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simonrileysfavteacup · 21 days ago

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The Jersey

Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk x girlfriend!reader

Word count: 2.3K

Warnings: sexual hints, lots of jokes lol, use of the word "pussy", no actual smut

Summary: You decided to wear Brady's jersey to a game to play a joke on Matthew, but little did you know, it would backfire on you.

You’ve been with Matthew for 2 years now and they’ve been the best 3 years of your life. He’s kind, gentle, and caring with you, unlike how he is on the ice. He’s been your better half, knowing you better than you know yourself.

You knew how well hockey ran in the Tkachuk clan so it wasn’t a surprise when Brady got drafted. Matthew was extremely excited to play Brady for the first time, you could tell by how much time he spent preparing in the off season.

So when the first FLA vs OTT game was around, you didn’t expect to get an Ottawa jersey in the mail. You knew it was from Brady from the way his name and his number laid on the back. There was a note too, saying to wear it to the game. You hesitate but pick up the jersey, throwing the box away.

Hiding the jersey in your side of the closet, you wait for Matthew to come home from morning skate. The game was later in the night and Tkachuks’ flight was to land at 3, currently it was 2. The game was late, at 8 o clock.

Matthew stumbles through the door twenty minutes later, stopping to admire you rewatching the Bruins game. “Hey love.”

You turn your head to face him, smiling. “Hey, how was it?”

“Good, I think we’re ready to kick Brady’s ass,” he smiles, walking towards you. “How was your day?”

“Barely even started yet, but going well since yours is going well,” you press a kiss to his cheek. “Go take a nap, I’ll pick up your family.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I can get them before the game, it’s fine.”

“Matthew, I’ve known your family for 2 years, I think they won’t mind if I pick them up,” you assure. “Plus, I need time with Taryn.”

“Why? Do you guys gossip about me?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, she shows me your baby pictures,” you smirk.

“What?” he turns to look at you.

“Of course I’ve seen the baby pictures. We’ve been together how long?” you walk to your closet, grabbing a coat to wear when you went to pick up the family.

“God I hate this,” he rolls his eyes, getting into bed. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you smile.

Finding Chantal at the airport was simple, Keith next to her, Taryn trailing behind. The second she saw you, she ran towards you, almost tackling you in a hug.

“I haven’t seen you in forever!” she squeals.

“Taryn! You’re squeezing too hard!” you shout, causing 3 elderly to turn back to look at you. She lets go, still smiling.

“Did you get Brady’s gift?” she whispers.

“You knew?” you ask.

“Only me, Brady couldn’t keep it a secret,” Taryn says as you all get into your car. You drive everyone back to your house, where Matthew has already left for the game.

When you had finished getting ready for the game and walked out, you hear 2 gasps behind you. “Shouldn’t you be wearing Matthew’s?”

“Why? Brady’s the better brother,” you smirk.

“Matthew’s going to be pissed,” Keith gives you a little fist bump, a sign of approval. You laugh, walking out to head to the game.

***

Sitting in the box next to Taryn and Emma, you look down at the ice as the boys emerge from the locker rooms.

“There he is,” Emma nudges you, her eyes on Matthew. He has his helmet off as always, his curls a mess, his stretching position in progress.

You watch him skate to the centre line, settling down next to Brady to stretch. You assume that they were chirping each other, then noticing Brady tap his mic. Matthew says something with a smirk, which led Brady to do the same. You watch Matthew furrow his eyebrows and then look towards the box, his eyes turning dark as he sees you in the Senators jersey. You just smile and wave at him, to which he responds with a roll of his eyes.

Brady gets up, smiling at his older brother before sending a wink your way.

“Dad was right, he’s pissed. I feel bad for you,” Taryn went onto her phone, pulling up a song. Just a second later, RIP that Pussy begins playing. Your eyes go wide, taking her phone from her. You repeatedly tap the pause button, furious with your result.

“Taryn!” You scold, grabbing onto her hand. You look back down at the ice, where Matthew had started talking to Sam.

The Panthers took the win 4-2, Matthew scoring two of those goals. You walk down the tunnel to greet him, meeting Aaron along the way.

“Hey Y/N, how are you?” he asks.

“Good, you?” You reply.

“Happy that we won,” He gives you a smile, turning to walk away. “Oh, by the way, he’s pissed about the jersey.”

“Been hearin’ that all night,” You smile back, standing in front of the locker room door. Matthew comes out a minute later, his hair slightly damp. “Hey Matty, you played great.”

