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byfawn · 1 day ago

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THE CONTRACT

↳ oneshot | 10.8k | lowercase intended

preview: you signed a contract in desperation for money, thinking it was a joke of sorts—desperate times call for desperate measures. but when you're taken by two masked men who don’t plan to hurt you, just keep you, you realize this isn’t a joke anymore.

↳ note: this is a dark romance with heavy psychological elements and morally ambiguous characters. while the ending leans into tenderness, there is a lot of blurred lines. reader discretion is strongly advised. i really held back a lot while writing this because i was not in the mood to have my account flagged again lol. maybe one day i'll get the balls to go full throttle!

↳ content warnings: this fic contains explicit non-consensual elements (kidnapping, confinement, drugging, forced captivity), psychological manipulation, stockholm syndrome themes, graphic sexual content (including cunnilingus, spanking, edging, denied orgasm, forced orgasm, overstimulation, anal play, double penetration, breeding, pussy slapping, praise, and degradation), power dynamics, forced feeding, and emotional trauma.

the bright glow of your laptop screen lights up your cramped apartment. outside, the city echoes with distant sirens and the occasional drunken shout, but inside, the silence is deafening. your fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

the eviction notice on on the coffee table stares back at you in big, bold red letters reading final warning. almost as if it was some kind of death sentence. you hoped it would't come to this but hope could only get you so far. the last thing you needed right now was to be homeless in this shady neighborhood during the dead of winter. you've sold everything of value—all of your jewelry, your books, even a good chunk of your clothes. but it wasn't enough. it was never enough.

so there you were, curled up on your sunken couch, scrolling through the darkest depths of the internet. the places people only whisper about in hushed tones. your breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts as you click through encrypted forums, each one darker than the last. the air in your apartment feels thick, heavy with the weight of your desperation.

you spent hours working late nights and early mornings but it was never enough to crawl yourself out of the debt that has been sucking you into a blackhole.

then you see it.

the sanctuary.

the site is sleek, almost too polished—like it was designed to lure in people exactly like you. no flashy banners, no pop-ups. just a single, ominous listing under experiences:

be taken. be kept. no questions. $500,000 payout upon completion.

your heart stutters in your chest. half a million dollars. that kind of money would be life changing. more than enough to wipe your debts clean, to start over, to breathe again. you could finally move out of this shitty hell hole that is a pathetic excuse of an apartment.

it was probably a scam but what harm would come from just filling out the application. some twisted joke or a phishing site made to prey on the desperate. you weren't stupid, you knew that. but your fridge was empty, your bank account was overdrawn, and the landlord's threats were starting to sound like promises.

but the questions that follow make your skin prickle with unease:

do you consent to full surrender? yes.

are you prepared to give up all rights for the duration of the stay? yes.

are you mentally and physically prepared for an intensive period of isolation, obedience, and environmental conditioning? yes.

do you understand that comfort and care will be provided at the discretion of your handlers, not upon request? yes.

you swallow hard, throat dry as sandpaper. the rules are deliberately vague, the language clinical, detached. it claims that it is a hundred percent legal and consensual, but something about the way the words sit on the screen makes your stomach twist.

it feels like a game. a dangerous, twisted game—but you're desperate enough to play.

your cursor hovers over the sign button. for a moment, you hesitate, the rational part of your brain screaming at you to close the tab, to walk away. but then you think of your landlord's sneer, the way your stomach aches from skipping meals, the crushing weight of knowing you're one missed payment away from being out on the streets.

against your better judgement, you click sign.

you hold your breathe as you wait for what happens next. the screen of your laptop goes black. anxiously, you ram your fingers against the keyboard in an attempt to bring it back to life. the screen remains black, the shocked reflection of your face staring back at you.

you can't help but laugh. it comes out nearly hysterical. with everything going on, the last thing you needed was your shitty laptop giving out on you. as you reach to close your laptop, the screen mysteriously flickers back to life with a single message written across it:

leave your door unlocked tonight.

you slam the laptop shut, the sudden silence in the room pressing in on you like a physical force. your pulse roars in your ears, your palms slick with sweat. what the absolute hell did you just agreed to?

fuck, it's too late to back out now. and no amount of prayers or demise can undo what you had just signed off on. for all you know it was probably some stupid prank set up by a group of teenagers who didn't know any better. that night when you went to sleep, you locked the door and triple checked the windows before heading to bed.

you spent countless hours tossing and turning, you were far to anxious to even close your eyes, afraid that the dark will swallow you whole. you opted for sitting on the edge of your mattress, knees drawn to your chest, listening to the creaks and groans of your apartment building. every noise makes you jump, your heart insistently pounding in your ears. every creak made your skin crawl, quickening your pulse.

the clock strikes past 2:00 a.m. your eyes sting from hours of fighting off much needed slumber. you had a shift at the coffee shop that started in three hours. but despite your exhaustion, your body refusing to relax. before you knew it, light was softly filtering through the blinds, the dark of the night gone at last. the apartment was quiet and still as it could be as you stretched your sore limbs. staring into the mirror, your eyes were bloodshot and your face looked drained of life.

there was a part of you that felt like an absolute and utter idiot for even believing that something was going to happen. still, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. it wasn't in the apartment itself, or in the air, or the light. it was in you.

you dragged yourself through your shift at the coffee shop, running on caffeine and adrenaline. the hours passed in a blur. you made drinks, wiped counters, and forced yourself to smile at customers who would never guess what you had done the night before. you kept checking your phone, half-expecting a message, a warning, something. but there was nothing. it felt almost as though a weight was lifted off of your chest.

by the time your shift ended, you were too exhausted to think straight. you walked home in a haze, the cold wind biting at your skin. after a quick hot shower, you bundled up under your comforter and drifted off into some much needed slumber.

you don't know what wakes you.

maybe it's the shift in the air, the sudden absence of sound. maybe it's the weight of a gaze you feel before you even open your eyes. but when you do—there's a man standing at the foot of your bed.

your breath catches, your body locking up in pure, animal instinct. he's tall—too tall—his broad frame nearly swallowing the dim light from the streetlamp outside. the shadows cling to him like a second skin, but you can make out his face due to his mask, the glint of something dark and unreadable in his eyes.

you don't scream. you don't even move. your lips part, but no sound comes out.

then instinct finally kicks in.

you lunge for your nightstand, scrambling for anything to defend yourself. his hand snaps out, catching your wrist in a grip like iron. your pulse thunders in your ears as you twist, nails raking against his arm. a growl rumbles in his chest, low and warning.

"none of that," he murmurs, voice rough.

you don't listen. you can't. panic floods your veins, sharp and electric, and you thrash, knee jerking up. a second pair of hands grabs you from behind, locking your arms against your body. "fuck," a new voice mutters, voice thick with a british accent. "she's a fighter."

you writhe, teeth bared, but they're too strong. he reaches reaches into his pocket, pulling out a syringe. the liquid inside catches the light and you thrash against them even harder.

your breath comes in ragged bursts. "no—no—"

"shhh," the first man soothes, almost gentle, as if he's calming a spooked animal. "just a little pinch."

the needle sinks into your neck.

you gasp, the burn of the injection spreading fast. your limbs grow heavy, your vision blurring at the edges. the last thing you see is the second man's masked face tilting as he studies you, his grip never loosening.

"sleep now, little one," the first man murmurs.

and just like that—the world goes dark.

when you wake, its feels like your skull has been hammered in. you could practically feel your heart pounding in your head. your neck still sore from whatever the hell you were injected with. your mouth feels dry and tastes of copper and cotton. when you try to swallow, its like sandpaper grinding against your throat. you slowly start to piece together the reality around you.

first it's the smell of damp concrete and something metallic. then the cold, seeping through your clothes and into your bones. finally, the pain, a dull throb at your neck where the needle went in.

you blink against the dim light. you're on a mattress, thin and lumpy, pushed into the corner of what looks like a basement. the walls are bare concrete, the only light coming from a single bulb swinging gently from the ceiling. there are no windows.

you try to lift your head and immediately regret it as the world tilts violently. a soft whimper escaping your lips. when you try to stand up, the chain around your ankle yanks you back. your breath hitches. it's thick, industrial-grade, bolted to the floor and connected to a leather cuff tight enough to leave marks but not cut off circulation.

"she's awake."

the voice comes from the shadows near the stairs. the british one steps into the light, holding two mugs. steam curls from them in the cold air. he's changed clothes and is now wearing black tactical pants and a tight gray henley that stretches across his shoulders. his mask remains firmly in place, the familiar skull fabric hiding his features. only his eyes are visible, glinting in the low light as he studies your pain-tense form.

he sets one mug on the floor near your mattress and keeps the other for himself. "drink. it'll help with the headache."

you don't move. your throat burns with thirst, but you won't take anything from him. not again.

he sighs, crouching down to your level. "suit yourself." he takes a sip from his own mug, watching you over the rim. "you put up a good fight back there. surprised me."

"go to hell." your voice comes out cracked, barely above a whisper.

you can tell he's grinning even through his mask. "already there, darling."

the creak of the stairs makes you both turn. the larger masked man descends slowly, his massive frame barely fitting. he's changed into a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. the sight of those thick veins running under tanned skin makes you swallow hard. his face is concealed by that distinctive hood—the fabric obscuring everything except those unsettling eyes that track your every movement.

"she's not drinking," the british one says. there's something possessive in how he watches you, something that curls heat low in your belly even as your mind screams in protest.

the hooded man tilts his head, the fabric shifting with the movement. "she will."

he reaches into his pocket with deliberate slowness and pulls out a phone. your phone. his fingers tap the screen before turning it toward you. the glow illuminates the loose threads of his hood as you see the bank notification—$100,000 deposited into your account.

"first installment," he says, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. "as promised."

you stare at the number until the screen goes dark, reflecting back the shadowy outline of his concealed face. it's more money than you've ever seen.

the british one nudges the mug closer with his boot. the ceramic scrapes against concrete. "now will you drink?" there's a challenge in his voice that makes you want to both obey and defy him, the contradiction tying your stomach in knots.

your hands shake as you reach for it. when you look up, they're both watching you with something like satisfaction, and the heat in their eyes has nothing to do with cruelty and everything to do with possession. it should terrify you. part of you wishes it did.

the hooded man pockets your phone, the movement making his hood shift. for a second, you think you see the shadow of stubble along his jawline before it disappears back into concealment. "rules are simple," he says. the fabric moves with each word. "you stay. you obey. you get the rest."

