#⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ㅤ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sillyswriting · 19 hours ago

Text

: ̗̀➛ Doomsday's luckiest

ㅤ ₊✩ˎˊ˗ zombie apocalypse simon 'ghost' riley x reader

03 : tonight you belong to me

cw : smut, slight dubcon undressing, panic attack, dead bodies, undead creatures, chubby reader. words : 7.7k

ㅤ collection - prev ⋆ next

Manchester was long gone.

It had been nearly a week since you arrived in Doncaster. The journey had taken you nine hours—seven more than it should have. The roads were a disaster. Simon had done everything he could to avoid Sheffield, afraid it would turn into another Manchester.

He’d grown wary of people. He didn’t trust anyone anymore.

For hours, you had passed desperate figures on the roadside, screaming for you to stop, shouting that you were killing them as Simon pressed harder on the gas. You had begged him to slow down, to at least hear them out. But he always said the same thing.

“No.”

It had been a really hard journey for the both of you. Simon was on the edge, always looking for danger, always ready to move to action.

You had asked him if you could stop by your own apartment, it wasn’t far from Manchester at all, but again, he had refused. He said it was too close to the city, that those monsters would be drawn to the explosions from kilometres away.

It was for your own sake, he’d told you.

Now you sat on the counter of a pharmacy, waiting for Simon to finish his sweep. He was making sure you had everything you might need for whatever journey he was taking you on : various pills, bandages, antiseptics, plasters, anything useful he would take. He’d found an empty backpack and was packing it to the brim.

You weren’t sure how he planned to carry it when the car inevitably broke down, but you didn’t doubt his strength. If he said he could manage, you weren’t going to question it.

He had sat you up on the counter once he had secured the place, locked the door and told you to sit pretty while he went on his little tour. You were still unsure about his behaviour toward others, but you couldn't do much about it. He was the only reason you were still alive, if he gave up on you, you were dead in no time.

It didn’t help that, when night fell, the former military man treated you like you were the last fragile thing left in the world. He made sure you ate, wrapped you in warm clothes, and let you rest with your head in his lap while he stayed alert in the dark. His hand would sometimes rest on your shoulder, heavy, possessive, just enough to remind you he was there.

You’d offered to keep watch so he could sleep, but he always refused. Said you needed the rest more. Said he’d learned a long time ago how to get by on almost no sleep. You weren’t sure if that was something to be proud of or something that had broken him.

Not that he could really switch off, even if he tried. Whatever was out there had dragged his mind back into soldier mode. He was all edges now : listening for footsteps that weren’t there, scanning shadows for movement, every muscle coiled tight. Even when his eyes closed for a second, he’d wake at the faintest shift of your weight, like the world outside was waiting for him to relax just once so it could take everything.

It was hard to understand the depth of Simon’s concern for you. You’d barely known each other, yet his attention was constant, unyielding.

He put your needs before his own, though you suspected he didn’t had any. The military had taught him to strip them away, replacing softness with discipline, emotion with control. The man you’d met in that bar was still there—confident, blunt, even capable of a certain rough gentleness—but something had shifted.

Something had darkened.

It was in the way his eyes tracked every shadow. In the way he always stood between you and the open space. His care felt less like kindness and more like possession, as if he were guarding something that belonged to him. Almost like a predator watching over its prey, not out of compassion. More because it wanted to make sure nothing else touched it before the moment it chose to kill.

Kicking your feet idly, you let your gaze wander around the place, lost in thought. The dynamic between you felt strange, but the idea of leaving him never truly crossed your mind. Something about him made it impossible to walk away, even in the case where you wouldn't doubt your ability to survive on your own.

Even if the world hadn’t ended that night, you knew you would have been obsessed with him all the same. He would have lodged himself under your skin, impossible to shake loose. The only difference now was that you weren’t just drawn to him, you relied on him. And in this new world, dependence felt a lot like surrender.

A sharp whistle pulled you out of your thoughts, followed by his deep voice. “Come here,” he said, tilting his head toward you.

You hopped down from the counter and approached, ready to leave, but he had other plans. Without a word, he turned back into the pharmacy, moving down the aisles with the quiet confidence of someone who always knew where he was going. You frowned and fell into step behind him.

“Take what you need,” he said, stopping and leaning casually against a shelf.

You glanced at the items in front of you : pads, tampons, menstrual cups, menstrual underwear. Oh. It clicked now, why he’d called you over to this particular section.

When you looked back at him, you found his eyes on you, hard, but not unkind. Gentle, in their way, though unflinchingly intense. They didn’t waver, not once. It was the same look he’d given you that night at the bar, like he was trying to read every layer of you at once.