“Hey Matty, you played great,” He mocks your voice. “You think you're funny, huh? Let’s see who’s talking when we get home.”

He grabs your hand, dragging you out of the arena. You smirk to yourself, trailing behind him. You get into the car, his hand immediately going to your thigh.

“You have a lot of nerve, you know? Wearing that shit to my game. My home game. You’re lucky we won or I would’ve taken you right there against the wall,” his words make a shiver run down your spine. The thought of your boyfriend fucking you against a wall in a very public place scares you but turns you on at the same time.

“Brady sent it to me. I didn’t know about it,” you say innocently, blinking at him.

“Oh, fucking hell, baby, don’t lie to me,” he shoots you a glance. You open your mouth to say something but stop once his phone chimes. “Check who that is. Please.”

There was a pause before he said please. But, hey! Matthew has manners!

You check his phone for him, the passcode being your birthday (#couple goals). Chantal had texted, asking if you and Matthew would meet her and the Tkachuk clan at a restaurant downtown.

“Matty,” you say softly.

“Hmm?” he hums, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Your mom wants us to go to a restaurant to catch up,” you say.

“Tell her you’re tired and don’t feel like going out,” he shoots a glance your way, smirking at you. “You will be.”

“She said that we still have to come, and if I want, I can sleep on your shoulder at the restaurant,” you look over at him, his tongue sliding against his teeth.

“Fine, text her we’re on our way, but take off that fucking jersey,” he changes routes, heading to the restaurant they were at.

“I’m not wearing anything underneath…” you carry off.

“Fucking hell, babe, now, you’re really in for it tonight,” he pauses, taking a deep breath. “There’s an extra shirt in my bag, put it on.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt, reaching for the bag in the backseat. The dress shirt was a simple black one, a bit oversized, but you weren’t complaining. You climb into the back, taking the jersey off, leaving you in just a bra. Matt’s eyes shift from the road to you for a second, a visible boner forming in his pants.

Deciding to play his game, you slowly button your shirt up, leaving the top 2 unbuttoned.

When you get to the restaurant, you knew you were in for it. Matthew pulls you towards him, trapping you between the car and him, buttoning the last two buttons on your shirt. “This,” he gestures to your tits. “Belongs to me. Not Brady. Only my jersey covers these.”

“Only yours,” you try to kiss him but he moves his head out of the way and your kiss went to his cheek.

“Act fucking tired, I want to go home. You aren’t allowed to get away with this,” he puts an arm around your waist, walking with him to the restaurant.

“You’re that mad?” you ask.

“You’ll see how mad I really am,” he glances at you.

You sit down at the table after saying hi to everyone, sitting across from Emma and Brady. “Hey Y/N! How are you?”

“Doing wonderful, Brady,” you smile, earning Matthew’s hand on your thigh, squeezing tightly as a warning. “I’m so tired though.”

His hand eases up a bit.

“How did you like the jersey? I know Matty loved it,” Brady smirks, Emma letting out a little chuckle.

Matthew takes his hand off your thigh and slips it around your shoulder, pulling you close to him.

“I loved it, thank you,” you try to be as nice as possible.

“How come you changed?” Brady asks. “You looked pretty great in the jersey.”

“Oh, I felt hot. I feel sick,” you lie. “You know how things are with the Florida weather.”

Brady chuckles, knowing entirely that you are lying.

Matt gives you a pat on the thigh of approval, a signal to start falling asleep on him. As the waiter comes around, you tell Matthew to order for you as you begin to fall asleep on his shoulder.

“Um, Mom, Y/N’s not feeling too good, I think we’re going to head home,” Matthew tells his mother.

“Nonsense, she looks fine. She’ll manage. If she can’t, I can call her an uber. One of you has to stay, Matthew. I haven’t seen you both since December,” Chantal responds, smiling.

Damn her and her love for her kids. You’re trying to get laid.

Matthew silently groans, the vibrations hitting your body. His hand moves up and down your thigh and you were actually falling asleep at this point. Matthew ends up taking notice of it, pulling your chair closer.

You assume it was about 10 minutes later when Matthew’s arm shifts a bit, waking you up.

“Oh, sorry babe. I just had to grab a fork,” he smiles at you, pressing a kiss to the top of your forehead.

“Should’ve woken me up when food got here, I’m starving,” you return the smile, leaning your head on his shoulder as you begin eating. You lower your voice as Brady begins talking to Taryn about her graduation. “When do you want to leave?”