"and if i say no?" your voice comes out breathier than you intended.

the british one's laugh is hollow. "you clicked the button, love. that was your signature." he steps closer, and you don't pull away when his thumb brushes your lower lip. "we all know what you really want."

the hooded man's hand settles on your waist, large enough to span nearly half of it. his breath is warm through the fabric as he leans down. "this is your life for now," he murmurs, and the promise in his voice makes your traitorous body arch toward him. "be a good girl and accept it."

the bulb flickers as they leave. the lock clicks. outside, wind howls, but inside, you're burning up. you're torn between horror and shame and filled with the aching need they've awakened in you. the tea sits forgotten as you press your thighs together, disgusted with yourself and yet already wondering when they'll return.

the silence after they leave is suffocating. you slump back against the mattress, your fingers trembling where they clutch the mug. the tea has gone cold, but your skin still burns where they touched you. you hate it. you hate how your body betrays you, how your pulse jumps at the memory of rough hands and low voices.

the chain around your ankle clinks when you shift, the sound too loud in the empty basement. you should be planning an escape. you should be screaming. instead, you're staring at the spot where the british one stood, the way he brushed your lips with his calloused hands burned into your mind. perhaps it was the after effects of the drugs that they gave you making you hallucinate?

you don't know how long has passed but you're most certain that it has definitely been a few hours. you're stomach is grumbling, the last thing you consumed was a day or two ago—a croissant and cup of coffee from the cafe. the hunger was gnawing at your stomach and you were starting to feel dizzy.

the door clicks open without warning. you jerk upright, chains rattling, as the british one strides in carrying a tray. the smell hits you first—roasted meat, fresh bread, something herbal that makes your empty stomach clench painfully.

"brought you dinner, darling," he says, setting the tray just beyond your reach. steam rises from the plate, curling in the damp basement air. your mouth waters before you can stop it.

you force your gaze away. "i'm not eating that."

he crouches with predatory grace, balancing effortlessly on the balls of his feet. "oh?" his fingers tear off a piece of bread, holding it up. "smells good though, doesn't it?"

when you don't answer, he tsks. "such a stubborn little thing." the bread brushes your lips. you press them tighter. his other hand grips your chin, forcing your head up. "come now. you'll need your strength."

"for what?" you snap, trying to twist away. his grip tightens.

"for all the fun we're going to have." he presses the bread harder against your mouth. "eat."

you lunge suddenly, teeth aiming for his fingers. he moves faster, twisting your head to the side and pinning you against the mattress. his body presses down, all hard muscle and controlled strength.

"naughty," he breathes against your ear, hips grinding down just enough to make your breath hitch. the bread is still in his other hand. "you want to play rough? fine." he nips your earlobe. "but you're still going to eat."

you thrash violently, nails raking down his arms, legs kicking uselessly beneath his weight. he sighs dramatically. "have it your way." in one smooth motion, he pulls his mask up just enough to reveal cruel, smiling lips and pops the bread into his own mouth, chewing slowly while watching you struggle. "shame. it's really quite good."

your stomach growls loudly. you can feel your face grow heated from embarrassment but your far to prideful to eat anything he offers. you can see his eyes light up with dark amusement.

before you can react, he's grabbing another piece of bread and chewing it deliberately. you barely have time to gasp before his hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. his mouth crashes against yours, tongue forcing the food past your lips. you choke, but he doesn't let go until you swallow, his teeth nipping your bottom lip as he pulls away.

your chest heaves, torn between rage and the shameful realization that your body is responding to his dominance. he tears off another piece, chewing slowly as he watches you. you know what's coming. your breath comes faster.

"open," he commands. when you don't obey, he pinches your nose shut. instinct makes your lips part, and he's on you again, feeding you another mouthful with his lips and tongue. this time, when he pulls away, a whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

"that's it," he coaxes, feeding you another bite. each morsel comes with a stroke of his fingers, a whispered praise that coils heat low in your belly. "so good for me."

when the food is gone, he lingers, thumb wiping a crumb from your lip. you bite down hard. he yanks back with a laugh, examining the teeth marks on his thumb. when he finally stands, adjusting his mask back into place, you're left panting, your lips swollen, your body thrumming with conflicting sensations.

"feisty till the end," he muses. "i like that." he collects the tray, pausing at the door. "sleep well, princess. you'll need it."

your can feel the exhaustion of the past two days and a 12 hour shift wearing down on your body. as much as you try to fight it off in fear of one of them coming back down, your exhaustion wins and sleep comes heavy and unwilling. your lips still tingle from the forced feeding, your skin buzzing with the memory of his hands on you. you dream of mocking voices and teeth at your throat, waking in gasps only to find the basement still dark, still empty.

when you wake, it is to the feeling up being watched—a feeling that you have known all to well lately. it's him. the hooded one. he seems to be much gentler compared to the one with the british accent.

he's seated in the corner, silent as a shadow, his massive frame swallowing what little light filters into the room. you don't know how long he's been there, but the way his head tilts when your eyes meet tells you its been far to long. his gaze catches yours slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment its prey realizes it's caught.

"you're awake." his voice is low, muffled by the mask, but it scrapes over your skin anyway. he doesn't move. doesn't blink. just stares, those unreadable eyes tracking the way your breath hitches.

you sit up slowly, chain clinking, your muscles stiff from the cold floor. instinct has you crawling backward before you can stop yourself, shoulders pressing into the wall as if that could save you. "what do you want?"

he stands in one smooth motion, the movement too graceful for a man his size. the bucket in his hand sloshes, water dripping onto the floor between his boots. "you need to wash."

your stomach drops. "no."

he doesn't react, just sets the bucket down with a thud and nudges it toward you with his foot. the towel draped over his arm is crisp, white—a mockery of cleanliness in this basement. "you're dirty," he says.

heat floods your cheeks. "i'm not undressing in front of you."

"no?" his head tilts, the edges of his hood shifting. beneath the fabric, you imagine his lips curling. "then you stay dirty." he crouches suddenly, fingers snagging the hem of your shirt. "unless you want help."

you slap his hand away. "don't fucking touch me."

his grip closes around your wrist like a vice, yanking you forward until your chest nearly brushes him. "fight all you want," he murmurs, dragging your trapped hand under his mask. his tongue flicks out, tracing your knuckles through the fabric, slow, as if savoring the salt of your skin. "you'll give in eventually. i'll ask again nicely. take it off."

"no."

one hand fists in your shirt and yanks. the cotton fabric tears like paper. cold air hits your bare skin and you gasp, hands flying up to cover yourself. it's pointless. he's already grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. his gaze darkens as he drinks in the sight of your bare chest. your nipples harden under his sharp stare and you can't help but squirm. you shouldn't have found this attractive but it had wetness pooling at the apex of your thighs.

the damp cloth traces your collarbones, slow and methodical, wiping away your sweat. you bite your lip to stop the moan threatening to escape.

"so sensitive," he murmurs, the cloth dipping lower. he releases your wrists and grips your waist, holding you still as he washes between your breasts. your breath comes faster, your nipples pebbling under his attention. "see how your body reacts?"

you squeeze your thighs together, but he notices. of course he does. his knee nudges them apart as he crouches before you. the cloth drags down your stomach, over your hips, leaving fire in its wake. when it reaches the waistband of your shorts, you whimper.

"shhh," he soothes, even as his fingers hook in the fabric. "i'll take care of you." the rip of fabric echoes in the quiet room. you should be ashamed, should fight harder, but his hands on your bare skin feel too good. you melt under his rough hands like putty. you find all the fight that you had slowly simmer down under the gentle care of his hands.

the water is cool, but where he touches you burns. his fingers trace every curve, every dip, cleaning you with a reverence that makes your chest ache. when his thumb brushes your inner thigh, you jerk, a broken sound escaping your lips.

"so perfect," he growls, his masked mouth pressing against your knee. "so responsive." his hands slide up your legs, washing away the last traces of dirt, leaving you exposed and trembling.

no one has ever been so attentive to you. not when you were scrounging for food in dumpsters at twelve. not when you burned with fever that left you immobile in that shitty studio apartment with no one to even bring you medicine because you had no one. the first tear falls before you can stop it.

he pauses. "look at me." when you don't, his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze up. his masked face tilts, studying your wet cheeks. "crying?" his thumb swipes under your eye, collecting tears. "why?"

"because you're—" your voice cracks "—you're fucking monsters. and this is the kindest anyone's ever touched me."

the confession hangs between you, raw and ugly. his breathing changes, the mask fluttering slightly. for a long moment, he just watches you shake, his grip on your waist the only thing keeping you upright.

was it the emotional wear and tear of the past 48 hours sneaking up on you? or even worse, the lifetime of neglect that you had faced resulting in any kind of attention, good or bad, making you feel seen? you had been numb for so long that the sensation of tear running down your heated cheeks felt foreign. it was almost as if a dam had burst within you.

his hands resume their work, slower now. the cloth moves down your thighs with unbearable gentleness, washing away dirt and years of neglect. "let go," he murmurs against your knee, his lips brushing skin through the fabric. "just let us take care of you."

you sob when his fingers find the scar on your hip—the one from when you fell through a rusted fire escape at fourteen and stitched it up yourself with fishing line. his touch lingers there, warm and steady, and something inside you fractures.

maybe it wouldn't be so bad, you think wildly, to let them break you. if their hands put you back together after. if they keep looking at you like you're something precious instead of disposable.

"there," he whispers when you're clean, pressing a towel to your damp skin. his hands tremble slightly as he dresses you, buttoning the fresh dress with careful fingers.

you hate how much you crave his approval. hate how badly you want him to touch you again. but most of all, you hate that when he leaves, the cold feels unbearable—and that the scent of him lingers on your new clothes, wrapping you in something dangerously close to comfort.

the days blur together in a haze of careful hands and quiet commands. the british one that you have come to know as simon comes like clockwork—morning, noon, night—feeding you bites of food between teasing remarks. "open wider, princess," he'll murmur, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip until you obey. sometimes he makes you eat from his fingers. sometimes from his mouth. you always flush, always protest, but your lips part easier each time.

and the tall one that goes by konig is the one who washes you, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as they scrub away your resistance along with the dirt. he notices everything—how your breath hitches when his fingers graze the back of your neck, how your thighs press together when he kneels between them to wash your legs. "so responsive," he praises each time, his masked mouth brushing your ear. "such a good girl for me."

you had lost track of how many days you had been holed up in the basement. how long did they plan to hold you captive? you had wondered if there had been anybody out there looking for you. although, that was highly unlikely given that you're parents weren't in the picture and you had no friends. maybe your manager at the cafe had filed some kind of report, she was a sweet old lady who always checked in on how you were doing because she knew that you lived alone in a shader part of town.

as the days passed you started to formulate ways you could escape. the first order of business you had to tackle was the stupid chain on your ankle. luckily for you, there had been a bobby pin from your hair that you had kept hidden under your mattress.

you waited until the house fell silent, until even the creaking floorboards above had stilled. then you went to work. the lock was stubborn, but you were stubborn too. the first click made your pulse spike. the second had your hands shaking with anticipation.