“Come on,” he cooed, “don’t have all day.”

That got you moving. You reached for the pads first, then hesitated, wondering what would be the most practical in the end of the world. In the end, you took a little of everything, packs of pads and tampons, a menstrual cup you weren’t sure you’d ever have the courage to try, and about ten pairs of menstrual underwear.

Simon didn’t comment on the amount. He didn’t complain. He simply let you take whatever you wanted, carefully arranging each item in the backpack until everything fit in perfect order.

“Need anything else, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Hum…” You hesitated, unsure if you should say it. But one raised eyebrow from him was all it took. “Condoms?”

He let out a low, mocking laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest, before zipping the bag closed. “Already took care of that, love.”

You nodded at his words and fell in step behind him when he started moving again. When he passed you, his hand came down on your hip, soft at first, patting, then lingered, gripping it with a brief, possessive squeeze before letting go and heading for the door.

It wasn’t like you had had sex again since that night. Even back at the military base, Simon was always gone or too exhausted for anything beyond the barest affection. You’d lived like a couple in fragments, cuddling into sleep, stolen kisses here and there, but nothing more.

And now, on the road, there was neither time nor want for intimacy. Yet in that small, deliberate grip, something unspoken lingered, something raw, tangled between need and restraint.

After loading the bag into the trunk and double-checking the doors were locked, Simon started driving back toward the main road. He didn’t want to linger in cities longer than necessary—only when absolutely required.

“Where are you from again? Whaley Bridge, right?” he asked, easing the car out of Doncaster.

“Yeah, why?” you glanced at him from the side.

He sighed, clearly reluctant. “We need to stay low for a while. Price mentioned a huge thunderstorm heading north fast this morning.” He always checked in with his team when you slept, staying updated on the situation down south. “You said it’s a quiet town, small population?”

“Yeah…” you replied. “But it’s close to Manchester. I thought you didn’t want to go back there?” You frowned.

“I don’t,” Simon said flatly. “But you need some clothes that fit you, and the comfort of your own home might do you good.”

After a few minutes of silence, you glanced back at him.

“How long?” you broke the silence.

“Hmm?”

“How long do you want to stay there?” you asked.

“A couple of days, until the rain stops. Then we head back to Birmingham. Hopefully before winter,” he said, though he knew the chances were slim.

“And if we don’t make it before winter?” you asked back quickly.

“I’ll figure it out then,” he replied dryly, not wanting to burden you with the worst-case scenarios. “Don’t worry about this, kitten.” He shot you a quick smile before taking the Manchester exit.

You didn’t know how long the drive from Doncaster to your house would take, but you hoped it would be quick. Heavy, dark clouds stretched across the sky, casting long shadows that only made your anxiety climb higher.

You’d never liked thunderstorms, and after everything in Manchester, you weren’t sure how well you’d handle the roar of thunder now. One thing was certain, you didn’t want to be stranded on the side of the road if the storm hit while you were out there.

Almost as if he’d studied the route, Simon drove toward your home like he already knew the way. You’d grown used to catching him poring over maps lately, but you hadn’t thought it was to find his way back to your place. The way his mind worked should have scared you.

He did it all in silence, leaving you out of the decisions, keeping his thoughts to himself. Always remembering. Always watching. He’d told you, that first night at the Manchester base, how he’d been programmed this way : trained to notice details, to memorize maps and roads so he would never be lost. And that was exactly how he was now.

Terrifying, and yet… fascinating.

After a few minutes of silence, you felt the urge to speak, if only to cut through the heavy, unbroken quiet he never seemed to mind.

“Isn’t this… I mean…” You hesitated, fumbling for the right words. “Doesn’t this set us back on the way to Birmingham?”

“No,” he said simply, without even glancing at you. No explanation. No room for follow-up.

You looked at him, waiting. The seconds stretched. Nothing. Just his profile lit in the dim, shifting light, jaw set, eyes locked on the road like they could cut through the storm clouds ahead.

That was how he was, answers stripped down to the bone, leaving you to fill in the rest. Sometimes you wondered if it was a habit from the military, or if he just didn’t trust you with the whole truth. Either way, the silence pressed heavier now, his presence filling the small space more than any conversation could.

You were about to answer back, but instead you sighed, surrendering to the silence of the car.

Outside, the sky was darkening fast, clouds swollen with rain, thunder rolling in sooner than expected. You fixed your eyes on the passing road signs, trying to figure out how close you were to Whaley Bridge.