“Soon. Eat half of your food and call it a day. You aren’t getting out of this,” he whispers back.

“Why? Because you know your brother is better than you?” you chuckle softly as you took a bite of your food, almost choking on it as Matthew’s hand lands dangerously close to your clothed pussy.

“Say that shit one more time and I’ll take you right on this table,” he says sternly.

“You wouldn’t,” you giggle softly but stop as you notice the dark lust behind his blue eyes. “Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed,” he chuckles softly. “I suggest you keep your mouth shut.”

“Hey lovebirds,” Keith whistles at you and Matthew, taking you out of your conversation. “Why don’t you stop whispering to each other and actually talk? You guys have all year to talk, we only get to see each other tonight until April.”

“Dad, don’t you get it? Matthew’s still pissed about the jersey,” Taryn remarks. You almost choke at her words, turning your head towards the 22-year-old. “What? You know I’m right!”

“Taryn, leave them and their sex life alone,” Brady jokes.

“Brady!” his mother scolds. “There are children present!”

“So?” he now earns a slap on his shoulder from his wife.

“Anyways, how’s work?” Chantal asks you.

“Going great as of now,” You smile at her, poking a piece of salad on your plate with your fork, avoiding eye contact.

During the time you, Chantal and Emma were talking, Matthew had excused himself to the ‘bathroom’. In reality, he was texting you to make up some ridiculous excuse, so you could go home.

You text him back saying you were having fun and that his family was interesting. He sends back, “Either you leave now or you won’t be going to work tomorrow. Or for the rest of the week.”

You take in a soft gulp and tell Brady and Emma you’d be leaving now.

"Good luck,” Emma sends a wink your way, Brady chuckling at her. As you were walking away from the table, Chantal calls your name.

“Please tell Matthew we at least want to see him tomorrow before we leave,” she smiles at you, giving you a thumbs up.

“Will do,” you turn back around and leave, meeting Matthew by the car. He opens your door for you, watching you eagerly as you get in. He gets in on the driver's side and starts up the car as you begin speaking. “Your mom said she wants to see you tomorrow. Before they leave.”

“Mhm,” he hums.

“And I think she knew,” you continue.

“Mhm,” he hums again, not paying attention to anything you were saying.

“I’m pregnant,” you roll your eyes as he hums again.

“Wait, what?” he looks over at you.

“Were you listening to anything I said?” you ask.

“I only heard that you were pregnant,” he says, a shit eating grin starting to form on his face.

“No, I’m not. And your mother wants to see you tomorrow before she leaves. Also, your family knew,” you look forward at the road, rolling your eyes at him.

“The next time you roll your eyes, it better be out of pleasure,” he smirks at you, continuing to drive through Fort Lauderdale. You laugh, reaching for his free hand.

#matthew tkachuk #matty tkachuk #matthew tkachuk smut #matthew tkachuk x reader #matthew tkachuk fic #matthew tkachuk imagine #matthew tkachuk blurb #tkachuk #brady tkachuk #m. tkachuk #tkachuk brothers #taryn tkachuk #chantal tkachuk #florida panthers #panthers #senators #ottawa senators #sam reinhart #aaron ekblad

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simonrileysfavteacup · 22 days ago

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matthew tkachuk fic coming soon! go panthers!

#matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk fic

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simonrileysfavteacup · 22 days ago

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My Knight In Shining Armour Chapter 6

Pairing: Knight!ghost x Princess!reader

Word Count: 600

Warnings: None! (yet...)

Summary: You never thought you needed a bodyguard. Especially not one of your father’s men. But it just so happens to be that this particular man is one who’s a sight for sore eyes. But you also could never fall for your Knight, right? Not a commoner, no…

Your room stayed silent for hours. You lay in bed, your hair fawning over your pillows, staring up at your ceiling.

It’s late at night. Maybe past 10, is your guess. Ghost is still gone.

Your father’s words play in your head. Everything he said makes you wish you were born to a commoner. That would’ve been a better life than this.

The door creaks open, hitting the wall. A large shadow steps in, clutching their side. You sit up, holding the sheets to your chest.

“Ghost?”

“Sorry…your Highness…” he rasps, shutting and locking the door, leaning against it.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, getting out of bed and slipping into your slippers.

“Nothing…please…return to your bed…your Highness…” he’s practically panting.

“Ghost, you’re clearly not okay,” you reach him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He stiffens. “What did they do to you?”

“Standard…punishment…” he leans on you.