"and what do we have here?"

you nearly jump out of your skin—your blood turns to ice. simon’s voice comes from directly behind you, his shadow swallowing you whole. you don’t even have time to turn before konig’s hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back.

"naughty girl," he murmurs, plucking the pin from your fingers. his mask brushes your cheek as he inhales sharply. "you smell like fear. you should be scared."

simon crouches in front of you, his knife flashing as he taps it against your ankle cuff. "we give you pretty dresses. feed you from our hands." the blade gently slides up your calf, making you shiver. "and this is how you repay us?"

you spit at him, the saliva landing on his boot. "go to hell."

simon’s laugh sends shivers down your spine as he wipes his boot clean with slow, deliberate strokes. "oh sweetheart," he purrs, sheathing his knife with a click that echoes in the silent basement. "you just earn yourself a proper punishment."

konig’s grip in your hair tightens as he hauls you upright, his other hand wrapping around your throat in a way that shouldn’t make your pulse jump but does. "such a bad girl," he murmurs, his masked lips brushing your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. "needing to be taught a lesson."

you thrash against him, nails scraping at his arms, but he doesn’t budge. the hard planes of his chest press against your back, his arousal evident even through layers of tactical gear. simon stands with that infuriating smirk, rolling up the sleeves of his henley to reveal corded forearms that have no business being so distracting. "over my lap," he commands, settling onto the edge of the mattress with deliberate ease.

"fuck you!" you snarl, twisting in konig’s hold. your heart pounds not just from fear, but from the way his fingers flex against your throat, the way simon’s eyes darken as they rake over your body.

konig tsks, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours as he easily maneuvers you face-down across simon’s thighs. the cold air hits your bare ass as konig yanks your panties down in one sharp motion, his knuckles brushing your sensitive skin and leaving fire in their wake.

"such a pretty little ass," simon muses, running his calloused palm over one cheek in a caress that feels more possessive than punishing. "gonna look even prettier all red and marked up."

the first smack lands without warning, sharp and stinging. you yelp, fingers digging into the mattress as heat blooms across your skin. "bastard!" you spit, but your traitorous body already responds, your nipples pebbling against the rough fabric of simon’s jeans.

simon just chuckles, delivering another sharp slap to the same spot, the pain melting into something dangerously close to pleasure. "count them, princess. or we start over." his thigh shifts beneath you, pressing deliberately against your aching core.

"never!" you gasp, but your hips rock forward instinctively, seeking friction.

the next blow comes harder, making your eyes water even as your cunt clenches around nothing. konig’s hand settles between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as simon begins a relentless rhythm—left cheek, right cheek, each smack louder than the last, each one sending jolts of heat straight to your throbbing clit.

"o-one," you finally crack out in a broken voice, shame curling in your belly even as your arousal grows.

by the fifth spank, your thighs shake—not just from pain, but from the way simon’s massive hand covers nearly your entire ass, his fingers brushing dangerously close to your dripping slit with every impact. the sharp sting radiates through you, mixing with the low throb between your legs until you can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure begins.

"f-fifteen," you choke out after another brutal spank, your ass burning like fire. tears streak your face, but worse—your juices coat simon’s jeans where you grind against him, your body betraying you completely. you’re a sobbing, snotty mess by fifty, but your cunt pulses with need, aching to be filled.

simon pauses, rubbing circles over the heated skin of your ass. "fast learner that we have here," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal. his fingers dip lower, brushing against your soaked folds and coming away glistening. "oh? what’s this?" he holds his wet fingers up for konig to see, his smirk widening.

you whimper, hips jerking away from his touch, but konig holds you firm, his other hand sliding down to squeeze your abused cheeks. "she’s dripping," he observes, his voice thick with amusement as he presses against you, letting you feel the hard length of him through his pants. "such a dirty little thing, getting off on her punishment."

"i’m not!" you protest, but your traitorous body clenches around nothing, your clit throbbing with each heartbeat. the scent of your arousal fills the air, mixing with leather and gunpowder in a way that makes your head spin.

simon’s next smack lands directly on your pussy, the sting mixing with pleasure so intense you scream, your back arching off his lap. "liar," he growls, delivering two more sharp slaps to your swollen lips that have you seeing stars. "your cunt’s begging for more. should we give it to her, konig?"

the taller man hums, his fingers sliding through your folds to circle your aching clit with terrifying precision. "i think she’s earned a reward," he decides, pressing down just hard enough to make you writhe, your hips chasing his touch. "after she apologizes, of course." his thumb flicks over your sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing a broken moan from your lips. "well, little one? what do you say?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction even as your nails dig into the sheets, your body arching toward konig’s skilled fingers. simon’s hand comes down again, this time on your already burning ass, the sharp sting making your clit throb against konig’s relentless circles. "fuck! okay, okay! i’m sorry!" you sob, the words torn from you as much by pleasure as punishment.

konig’s fingers don’t stop their torturous movements, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "sorry for what, little one?" his voice is rough velvet through the mask, that accent curling around the words in a way that makes your stomach flip.

"for t-trying to escape," you gasp, hips rocking shamelessly against his hand now, your resistance crumbling with each expert stroke. the way simon watches you—those piercing eyes tracking every twitch of your body, the way his jaw tightens when you moan—sends fresh heat pooling low in your belly. "for being a b-bad girl."

simon’s palm lands one final, stinging blow before soothing over the heated skin, his touch almost tender.

"good enough," he decides, flipping you onto your back with effortless strength. his eyes darken at the sight of your tear-streaked face, your heaving chest, the way your nipples pebble under his gaze.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. "all marked up and still so defiant." the way his voice drops sends shivers down your spine. "we’ll break you eventually."

konig’s fingers push inside you without warning, curling against that sweet spot that has you seeing stars. "she’s close," he observes, though the way his breath hitches betrays his own arousal. his fingers piston in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room as you arch off the bed, your body taut as a bowstring. "should we let her come?"

"not yet. the first time she comes, it will be on my cock." simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear as konig’s fingers still, leaving you teetering on the edge. "don’t even think about touching yourself, i will be watching."

"next time you misbehave," simon promises, his teeth grazing your earlobe in a way that makes your cunt clench around konig’s fingers, "we won’t stop at just a spanking." the dark promise in his voice has liquid heat dripping down konig’s fingers. "understood?"

you nod frantically, your entire body trembling with denied release, your skin oversensitive and burning wherever they’ve touched you. konig withdraws his fingers with a wet sound, wiping them deliberately on your inner thigh, marking you with your own arousal. "good girl," he murmurs, the praise curling around you like smoke. "now sleep."

as they leave, the door locking behind them with finality, you collapse onto the mattress. your ass still burns, your cunt still aches, and worst of all—your fingers itch to touch yourself despite simon’s warning. you press your thighs together, biting back a moan as the friction sends sparks through your oversensitive nerves.

curling into yourself, you press your face into the pillow to muffle your frustrated scream. you should be planning another escape, looking for a weakness in routine, trying to get out of the shackle but you find yourself wondering on how they would taste and feel instead.

sleep didn't come. just the endless replay of konig's murmured praise, simon's dark promises. the way they'd worked you over like a shared project, all rough hands and calculated tenderness. you bit your lip until copper flooded your tongue, but it didn't stop the memories—konig's breath hitching when you clenched around his fingers, simon's grip in your hair as he forced eye contact while konig touched you.

the next morning arrives with no relief. you wake tangled in sweat-damp sheets, your body still thrumming with last night's denied pleasure. every shift of fabric against oversensitive skin sends sparks through your nerves, making your teeth clench. you press your thighs together tightly, but the pressure only makes it worse —a constant, aching reminder of their control.

"someone didn't sleep well," he observes, setting down the breakfast tray. the scent of coffee makes your chest tighten with something dangerously close to homesickness.

"fuck you," you mutter, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

he chuckles, perching on the edge of the mattress. "eventually." his fingers trail up your bare leg, pausing at the bruise konig left yesterday. when you flinch, he presses harder, his thumb circling the mark. "hurts?"

you shake your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"liar." the word is almost affectionate as he reaches for the breakfast tray. "open."

when you hesitate, his free hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your still-throbbing core with terrifying accuracy. "i said," he repeats, fingers applying just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, "open."

you part your lips with a shaky exhale, letting him feed you the first bite. his smile widens as he wipes a crumb from your lip with his thumb. "see? was that so hard?"

konig enters silently, his massive frame filling the doorway. his masked face tilts as he takes in the scene—simon's hand still under the sheets, your flushed cheeks, the way your fingers clutch the blanket in white-knuckled fists. "trouble?" he rumbles, moving to stand behind simon.

"just reminding our girl who takes care of her," simon replies, feeding you another bite. this time, konig's hand joins his under the sheets, his fingers replacing simon's. his calloused fingers drags against your sensitive flesh, making you gasp.

"so wet," konig murmurs, his other hand stroking your hair. "even after last night." his fingers work you with clinical precision, never quite giving you what you need. "do you want to come, little one?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood. the answer claws at your throat, but pride keeps it locked behind your teeth.

simon leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "say please," he whispers, "and maybe we'll consider it."

the tray sits forgotten as they reduce you to a trembling mess between them—konig's relentless fingers, simon's filthy words. when you finally break, a whispered "please" slipping past your lips.

simon's fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes them apart, the cool air hitting your needy cunt. his mask is lifted just enough to reveal his smirk before he leans in, tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds. you whimper, back arching off the mattress, but he pins you down with ease, his grip bruising.

"so fucking wet," he mutters against you, lips sealing around your clit to suck lightly—just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to push you over. his tongue flicks and teases, alternating between soft licks and sharp nips that leave you gasping. konig's hand strokes your inner thigh, his other palming himself through his pants, the quiet sound of fabric rustling filling the room.

"please," you choke out, fingers twisting in the sheets.

simon pulls back with a wet sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "please what?" he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, the thick head catching on your clit. you jerk, a broken noise escaping you. "use your words."

