#call of duty mw2 x reader

[sarahs-secrets2]

you know those tiktoks where you record your bf in secret in the middle of cuddling and they're just a complete soft mess until they figure out they're being recorded?

How about Graves being a whiny, affectionate guy when he's with you and letting himself not be the tough and in charge Commander? Just absolutely melting in his darlings arms and stuff in comparison to him everyday/around his Shadows

Late Night Talking ˋ♡ˊ

phillip graves x gn!reader

graves masterlist!!

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

Your fingers were tangled through Phillip’s hair while his head rested on your lower abdomen, situated perfectly in between your legs. Nights like this were cherished, the hardened Commander letting his walls down in the safety of your grasp. The tv was on in the bedroom, but neither of you were paying much attention to it. It had become background noise as your focus narrowed on Phillip and his plans for the weekend for the two of you. 

“Honey,” Phillip angled his head back, practically looking at you upside down. His lips were puckered, begging for a kiss. “Please,” he whined, closing his eyes. It made you giggle seeing Commander Phillip Graves completely become a different person behind closed doors with you. It was cute, endearing, he felt safe with you and that was all you could ask for. Phil insisted on making up for lost time, and even though he had been home for well over 2 months, he would take any chance to steal (or beg) for a kiss. 

Chuckling to yourself, you bent down slightly to meet his lips. Phillip shifted slightly, trying to sit up and get even closer. Close was not close enough for Commander Phillip Graves. The kiss was short and sweet, but clumsy. “Come back ‘er, I’m not done,” Phillip urged, his voice was low with his southern accent more noticeable than usual. Slipping out from between your legs and inching up the bed to lay next to you, the Commander wrapped his arm around your shoulder, holding you close to his chest. 

“I hope you don’t treat your Shadows like this,” you said as you looked up to catch his eye, “I might get jealous,” 

Phillip laughed, his brow furrowing slightly at the comment, “If my Shadows saw me like this, I’d never hear the end of it doll.” Before you could think of a comeback, Graves snuck his hand under your chin. His lips moved in tandem with yours, while his arm around your shoulder hugged you tight. You could feel yourself melting into the kiss, melting into him. 

Phillip pulled away, resting his forehead against yours, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Commander,”

“Don’t you start now,” he laughed as he leaned in for another kiss. 

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

i hope this is okay !!! ty for the request !!

[fortheb0ys]

Just thinking of shoving dick into the lips of Graves' pussy like a fucking hotdog. Each thrust the tip of your cock hits his red swollen clit. He begs you to touch him, his pussy or do anything but you're just chasing your own pleasure. You whisper how his good his pussy is, the perfect fucktoy for your cock to fuck into. When you finally decide to touch him it's been over an hour. He's completely lost, unable to form a sentence. His eyes glazed over, tear stains on his face. His knuckles white from gripping his desk and his legs shaking, threatening to give out any second without your bruising hold on his waist. His pussy juice mixed with a load of your cum dripping from your cock And oh boy, was that just be the start of it.

[royaltysuite]

So I came across this post on my dash and it looked so familiar to something that I've read before. The setting was somewhat the same with a Mr. and Mrs. Price and the reader being their "lover" however when reader wanted to be more involved in the relationship, they figured out that Mrs. Price was pregnant and reader "runs" away and stays with Simon 'Ghost' Riley. After a few days, reader comes to find out the real reason why they're with Simon after finding a bunch of missed calls from Price and his wife.

Does anyone know the title of what I'm talking about? I need help😅

Edit: So I found the fic I was asking about thanks to @emilizz88 and let me tell you....

The end really fucked me up. The reader pretty much ended from an emotional cage to a physical 'prison'. Mafia!Simon in this fic pretty much baby-trapped and 🍇ed the reader into a shell of herself. And when I read it, I wanted to actually kill Simon. But, I'm continuing the fic in my mind and reader is gonna end up leaving him permanently. So....yeah.....wow😶

[lilmoonbunny]

Take me Back; Ex-Graves

When your ex shows up at your apartment severely injured, you have no choice but to help him.

When you return home from deployment to see your houses lights on and blood on the carpet, the first thing you do is pull out your gun.

Moving silently through your house is the only option as to not scare the intruder away.

However, your movements became louder the moment you saw who was bleeding on your floor.

“Philip Graves, I haven’t seen you in a few years, and the first thing you do is bleed all over my carpet? Forever the gentleman.” Y/N let out a small sigh at the unwanted visitor, but glad it was him and not an intruder.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” the bleeding man grunted out, evidently delirious judging by his honest words. “You always said your house was open to me.”

Y/N sighed. “That was when we were together,”

Graves simply rolled his eyes and pointed to his wound. “Think you can help me out?”

Of course, the first person you see when you come back home is your ex-boyfriend. Even worse, he was bleeding on your new carpet.