“Oh, oh,” you balance him, trying to help him over to your bed. “Whats the standard punishment?”

“You don’t know…?” he looks up at you, as you sling one of his arms over your shoulders.

“No,” you help him to sit on your bed.

“A whipping…your Highness…I really shouldn’t be on here…” he tries to protest.

“Forget your duties, you’re hurt…” you lift up the back of his armour to reveal 5 different large slashes down his back, all bleeding. “Oh god…”

“Princess…you shouldn’t see that…” he whimpers.

“Ghost, you need help. This…needs to be looked at! By a doctor!” You exclaim.

“Not allowed,” he looks up at you. “Knights are to remain brave.”

“Let me take care of you then!” You blurt without thinking.

“Princess-” you cut him off.

“I can help you. It’s my fault this happened anyways,” you unclasp his armour. He lets you take it off until he stands before you in just his tights that go beneath his armour. “Lay down?”

“Princess, please, you’re royalty. You shouldn’t be doing this-” you clasp a hand over his mouth.

“Royalty or not, I’m a good person. I’m not going to sit here and let you bleed out in pain,” you grab a rag and wet it. You walk back over to Ghost, sitting next to him. “This is going to sting…”

To think, just a few days ago, this man was sent in to guard you. And he just took a beating for you. For something that wasn’t his fault at all. You forced him to accompany you.

And he really isn’t that bad after all. He’s actually…polite? Respectful?

All the things you expected him not to be.

You begin running the rag over each of the lashes, as he stays silent. You can tell he’s holding it all in, his hand clutching the sheets tighter. Slowly, you clean the blood off of him.

“Ghost,” you say, still wiping him off. He hums in response. “I know a lemon and herbal rub that might be able to help with this. If I order lemons tomorrow and get herbs from our garden outside, will you let me use it on you?”

“Yes, Princess, I will,” he nods, turning over to face you. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” you smile. “You’re welcome to sleep on here. You need the rest.”

“No no…knights aren’t allowed on beds of royalty…” he tries to sit up.

You push him back down. “Don’t you dare play that card on me. You need the rest. And I’m more than happy to let you sleep on a perfectly good bed.”

“Princess…” he looks up at you. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” you softly smile, laying down on the other side of the bed. “Goodnight, Ghost.”

“Goodnight Princess.”

And that night, you slept with your knight in your bed. For the first time.

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simonrileysfavteacup · 1 month ago

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you get insecure looking at your belly bump in mirror.

warnings 𓏵 tooth-rotting fluff | pregnancy | body image insecurities | slight alcohol mention | soft!simon.

sticky notes 𓏵 me and vee @amordixon are whores for soft simon. so thank her for this little drabble i wrote just now <3

you’ree standing in front of the bedroom mirror in just your underwear and one of simon’s old worn out shirts, hands gently cradling the small bump that’s started to show. fifteen weeks. fifteen weeks of growing this little life inside you, and while part of you is over the moon, another part can’t help but frown at your own reflection.

everything feels different. your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore — you’re bloated all the time, your jeans don’t fit right, and you swear your face looks puffy. you turn to the side, smoothing the shirt down over your belly, trying to see yourself the way simon does. he’s been nothing but excited, telling anyone who’ll listen that he’s going to be a dad, but you just feel... bleh.

you’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t hear the front door open, don’t hear his boots on the stairs. it’s only when strong arms wrap around you from behind that you realize he’s home, the smell of beer and cold night air clinging to him.

“what’s wrong, love?” his voice is soft against your ear, concern immediate. even slightly tipsy from his night out, he can read you like a book. his large hands come to rest over yours on your belly. “why’re you frowning at my girls?”

“how do you know it’s a girl?” you deflect, but he’s not having it.

“answer the question,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “what’s got you looking so sad? thought you’d be asleep by now.”

you lean back into his warmth with a sigh. “i just... i feel so bloated and weird. nothing fits right anymore and i look...” you gesture vaguely at your reflection.

“…beautiful,” he finishes firmly. “you look beautiful.” his hands slide under your shirt to touch your belly directly, and you can feel him smile against your neck. “fuckin’ gorgeous, carryin’ my baby.”

“si...”

“no, listen,” he turns you gently to face him, cupping your face in his hands. his eyes are intense but soft, that look he only gives you. “you have no idea what it does to me, seeing you like this. knowing there’s a little one growing in there. our baby.” his voice drops, thick with emotion and accent. “my baby. your baby. ours.”

he drops to his knees suddenly, pushing your shirt up to expose your bump. “still can’t believe it sometimes,”he murmurs, pressing kisses all over your belly. “that you’re giving me this. a family. never thought i’d ...” he trails off, resting his forehead against your skin.