As you neared Manchester, the devastation became impossible to ignore. The lane leading out of the city was a graveyard, cars crushed into each other, windshields caved in, shards of glass scattered across the road like cruel confetti. And bodies.

So many bodies.

Your brow furrowed as you tried to make sense of it : men, women, children, burned and broken, their limbs twisted in unnatural angles. A few meters ahead, even army tanks lay abandoned, their crews sprawled lifeless beside them, uniforms torn.

Then, at the sound of the car, some of those soldiers opened their eyes.

It wasn’t a slow, natural flutter, it was sharp, wrong, like a switch being flipped. Their gaze snapped to you, glassy yet aware, the dull grey of death staring straight into you. You could see the neat, blackened hole in the side of each skull, ringed with dried blood, the unmistakable mark of a bullet. Yet they moved.

Your stomach turned cold.

“Simon…” you whispered, the fear in your voice unmistakable.

The former lieutenant flicked his gaze toward you, then back to the road, then to the soldiers who were now standing. You could see it in his eyes, the silent maths he was doing. Calculating their speed. Yours. The stretch of open road ahead. Every possible outcome measured in seconds.

One of the bodies twitched unnaturally, head lolling before it snapped upright, eyes fixed on the car. Another took a step forward, slow at first, then faster, the jerky movements making your chest tighten.

Simon’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Hold on.”

The engine roared as he pressed harder on the accelerator, the car jolting forward. In the rearview mirror, you caught a glimpse of them breaking into a run, bullet wounds and broken bones be damned. The sound of their feet hitting the pavement carried faintly through the closed windows, swallowed almost instantly by the rising growl of the approaching storm.

“Don’t look,” he ordered, his voice low but firm, catching your jaw in one hand and guiding your face toward the road ahead. The pressure was gentle, but there was no mistaking the authority behind it.

A few cars were abandoned on your side of the road, crumpled and empty, but Simon steered around them without hesitation. Every movement was precise, deliberate, almost too smooth, as if he’d driven through scenes like this before.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror now and then, sharp and calculating, but never for long. No panic. No wasted motion. Just quiet, controlled efficiency. It was reassuring… and yet, in a way, unnerving.

He handled the chaos outside like it was nothing new. Like it was muscle memory.

Breathing heavily, you kept your eyes on the side of his face. He was the same as he’d been since the day you met him : cold, closed off, focused. Somehow, that steadiness eased your heartbeat, even when your gaze flicked to the rearview mirror and caught sight of them, far, but closing fast.

“What did I say?” he snapped, his hand finding your jaw again, turning your head firmly back toward the road ahead.

Not daring to look back, your eyes settled on the road ahead, straight into the heart of the thunderstorm the “Price” man had warned about. The faster Simon drove, the darker the sky grew, and the heavier the air felt around you.

It was almost as if God was mocking you.

A heavy thud echoed through the building as Simon kicked your front door open.

You were both soaked to the bone, rain hammering against the side of the building while the roar of thunder crept closer and closer. It made your skin prickle, but the familiarity of your home settled your nerves, if only a little.

Driving through town had brought tears to your eyes. You’d recognized some of the bodies by the roadside, people who’d been a part of your life. The old florist who always slipped you an extra flower. The sweet old man who’d ask you to walk his dog when he felt too tired. People you had liked.

You’d barely had time to process the sight before Simon had moved. His hand gripping a knife, the blade flashing once before sinking deep into their skulls. The sound, wet and final, made you flinch and let out a strangled scream. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t explain, just pulled the blade free and moved on, leaving their bodies still at last.

It was only afterwards that he spoke, voice flat and certain: it was the only way to kill them for good. The first death didn’t matter, they always came back. You only wished he had told you before so you could have shield yourself from the sight. It almost was as if he had wanted you to see him.

Wanted you to see how far he could go.

What unsettled you most wasn’t the explanation, but how easily he did it. Each motion had been precise, practised, as if this was second nature. In that moment, you saw the man he’d described in the bar, someone far darker than the one you thought you’d met. It was terrifying… and, in a way you couldn’t quite understand, comforting. He was doing it for you. To protect you.

You felt his hand on the small of your back, guiding, pushing, you into the flat. The flat made you a little uneasy.

The air inside was stale, musty, like it hadn’t been aired out in months, which, of course, it hadn’t. Still, the sight of everything exactly where you’d left it eased something in you. The town had been small enough that no one had bothered breaking in to take what they could.

It was strange, but comforting, to know that all your belongings were still here, untouched, waiting for you, as if the world outside hadn’t fallen apart.