"please—fuck me," you plead, hips lifting desperately.

he doesn't make you wait. with one brutal thrust, he's inside, stretching you to the limit, the stretch burning so good. his hips snap forward, setting a punishing pace from the start, each drive punching a moan from your lips. konig's hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in time with simon's thrusts, the dual stimulation making your vision blur.

"gonna come?" simon growls, fingers digging into your hips. "told ya the first time you'd come would be on my cock."

you shatter with a sob, your cunt clenching around him as pleasure crashes over you in waves. the orgasm so intense that it hits you like a freight train. simon fucks you through it, his own release following shortly after with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. konig's breath is ragged behind his mask, his hand moving faster over himself until he grunts, spilling over his fist.

simon pulls out with a satisfied hum, thumb swiping through the mess between your thighs before pressing it to your lips. "good girl," he murmurs, watching as you lick it clean. konig's hand strokes your hair, his touch almost gentle compared to the wreckage simon left behind.

"next time," konig says, "i'm taking your ass, little one."

konig's fingers curl around the cold metal of the shackle, the one that's been clamped around your ankle for weeks—maybe months, time blurred down here in the dark. the click of the lock releasing is the sweetest sound you've ever heard. your skin tingles where the rough iron had been, the sudden absence of weight making your leg feel almost weightless, like you could float away.

the relief is immediate. the constant pressure, the chafing, the way it bit into your flesh every time you moved—gone. you suck in a sharp breath as blood rushes back to the spot, the sensation both prickling and soothing at once. you reach down without thinking, fingertips brushing over the raw, tender skin. it's sore, yes, but god, it's free.

he watches you for a moment, his masked face unreadable, before he hooks an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. your body protests weakly—every muscle limp, every nerve still buzzing from simon's rough treatment—but you don't fight it. you can't.

the basement stairs creak under his boots, each step taking you further from the damp, mold-scented air, closer to something you'd almost forgotten existed. real light, real air. your vision swims as he carries you into the hallway, the sudden brightness making you flinch. it's not even that bright—just a dim lamp flickering on the wall—but your eyes burn anyway, unused to anything but shadows.

he kicks open a door, and then you're being lowered onto something soft. a bed. actual fabric beneath you, not concrete, not that pathetic excuse of a mattress. your body sinks into it, the mattress cradling you in a way that makes your throat tighten. you want to cry. you might already be crying.

konig's hand drags over your bare hip, possessive but not cruel. "rest," he orders, voice gravelly. "you'll need it."

you don't have the strength to answer. the second he pulls the blanket over you, your eyelids give out, heavy as lead. the last thing you feel is the ghost of his touch on your cheek before darkness swallows you whole.

later that evening, you stir to the feeling of large hands sliding beneath you, lifting you with surprising care. your body aches, muscles still heavy with exhaustion, but the pain is duller now—soothed by the deep, dreamless sleep you'd fallen into.

konig's voice is softer than usual, almost tender as he murmurs, "time to get you cleaned up, little one."

you blink up at him, disoriented, but there's no cruelty in his touch, no impatience. just steady, quiet control. the mask is still in place, but his movements are gentle as he carries you down the hall, the sound of running water growing louder with each step.

when he pushes open the bathroom door, steam curls in the air, the scent of something warm and herbal—lavender maybe—filling your lungs. your breath hitches. a real bath. not a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, not the rough scrub of a rag while you shiver on the basement floor.

the tub is already full, water glimmering under the dim light, little bubbles floating on the surface. konig kneels beside it, testing the temperature with his fingers before turning back to you. "can you stand?" he asks, voice low.

you nod, though your legs tremble when your feet touch the tile. his grip tightens just enough to steady you, his other hand sliding around your waist to keep you upright. the care in his touch is almost startling—like he's handling something fragile, something precious.

he helps you step into the water, and the moment it closes over your skin, you nearly whimper. it's so warm, so soft, the heat seeping into your sore muscles, loosening the tension in your back, your shoulders. you sink deeper, the water rising to your collarbones, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel clean.

konig doesn't rush you. he sits on the edge of the tub, one arm draped over the rim, watching as you slowly relax. when he finally reaches for the soap, his movements are methodical, careful. the washcloth glides over your skin, scrubbing away the grime, the sweat, the lingering traces of simon's touch. he's thorough but never rough, his fingers lingering just a little longer on the places where bruises bloom—like he's memorizing them.

when he reaches your hair, his touch turns almost reverent. he tips your head back, cupping water in his palm to wet the strands before working the shampoo through with slow, massaging circles. your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a quiet sigh escaping you. it's the closest thing to kindness you've felt in so long, and it makes your chest ache.

"better?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you can only nod, throat too tight to speak.

he hums in approval, rinsing the suds away before lifting you from the water with effortless strength. a plush towel wraps around you, absorbing the droplets as he pats you dry with surprising tenderness. his hands linger on your hips before he lifts you again, carrying you back to the bed.

the sheets are cool against your skin as he lays you down, but the warmth of the bath still lingers beneath your flesh. he looms over you, his masked face unreadable as he reaches for something on the nightstand—a small bottle of oil.

"gonna stretch this pretty little ass for me," he murmurs, uncapping the bottle. the scent of vanilla and something spicier fills the air as he pours the oil over his fingers, warming it between them. "you'll take it so well, won't you? always such a good girl for us."

his free hand spreads your thighs, exposing you completely. you shiver, but not from cold. there's something about the way he looks at you, the way his voice drops into that rough, possessive tone that makes your stomach tighten.

the first touch of his slick fingers against your rim makes you gasp. he circles slowly, teasing, watching how your body reacts. "so tight," he growls. "gonna ruin you for anything else."

just as the tip of his finger begins to press inside, movement catches your eye—simon, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. his gaze is dark, hungry, tracking konig's every movement. when he pushes off the wall and stalks forward, your breath hitches.

"look at that," simon murmurs, dragging a calloused finger through your folds. "already wet for it." his touch is rougher than konig's, less patient, but it sends a jolt of heat through you all the same.

konig chuckles, the sound low and pleased as he works his finger deeper. "she loves it," he says, twisting his wrist just enough to make you whimper. "don't you, little one? love being stuffed full?"

simon's fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have your hips jerking. "fuck," he breathes, watching konig push a second finger in. "look at her. greedy little thing."

the stretch burns, but the pleasure simon coaxes from your clit makes it impossible to focus on anything else. konig scissors his fingers, stretching you further, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "soon," he promises, voice thick with want, "it'll be my cock. gonna wreck this perfect ass until you can't walk."

simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear. "and i'll be right here," he murmurs, "playing with this pretty cunt while he does."

the plug is cold when konig presses it against your hole, but the way he works it inside—slowly—has you arching off the bed. simon's fingers curl inside you, matching konig's pace, and when the plug finally pops into place, you come with a broken cry, their praises ringing in your ears.

the room is hazy as they pulls away, simon's fingers glistening as he drags them slowly from your soaked cunt. you're still trembling, oversensitive and boneless, but he doesn't let you rest for long.

"open," he commands, pressing those same wet fingers to your lips.

you obey without thinking, tongue darting out to lick them clean, the taste of yourself sharp and familiar. simon hums, satisfied, before reaching for the tray he'd brought earlier. the food is simple but to you, it might as well be a feast.

simon doesn't hand it to you. instead, he picks up a piece of fruit, holding it to your mouth. "eat," he says, voice rough but not unkind.

you take a bite, the flavors exploding on your tongue, and you have to force yourself not to whimper. it's so good, so much better than anything you've had in what feels like forever. simon watches you chew, his dark eyes tracking every movement of your throat as you swallow.

"that's it," he murmurs, grabbing another piece. "good girl."

he feeds you like that making sure you take your time. konig watches from the foot of the bed. you can feel the weight of his gaze. it's heavy, possessive, and it makes your skin prickle even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs.

when the tray is empty, simon sets it aside and wipes your mouth with his thumb, the gesture almost tender. "sleep now," he orders, pushing you back onto the pillows.

you don't have the energy to resist, not when your body feels so heavy, so used. the plug inside you is a constant reminder of their claim, but right now, even that can't keep you awake.

the last thing you see is konig leaning over you, his hand brushing your hair from your face. "rest," he says, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "we're not done with you yet."

escape is the last thing on your mind as you doze off.

the next morning, sunlight filters through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. it had been so long since you'd waken up to the sun. you stir as the door creaks open, konig's broad frame filling the doorway.

"morning, little one," he rumbles, voice still rough with sleep.

you sit up slowly, the soreness in your body a dull ache now, more memory than pain. the plug in your ass still feels foreign. konig crosses the room in a few strides, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "feel better?" he asks, tilting his head.

you nod, and something in his posture relaxes—just slightly.

"good," he says. "then let's get you dressed."

he doesn't give you a choice, but his hands are gentle as he helps you into fresh clothes—soft cotton pants, a loose sweater that smells faintly of him. when he kneels to slide socks onto your feet, his fingers linger over the fading marks from the shackle, his thumb pressing lightly against the tender skin.

you had fallen so into routine with the two of them that your old life was a thing of the past. it's not like you had anything or anyone to go back to. at least here, you had a roof over your head and you didn't have to worry about when or what your next meal would be.

"no more basement," he murmurs, more to himself than you.

"no more basement," you repeat after him.

then he stands, offering you his hand. "come. you can see the rest of the house."

your breath catches. real freedom—even if it's just within these walls—feels like a dream. konig leads you through the hallway, his grip firm but not restraining. the house is larger than you expected, the floors polished wood, the walls lined with framed maps and black-and-white photographs.

but it's the library that makes you stop.

floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed with books of every color and size. your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to touch, to explore. konig notices, of course. he always notices.

"go on," he says, nudging you forward.

you don't need to be told twice. the moment your fingertips brush the spine of a book, something tight in your chest loosens. you pull one out at random, the weight of it familiar and comforting in your hands.

konig watches as you curl into an armchair, your knees tucked under you, the book open in your lap. he doesn't join you, just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. but he doesn't leave either.

the silence is comfortable, broken only by the turn of pages. you lose yourself in the words, the story pulling you under, and for the first time in so long, you forget—forget the basement, forget the pain, forget that you're anything but a girl reading a book on a quiet morning.

until konig shifts, pushing off the wall. "simon's back," he says, and just like that, the spell breaks.

your fingers tighten around the book, but you don't protest when he takes it from you, marking the page with a slip of paper before setting it aside.

"later," he promises, his hand sliding under your chin, tilting your face up to his. "if you're good."

the rest of the day goes by in a blur, you even asked simon if you could cook dinner and he agreed although he was wary of letting you use a knife, reasonably so.

the knife feels heavy in your hand—too much power after so long without any. simon watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking every movement. you can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you focus on the vegetables in front of you, slicing them carefully.