“baby,” you whisper, fingers threading through his hair.

“you’re perfect,” he says against your belly, then looks up at you. “every change, every curve, every bloody thing. means our little one is growing strong. means you’re doing the most amazing thing.” he presses another kiss just above your navel. “my brave girl. my beautiful, perfect girl.”

“you’re drunk,” you laugh wetly, tears pricking your eyes.

“m’not,” he protests, standing back up to pull you close. “just happy. lads kept buying rounds, celebrating.” his hands frame your bump between you. “gonna be a dad. still doesn’t feel real.”

“very real,” you assure him, covering his hands with yours. “especially when i’m throwing up every morning.”

“and you’re still the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen," he says simply, like it’s just fact. “even when you’re green and cursing my name.” he grins when you smack his chest lightly. “what? s’true. loved you before, but this? seeing you grow our baby? fuck, love, i didn’t know i could feel like this.”

“you’re going to make me cry,” you warn, but youmre smiling now.

“happy tears?” he checks, thumbing at your cheek. when you nod, he kisses you softly. “good. only want happy tears from my girls.”

“we still don’t know if it’s a girl,” you remind him, but you’re melting into his embrace.

“know you’re my girl," he says simply. “thas’ enough for now.” he yawns suddenly, the night catching up. “c’mon now, let’s get to bed. want to hold you both.”

as he leads you to bed, hand protective over your bump, you catch sight of your reflection again. somehow, wrapped in simon’s arms, you don’t feel so bleh anymore. you just feel loved. completely, overwhelmingly loved.

“simon?” you whisper once you’re settled against his chest.

“yeah, love?“

“i’m really happy about the baby too.”

his arms tighten around you, one hand splayed possessively over your bump. “good,” he murmurs into your hair. “gonna be the best mum. already are.”

and wrapped in his warmth, feeling your baby safe between you, you actually believe him.

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simonrileysfavteacup · 1 month ago

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My Knight In Shining Armour

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

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simonrileysfavteacup · 1 month ago

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My Knight In Shining Armour Chapter 5

Pairing: Knight!ghost x Princess!reader

Word Count: 700

Warnings: None! (yet...)

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long! Finals kicked my ass!

The two of you climb back into the castle the way you left. He waits for you to climb up, watching you closely, even after you told him ‘he’d better not glance up your skirt’. He climbs up behind you as you enter back into your room.

“What a successful day, huh?” you smile, sitting on the edge of your bed.

“Yes, Princess,” he says, climbing into your room with a grunt.

“Thank you…for everything you did today…” You look up.

“It is my duty, Princess,” he responds with no emotion in his voice.

“Yeah…your duty…” You shrug, the words putting a weird feeling in your stomach. After all, he was just your Knight. Not a friend.

You reach up to loosen your bun, letting your hair fall against your back. You run your fingers through it once to get rid of the tangles.

Just as you were about to head into your bathroom, a knock on the door stops you.

“Your Highness?” Aria, your maiden. “Are you in there?”

“Yes?” You call back.

“His Majesty has summoned you to the throne room,” she responds.

“Alright, I’ll be right there,” you furrow your brows. “Ghost?”

“Yes, Princess?” he looks up.

You nod towards the door. He opens it for you, following you to the throne room.

You walk in front of him, your train trailing behind you.

You make it to the throne room, entering and curtsying in front of your father, who sits on his throne. Your mother stands behind him, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes avoiding yours.

“Your Majesty,” you greet.

“You went to the market today,” he says, firmly. Not a question, a fact.

“I…father-“ he cuts you off.

“I strictly advised you not to. And you went. And got into a scandal, nonetheless!” he lectures.

“I didn’t get into a scandal-“

“The people are whispering! Saying you stole a bracelet!”

“That’s not true! A merchant stole mine!”

“Oh really? And what did you do?”

“I…I argued with him to get it back…”

“So you caused a scandal! Do you even begin to understand how bad this looks? First, the Princess is out and about, shopping with peasants! Then she causes a scandal with a merchant over a bracelet! God, sometimes I wish I had a son.”

There it was. There was nothing more your father ever wanted than a proper heir to the throne. The opposite of you.

The heir had to be a man. There could be no Queen without a King; that was the law. You had to marry to become Queen.