As you wandered further inside, a heavy scraping sound made you jump.

You turned to see Simon shoving the tall cabinet from your entry hall across the floor, wedging it firmly against the door. Kicking it open earlier had already broken the locks and bolts, not that they would have been much use anyway.

With the cabinet in place, and the storm closing in outside, Simon was clearly hoping he could relax enough tonight to finally get a full night’s sleep.

He let all the bags drop by the front door and pulled his pack of cigarettes out of one of them. Even without him saying a word, you could see the exhaustion settling into his frame, shoulders low, steps slower. Maybe that was why he’d wanted to come here, to somewhere he was almost certain was safe.

And he’d been right. Your place was exactly the way you’d left it that night.

Making your way to the kitchen, you gagged the moment the smell hit you, thick, sour, rotting. You turned on your heel, ready to shut the door, but Simon’s hand caught it before you could.

“Gotta get rid of anything expired…” he muttered, voice low. Tired, yes, but still moving with that deliberate, unshakable purpose you’d come to expect from him.

The stench rolled over you again, and you gagged harder. You’d always been particular about things like that, mold on fruit, spoiled food, anything that smelled wrong. It made your skin crawl.

“Go sit down. Do something else,” he said, a hint of command in his sigh. “I’ll handle this.”

It wasn’t just an offer, it was a quiet dismissal, the same way he handled anything he didn’t trust you to deal with. In his world, he was the one who decided what you faced, and what you didn’t.

He gave you a gentle push before closing the door. You knew you had some food that was still good, some canned things but all your fruits, vegetables and everything in your fridge was gone.

Not forcing him to let you help, you turned toward your bedroom—opening all the windows as you passed—pulling out another bag and filling it with clothes and a few personal items. Simon had said you’d be here for a couple of days, but you knew better than to trust plans in this world. Better to pack now, just in case.

About ten minutes later, a loud splash echoed from outside. You froze. Heart kicking up, you rushed to the window, scanning the street for movement. Were there still people alive in town? Or worse… had the undead monsters found you?

Your gaze locked on a large trash bag, burst open and sprawled beneath your kitchen window.

Leaning out the open frame, you spotted Simon looking out the kitchen window, eyes sharp, gun in hand. He was still as a stone, watching, waiting for anything drawn to the noise.

Nothing came. And so his body disappeared back inside, letting the window open.

You thought you’d hear the kitchen door open as he came in to settle for the night, but no. The only thing that followed was silence. Then, a softer sound, and a deep exhale, curling low like the growl of distant thunder.

He was back at the window.

From where you stood, you could see him outlined against the storm, broad shoulders hunched slightly, the faint glow of his cigarette burning in the dark. Lightning flashed, etching every freckle and scar on his face in stark white for the briefest second. He looked almost unreal like that, danger wrapped in flesh.

The way he drew on the cigarette was deliberate, unhurried. Smoke drifted from his nose in slow streams, mingling with the rain-slick air, while the cigarette bobbed faintly between his lips. You couldn’t look away.

“Like the view, kitten?” he called, voice low but cutting clean through the storm. The smirk that followed was small, dangerous, and just for you, the cigarette hanging at a reckless angle as if it might tumble at any second.

Somehow, that simple sentence, mixed with the sight of him framed in the storm’s glow and the depth of his voice, sent a sharp, electric chill straight between your legs. This was the man you had met that dreadful night. The cocky, dominant man who had rocked your world without mercy.

You shook your head quickly. You shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not now. Not with the thunder creeping closer, each roll louder than the last. It was going to be a long night.

Turning back to your half-packed bag, your gaze drifted toward the bathroom door.

“Simon?” you called, raising your voice slightly. The apartment wasn’t big, but with the kitchen door closed, you weren’t sure he’d hear you.

Seconds later, the door swung open, and you almost laughed at yourself. Of course he’d hear you, he was trained for it. He didn’t speak, just tipped his chin toward you, eyes locking on yours.

“Do you think…” You glanced at the bathroom, then back at him. “The water’s still running?”

“Yes.” His answer came without hesitation, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Just gonna be cold as fuck, is all.”

On one hand, you were soaked and freezing from the relentless rain outside, and on the other, it had been days since you’d last had a proper shower. Clutching some clothes in your hand, you gathered your courage and moved toward the bathroom.

Pausing just before the door, you glanced back at Simon. He looked so out of place in your pastel coloured bedroom, surrounded by soft posters. He, by contrast, was all black—military gear, combat boots, and that hardened mercenary build. In his hands, the big emergency light you had stored in the kitchen supplies closet.