"slow," simon murmurs, stepping closer. his breath ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "don't get too excited now."

you nod, forcing your hands to steady. the rhythm of chopping is almost meditative, the repetitive motion soothing. simon hums in approval, his fingers brushing your hip as he reaches past you for a glass. the casual touch makes your stomach tighten.

dinner is simple—pasta, roasted vegetables, a sauce simmering on the stove. it's more than you've cooked in months, maybe years, and the domesticity of it feels surreal. konig appears just as you're plating the food, his mask pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw. he inhales deeply, nodding.

"smells good, little one," he says, taking his seat at the table.

simon doesn't say thank you, but the way he cleans his plate tells you enough.

the meal is quiet, the only sounds the scrape of forks and konig's occasional low comment. you eat slowly, savoring each bite, hyperaware of their eyes on you. when you finish, konig takes your plate without a word, stacking it with the others.

then simon stands, stretching lazily before fixing you with a look that makes your pulse jump.

"bed," he says, tone leaving no room for argument.

you obey without hesitation, your body already reacting to the command. konig follows, his presence a solid warmth at your back as you climb the stairs.

your room is dim, the bed neatly made—just as you left it. but you don't get the chance to admire it before simon is pushing you onto the mattress, his hands rough but purposeful.

"you did good today," simon murmurs as he strips you of your clothes, "so we'll make it good for you too."

the mattress dips under their combined weight as konig settles behind you, his massive frame caging you in. his thick thighs bracket yours, forcing your legs wider. you can feel the obscene stretch of his cock already—hard and leaking against your ass—as he works the plug inside you with slow, filthy twists.

"fuck, look at you," simon growls from between your legs, his calloused fingers spreading your drooling cunt wide. "clit all swollen and begging, and this greedy little hole—" he slaps it, making you jerk, "—dripping just from getting stuffed in the ass. fucking perfect."

konig’s hand fists your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he finally pulls the plug free with a wet pop. the cold air hits your stretched rim for just a second before he’s pressing the thick head of his cock against it, spit-slick and relentless.

"breathe, little one," he rumbles, but doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s sinking in, inch by brutal inch. your back arches, a broken scream tearing from your throat as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.

simon doesn’t let you recover. he flips you onto your back, your legs hooked over his shoulders as he slams into your cunt in one brutal thrust. the angle is deep, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every snap of his hips.

"that’s it, take it," simon grunts, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit as konig starts moving behind you. the stretch is unreal, your body stuffed impossibly full, their cocks rubbing against each other through the thin barrier of your walls.

konig’s hand slides around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur as he murmurs, "feel that? both of us inside you, owning you." his thrusts are slower, deeper, dragging against your oversensitive rim with every pull.

simon leans down, biting your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. "gonna fuck you so full, princess," he snarls. "gonna pump this tight cunt until it’s dripping with me—then watch as he seals it all inside you."

you’re sobbing now, your body strung tight between them, pleasure and pain blurring into one unbearable wave. konig’s free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he picks up the pace, his balls slapping against your ass with every snap of his hips.

"come," simon demands, slapping your clit again. "come on our cocks like the filthy little thing you are."

you shatter with a scream, your cunt fluttering around simon as your ass clenches down on konig. they don’t stop—just fuck you through it, their groans mingling as they chase their own release.

simon comes first, his cock pulsing inside you as he grinds deep, filling you up just like he promised. konig follows with a low snarl, his thrusts turning erratic before he spills, his cum mixing with simon’s as it leaks out around his still-hard cock.

for a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the wet drip of their spend onto the sheets.

then konig leans down, plugging your ass again, now filled with his cum. "my perfect little one," he murmurs, pressing a kiss through his mask to your pulse point. "you did so well."

simon just smirks, tapping your swollen clit once more just to watch you twitch. your body is limp between them, every muscle trembling from overstimulation. for a moment, you think they’ll leave you like this—used and sticky and aching. but then simon shifts, his arms sliding beneath you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you whimper at the movement, your oversensitive skin protesting, but he hushes you with a low hum.

"shh, princess" he murmurs, carrying you toward the bathroom. "we’ll take care of you."

the water is already warm when he lowers you into the tub, the heat soothing your sore muscles. konig follows, a damp cloth in hand as he kneels beside you.

"look at you," simon says, dragging the cloth over your stomach, wiping away the evidence of their claim. "so pretty when you’re all fucked out."

you shiver, but there’s no bite to his words—just quiet satisfaction. konig takes your hand, his thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles as simon cleans between your legs, his touch surprisingly careful despite the way you flinch.

when the water starts to cool, konig lifts you, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you back to bed. the sheets have been changed, fresh and soft against your skin. simon presses a glass of water to your lips, his free hand cupping the back of your neck to help you drink.

"slow," he warns, but his voice lacks its usual edge.

you swallow obediently, the water soothing your raw throat. konig climbs in beside you, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. simon settles at your back, his arm slung over your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder.

"you can leave tomorrow if you want, the rest of the money promised to you will be wired to your account," konig murmurs into the quiet, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm. the words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected.

you go still against him.

simon’s grip tightens slightly at your waist, but he doesn’t argue. just waits for your response.

the offer is real. you can tell by the way konig’s chest rises and falls, measured and slow, like he’s bracing for something. like he already knows.

your throat feels tight. you think of whatever shitty life awaits you beyond these four wall. you had nothing to go back to. yes, the money would be nice but not as nice as whatever this was. you think of the careful way simon had fed you, the way konig had held you after. you think of the basement—the cold, the dark, the ache of being nothing.

and then you think of this.

the weight of them around you, the heat, the way their touches have started to feel less like a threat and more like...something else. something you don’t have a name for yet.

you press closer to konig, nuzzling into the space between his collarbone and jaw, his mask tickling your nose. his breath hitches, just slightly.

"no," you whisper.

simon exhales against your shoulder, his arm curling tighter. konig’s hand stills on your arm before sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the spot behind your ear.

"good choice, princess" simon rumbles, and you hear a rustle behind you followed by a kiss to your shoulder. you lean over to see that he had taken his mask off, it was your first time seeing him without it. your heart catches in your throat, you hadn't expected him to be that attractive.

konig doesn’t say anything. but when you tilt your head up to look at him, his mask is off, his dark eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes and drift off.

the days melt into weeks, then months, then years—each one softer than the last. the basement gathers dust, its door left permanently ajar until one day konig tears it off its hinges and turns the space into a wine cellar. you laugh when simon fills the first rack with cheap beer instead.

their masks stay off more often than not now. you learn the way simon’s nose scrunches when he laughs, the way konig’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he’s fighting sleep. they learn the way you hum when you cook, the way your toes curl when they kiss that spot behind your knee.

mornings find you tangled in their arms, afternoons in the library with your head in konig’s lap as simon reads aloud (badly, on purpose, just to hear you giggle). evenings are spent on the porch, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of gold and violet, their hands never far from yours.

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gloomwitchwrites · 2 days ago

Text

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Eleven

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, suggestive themes, brief alcohol use

Word Count: 7k

Task Force 141 preps for the coming mission. Kyle and Johnny have a serious talk with Simon. Simon takes you out on a date. A proposition is made.

Chapter Ten // Chapter Twelve

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

“It’s a bloody coup.”

Captain Price’s cigar smoke lingers in the air, stilted and stuffy and picking at Simon’s oral fixation. The pack of cigarettes and lighter are in Simon’s hand a second later. Balaclava off, the filtered end resting between his lips, a click as he pops the lighter, orange flame sparking to life.

Simon inhales, cherishes the burn.

“Attempted coup,” exhales Simon, a cloud of smoke circling his head. “A fucking mess of one.”

Pictures and paper litter the dark wood tabletop. A detailed map of the northern border of Washington and the southern border of Canada sits in the middle. Nearby, a small lamp provides a bit of warm light, and it’s all they’ll have at this hour. Late in the evenings, when most of the population is in bed, power is conserved and redirected. Only necessary infrastructure is allowed nightly clearance. Task Force 141 might be sitting in a small meeting room in the military district, but a building mainly used for clerical work isn’t high priority.

The fact that a singular lamp is even working is a bloody miracle.

Captain Price smooths his facial hair with his fingers, his expression pensive. “The masterminds went to ground. We’re being sent to sniff them out.”

Kyle gives a small shake of his head. “Fucking animals. Mowing unarmed civilians down like that.”

Simon takes a long drag on his cigarette, allowing the burn to take the place of his anger. Rage won’t help. There are no enemies to fight in this cramped room with smoke-stale air and fetid tempers. What he wants is to seek comfort with you, to have your warmth cradled in his arms before he’s forced to leave it behind.

“All that fighting and no one learned anything,” growls Johnny.

“Humans are fickle, sergeant,” replies Simon slowly, his thumb smoothing over the metal casing of the lighter. “Can’t always trust them.”

Johnny’s side-eye is sharp enough to slice steel. No one is in a good mood. This is their work and yet it’s different—too personal. In the beginning, Task Force 141 was bounced around from Safe Zone to Safe Zone, but it wasn’t unusual. Military personnel were on the move and hardly anyone stayed in one place for long. But that’s when humanity stopped fighting and organized. The old disagreements were put to rest and the new fractures had yet to crawl forth to sink their teeth in. The team was sent outward, to push back against external threats. Internal threats were unthinkable because the mandates were working and people wanted to live.

“When are we leaving?” asks Simon, pointedly ignoring Johnny’s cutting glare.

Price clears his throat. “In three days.”

“Why the delay?” probes Kyle. “Why not tonight? Or tomorrow?”

Leaning forward, Price shifts the map of Washington and Canada to reveal a detailed map of Safe Zone Thirty. It’s one of the smaller zones, mainly used for logging and growing certain crops like potatoes. Fringe and insignificant compared to the larger zones, which makes it the perfect target. A place like that flips with the right control and no ones the wiser until its absence leaves a dent.

Price’s mouth twitches with irritation. “One group wants us there. Another…not so much.”

“Fuck what those bastards think,” mutters Kyle with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Not my call,” replies Price, tapping his cigar against the glass ashtray. “But we are going. Despite the pushback.”

“We’ll root them out,” says Kyle confidently, settling back in his chair. “Always do.”

It’s all schematics after that, a draining process of the who and the why and the basic disregard of humanity. The end of the war was supposed to put all this to rest, to unify the remains, and forge a future out of bloodied scraps.

But humans love their violence—they adore consumption.