Suitor after suitor had come to see you, but they were always horribly arrogant and only saw you for your body. Your father also never approved of them; he always thought that they either weren’t rich enough or didn’t have enough respect to be a King.

You dread the day you get married. The day you become as unhappy as you’ve seen your mother your whole life.

“I…I apologize for this mistake, Your Majesty…but I didn’t cause a scandal…ask Ghost!” You look behind you at him.

His head is hung low, his eyes avoiding yours. Or the King’s.

“Ghost,” your father’s voice booms through the throne room.

He looks up, fixing his posture and standing straight. “Your Majesty.”

“How could you let this happen? How could you be so incredibly irresponsible?” The King shakes his head. “You may head downstairs to receive your punishment.”

“Father, it wasn’t his fault-” you get cut off.

“Nonsense. He was given strict orders. He will serve the punishment,” he nods to the other guards in the room, who follow Ghost out of the room.

Ghost leaves with no protests, not even a look in your direction.

You look back at your father. “This isn’t fair.”

“Life isn’t fair,” he says. “Back to your quarters. You will not leave until tomorrow’s supper. Is that clear?”

Almost like he’s teasing you. “Yes, your Majesty.”

“You may not break your fast or have lunch. You will wait until supper.”

With that, you were guided back to your bedroom, where you laid in bed, wondering what hell you caused in your last life to be where you are right now.

Series Masterlist

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simonrileysfavteacup · 3 months ago

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chucky killing me softly with that stare.. ngl that nod then that mouthguard biting is doing smth for me

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simonrileysfavteacup · 3 months ago

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My Knight In Shining Armour Chapter 4

Pairing: Knight!ghost x Princess!reader

Word Count: 2.1K

Warnings: None! (yet...)

The market was peaceful today. Not too much ruckus, but that loud noise that you heard from the castle windows still buzzed. Oh, how you loved this noise.

People shopped, not noticing you as you walked behind the knight in his armour. Ghost led you through the crowded area, his eyes searching for threats.

“Ghost,” you stop him with a hand on his arm.

He looks back at you, acknowledging you with a grunt. You point to a stand. He shakes his head, taking your wrist in his gloved hand to guide you away, but you stand your ground.

“I want to visit it.”

In his eyes, you are a child, whining. A toddler throwing a tantrum over a candy they didn’t get to buy.

He rolls his eyes with a grunt, letting your wrist go as you bubble over to the merchant.

You greet them, reaching to pick up a sphere. “What a wonderful trinket!”

You set it down, feeling Ghost’s presence behind you.

Ghost’s eyes followed your every move, his eyes flicking for just a moment to any movement before coming back to you, checking you over to make sure nothing was wrong.

“Don’t touch that,” he scolds. You glance back at Ghost and laugh, pulling your hand away from a supposed cursed ball. The poorly aged merchant glares at Ghost but he only stood squarely, glaring back at him. “Come, Princess.”

“But that trinket would look wonderful next to my bedside!” You protest, trying to reach for it again.

“It’s cursed,” Ghost informs you, taking a step closer to you as another person brushed past you. You frown, but let the ball go anyway and turned to walk away from the stall.

Ghost sighs, a hand out against the small of your back the moment you brushed past him. He was there to keep you safe, not have you touch every old relic you could find in the market.

“Honestly, I don’t understand your fascination with stupid things,” he scoffs.

“How did you know it was cursed?” you ask as he leads you away from the stall.

Ghost rolls his eyes, his hand still pressed against the small of your back to keep you close as you walk, “Because it’s a common scam, Princess. They put a curse on it and sell it for ten times the price. You can tell by the way the sun hits it, the little glint on the side? It’s red. They use it to curse you so that you come back to them to buy a cure for even more of that price. Don’t fall for it.”

Ghost keeps his gaze forward, scanning the area for any possible threat, his hand against your back, feeling as you lean into his touch just a little bit.

Just a little.

“Oh…I didn’t know magic still worked out here! It’s been a while since we’ve had any by the castle, you know? Our sorcerer is on some new trip in the winter biomes by-“ you ramble, before he cuts you off.

“Princess, these people out here have much more access to magic than you think. These merchants, salesmen, they use their magic for the worse. You be glad that I’ve been through these markets more times than I can count or you’d have a third arm right about now,” Ghost let out an exasperated sigh. It was clear he wasn’t particularly interested in knowing about your court’s sorcerers, but he couldn’t tell you to stop talking.

You look down, suddenly feeling less than. You toy with your wrist, before looking down and realizing that you had lost your bracelet. “Oh no! Ghost?”

