just enough to uncover his jaw and lips — thick, pillow-full lips cocked into the type of grin you’d have expected, but steals the remainder of your breath regardless.

“M’gonna’ spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow.” He rasps, pulling one of your thighs over his shoulder. “M’sorry.”

Oh, how you wish he meant that.

Because he isn’t. He isn’t the least bit apologetic when he pushes your back against the tiled walls with a heavy palm against your pelvis — he isn’t the least bit remorseful when he’s dragging his teeth along your inner thigh, nipping and lapping — and he’s certainly not the least bit sorry as he brings that filthy fucking mouth of his to your slit, and starts to devour you like he’s starved.

And this, you know is sin.

You know this, because you’ve never felt a mouth on you until now that made you think of god. You’ve never felt fingers dig into flesh with enough force to bruise the way his do — never felt anything that could make you forget who you are and where you are and everything in between.

It has to be sin, because no one could do this without an explicit knowledge of what sin tastes like.

There’s no other explanation for the way he can make you keen, arch and moan like this. No other excuse for the way you quiver as he curls his tongue and strokes you until you’re seeing white, just to suck on your clit with a ferocity that makes your stomach tighten and your hands shoot up to cover your own mouth.

“Feel it.” He husks against you, and the sound and sensation make your hips buck forward in response. “Relax an’ feel it.”

It’s not a request — it’s a demand. And you don’t think to defy him when he pulls your hands away, pushes you back, and buries his whole face against your pussy again like he’ll die if he doesn’t. You’re so dizzy you can’t even keep your eyes open. You can only hear your breath coming out in stilted moans and little cries of his namesake — the namesake that you realize the irony of rather briefly, but forget when your brain flatlines all over again.

Because he groans against your clit like you’re the best goddamn meal he’s ever had, and suddenly, you get how easy it is to fall. Fall into the rhythm — your hips moving in sync with the strokes of his tongue, your thighs closing around his skull. You want to scream. You almost want to cry. Your voice breaks with every sound you make, and you know your heart is only a few beats away from beating out of your chest by the way he grips your hips, pulling your cunt to his head before bringing a finger to your sopping entrance.

"Gonna’ stretch y’out a bit.” He rasps, and you aren’t sure if he’s saying it to warn you or to remind himself. “Breathe.”

You try, but then, it doesn’t matter. Because it’s happening — that thick finger pushes inside you, curling against your walls until you’re gasping and covering your mouth all over again.

And god, you aren’t going to be able to look at his skull mask the same way again. Not when you watch it’s shape shifting just slightly as he works his jaw, suckling against your clit with a hunger you can only describe as feral, eyes half-lidded as they lock with your own. You’re certain nothing in the world could have prepared you for this. It's a goddamn match to a bomb as he starts to work another finger into you, curling them in time with his tongue in a way you don’t think you’d have been able to come up with if you’d had a lifetime to consider it. You can feel that tension building — a tight coil of heat and pressure building low in your core.

Then, you feel his fingers inside you doing something odd. Something—

Oh, fuck.

You feel it before you can comprehend it — before you know he’s tracing the first letter, the shape of it hitting in just the right place that it makes your hips buck in response.

Oh. Oh god.

You can feel him hum against you, like he’s savouring it — the way you’re clenching around his fingers as you realize what he’s doing. It takes everything in you not to scream, eyes squeezed shut and hand over your mouth — head back against the wall as you imagine the look in his eyes, how goddamn wicked it must be while he spells out the rest of his apology inside you.

O. Then, R. Then another. Then, Y.

“G-ghost—“ you know he must be able to tell you're almost gone, because when he hits the last R and your breath catches, his name a whoreish moan you try to smother against the back of your hand — he growls in satisfaction. It’s too much. You can't breathe because your climax is right fucking there, and you can’t stop it for a second longer. “G-ghost—m’gonna—ohgod—“

With a suddenness that makes stars burst across the backs of your eyes, he brings his free hand up, stuffing two fingers into your mouth to smother the sound and feel of his name as you cry it. He strokes you through it, pumping you with his fingers as your vision blurs into some indiscernible haze — a kaleidoscope of light and pleasure and everything you know you should never allow yourself to have.

And then, when you finally catch the breath it took to even say his name, he pulls away. Fingers slipping from your mouth and your pussy like a goddamn magician.

A ghost.

Then, he stands up, and you watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand like you’re all the goddamn nourishment he needs before he’s helping you get stable on your feet.

“M’sure y’feel it now.” He murmurs, lips so close to yours you can taste yourself on his breath. "M’a man of m’word, sweet’eart. Always make good on m’promises.”

You’re sure he can see it, the realization in your eyes when you come back down to earth long enough to remember what just happened. Remember that you weren't supposed to let it happen in the first place. That you were supposed to have better control over yourself — and you can guess he knows, by the way he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

"Guess I made m’point, yeah?"

He tugs his balaclava back in place, and you exhale.

“Yeah, you made your point.” He hums at that, and you tug your towel tighter. “But this—this can’t happen again.”

It takes him a beat to respond, and when he does, it’s simple.

"Of course.”

You don’t know why, but that response makes your chest tighten in a way it has no business doing. It would have been so much easier if he’d given you a smart ass smirk, or a biting response. It would be so much easier if he told you that you didn’t have a choice in the matter, but he doesn’t.

And so, you step closer to him, tilting your head back to keep his eyes.

“I mean it, Ghost.” You whisper. “I’ll take a pound of your flesh before I allow you to fuck with my paystub ever again.”

You thought, at this point, you’d have figured out some type of gauge on his reactions. But still, he proves you haven’t. You don't expect the hand coming up, cupping your jaw to hold you in place as his eyes drop to your lips. You don't expect him to lean in, and bring his own to your ear — and you definitely don’t expect the words that fill it.

“There’s a few things I wanna’ fuck. Y’paystub ain’t one.” He pauses, and you’re certain it’s because he’s enjoying the drumbeat that is now your heart rate. You’d just found your breath and he singlehandedly stole it again. “I’ll be watchin’ f’your enemies. T’let em’ know they contend with me.”

You think you get it then. The reason everyone looks at him the way they do. The reason they're so terrified of him in one second, and willing to take a bullet for him during the next. It's not even because he's trained to be a killing machine. Not because he can see what you're thinking before you even realize you are. Not because he'd walk through fire just to be close to hell.

It's because he's a man of his word, and even you understand the gravity of that kind of loyalty.

You exhale with a nod, and then he’s gone.

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