Why be at peace? Why be stagnant? Why not rip into the meat?

The walk to the pub downstairs is utterly silent except for Johnny’s off-key whistling. Of all the advantages of the military district, the free-flowing alcohol is a perk Simon will miss while they’re away. Pubs are always open. From sun up to sun down, soldiers of every rank frequent their stoop, spilling out into the street with bottles still in hand.

Simon sinks into a chair in the back of the pub while Johnny orders for them at the bar. There is no cost. No open tabs. Not for anyone willing to hold a gun in the name of global security. But money doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all been dissolved for the sake of harmony.

“Fucker gave me the whole bottle,” laughs Johnny as he cradles three rocks glasses and a half-full bottle of bourbon.

Kyle stands, reaching for the glasses before they topple to the ground. They’re distributed, and the whiskey is poured with a heavy hand.

“Another bloody trip,” mutters Kyle. “We just got home from the last one.” He sighs heavily, running his hand over his face is exhaustion. “How long will this one be.”

The wall sconces glow dimly, not from electricity, but half-melted candles. It’s the go-to when the power is yanked and distributed elsewhere. Everything in the pub is in shadow, which is fucking perfect for Simon. The balaclava can come off, and he can enjoy his bourbon without some wanker having a good stare about it.

Even in the shadows, Johnny’s smile is a sunbeam. “At least that bonny blonde from the social will be here when you come back.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “She spit or swallow?” Simon snorts into his glass as Kyle swipes at Soap’s head. Johnny cackles. “Oh, aye. You always liked the spitters.”

“Piss off, you wanker,” laughs Kyle, the earlier exhaustion dissipating. Moving his rocks glass around, Kyle shifts his attention to Simon, a knowing glint in his eye. “What about your woman? Have her hooked yet?”

Simon’s thumb rubs a bead of condensation off his glass. “Working on it.” The water melts into his skin. “She’s a stubborn thing.”

“I remember,” chuckles Kyle, bringing his own glass up for a sip. “She calm down any?”

“You mean does she knee me in the dick and flee?”

Johnny wheezes, covering his eyes with his hand as he falls into a fit of laughter. “Hells, Lt. That was fucking golden.” He lightly hits Kyle’s arm with the back of his hand. “Remember how hard he went down? Fucking beautiful it was.”

“True strike,” says Kyle with admiration.

Simon rubs at his eye, a small smile teasing the surface. “Goddamn pricks.” Kyle and Johnny both make jerking off gestures before they devolve into hysterical wheezing that leaves Johnny bent over and gasping for air. “Now you’re just taking the piss.”

“Go on then,” smiles Kyle. “Tell us how you’re wooing her?”

“Putting on that charm, aren’t ya, Lt?”

Gaz elbows Soap. “Buying her flowers.”

Soap winks. “Cracking jokes.”

“Romantic walks in the park.”

“Infinite orgasms.”

Simon remains silent, his good mood wavering slightly with the coming interrogation. There is no clear path of avoidance, no path he can take to steer the conversation away from you and how utterly shit he is at coaxing you into his arms. Kyle and Johnny won’t let this matter drop. Simon has asked too much of them already. They know the pursuit is active, and with him bringing them into it just to flame his own ego, they believe they have the right to know the details.

Maybe it’s Simon’s neutral expression that gives him away—the sudden shift from good mood to quiet hesitation—that triggers Kyle’s next question.

“Are you pursuing her?”

Simon runs his tongue over his teeth as he considers the bourbon in his glass. “I am.”

“You don’t sound happy about it,” states Gaz, resting his forearm on the tabletop.

Johnny stares at Simon with an odd expression. “You were up my ass at the social about her.”

“You weren’t keeping others away from her,” mutters Simon.

Johnny rolls his eyes. Kyle leans back in his chair; one hand raised slightly as the gears in his head process the situation.

“What are you doing, mate?” asks Gaz.

Simon runs his finger along the lip of the glass. “I’m being honest with her,” he replies.

“About what?” counters Kyle.

“About her situation.” Simon taps the rim of the glass. Once. Twice. Thrice. “That they’re going to make her choose. And she should choose me.”

Kyle and Johnny both let out exasperated groans, their movements exaggerated as they throw their hands in air.

“You’re got be bloody joking, Simon,” mutters Kyle.

Defensiveness rises. “It’s true,” retorts Simon. “I told her the truth. Showed her what I have to offer.”

Johnny has both elbows on the table, hands covering his face as he chortles.

Kyle drapes an arm across the back of the empty chair next to him. “And what do you have to offer?”

Simon purses his lips, tipping his head back to finish the last of the bourbon in his glass. “Protection. Safety. Security,” he lists, reaching for the bottle in the middle of the table. Simon refills his glass. “That I’d provide for her.”

“Jesus Christ,” guffaws Kyle. “How the fuck are you pulling women, mate?”

“What’s wrong with what I told her?”

“That’s what you said to entice her? Are you fucking serious?”

Simon stares, unamused and over this. “It’s what all the other women wanted from me.”

Kyle shakes his head, snagging the bottle of bourbon when Simon sets it down. “And you think she’s the same? That it’s enough?”

“I didn’t say that,” replies Simon, a threat of a growl rising in his voice.

“But you implied it,” says Kyle, pointing at him as Johhny sits up, sharing in Kyle’s skepticism. Kyle fills his glass and hands it over to Johnny. “What makes you think what you promised her is special? That you’re the only one who can do that?”

“Security isn’t guaranteed.”

“Just because the women that pursued you wanted those things, doesn’t mean she does. There are plenty of single women across this Safe Zone who don’t want those things. Most of them are perfectly fucking happy. And,” Kyle continues, shifting in his chair, “they’re picking men who couldn’t even shoot the side of a building if you handed them a gun.”

“And when things go south, as they always do, they’ll wish they did,” says Simon, unwilling to budge.

He’s not wrong. Simon knows this in his heart. The world might have been shattered, the pieces glued together to resemble what it is now, but Captain Price’s briefing tonight proved exactly why society is still fragile.

Kyle’s body language shifts. It’s subtle, but Simon sees it. He’s changing tactics.

“You promised her security and safety. Great,” shrugs Kyle. “You know who can also provide that?” His head tilts slightly. “Me.” He nods toward Johnny. “Soap.” He gestures toward the rest of the men in the pub. “All of them. Your offer isn’t special. And that’s where you’re missing the damn point.”

Gaz is stubbornly persistent, and as much as Simon is annoyed by it, the man isn’t wrong. Simon isn’t winning you over like he thought he would. You’re still resisting—pushing back. His actions were fucking selfish in taking you but it was also to protect you. You were not a citizen of the Safe Zones in that moment. The mandate requires that any human found outside the walls of a Safe Zone must be brought back if they are not an active threat. Simon had the highest rank. He was leading that team. He had the first right to declare intent on bringing you back with them. If he hadn’t, you’d have been a doe during hunting season.

It's barbaric. And it’s also a secret.

As much as the people in power reassure the general population that all outsiders are given proper due process and rights, that’s simply not the case. They change their tune depending on the situation, and for you, they would. You were a lone woman, a potential contributor to the gene pool, and they would have turned the other cheek if Simon had brought you back and insisted that you were to be his and his alone.

They would have granted it. Easily. Without a fucking question.

But Simon didn’t. He brought you back, claimed you at reintegration and processing, but only in that he was bringing you back into the fold, that in your file, it would simply have his name and rank for submitting personnel—not that he intended more. Shit like that stays under the table. It’s one of the easiest ways for military members to snag a wife and start a family.

Which is why Kyle isn’t even suggesting that Simon do it, or questioning why he didn’t.

“Have you even asked her what she wants?” asks Gaz. “Talked to her about what she wants in a partner?”

“I know what she needs,” replies Simon.

“And what’s that?”

“Me.”

Kyle smirks. “You ask her that?”

No.

Johnny settles back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked underneath his armpits. “Ya know, I’ve got a question for you, Lt.”

“Do you, Johnny?”

“Does she even know your name?”

Kyle’s laugh is clipped and short. “Seriously?”

Johnny nods, addressing Gaz. “Remember at the social? When she referred to Simon, she only said—”

“Lieutenant Riley,” finished Kyle. “Never Simon.”

“Nope.”

Gaz and Soap slowly turn their heads in his direction.

Goddamnit.

“I like it when she calls me by my rank.”

Johnny’s grin is feral. “What do you think, Kyle? Think you’d blow your load if your blonde bomb moaned your rank while you fucked her?”

Kyle shrugs. “Probably. Novelty might wear off though.”

“Oh, aye.” Johnny pretends to hump the air. “Sergeant,” he moans loudly and dramatically.

A few heads swivel in their direction and Simon punches Johnny’s arm. “Shut up, Soap.”

“In all seriousness,” says Kyle. “Does she really not know your name? Is it just…lieutenant?”

“No,” Simon admits. “Sometimes she says ‘Ghost.’”

“Thought you were trying to make her a wife,” heckles Johnny. “Wear your mask around her too?”

“Only when others are around,” states Simon flatly. “She’s seen my face.”

“And she hasn’t bolted?”

“Piss off.”

“You need to talk to her, mate,” advises Kyle. “Ask her about herself. Make an effort to know her.” Simon opens his mouth, a retort forming on his tongue, but Kyle holds up his hand. “And don’t fucking say you did because you didn’t.”

“Don’t make me pull rank, Garrick.”

“I already know what you’re thinking. The only shit you know about her comes from her fucking files. Reading a dossier doesn’t cut it. She’s a human being. Not a target.”

Kyle is right. He is right and it’s fucking infuriating. Simon’s lack of success is a sore spot, sure, but he doesn’t need to be smacked over the head with it.

“Thought you’d give me more credit than that.”

“And I don’t think you’re giving her enough,” counters Gaz. “Take her out on a proper date. Have a deep, meaningful conversation with her. Think it’s clear by the skull face,” and Kyle gestures with an open hand in front of his own, “that you’re a scary fucker who can and will protect those he cares about. No one is questioning that.”

Kyle reaches for the bottle, topping off Simon’s bourbon. Simon considers the dark liquid—and his next move. He has three—no—less than. Maybe a day. Perhaps two. Not nearly long enough to convince you, to bring you over to his side completely.

Johnny nods. “And if you can’t win her over with your stunning personality—”

“Here we fucking go,” mutters Simon.

“Could win her over with your huge—”

The last word is silenced as Kyle slaps his hand over Johnny’s mouth. Soap cocks an eyebrow and grasps Gaz’s wrist, playfully shoving him away. “Was going to say heart.”