He turns to you, humming, “Hm?”

“I think I left my bracelet at the stand…” you glance back at the stall, still holding your bare wrist. People continue to walk around you, little murmurs escaping their lips as they recognize you.

“Are you-“ Ghost starts, turning around to look at you in disbelief, but you were already headed back to the stand. “Don’t-“

Ghost sighs and hurries after you, grabbing your wrist as he catches up with you before you could get too close to the stand. “You’re not going back there.”

“But that is my mothers bracelet!” You and your mother were not particularly close, but she had given that bracelet to you 2 years ago on your 18th birthday. It was gorgeous, gold and engraved with diamonds. The bracelet was from her side of the family, rather than your fathers, so it had no royal attachment. Just the love she claimed to have for you.

Ghost sighs, his grip loosening as you looked at him with those big, soft eyes, and he swore your lip was pouting as you stare up at him. God, it made it hard to say no to you. And it always worked on everyone you tried it on.

“Fine,” Ghost says, the word coming out a mere groan, barely heard by you, and he lets go of your wrist. “But I’m coming with you.”

“Thank you,” you smile softly.

Ghost grumbles, glaring at the stand, “Just… try not to touch the cursed relic this time.”

“Maybe,” you smirk, teasing.

Ghost was about to scold you, but all that came out of his mouth was another exasperated sigh. He was getting soft with you, and that was not apart of his duty. He was your knight. No, your bodyguard.

You walk back to the merchant. He follows close behind. You both stop at the merchant, your gaze flicking to the items you’d previously looked at. You glance at the merchant, “Hi! I was just here moments ago. I may have left my bracelet here?”

The merchant looks up at you, his old, nearly blind eyes scanning you up and down before nodding. “Ah, yes.”

He bends down to pick something up from behind the counter, pulling out the bracelet you had on from before and holds it in his hand. “I’ll give it back to you for thirty gold.”

“Pardon me?” Was he trying to sell your own bracelet back to you?”

The merchant holds the bracelet in his hands, a smirk on his face as he looks at you. “Thirty gold,” he repeats. “It’s a special item, it seems? Shouldn’t it be worth it?”

“I will not pay you to get my own bracelet back!” You scoff. “Do not make me a fool and do not make a mockery of me!”

The merchant lets out a small laugh, eyeing you up and down for a moment before holding the bracelet in his hand, a smirk on his face. “It’s my shop, you left this here, it’s now my treasure to sell.”

Ghost’s annoyance only grew as he watches the exchange. He knew this was a scam, and he didn’t like the way this merchant was toying with you. He steps forward, putting himself between the merchant and you, “Give her the bracelet back. Now.”

The old merchant looks up at Ghost, the tall man towering over him, scoffing at his interruption. “And who do you think you are?”

Ghost’s gaze meets the merchant’s without flinching, a hardened look in his eye, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “I said, give her back the bracelet.” He says again, his voice leaving no room for argument.

“Ghost-“ you try to intervene, but he stands in front of you, not letting you enter the conversation.

The merchant’s gaze flicks down to Ghost’s sword in it’s sheath, then back up to his face, his expression growing a bit more cautious. He knew he was in the wrong, but he was stubborn. “Or what?”

Ghost’s hand tightens on the hilt of his sword, ready to pull it out at any moment. He takes a step forward, looming over the merchant with a cool gaze. “Or I make you give it back,” he said simply. “And I assure you, you won’t like how I make you do it.”

You gulp, standing behind Ghost’s armour, the crowd of people at the market beginning to look over at the scene.

The merchant’s arrogance waivers for a moment, but he was determined to stand his ground. “Thirty three gold-“

Ghost cut him off, his temper only getting worse. “Give her the damn bracelet back.”

You gasp at his filthy mouth. “Ghost, you mustn’t-“

“Princess,” he warns, turning his head to give you a look that tells you to stay out of it.

The look in hsi eyes just tells you to stay silent, even though you have much to protest.

The merchant hesitates for a moment, he knew he was in trouble. But he was stubborn, trying his best not to show his fear. He holds the bracelet for a moment longer, then lets out a scoff and finally, reluctantly, hands it to you.

Ghost’s gaze flicks to you for a moment, making sure you had it before looking back at the merchant. “That’s what I thought.”

You hold the bracelet in your hand for a moment, before raising your gaze to the merchant. “Good day.”

Ghost catches your wrist in his grip, guiding you away from the market and from the crowd that had been watching you.