“Want to go first?” you asked softly, feeling like he deserved the chance to relax before you.

“Yeah.” He answered simply. He slipped off his boots, then brushed past you, his hand settling quickly on your hip with a familiar, almost casual pat.

It had become a habit of his.

You quickly handed him a towel before he shut the bathroom door, leaving you alone.

Just as you were about to resume packing, you noticed the rain had picked up, wind driving droplets inside and wetting the floor. Rushing from room to room to close the windows, you ended in the kitchen last. The air still carried a faint sourness, but the counters were now neatly lined with what was salvageable, some fruits, canned goods, even a few packets of dried meat, all grouped and organized by type.

Almost as if Simon had a streak of OCD. Not that you’d put it past him.

When you stepped back into the bedroom, Simon was emerging from the bathroom, a towel slung low around his hips. His shower had been quick, military habit, you guessed.

“You can go,” he said simply, disappearing into the main room.

Grabbing an oversized t-shirt from your closet along with underwear and a pair of fluffy pants, you made your way into the bathroom. It wouldn’t be a pleasant experience, cold water and all, but you longed for the feel of clean skin and fresh clothes.

Shedding your soaked layers, you left them in the sink next to Simon’s. As you twisted the faucet, you heard your closet doors creak open in the bedroom. You frowned, guessing Simon was hunting for something to wear. You’d always kept a few men’s pieces in there, your own comfort clothes.

Large men’s clothes were the comfiest.

Thinking nothing of it, you took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the shock of the cold water. You made it quick, washing your entire body, running shampoo through your hair, and rinsing fast.

Just as you were about to step out, your gaze fell on your razor. It was silly, you knew, there were far more important things to worry about than body hair, but the intrusive thought stuck. Out of habit more than anything, you gave in. You shaved your legs, your armpits, and tidied the overgrown hair between your legs, working quickly before the cold could seep too deep into your bones.

Once out, you wrapped a towel around your hair, drying your skin in fast, brisk motions before pulling on the clothes you’d brought. The oversized shirt and fluffy pants were warm enough, but your bare arms still prickled in the chill, a sweater would help.

You lingered in the bathroom a little longer, towel still twisted around your head. One by one, you uncapped your skincare bottles, sniffing each to see if they’d gone bad. Some were brand new, untouched. The motions felt almost normal, almost like you were back in a world where this was just another night in.

Once your skin felt hydrated and your hair was more or less dry, you switched off the emergency light and stepped out of the bathroom.

You hadn’t expected the sight that greeted you.

Simon had changed your sheets, fresh ones pulled tight over the mattress. The clean scent of linen hung in the air, sharp, crisp, strangely comforting. He was sprawled across the bed, under the covers, the occasional flash of lightning casting sharp lines across his bare chest and freckled face. A notebook lay open in front of him, one hand holding a pen while the other kept a map steady. He looked good, almost too good, and you wondered how he wasn’t freezing without a shirt.

"Thought new sheets would do you—" he began, eyes still on his work. The moment he looked up, he stopped mid-sentence. His gaze dragged over you once, slow and deliberate.

"Take your clothes off," he said bluntly, eyes already dropping back to the map. His pen kept moving, like the request was nothing unusual.

"What? Why?" you asked, caught between confusion and disbelief.

"Because it’ll be warmer that way," he explained in that same calm, matter-of-fact tone. "Clothes just trick you into thinking you’re warm. Body heat works faster."

Your eyes went wide, taking in the way his pale skin stood out under the brief flashes of lightning. "Are you naked?" you asked, bewildered.

"Yes," he replied simply, still not looking up. "Nothing I haven’t seen before, kitten." He shot you a quick side glance at your hesitation, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When you didn’t move, he added a curt, "Chop, chop," before turning back to his notebook, jotting down a few more notes.

After a few seconds and with deliberate slowness, he closed the notebook, setting it and the map on your bedside table. Both yours attention shifted to the window just as a loud crack of thunder split the air, making you jump. The wind howled, rattling the walls, each violent gust making the building groan in protest. Leaves, dust, and debris smacked against the glass, the storm’s fury unrelenting.

It was like no storm you’d ever witnessed, wild, alive, and unnerving. In that moment, you were glad you wouldn’t be sleeping alone tonight.

Another short whistle pulled your gaze from the window back to him. His eyes were locked on you, intense, unblinking, with just a hint of patronising amusement. "I’d like to have an early night, kitten, if you don’t mind."