“Right,” chuckles Kyle. “What about you, Soap? Manage to scrounge up some tail without his help.” He gestures with a thumb at Simon.

The two men start to jokingly bicker, giving one another shit over who is getting their dick wet more often. Simon only cuts in to goad, to poke at them, but mostly to fire Johnny up until he’s mouthing off in an accent so thick, not even his kin would be able to understand him.

This is the normal he knows. It’s what he clings to. There are no more walks along the streets of Manchester. No commutes into London. No trips north to the Scottish Highlands. The homeland is gone, the major cities all craters or shattered from constant bombardment. Habitable, thankfully, but it’ll take generations to return it to a fraction of what it used to be.

Home is now wherever one can make it. Home, for the moment, is this Safe Zone. His current posting. This mission might be temporarily moving him elsewhere, but it’s possible that different orders can come in after their time is up in Safe Zone Thirty. That might tear him away from you forever, unless he includes transfer referrals with your name on them. They’ll accept it, as long as you agree.

Long after the bourbon is gone, and Simon finishes his last cigarette, the three of them call it a night. A trio, meandering down the street, laughing as Johnny poorly sings every obscure drinking ballad he knows. Kyle joins in, on tune but spouting complete gibberish. The cheerful mood wanes as they approach your building. It’s a stark reminder of tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.

Simon pauses at the entry door, knowing that the alcohol is telling him to go to you, rather than his fucking brain. If Johnny and Kyle weren’t here, he’d listen to that buzz, climb those stairs, knock on your door regardless of the fact that it’s the middle of the fucking night. Good decisions are never made while pissed on shitty, old bourbon.

Every step is agony, every forward movement like a barrage of daggers. Time is limited. Not only is Simon fucking leaving in three days, but your probationary period is up tomorrow. You’ll start your move out of military housing and into civilian life. You won’t be near Simon anymore, at least, not on a regular basis. His job requires him to be close to his work, but he’s a civilian, too, and he has his own designated space out amongst the plain clothes.

Not that you know that. Or that he tells people about it.

And at the ass-crack of dawn, Simon is standing at your front door, still a little buzzed and bleary-eyed from the bourbon, itching for a cigarette that isn’t there.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his forehead.

There’s no way you’re up and about, but he’s already here. He can at least try.

A deep breath in. Raised fist. Skin meeting treated wood.

“Come in!”

Simon steps back, surprised that you even answer, and so quickly. Hesitantly, he places his hand on the doorknob. Giving it a gentle testing twist, the brass surrenders to him.

“Fucking unbelievable,” he murmurs, astounded by your lack of self-preservation. Anyone could walk in if they wanted to. Did you leave it unlocked all night?

As the door swings shut behind him, Simons makes sure the deadbolt is in place.

“Lieutenant!” you exclaim, glancing up from the spread of papers in front of you. Kneeling next to the coffee table by the worn sofa, your startled expression clearly leans into flustered frustration. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“It’s your last day,” states Simon. “On probation. Thought I’d come by. Offer my help.” The relief is palpable, sliding off of you as the tension in your shoulders dissipates. “And it’s Simon. You don’t need to use my rank to address me. That’s for Captain Price when he’s about to chew my ass out.”

“Oh,” you say, clipped. “Um. Yes. Thank you. Simon. I—” You glance down at the chaotic spread before you. “It’s just…a lot. And I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“Want me to go?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant to be dismissive. Or that I don’t want you here. I’m…”

“Overwhelmed?” finishes Simon.

You incline your head, sheepish.

Simon approaches the sofa, sinking down on the edge of the nearest cushion. “How can I help?” he gently murmurs, extending his hand to receive some of the paperwork. You pick something out from the pile and hand it to him.

“I don’t understand the money system that isn’t a money system but looks like a money system that is also a bartering system but also—"

“Slow down, dove,” he soothes, resting his hand on the back of your neck, thumb rubbing the space between where the tension is returning. “Set that aside. Start with something else.” As he smooths slow circles into your muscles, you lean into his touch, breathing deeply. “You have the address for your new place?”

A silly question. A diversion. Because Simon already knows. He made sure to pick it out, and Price made it happen.

“Yes,” you breathe, tone lighter. “It’s near the library, thankfully. Overlooks the park. Hannah came with me yesterday. To take a look.”

“You like it?” asks Simon, still rubbing your shoulder muscle.

The smile you give him is lovely and honey-drenched. “Much better than this. Lots of natural light. It’s a bit small, but it’s also just me. I can make it work.” You tilt your head back to look up at him. “And waking up to a park every day will be a nice change.”

That’s on purpose, love.

Simon might be a selfish asshole, but he listens. Screaming in his face also did the trick. He took you from your home, and while he can’t deliver you back to your porch hammock or garden outside your bedroom window, he can certainly give you something similar.

“You like the area?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Yes. It’s lovely.”

“Good.” Simon switches to your other shoulder. You sigh with contentment, and Simon ignores the fact that all the blood in his body is rushing toward his dick. “Did they give you all your proper identification?”

Under his touch, the muscles tighten.

“I honestly have no idea.” You lean forward and out of Simon’s grip. Shuffling through some of the papers, you present Simon with a small, thin, and rectangular shaped card. “This?”

“Yes,” confirms Simon. “Always keep that with you. It’s what identifies you, and it’s also how you can buy things.”

“But there isn’t any money. No currency.” You turn back to look at him. “Charles sent over,” you gesture at the mess, “packets of information and none of it makes any sense.”

“You’re right. There isn’t any paper money. No electronic bank accounts. That’s all been dissolved.”

“So how do I buy things?”

Explaining things in a condensed context but with enough clarity to communicate comprehension isn’t Simon’s strongest trait. He likes few words. Directness. Bluntness. Quickness. He has plenty of patience but sometimes it’s selective.

Simon taps the bronze circle on your identification card. “Everyone has a circle. Different colors mean different things.”

You frown. “This is already sounding a lot like something else.”

“It’s an allowance…of sorts,” reassures Simon. “Everyone receives the same baseline resources. Depending on what you do, you’re given a certain amount of…points. In your free hours, you can use them how you like.”

“So, it’s a caste system.”

Simon frowns. “No.”

“See,” you state matter-of-factly. “This is why I’m not getting it.”

He reaches into his pocket for his wallet. “If it were a caste system, everyone would be stagnant. No social mobility.” Finding his identification card, Simon presents the gold circle on his. “The circles are like a salary.”

Your gaze narrows slightly. “Instead of physical currency it’s a point system? You do this job and you get paid a certain number of points.”

“Exactly, dove.”

You stare at him a moment before you speak. “That’s stupid.”

Simon shrugs. “Didn’t make the decision.”

You playfully stick your tongue out at him, and Simon smiles, imitating the gesture right back at you. Your mouth forms into pure sunshine. Simon wants to bottle it. Save it for a rainy day.

“They give you a pickup schedule for your provisions?” asks Simon.

“For my what?”

“Food. Hygiene products. Basic necessities.” You blink, saying nothing. Simon leans forward and gently picks up the different papers and stapled packets they gave you. “Everyone receives them. Standard shit to keep you alive.”

Your lips slightly part, confusion setting in. A bolt of anger rises, not with you, but with Charles and his clear lack of preparation. The advisor they assign to people coming in from the outside is supposed to go over all of this in detail. They should be guiding you, teaching you, and if they’re too busy, there are entire fucking classes he could put you in. Either Charles doesn’t give a shit, or he’s terrible at his fucking job.

Simon rubs the back of his head. “You’re single. Living alone. Healthy. They’ll give you the standard. Nothing extra.”

“Like rations?”

He shrugs. “No. Equitable distribution. You don’t need calcium supplements like granny does. But she won’t need menstrual products like you will.”

“Oh,” you say quickly, glancing away to fidget with the edge of the table. “Then,” you say tentatively, “what are the points for if I’m provided the basics?”

“The extra,” answers Simon. “For you to go see a movie. Grab a coffee on your way to work. Go for drinks with Hannah and Eloise.”

“That—I can do that?”

Simon nods. “The Safe Zones weren’t built from nothing. They’re former cities. Converted to fit the needs of the present.”

You laugh like you can’t quite believe it. “But how? I—I thought…I thought the world was so much worse than all this. Pockets of nuclear wasteland. Scorched earth. Acid rain. Just…devastation.”

Simon shifts closer, the side of his thigh brushing against your shoulder. The contact is electric—a slice of sharpened metal that cuts cleanly. While your closeness sends a ripple of heat through his body, there are more pressing matters. Like the fact that don’t know anything, that you are truly in the dark. Simon is angry for you, that such things were kept secret. He’s not aware of what life was like for you before he took you, but did your community lie? Did they omit?

And then Charles. Your advisor clearly ignored every single one of his job requirements in order to be a lazy sack of shit. While Simon would love to sit here and walk through every little detail, there wouldn’t be enough time, and it would overwhelm you. Already, the tension is setting in again. Panic is there, too, hiding beneath but threatening to emerge.

What you need is a distraction. An escape.

You fidget with your sleeve, gaze averted. “I’m not sure if Charles sent anything about a provisions schedule.”

Leaning forward, Simon grabs a small stack of papers and flips through it.

There’s information about emergency services. The nearest hospital and walk-in clinics. A map of the bus and streetcar systems.

“Here,” he says, finding the correct one. “Looks like you have a form to fill out.”

“Fuck,” you groan, elongating the vowel. Your head tips back, resting against the sofa cushion next to his knee, hands over your face. With a heavy sigh, your hands fall away, gaze pointed upward at the ceiling. “I still need to pack.”

“I’ll handle it,” states Simon simply, returning the papers to the table.

“You don’t need to do that,” you insist.

Placing your hand on his thigh, you squeeze, and that one touch nearly sends him over the edge, diving into dark harbors where there is no anchor.

“S’all right, dove. Want to.” Simon reaches out and gently grasps your chin, tilting your face upward. Your lips part. An inhale. A shiver. Simon nearly moans. Nearly closes the distance. “Remember that outdoor market you saw on your first day?”

Your eyes widen, becoming eager. “Yes!”

“Want to go? Grab breakfast? Look around?”

With a delighted squeal, you throw your arms around his neck. The added weight startles him. Instinct ensnares him. Seizing your hips, Simon guides you into his lap, keeping you close to prevent you from taking him down to the floor with your happiness.

“That a ‘yes,’ dove?” he asks with a tease, tapping the tip of your nose.

You’re all flustered softness, a stark departure from your stubborn tongue and fiery gaze. Both suit you. Both are attractive.