You still hold the bracelet in your fist, glancing up at him as he stands before you, the market behind your back. You hold out the bracelet to him.

He raises his eyebrow.

“Put it on for me? I struggle with it,” you explain.

He nods, grabbing the bracelet from you and taking your wrist in his hand again, much gentler.

It takes him merely 10 seconds to get the bracelet back on you.

He drops your wrist after you’re done. “Where to now, Princess?”

“The modiste. I want to pick out a dress,” you smile. He sighs, letting you lead the way to the modiste.

As you enter her boutique, you smile at her. She calls out to you. “My darling princess!”

You laugh, holding out your arms to hug her. She hugs you tight. “Hello, mademoiselle.”

“How have you been, Princess? Have you fallen ill, that you are out of the castle?” she presses the back of her hand to your forehead.

“No no, mademoiselle. I just needed some time outside the castle. But you can not tell anyone that I was here!” you bite your bottom lip.

“Of course not! Now, Princess, what are you looking for?” she guides you to the racks of fabrics and dresses.

You chat with her for about 5 minutes before she brings you a lace-adorned blue gown. You head behind a curtain to change.

The dress fits almost perfectly around your curves. It pushes up your breasts so that your cleavage is on full display for wandering eyes to see. You smile, reaching behind you to tighten the corset. You struggle, even turning in the mirror to see your back.

But the stupid two pieces of string won’t come within your reach. “Mademoiselle!”

No response.

Where did she go?

“Mademoiselle!” you call out again.

“She went down to her basement to get you more fabrics, Princess,” Ghost responds.

“Oh, I wasn’t aware,” you sigh, turning in the mirror. “Come here for a second?”

He grunts in response, walking over to you behind the curtain. “Yes, Princess?”

He keeps his eyes up, you notice. How respectful?

Kind of.

“Will you lace up my corset?” you turn so that your back is to him, pointing to the corset.

“Princess…” he hesitates, but grabs the pieces of string anyway.

His fingers wrap around the strings, tightening the corset gently. The warmth of his hands grazes your back, making you close your eyes to revel in the warmth. He takes the string throat each of the holes over your back, bringing the dress tighter and tighter over your body, pushing up your cleavage even more.

“A bit tighter,” you say, before he ties the final knot.

“Is that alright, Princess?” he meets your eyes in the mirror.

You notice how blue his eyes look in the lighting of the boutique, how perfect he looks behind you in that dress, how his hand hovers over your waist.

You get lost in his eyes for a moment, before he clears his throat. “Princess?”

“Yes! Yes, it’s perfect,” it takes all your energy not to say ‘you’re’ instead of ‘it’s’. “How does it look?”

“Perfect, princess,” he takes a step back. “Will you get it?”

“Yes, it’s as if it was made just for me, isn’t it?” you smile, tracing your curves.

He nods, moving back to the other side of the curtain.

But on the inside, he’s so glad that his balaclava and helmet cover the tomato-colour hue sheathing his face.

Series Masterlist

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simonrileysfavteacup · 3 months ago

Text

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 ‘𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭’ 𝐑𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 ༒

tags- fluff, a wee bit of suggestive detail

𝐀𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 | 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 ’𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭’ 𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

morning life with simon

• waking up to this man every morning is something out of a fantasy. his groggy morning voice, messy hair, and the scratches down his muscular back you left the night before…

• you lay in bed, watching as he stretches his limbs out before he rounds the corner of the bed frame. his feet pad over to where you’re laying, his large form leaning down as he presses a soft kiss to your lips.

• nonstop grumbling from the man as he gets changed and ready for work, pouting about how he must leave you (for 8 hours i might add)

• he cant take his lips off yours as he’s about to walk out the door, on of his arms wrapped around your waist as his lips consume yours.

in the kitchen with simon

• i strongly believe this man can at least cook an edible meal, baking on the other hand…

• has gotten salmonella from eating a bunch of cookie batter (the entire mixing bowl)

•loves just watching you move through the kitchen with such grace. no matter what you’re doing, wether it’s just grabbing a cup of water, he’s just staring at you

cuddling with simon

• he will literally try to stuff himself in your shirt.

•shoves his head up the bottom hem of your shirt to lay on your chest as he wraps around you like a massive hug.

•absolutely melts into you when cuddling (he’s seriously touch deprived. please touch him)

texting with simon

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simonrileysfavteacup · 3 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 ]

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 ]

✘ SEQUEL : ' IN CONTEMPT '

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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