You nodded softly and began stripping off only your pants, figuring your t-shirt and panties would be enough for the so-called “body heat” plan. Surely warmth would pass through them.

But that wouldn’t do for Simon.

The moment you slid under the covers beside him, he manhandled you into position, your back pressed firmly against his chest. Without a word, he pushed your shirt up, his hands brushing your breasts lightly before tugging the fabric over your head. Knowing you had plenty more tucked away in a drawer, he didn’t hesitate to tear your panties from your hips, pulling you flush against the heat of his semi-hard cock.

In an instant, his warmth enveloped you. You’d always known he ran hot, from that night in his bed, and all the others at the army base, but this felt different.

Better.

Maybe because you’d been freezing for hours, maybe because the heat rolling off him was such a welcome contrast to the storm raging outside. His slow breath fanned against your neck, the steady thump of his heart against your back lulling you toward sleep.

Just like that night at his flat, his bicep became your pillow, its solid weight grounding you. His other hand rested lightly on your stomach, kneading the soft flesh there for a brief moment before settling.

You could feel how relaxed his body was now, no trace of the tense soldier who kept watch while you slept, nor the stressed lieutenant from Manchester. This was the same man you’d ended up in bed with almost two months ago, on a reckless night out.

He had to be exhausted. Even a man used to short nights couldn’t outrun fatigue forever. The soft sound of his snoring told you everything you needed to know, and you finally let your own eyes drift shut.

A sharp clap of thunder tore you from sleep.

Your body tensed, confused by the surroundings, so familiar, yet distant enough to unsettle you. You were lying on your stomach, an unyielding weight pressed against your back. One large hand gripped your hip, the span of it reaching the curve of your arse, while messy hair tickled the back of your neck. The presence eased your panic, if only slightly.

Then another violent crack of lightning split the night, and your breathing quickened. The comfort of that weight was no match for the way your body was sinking back into panic.

Simon’s body, once comforting, now felt suffocating. His heat wrapped around you until you were overheating, trapped beneath both him and the sheets. Claustrophobia crept in, quick and merciless, feeding off the lingering fog of sleep.

Your mind flickered with unwanted images, civilians scattering under military fire, smoke thick in your throat, bodies pressed too close in the chaos. Each flashback made it harder to breathe. Another crack of thunder, louder than the last, rattled the walls and tightened the knot in your chest.

Wriggling beneath Simon’s weight was like trying to move under stone. He was heavy, heavier than you remembered, and for a surreal moment, you couldn’t believe this was the same man who used to wake at your smallest shift. His hand clamped harder on your hip, as if anchoring you in place. The arm beneath your head flexed, adjusting with your movements, his body moulding even closer to yours.

The storm roared outside, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears, and the quickening pace of your breath.

“Stop,” he mumbled into your back, his voice thick with sleep, words muffled against your skin.

You could hear the fatigue in him, bone-deep, unshakable, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was escaping the heat, the weight, the noise that seemed to press in from all sides.

You wriggled forward, almost free, when his arm shot out and dragged you back. In one motion, he rolled you onto your back, looming over you. His face was a mask of irritation, jaw tight, eyes hard, until he actually saw you.

The anger dissolved instantly.

Your chest was heaving, each breath catching on a sob you couldn’t swallow. Tears streamed down your cheeks in hot, unsteady lines, your hiccuping breaths sounding too loud in the small space between you. The panic had you in its grip, and you couldn’t even speak.

“Fucking hell,” Simon sighed.

He knew this. The rapid breaths, the glassy eyes, the way the body tried to bolt without thought, it was a panic attack. He’d seen them before. Lived them before. Grew up with them. They were an old, unwelcome companion, one he’d fought in himself and seen in others more times than he could count.

You could see the confusion in his eyes, as he turned around swapping the room for any threats. A small whine left your lips at another clap of thunder, forcing his eyes back on you. His brown eyes calmed even more at the realisation of what you were afraid of.

Gently brushing the damp hair from your sweaty forehead, his hands anchored firmly on your cheeks, holding your gaze. “Breathe with me,” he murmured, guiding one of your hands to rest on his belly.

Your breath came uneven, every inhale snagging in your chest as you tracked the rise and fall of his stomach, the slow, deliberate pull of air into his lungs and the quiet release that followed.

Your other hand gripped his bicep beside your head, the same arm holding his weight suspended above you. Heat radiated from his skin into your palm, the muscle taut beneath your fingertips. He didn’t flinch at the sting of your nails, if anything, his gaze only deepened, locked on yours as though nothing else existed.