“Can we go now?”

You’re asking permission, seeking his direction, and Simon nearly groans over this revelation. There is no power struggle here, no back-and-forth, no sharpened daggers to draw first blood. You’re waiting for him to lead, and to him, this is but a small fracture in the wall you’ve built around yourself.

“Right now,” he affirms.

Your eagerness carries in every step. From the flat to the open market, you’re bouncing on your toes, nearly coming off the ground. As the two of you approach the entrance, the amount of people thickens. You inch close to him, brushing up against the side of his arm. Simon reaches out to tuck you against him, and there is no resistance. You sink into him, placing your hand on his back, fingers lightly curled to anchor yourself. Sweet victory sings within him—a golden shine of pleasure. Not a single person here will question whether or not you belong to him. There is too much closeness, too much familiarity to believe otherwise.

Simon savors it as he guides you into the throng, relishing the way your eyes widen. Every booth and vendor have something different to offer. It’s…normal, and whenever Simon comes, he’s temporality transported back to Manchester during a market day or festival. Humanity isn’t gone. Not completely. There is still community—a sense of peace.

“Am I allowed to buy things?” you ask tentatively as you come to a stop at a booth selling canvas paintings.

“You bring your identification card?” You nod. “Then yes.”

“But how does it work?”

Simon’s gaze roams over the various paintings. “Which one caught your eye?”

You take a moment. “That one,” you murmur, pointing at a particular piece with various strokes of blue in different shades, speckled with white and gold. It reminds Simon of the ocean.

Reaching into his pocket, Simon withdraws his wallet. “I’ll take this one,” he says to the grey-haired woman puttering about inside the tent.

Her head lifts, a soft smile forming on her face. “Absolutely.” She retrieves the painting and sets sit down on a small folding table.

Simon turns his head to address you. “See that ledger there? She’ll write my name down and how much I spent at her stall.” He holds out his card and she takes it, pencil poised to write.

“And where does it go, exactly?” you ask, leaning forward slightly to watch the woman write.

“I have to send the ledger off at the end of the week,” the woman answers for him. “People at desks handle the rest.”

“The government tracks every purchase?” you question with disdain. “Sounds like overreach.”

“They’re not tracking what it is. Just how much.”

The woman glances up. “Are you new?” she asks, addressing you.

“Yes,” you answer slowly. “I came from…outside the wall.”

Her smile widens. “Welcome!” Picking up the painting, she holds it out to you. “You can have this one on the house.”

“Oh, no,” you laugh. “We can’t.”

“Nonsense. You’re new. I know you don’t have much. Take it.” She turns to Simon. “I’ll erase your name. Enjoy.”

Simon inclines his head, and ushers you away.

“I still don’t entirely understand,” you murmur, clutching the painting to your chest. “What prevents people from buying up everything?”

“Nothing,” shrugs Simon. “But expect some visitors.”

“Police?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s not very helpful, Lieutenant.”

“Told you to call me Simon.”

You come to a stop, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he reassures. “And going over your limit here and there won’t penalize you. It’s for people overconsuming. Being greedy. Wasting resources for a hit of dopamine.”

This time you nod. “That makes sense.”

“Hungry?” asks Simon, shifting the conversation elsewhere.

With another nod of agreement, Simon steers you toward the food. After stopping at each stall just so you can read the menus, the two of you finally circle back to a small bakery stand for warm blueberry coffee cake and a sausage roll.

The greasy meat melts on Simon’s tongue, chasing away the lingering aftereffects of last night’s excursion, but the real pleasure is watching you enjoy your food. Every bite is followed by a moan or a pleased sigh. Under the shade of a tree, your shoulders wiggle each time you go in for another fork-full.

When you’re done, the two of you head off again, meandering through the crowd, lingering to look at everything, stopping to listen to the live music. You’re perfectly content, swaying in the sunshine, and Simon has never been happier.

This could be us. This could be our normal.

But he’s not going to push. He’ll simply enjoy, admiring you as you find joy in the moment.

Your happiness is his happiness. Your pleasure is his pleasure.

This is what Kyle meant. To exist and be present. To offer you something other than protection and security.

But will you make me happy, is what you said to him in response to that offer. Is this what you meant? Even if it’s only a fraction of what you’re imagining. Is it enough to open the door? To allow him in?

“Oh my God!” you exclaim, releasing Simon’s hand to rush over to a booth overflowing with flowers and plants.

For a moment, you disappear amongst the greenery and color. Simon approaches slowly, frowning as he seeks you.

But then your head pops up with a massive smile on your face. “I can’t believe they have them!” You disappear again, only for Simon to find you on your knees before a spread of daisy-like flowers with a dark, cone-shaped disk in the middle. The stems are fuzzy, and while most of them are yellow, there are a few clusters in pale purple and pink.

“These were everywhere back home,” you sigh as Simon comes to a stop beside you. “Zac and his group went out on a supply run. Came back with a bunch of flower seeds and dug up wildflowers. No one knew if any would make it. But these,” you gesture toward the flowers, “survived. They were in everyone’s garden. Had a whole bunch right outside my bedroom window.”

They remind you of home. And that is enough of a reason.

Simon turns, seeking the owner of the stall. “I’ll take these.”

The man Simon addresses perks up at the sound of his voice. “They come in—”

“All of them,” interrupts Simon.

The man gawks, almost frozen to the spot. “All—all of them?”

He doubts, and that’s expected. Simon is hoarding a singular item for himself, but he could give a shit. This is for you, and he has the authority to do so.

Without speaking, Simon shows the stall’s owner the gold circle on his identification card. Like ice melting under the sun, the man moves to action. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Can you have someone deliver them?”

“Certainly.”

You’re still on your knees, mouth open in disbelief. There is a rebuttal forming. Simon can see it in your body language. But the man is already taking Simon’s information, addressing a younger man, likely his son, about moving the flowers.

As they move away to grab gloves, you stand abruptly, rushing up to Simon. “That’s too much,” you insist with a whisper. “You said—”

“I can. And I did.”

You swallow. Lick your lips. The surprise turns to elation. “Thank you,” you murmur, your eyes becoming watery. “I love them.”

“Grab a few for the walk,” urges Simon.

With flowers in hand—called coneflowers as you so happily inform him—the two of continue walking around the market, exploring every corner and stall. Morning becomes afternoon, and when you yawn, Simon takes you home.

“Oh—shit,” you laugh, placing your hand over your mouth as the you enter your flat.

The flowers were delivered while the two of you were still out, and Simon inwardly preens over it. The things are fucking everywhere, even in the bedroom.

“Thank you. Again,” you murmur, reaching for him.

Simon expects a small touch, but you go for his hand, squeezing gently. And you don’t let go. You step closer. Closer. There is silence, and yet Simon’s heart hammers, nearly buzzing in his ears as you cozy up to him. He is unable to reply—unable to gloat. This intimacy is different, and he’d hate to break the illusion.

Your voice is a ghost, hardly audible over his thudding heart. “Can I ask you something, Simon?”

His reply is automatic. “Course, dove.”

“When—” You pause. Lick your lips. Gather your courage. “Before. When we—” Another pause. You place your free hand between your breasts, rubbing slightly in nervousness. “Would you have pulled out? If I had asked?”

Before. Before.

When Simon had you spread wide and under him, your tongue lashing his heart with venom all while you still begged for him. Would he have pulled out? Would he have honored that if you asked?

“No.”

“And now?” you continue, moving your hand to his chest, palm flattening.

Simon inhales deeply, pressing into your touch. Fingers find skin and then he’s cradling the side of your face, thumb resting just below the curve of your bottom lip. The truth is best, and like he’s told you time and time again, he doesn’t lie.

“Answers the same,” and it ends on a possessive growl. “I want all of you.” Simon tightens his grip, pulls you in close. “That includes the right to come inside you.”

“You think that’s romantic?” you ask, but there’s no snark in it—no bite.

“No,” replies Simon. “But it’s the truth. It’s how I feel.”

Such a confession should be a sin.

But you have one of your own.

“I don’t think I would have cared.” Your voice is still so soft. So…gentle. “In the moment.”

“And now?” echoes Simon, needing you to answer, to give him any confirmation of a possible future.

Your gaze shifts upward, meeting his. “Maybe.”

There. A subtle shift. Simon notices the desire, and the hesitation. You do want him, but there is a barrier. A separation. There is more that you need. Perhaps reassurance, or a promise.

“I’m leaving for a while,” is all he says.

There is no point in hiding what’s coming, and he’d rather tell you now than right before he goes.

“You’re leaving?” you exhale. “You—but you just came home. You can’t—” But you catch yourself, shutting off that final word as if you’ve suddenly realized what you were about to say.

“I have to go,” he says for you. “It’s my job.”

Your hand on his chest lowers. Shifts to his waist. Fingers gripping his shirt. “How long?”

This is the part he hates the most.

“Could be a week or two. Could be a few months.”

“A few months?”

“We don’t know what we’re heading into.”

You shake your head. “Do you know where?”

“There’s unrest happening. A Safe Zone is under siege.”

“You’re heading into a warzone,” you state solemnly.

Simon releases your hand, only to wrap his arms around your waist. “Afraid so, dove.”

He hates this nervousness—this worry that clings to you. The attention and concern for him is confirmation that you care, but the downturned mouth needs to go.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” you whisper, and Simon holds you tighter.

Asking might be dangerous. You may reject him. If you do, that’s Simon’s final chance slipping away. But you might say ‘yes.’ You might let him in.

“I never finished,” he murmurs.

You arch an eyebrow. Laugh. “That’s not a question.”

Oh, dove. It is.

“Soap cut it short. Been long enough that I’ve forgotten what you taste like.”

Simon’s head dips, closing the distance until the tip of his nose brushes against your cheek. Yet you do not flee. There is no snapping reply, no sharpened spite to lash his veins. Every flutter of your eyelashes and subtle shift of your body indicates that you’re not opposed to it. And when you press into him, your lips parting slightly, hope surges within him, seizing bone and blood until he’s buzzing.

“That’s what you want.”

“It is,” he confirms.

Risk can have its reward, and Simon does just that. He moves in, lips hovering just shy of your own, your breath warm and panting against his skin. Your lids grow heavy, and with a groan, Simon grasps the nape of your neck, arching it to tilt your head back.

No asking. No seeking consent. Just his lips finding yours, wanting to be accepted but knowing rejection is the likely outcome.

But you, the sweet thing that you are, do not push him away.

The little moan you make as you grasp him in desperation is all the answer he needs.

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