The space between you seemed to close in, the air thick and hard to pull into your lungs. Your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, too fast and too loud, until it felt like the whole world had narrowed to that frantic rhythm.

The rise and fall of his chest no longer steadied you, it only reminded you how shallow your own breaths had become.

Your grip on his bicep tightened without meaning to, fingers trembling. A prickling heat spread across your skin, followed by a cold wave that made your stomach lurch. Your vision blurred at the edges, his face still in front of you but swimming in and out of focus.

“Shh,” he cooed, voice soft but urgent now, eyes searching yours. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. It's just noises.”

But the words seemed far away, muffled beneath the heavy thumps in your ears. Your body refused to listen to reason, lungs fluttering, chest locked tight, every breath an effort you couldn’t quite win.

“It’s just noises, baby,” Simon murmured, trying to reason with you. His fingers brushed over the apple of your cheek in a tender, grounding gesture.

He guided your hand more firmly against the steady rise of his stomach, cooing soft words into your ear. You could see how much he wanted to help, the effort in his eyes, but nothing was cutting through the storm inside you.

Then, without warning, his full weight eased down onto you, pressing you gently into the mattress. Heat radiated from him, his body moulding to yours in a slow, deliberate embrace.

By all logic, it should have been too much, too close, too consuming, but it wasn’t. Strangely, it worked. The weight anchored you, pulling you out of the spiral. The edges of the room began to sharpen again, your senses slowly returning. You could feel the mattress beneath you, the rhythm of his breathing, the warmth seeping through your skin. His deep voice in your ears.

Once your breathing steadied, your eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, which lit up with each flash of thunder. The noises no longer startled you, and the heavy rain against the windows had become almost soothing.

As if sensing the slight ease in your body, Simon pushed himself back up onto his hands, hovering gently over you. He looked fully awake now, the haze of whatever sleep-induced irritation he’d carried moments before gone.

“Sorry…” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes. “Didn’t mean to wake you… just wanted to get out…” Your breath still caught unevenly at the edges.

“All good, love,” he said softly, tilting his head in an attempt to catch your gaze.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows, and you flinched despite yourself. Simon eased down beside you again, but before he could say anything, you were already getting up. You quickly put the shirt he’d tossed aside hours ago on, clutching your pillow to your chest as you made your way toward the door.

“What are you doing?” he asked bluntly, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion evident in his voice.

You hesitated, throat tight. When you finally spoke, your words were quiet, frayed around the edges. “I don’t think I’ll sleep much. Don’t want to keep you up.”

“Come back here.” His tone wasn’t a request, it was an order. The hardness in his voice was unfamiliar, sharp and commanding. It was the same voice he carried at the base. His lieutenant’s voice.

“Simon—” you began, trying to reason with him.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” he said flatly, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering.

The firmness in his tone left no room for argument, the weight of command settling heavy in the space between you. For a heartbeat, you froze, pillow clutched tight against your chest, the storm outside still rumbling low through the walls.

With a resigned sigh, you made your way back to the bed. Before you could even kneel onto the mattress, you felt his hard gaze on you again. Following it downward, you realized what he was staring at. Without a word, you tossed the shirt back onto the floor and slipped under the blanket.

In an instant, Simon pulled you against him, exhaling softly as though the simple act of having you close brought him peace. He used to do this whenever he returned late to your room, it was familiar, almost comforting, but tonight, you couldn’t shake the wish that he’d simply let you go.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, sensing how awake you still were.

Thunder rolled outside, low and mocking. His arms around you left no space to flinch, but your body went rigid for a moment all the same.

“I told you,” you whispered, your voice rough with exhaustion. “I’m not going to get much sleep.”

Groaning in your ear, he pulled you even closer. “I can get your mind to settle.”

You snorted humorlessly, rolling your eyes into the dark. “What, you gonna sing me a lullaby?”

“Nah,” he grunted behind you.

Before you could press him for details, his hand slid from your stomach and down between your thighs, cupping your cunt. One of his legs nudged between yours, parting them just enough to give him room to move.

“Simon…” you sighed, his warm hand enveloping you. “You don’t have to…”

“You want me to stop?” he asked, his hand pausing.

You should say yes. Not because you truly wanted him to, but because he needed the sleep. He’d been awake far too long for any human being, and ever since this whole mess began, he’d always put you first.

Still, you could feel the weight of your own exhaustion, and maybe, just maybe, a little distraction from the storm raging outside would help.

“No,” you whispered, your final answer.

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Can’t believe you actually shaved…” he teased, fingers beginning to move again.

His rhythm was slow but intentional, each stroke designed to unravel you piece by piece. The rough pads of his fingers circled your clit with practised precision, teasing the bundle of nerves until your body betrayed you with little jolts of pleasure. Every so often, he slid lower, gathering the slick heat at your entrance before gliding back up to spread it over your swollen nub.

The contrast made you shiver, his touch hard, his pace steady, never faltering, never giving more than just enough to leave you aching for more.

Your thighs twitched around his leg as his steady pace wore you down, each circle pulling another shiver from deep inside you. The storm outside cracked against the windows, but all you could hear was the wet slide of his fingers and the rough drag of his breathing against your ear.

“Already so worked up,” he muttered, amusement lacing his tone as his palm pressed harder against you, fingertips circling with ruthless precision. His other hand slid upward, finding your breasts and teasing them with lazy confidence, pinching one nipple and then the other until you gasped.

The added stimulation erased the last threads of panic from your mind, replacing it with a haze of heat that left no room for anything but him, his hands, his touch, the way he pulled every response from your body without effort.

Your body arched into him, every nerve alight, and he leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Look at you… so wet for me,” he murmured, his fingers slipping inside you, stretching and pressing with sudden urgency. He didn’t slow, didn’t hesitate, just kept driving, circling, teasing, until your hips began to buck uncontrollably.

The storm outside was nothing compared to the storm inside you. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your mind a dizzy haze of need, and all you could do was whimper, “Simon… please…”

He only smirked against your neck, moving faster, harder, expertly matching your mounting desperation with unrelenting precision.

His mouth trailed over your neck and shoulder, alternating between soft bites, teasing licks, and lingering kisses. Every movement of his lips whispered exhaustion, a lazy, almost sleepy devotion—but his fingers told an entirely different story. They moved with relentless precision, circling, pressing, and sliding inside you, demanding your full attention, making your body betray you despite the calm, languid cadence of his mouth.

The contradiction sent shivers through you, every nerve on fire, every gasp and tremble betraying how thoroughly he had you under his control.

His fingers worked with merciless insistence, sliding in and out, circling, pressing just right to make your knees buckle. The contrast—his seemingly tired, lazy mouth against the frantic, expert movements of his hand—drove you higher and higher, until every nerve screamed for release.

You clutched at his forearm, arching into him, gasping, whining, “Simon… I—”

He silenced you with a low, gravelly growl, fingers moving faster, harder, his hand teasing you closer and closer to the edge. Your body trembled uncontrollably, every push and flick of his fingers sending sparks straight to your core.

“Come for me,” he demanded softly, his mouth still tracing lazy patterns over your skin, the contradiction of his touch making the release inevitable.

And then it hit you, sudden, blinding, all-consuming. You came with a cry, your body folding into him, shaking, every nerve ending alight. His fingers didn’t falter, riding you through it, even as he whispered against your ear, lazy and hot, “That’s it… just like that, good girl.”

Your body trembled against his, every shiver from your climax mirrored in the tight hold of his arms. His fingers finally stilled, resting against you, but the warmth and pressure of him pressed you closer, grounding you in the haze of pleasure.

The storm outside raged on, lightning flashing against the windows, but inside, it was just the two of you, breathing, slick, and tangled. His lips trailed soft, lazy kisses along your shoulder and neck, whispering quiet murmurs that made your skin crawl in the best way.

It was getting harder to keep your eyes open as the rush of endorphins mixed with the past days exhaustion, finally coaxing your mind toward sleep. You tried to move slightly, or to say something, but your body wouldn’t cooperate.

“Shhh,” Simon cooed softly in your ear. His hand settled back on your stomach while the other maintained a gentle hold on your breast.

“Just be a good girl for me and close your eyes, aye?” he whispered, his voice warm and steady against your skin.

You let out a soft, reluctant sigh, your body finally losing to exhaustion. Simon’s hands were steady, grounding you, while his breath warmed your neck. The storm outside had softened just a bit, and the tension in your muscles slowly dissolved under the weight of his touch.

Your eyelids drooped, and you nuzzled into your pillow while fitting perfectly against him. He hummed low and content, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before settling his cheek against your hair.

“That’s it… just rest now,” he murmured, voice a soothing anchor in the dark.

The rhythm of his breathing, steady and calm, matched yours, and for the first time in days, both your minds felt quiet. Sleep crept in, heavy and warm, wrapping you both in a cocoon of warmth, where the world outside didn’t exist.

As if just tonight, you both belonged to each other.

i know it's been forever since the last chapter... my bad. hope you enjoy this one !

125 notes · View notes