With a sigh, you grab your med-kit and begin patching him up.

As you work, he’s completely out of it from blood loss. He’s pale, shaking, and uttering absolute nonsense.

“C’mon, Philip. You can’t just pass out on me,”

“Don’t call me that,” he slurred out, the blood loss clearly clouding his judgement. It was clear she had to stitch the wound quickly.

“Why not?” Y/N asked quietly, brushing Graves’ sweat-stuck hair from his face before beginning to stitch the wound.

A groan left the Commanders lips, but no complaints were heard. “You never called me that,”

“What did I call you?” Whilst she knew the answer, Y/N figured it would be best to keep him talking, even if he’d be embarrassed once he was rested.

“Phil, Graves, baby. It was never Philip.”

His words were true, but you had been broken up for nearly two years now. Surely it had to be the blood loss making him say this; he couldn’t miss you the same way you did.

Eventually, the man passed out and you were left alone with your thoughts.

A groan slipped from Graves’s lips as he gradually gained consciousness. He had no idea where he was, let alone who the woman in front of him was; the last thing that he remembered was being shot.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” a familiar voice sounded, “glad to see you didn’t die on me.”

He was shocked upon realising where he was. He always knew he would think about you in his last moments, but he didn’t expect to have come to your house whilst he believed he was dying.

“Gave me quite the fright, you know?” You were oblivious to his internal struggles and continued talking. “Thought you were an intruder, then was shocked it was you, and then had to patch you up whilst you were talking absolute shit.”

“I missed you,” he mumbled. He had no idea why he said that, perhaps he was still somewhat out of it from the blood loss.

You froze at his honest words. It was one thing whilst he was delirious and bordering on unconsciousness, but to say it whilst completely conscious, albeit likely still dazed, was something else. It was something he would actually remember.

“C’mon, Phil. Don’t say that.” Y/N sighed quietly, “Don’t say things you don’t mean.

Philip shot up at the words, groaning as he pulled his stitches.

“Be careful you idiot. I worked hard on them.” She said, but he knew what she meant: she still cared.

“Please, Y/N. Please take me back…”

[lostinyourtime]

ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ

ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ‘ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ’ ʀɪʟᴇʏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3.8 ᴋ

ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ (ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ)

ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ‘ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ’ ʀɪʟᴇʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ: (ᴀꜱᴋ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀᴅᴅᴇᴅ ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ)

@bl0w-m3

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ꜰɪɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇʟʏ ꜱᴜᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱ ʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ᴜᴘᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ, ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴠɪɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴘʀɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴍᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ 141 ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ ꜱᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇᴘʟᴏʏ. ᴀʟʟ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ɪꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ᴀᴛ ʜɪꜱ ꜱɪᴅᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏɴᴛ ʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇꜱ.

“ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ!”

ʜɪꜱ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴇᴄʜᴏᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴋʏ, ʜɪꜱ ᴛᴀʟʟ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ꜰᴀᴄɪɴɢ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰʀᴀᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʀʀᴀᴄᴋꜱ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴇꜱᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏɴᴇ.

“ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ, ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴇ ᴍᴇ.”

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟᴅ ᴡʜɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋꜱ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛᴇᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ʟᴇᴅɢᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛɪᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴊᴜᴛᴛᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴇɴᴛʀᴀɴᴄᴇ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴏᴄᴋ ᴄʟᴀᴅ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ ʜɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘʟɪɴᴛᴇʀʏ ᴡᴏᴏᴅ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀ ᴛɪɢʜᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ.

“ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ!”

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀɪᴄᴋʟᴇ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇʟɪᴅꜱ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ꜱɪʟʜᴏᴜᴇᴛᴛᴇ ꜱᴛᴏᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ɪɴ ɪᴛꜱ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋꜱ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴜꜱᴇᴅ. ʜɪꜱ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ ᴊᴇʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀʀɢᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴘᴀᴄᴋ ꜱᴛʀᴀᴘ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅʀᴀᴘᴇᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʜɪꜱ ᴛᴏʀꜱᴏ.

ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ, ᴏɴʟʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴍᴀᴅ ᴏʀ ᴜᴘꜱᴇᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜ.

ᴇxᴘᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟᴀʀɢᴇ ɢᴜꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀɪʀ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀʙʀɪᴄ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴀʟᴀᴄʟᴀᴠᴀ, ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴏᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛʟʏ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ꜰʀᴏᴢᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀᴀʟʟ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴀɢ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɪᴛ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ.

ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱʟɪᴘ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʀʀᴀᴄᴋꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴇᴇɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ. ʜᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴏɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ꜰʀᴏᴍ. ʜᴇ’ᴅ ꜱᴜᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋᴇᴅ ᴘʀɪᴄᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. ʜᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ, ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴘᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ʟɪꜰᴇ ɪɴ ᴊᴇᴏᴘᴀʀᴅʏ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ.

“ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ.”

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜʟᴇꜱꜱ, ᴀ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍɪxᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴜꜱᴛʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴅ. ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ. ʜᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʜɪᴍ ᴛᴏ.

ᴄʟᴜᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀʀᴍꜱ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴏʀꜱᴏ ᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴇʟᴛᴇʀ ɪᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜɪʟʟɪɴɢ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɪʀ, ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇʟᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜱᴏʙꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴜʀꜱᴛ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ. ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ꜱᴀʏɪɴɢ ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ, ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴇʟꜰɪꜱʜ.

“ɢᴏ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ.”

ʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴘᴏᴋᴇ.

ɴᴏ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇ. ɴᴏ ʀᴏᴏᴋɪᴇ. ᴡᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴛɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ʜɪᴍ ɢᴏ? ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴅᴏᴡ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴅʀᴏᴠᴇ ᴏꜰꜰ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡɪɴɢ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ’ᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛɪᴍᴇ.

“ɪ ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ʙʟᴜɴᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ.

“ɴᴏᴛ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴘᴜʟʟᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀɪᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴀᴢ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴘʀɪᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴘ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ.

“ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡʜᴀᴛ?”

ʜᴇ ꜱᴄᴏꜰꜰᴇᴅ ᴀꜱ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴜꜱᴄᴜʟᴀʀ ꜰʀᴀᴍᴇ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ. ʜɪꜱ ʟᴀʀɢᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴘᴀᴄᴋ ꜰᴇʟʟ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴀᴛ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ʟᴏᴏꜱᴇɴᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴀᴘ.

ʜɪꜱ ʙᴀʟᴀᴄʟᴀᴠᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴋᴇʟᴇᴛᴀʟ ᴍᴀꜱᴋ ʜɪᴅ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴏʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴛᴀʏ ʙᴇᴀᴍ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏᴏɴʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱʜᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴇᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪɢʜʟɪɢʜᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴍ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ.

“ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ᴡʜʏ?”

ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴀᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰᴀʟᴛᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ’ꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ꜱᴄᴏꜰꜰᴇᴅ ꜱᴏꜰᴛʟʏ, ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɢᴀᴢᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʙʀɪᴇꜰ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴘᴜʟʟꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴄᴏᴍʙᴀᴛ ᴠᴇꜱᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴘᴀʟᴍꜱ.

“ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡʜʏ?”

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ? ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴅᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ, ꜱᴏ ᴡʜʏ ᴡᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴛɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ.

ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴡ ꜱᴛᴇᴘꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇꜱɪᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀɪʀꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜᴅᴅʏ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇᴡᴀʏ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀʟɪɴᴇ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ʀɪꜱᴇ.

“ᴡʜʏ ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ʀᴇᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ?”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ʜɪᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴜɪʟᴅɪɴɢ ᴜᴘꜱᴇᴛ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛᴇᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇᴅɢᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ꜱᴛᴇᴘ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜᴅᴅʏ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ ꜱᴏᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴏᴄᴋꜱ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱQᴜɪꜱʜʏ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ.

“ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴄᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴍʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ?”

ᴀ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ꜰʟᴜꜱʜ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴘʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀɪᴅɢᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴏꜱᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴜᴘꜱᴇᴛ ᴄᴜʀᴠᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴘʜɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀᴛɪᴘꜱ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʟᴅ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙɪᴄᴇᴘ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴘꜱ ᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ.

“ᴘʀɪᴄᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏᴘᴘ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ꜱᴏᴀᴘ ɪꜱ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ.”

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘᴇʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇ ɪᴛ, ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴄʟᴀᴍᴘᴇᴅ ᴛɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴄᴏᴍʙᴀᴛ ᴠᴇᴛ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ. ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇxᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ʟᴏꜱᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏꜰᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴅɪꜱᴘʟᴀʏᴇᴅ, ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴘᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟᴇɴꜱᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀɴɢʀʏ.

“ꜱᴏᴀᴘ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴇʀɢᴇᴀɴᴛ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀɪᴏʀ.”

ᴀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ ꜱᴄᴏꜰꜰ ᴘᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛᴇᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴇᴘ, ʏᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴜᴅᴅʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴀʙꜱᴏʀʙɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴏᴄᴋꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴏɢɢɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴅɪʀᴛ.

“ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀɪᴏʀ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱʜɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪᴛ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛʏ ɢʀᴏᴀɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ’ꜱ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ ʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅꜱ, ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛʀᴏᴜꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴛᴏᴡᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ꜰᴏʟᴅᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴇᴀʀᴍꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪꜱ ʙʀᴏᴀᴅ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ. ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴ ʙʟᴜᴇꜱ ʙᴜʀɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀꜱ ɪɴᴛᴇɴꜱᴇʟʏ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴜɴ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʀɪᴢᴏɴ, ᴄᴀᴜꜱɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴛᴄʜ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟᴜɴɢꜱ ᴅᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ɴᴏ ꜰᴀᴜʟᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ.

“ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ.”

ʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴡʟᴇᴅ.

“ɪɴꜱᴜʙᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪꜱ ɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʀᴀɴꜱꜰᴇʀ, ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ.”

ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴛᴏᴍᴀᴄʜ ꜰʟᴜᴛᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙᴜᴛᴛᴇʀꜰʟɪᴇꜱ ᴀᴛ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ’ꜱ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴɴᴏʏᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ʜɪᴍ ʜᴇ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ꜱᴛᴜᴘɪᴅ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛ.

ᴘᴇᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ʟᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʜᴇꜱɪᴛᴀᴛᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ꜱɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʜᴀᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴀᴄᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ᴊᴇᴇᴘ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ.

“ᴡʜʏ ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ʀᴇᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ, ꜱɪ?”

ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ, ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ꜱᴛᴇᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴜᴘ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏʀᴄʜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴘꜱ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ ɢᴇɴᴛʟʏ ɢʟɪᴅᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴛᴛᴏɴ ꜰᴀʙʀɪᴄ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴀʟᴀᴄʟᴀᴠᴀ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʀᴇᴇᴘ ᴜᴘ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴘᴛᴏᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙʀɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇ ʟɪɴᴇ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴛᴀʟʟᴇʀ ᴍᴀʟᴇ.

ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴡᴇɪʀᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴡᴇᴇᴋꜱ, ᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ʜᴜʀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴏɴ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ. ʜᴇ’ᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀᴠᴏɪᴅɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ, ꜱᴡɪᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʀᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ, ʜᴇ’ᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜱᴡɪᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴏʟ ꜱᴄʜᴇᴅᴜʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʜɪꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟɪɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ ʏ��ᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴡʜʏ.

“ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ.”

ʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴀɴᴇᴅ. ᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴍᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʜɪᴍ.

“ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ, ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ.”

ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴘᴀꜱꜱᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴀ ʙʟᴜʀ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇɴʏɪɴɢ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ’ꜱ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ, ʏᴀɴᴋɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴡɪꜰᴛʟʏ ᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʀʀᴀᴄᴋꜱ. ʜɪꜱ ꜱɪɴɢᴜʟᴀʀ ꜱᴛʀɪᴅᴇ ᴇQᴜᴀʟ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴏꜰꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴘᴜʟʟᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴏᴏᴍ.

ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ᴅɪꜱᴏʙᴇʏᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇʟʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴜɴɪꜱʜᴍᴇɴᴛ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅ, ʟᴏᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴜᴛꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴘᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʜᴇ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ʜᴏᴍᴇ.

ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱQᴜᴇʟᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀᴍᴘ ꜱᴏᴄᴋꜱ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ ᴀꜱ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʀʀᴀᴄᴋꜱ, ɪɢɴᴏʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀꜱꜱʏ ��ᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ɢᴀᴢ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏᴀᴘ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴀꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʟʟᴡᴀʏ.

“ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴛᴇᴘꜱ ꜰᴜᴍʙʟɪɴɢ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴜᴘ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪᴄᴇ-ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢʀɪᴘ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡʀɪꜱᴛ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴜʀᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɢʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ꜱᴋɪɴ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ɪᴛᴄʜ.

ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ ꜱʜᴏᴠᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇᴅʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴅᴏᴏʀ, ʜᴇ ᴘʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜʀᴇᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ꜱʟᴀᴍᴍɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰʟɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴄᴋ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇᴅ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ꜱᴇᴇ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛᴏᴏᴅ ɪɴ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ. ꜱᴜʀʀᴏᴜɴᴅᴇᴅ ʙʏ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ.

“ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ɪꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ꜱɴᴀᴘ. ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴄᴋꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ’ꜱ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ɢʀᴀꜱᴘꜱ ᴛɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴅɪꜱᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ɪɴꜱᴛᴀɴᴛʟʏ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴀ ʟᴏᴜᴅ ꜱᴄᴏꜰꜰ ᴇᴄʜᴏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴍᴘᴛɪɴᴇꜱꜱ.

“ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴇɴᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ, ʏ/ɴ? ꜰᴜᴄᴋ.”

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ ꜰʟᴀꜱʜᴇᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴ. ʜᴏᴡ ᴀ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴍɪꜱᴄᴀʟᴄᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ɢᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɪʟʟᴇᴅ. ᴡᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ꜱᴏ ᴛᴏʀɴ ᴜᴘ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ?

“ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴜʟᴛ–”

“ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴅᴇꜰᴇɴᴅ ᴍᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴅɪᴇᴅ.”

ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ᴄʜɪᴍᴇꜱ ɪɴ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ꜰɪɴɪꜱʜ.

“ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴛᴏʀᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ Qᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ. ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ꜱᴛᴇᴘꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴜɴᴇᴀꜱʏ ʟᴇɢꜱ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴛᴄʜ ᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ɪɴ ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ. ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏᴛ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴠɪɴᴄᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ.

“ɪ’ᴍ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ, ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ʀɪꜱᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴄᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ᴄᴀʀɢᴏ ᴠᴇꜱᴛ, ᴛʀᴀᴄɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀᴛɪᴘꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴀʟ ɪᴛᴇᴍꜱ ꜱᴛᴜꜰꜰᴇᴅ ɪɴ ɪᴛꜱ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴘᴏᴄᴋᴇᴛꜱ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏᴏᴋ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ɴᴇᴄᴋ.

“ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴅɪᴇᴅ.”

ʜᴇ ᴍᴜᴛᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀᴛɪᴘꜱ ᴄᴀᴜꜱɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴜʟʟ ᴀᴡᴀʏ.

ʟᴏꜱꜱ ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡ ꜰᴏʀ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ. ʜᴇ’ᴅ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ. ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ᴛᴏᴍᴍʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇᴛʜ, ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʜɪꜱ ɴᴇᴘʜᴇᴡ ᴊᴏꜱᴇᴘʜ. ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀʀᴇ ɢᴏɴᴇ, ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇꜱ ʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ ᴡɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏꜱᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ.

“ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.”

ʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴘᴏᴋᴇ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʜᴏᴜʀꜱ ɪɴ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʜɪꜱ ʟᴀʀɢᴇ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ᴄᴜʀʟᴇᴅ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀꜱ ʜɪꜱ ɢʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴜᴍʙ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴘ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴘɪɴᴇ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴏɴɢᴜᴇ ꜱʟᴏᴡʟʏ ᴘᴀʀᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏɪꜱᴛᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴡᴀꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ. ʜɪꜱ ɢᴏᴅ-ʟɪᴋᴇ ꜰʀᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴏᴡᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ꜱʟɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʜɪᴍ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ.

“ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʏᴏᴜ.”

ᴀ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ꜱᴄᴏꜰꜰᴇᴅ ʟᴀᴜɢʜ ꜰᴇʟʟ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ʙᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ꜰɪꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴛᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʜɪꜱ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ꜱʜᴀᴋɪɴɢ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜱᴛᴇᴘ ʙᴀᴄᴋ.

“ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ, ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ. ᴡᴇ'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ʙʏ ꜰʀɪᴅᴀʏ.”

ꜱʟɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴡɪᴛᴄʜ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴀɴɪᴄᴜʀᴇᴅ ʙʀᴏᴡꜱ ᴋɴɪᴛ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʜɪᴍ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ꜰᴀᴄɪɴɢ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴀ ꜱʜᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ɢᴜꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀɪʀ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ɢʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴘᴀʟᴍꜱ ʀᴀɴ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʟᴀᴄʟᴀᴠᴀ ꜱʜɪꜰᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ.

“ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ, ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴ.”

ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴏᴋᴇ, ʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀʙʀɪᴄ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ ꜱʜɪᴇʟᴅᴇᴅ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ɪᴛꜱ ʙᴀʀʀɪᴇʀ.

“ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ, ꜱɪ?”

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴏɴᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ꜰᴀʟʟᴇɴ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ, ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʟᴏᴡʟʏ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏᴡ ʟɪᴛ ʙᴇᴅʀᴏᴏᴍ ɪɴ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ’ꜱ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ.

ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴛ ɪɴ, ꜱᴡᴀʟʟᴏᴡɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀ ʟᴜᴍᴘ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ᴜɴᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅʟʏ ꜰᴏʀᴍᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ. ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴘʀɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʜᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴏʟ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ.

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ᴛɪɢʜᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɪʀ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟᴜɴɢꜱ ᴛʀᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪᴄᴋ ᴄʟᴏɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ɪᴍᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇ. ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴘᴀɴᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴʜᴀʟᴇ ʀɪᴘᴘʟᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴋᴇ ᴏɴ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ.

“ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʀᴏᴀᴋᴇᴅ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢᴀᴢᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴜʟʟ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪᴍ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ. ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴ ʙʟᴜᴇ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴘᴇᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʟᴇꜱ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴇᴛɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛ ᴘᴀɪɴ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.

“ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ᴇxᴘʟᴀɪɴ.”

“ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ᴇxᴘʟᴀɪɴ!”

ʏᴏᴜ ꜱɴᴀᴘ. ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴏɴɢᴜᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴠɪᴘᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍꜱ ꜱʜᴏᴠᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ, ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛʀᴏᴜꜱ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜰᴀʟᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ɢʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴍꜱ ʟᴇɴɢᴛʜ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇ ᴛɪɴʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴇᴜᴛᴇɴᴀɴᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʟᴇᴀʀɴᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴘᴀᴄᴋ ᴀ ᴘᴜɴᴄʜ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴘᴘᴏʀᴛᴜɴɪᴛʏ.

“ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴀ ꜰᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ, ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜱʟɪᴘ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪᴅᴅʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜱᴀʏɪɴɢ ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ?”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴏꜰ ʜɪᴍ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ ʙᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇᴛɪɴᴀꜱ. ʜᴏᴡ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴇ ʙᴇ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴇʟꜰɪꜱʜ ᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ꜱʟɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏ ᴇᴀꜱɪᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴡᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɢᴏɴᴇ, ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ.

“ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴇ?”

ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ ᴡʀᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴛɪɢʜᴛ ɢʀɪᴘ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ, ᴅᴇꜱᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴜʟʟ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ɢɪᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ.

“ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ᴍ ꜰɪɴᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ. ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ, ɪᴛꜱ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ᴡᴇ ᴍᴇᴛ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ ɪɴᴄʀᴇᴀꜱɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅꜱ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ʜɪꜱ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴇᴛ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʀᴀʏᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ. ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰʟɪᴘ ᴀ ꜱᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ'ᴅ ꜱᴛᴀʏ.

“ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ᴍᴇ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ?”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴇᴇ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ꜱʜɪꜰᴛ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴀʟᴀᴄʟᴀᴠᴀ, ʜɪꜱ ᴊᴀᴡ ᴄʟᴇɴᴄʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴀɴɴᴏʏᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴘᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ɢʀᴇᴡ ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇʀ. ʜɪꜱ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀꜱ ꜱʜɪꜰᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀᴀᴘ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴘᴜʟʟᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴇᴛɪᴛᴇ ꜰʀᴀᴍᴇ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴜʟᴋ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴠᴇꜱᴛ.

ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅɴ’ᴛ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴘᴜʟʟᴇᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀᴢᴇ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ʟɪꜰᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜱʟᴏᴡʟʏ ꜱʟɪᴅᴇ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀʙʀɪᴄ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴊᴀᴡ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰʟɪɴᴄʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴊᴇʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡ. ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴋɪɴ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴅ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ɪᴛ.

“ɪ ᴡɪꜱʜ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ.”

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ʙʏ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴜꜰꜰʟᴇᴅ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ, ʜɪꜱ ɴᴇᴄᴋ ᴄʀᴀɴɪɴɢ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ɴᴇꜱᴛʟᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴊᴀᴡʟɪɴᴇ.

“ɪ'ᴅ ʙᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ ɢᴏɴᴇ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏᴘᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘɪᴛ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ꜱᴛᴏᴍᴀᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴ ɪ ʟᴏ–”

ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀʙʀᴜᴘᴛʟʏ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴠᴏɪᴅ ʜɪꜱ ꜱʟɪᴘ ᴜᴘ, ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴘᴜʟʟɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ꜱʟɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀᴅ. ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴅʀᴏᴘ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴏᴍʙ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴀ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛʀɪᴘ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ.

ꜱᴛᴏᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ, ʜᴇ ᴇxʜᴀʟᴇᴅ ᴀ ꜱʜᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ. ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴀᴘᴘʜɪʀᴇ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ɢʟᴀᴢᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴛᴜʀᴍᴏɪʟ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜꜰᴜʟ. ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ʜᴇ’ᴅ ʟᴀɪᴅ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ꜰɪᴇʟᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴇ ʙᴇ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ?

“ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ…”

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴛʀᴀɪʟᴇᴅ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ᴀ ꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅʏ ꜱᴛᴇᴘ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴄᴜʟᴀʀ ᴍᴀʟᴇ, ʜɪꜱ ᴛᴀᴄᴛɪᴄᴀʟ ɢᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ɢɪɢᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛᴏᴏᴅ ɪɴ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪᴍ ɪɴ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ᴛ-ꜱʜɪʀᴛ.

ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ. ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴏꜰ ᴋɴᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ᴅᴏɴᴇ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ʜɪᴍ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ. ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʜɪᴍ ꜱᴛᴀʏ.

ꜱᴡᴀʟʟᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇʀᴠᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄʟᴀᴡᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀɪʀᴡᴀʏ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ᴠᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴇᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴀᴛ ʜɪᴍ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜɪᴄᴋ ʟᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ. ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢʟɪᴍᴍᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴇxʜᴀʟᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴋ, ʜɪꜱ ᴊᴀᴡ ᴄʟᴇɴᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴛɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴇᴘʟʏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴏᴜʟ.

“ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ?”

“ɴᴏ.”

ʜᴇ ꜱᴄᴏꜰꜰᴇᴅ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ Qᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ. ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴄᴏꜰꜰᴇᴅ ʟᴀᴜɢʜ ᴘᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ꜱᴄʀᴀᴘᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ, ʜɪꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ꜱʜᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɢᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀᴢᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴɪɴɢ ᴇʏᴇꜱ.

“ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ. ꜰᴜᴄᴋ, ɪ ᴅᴏɴᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.”

ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴇᴘ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ꜱʟɪᴅᴇꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴛᴛᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴀʟᴀᴄʟᴀᴠᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇɴᴛʟʏ ꜱᴛᴏᴋᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴘᴘʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʜᴜᴍʙ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴅꜱ ᴀʟʟ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ꜰʟᴏᴏᴅᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴅɢᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀʟɪɴᴇ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴡᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀɪɴ.

ʜᴏᴡ ʜᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ꜱᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ?

ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ᴍᴇᴛ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠᴇʀʏ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴅᴀʏ, ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴇʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ꜰᴏᴜʀ ᴏɴᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴡᴀʀɴᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴏɴᴇʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴛᴇʀᴍɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴍ'ꜱ ʟᴇɴɢᴛʜ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴ ʙʟᴜᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ᴘᴜʟʟᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ʜᴀᴅ ᴅᴇᴠᴇʟᴏᴘᴇᴅ, ꜱᴏ ʜᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ.

ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʀᴍʟᴇꜱꜱ ꜰʟɪʀᴛɪɴɢ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʏ ᴋɪꜱꜱᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴇʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ’ᴅ ʟᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ᴡᴏɴ ᴀɴ ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀʏꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴡɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀꜰᴇᴛᴇʀɪᴀ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋꜰᴀꜱᴛ, ʟᴜɴᴄʜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪɴɴᴇʀ. ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ.

ꜱᴛʀᴇᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴘᴛᴏᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛꜱ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴅʀᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʜᴜᴍʙ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴘ ɪᴛ ʙᴇʟᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀʙʀɪᴄ. ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ꜱʜᴏᴏᴋ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴜʟʟᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʟᴀᴄʟᴀᴠᴀ ᴜᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴘꜱ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛɪɢʜᴛ ʟɪɴᴇ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴍɪʟɪɴɢ.

“ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ ᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ʟʟ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏʙ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ’ꜱ ʟɪᴘꜱ ꜰᴀʟᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʜᴏᴋᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ.

“ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ ᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ʟʟ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴜᴘ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴀʏ ɴᴏ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴛᴇᴀʀ ᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋꜱ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴꜰɪɴᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀʟɪɴᴇ, ᴛʀɪᴄᴋʟɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʀʏ, ɴᴏ ꜱɪɢɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴇᴀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴇᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛᴏᴏᴅ, ɪɴ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴇᴜᴛᴇɴᴀɴᴛ ɴᴏ ʟᴇꜱꜱ, ꜱᴏʙʙɪɴɢ.

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇʟɪᴅꜱ ꜰᴀʟʟ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇᴍʙᴀʀʀᴀꜱꜱᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴇxᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ’ꜱ ɢʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴅʀʏɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴘᴜʟʟɪɴɢ ᴀ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ꜱɪɢɴ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ.

“ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱɴ’ᴛ ɪᴛ, ꜱɪ. ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱɴ’ᴛ ɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ʟʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ.”

“ʏ/ɴ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀʟʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴜᴘꜱᴇᴛ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴏᴋᴇ.

“ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏ–”

ʜɪꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ʜɪᴛᴄʜᴇꜱ, ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜᴜᴍʙ ɢʀᴀᴢɪɴɢ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴅʀʏ. ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴅᴅꜱ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ᴏɴ ꜰʀɪᴅᴀʏ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ʜᴇʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀʟᴍ, ᴀʟʟ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀ��ᴘʏ.

“ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ɪ ꜱᴀᴡ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴛʀᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪᴇʟᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɢᴀᴢ. ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ. ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴏᴏᴛ ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ʀᴏᴘᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴇʟʟ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴜᴘ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ɪɴ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜱᴇʀɢᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴏʟ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴅᴀʏꜱ.”

ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ᴄʜᴜᴄᴋʟᴇ ᴠɪʙʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛʀᴏᴋᴇ ʜɪꜱ ᴛʜᴜᴍʙ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxᴘᴀɴꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋʙᴏɴᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀᴍᴘ ꜱᴋɪɴ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ɢʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ᴅʀʏɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ᴡɪᴘᴇ. ʜᴇ’ᴅ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴇᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴀɪʟʏ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɢɪᴠɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴅʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ.

“ɪᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜰɪᴠᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴄᴏɴᴠɪɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ꜱᴏ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴅᴀʏ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀʟʟ. ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱᴏᴀᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴀᴢ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏʀᴍᴇɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ. ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴀᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴɪꜱʜ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴘʟᴏʏᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇᴅ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟᴇᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ.

“ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ꜱɪᴅᴇ, ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ɪᴛ’ꜱ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴋᴇᴇᴘꜱ ᴍᴇ ꜱᴀɴᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ.”

“ᴛʜᴇɴ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ.”

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ɪɴᴀᴜᴅɪʙʟᴇ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴇᴀɴᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ɢʟᴏᴠᴇ, ɢᴇɴᴛʟʏ ʀᴜʙʙɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇʟɪᴅꜱ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʀɪʟʏ ᴅʀᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇᴅ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ꜱɪɢʜ ᴇᴄʜᴏɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴏᴘᴇɴ.

“ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇʀᴇ. ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ɪɴ ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴍꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ.”

“ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ʙᴜʟʟꜱʜɪᴛ!”

ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴄᴏꜰꜰ, ꜱᴛʀᴀɪɢʜᴛᴇɴɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇᴄᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴜꜰꜰɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ ʙᴜʀꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀɪʀ. ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ᴅʀᴏᴘᴘɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ᴊᴀᴡʟɪɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴀʟᴀᴄʟᴀᴠᴀ ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴜɢ ʙᴇʟᴏᴡ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜɪɴ.

“ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴅɪᴇꜱ, ʏ/ɴ.”

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴇʀɴɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ’ꜱ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴘᴜʟʟ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ. ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ᴋɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʜᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ɢᴜᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀɴɢᴇʀ.

“ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʜᴀʀᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ɪᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ, ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ. ʜᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅ ᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ, ɪᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɪꜰ ᴡᴇ’ʀᴇ ʟᴜᴄᴋʏ ɪᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙʀɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇ.”

ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜɪꜱ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟᴇᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ꜱᴜᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱꜰᴜʟ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ꜰᴏᴜʀ ᴏɴᴇ, ʜᴇ’ᴅ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴡᴀʀɴᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʙʀɪᴇꜰɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴏɴᴇ ʜᴜɴᴅʀᴇᴅ ᴘᴇʀᴄᴇɴᴛ ꜱᴜᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ, ᴛʀᴜᴛʜꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ɴᴏɴᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴛ. ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɢɪᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛɪɴʏ ɢʟɪᴍᴍᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏᴘᴇ, ᴏɴᴇ ʜɪɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴄʜᴀꜱᴇ ʜᴇ’ᴅ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʀʀᴀᴄᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴜɴʜᴀʀᴍᴇᴅ, ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ʜᴇ?

ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ꜰᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴜʀ. ᴡʜᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ʜɪᴍ ᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴘᴀʀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴇᴛ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢꜱ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴀᴄᴋ.

ꜱʟɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ꜰᴀʙʀɪᴄ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ’ꜱ ɢᴀᴢᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ ᴘᴜʟʟɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀꜱᴋ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʟᴍꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʀᴇᴍʙʟᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴜɴᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ ᴏꜰ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛ.

“ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴍᴇ.”

ʏᴏᴜ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ꜱᴄᴏᴏᴘᴇᴅ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ɴᴇᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʙʀɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇʀ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴘꜱ ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʟɪɴᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛʟʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴄᴀꜱᴄᴀᴅᴇᴅ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ.

“ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ.”

ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴛᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ꜰɪɢʜᴛꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇɴ'ᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴇɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴋɪꜱꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ʀɪɢʜᴛ?

ꜱʜᴏʀᴛᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ ɴᴏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀ ʜᴇɪʀꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴜʟʟ ɪɴ ᴀ ꜱʜᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ɪɴʜᴀʟᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ɢʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴘᴀʟᴍ ꜱʟɪᴅᴇꜱ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴜꜱᴄᴜʟᴀʀ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ ᴘᴜʟʟɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘʟʏ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜɪɴɢ Qᴜɪᴄᴋᴇɴꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ.

“ɪꜰ ɪ ᴋɪꜱꜱ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ.”

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴀᴜꜱᴇ. ᴀ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ꜱᴛᴜᴘɪᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀꜱᴋɪɴɢ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴘꜱ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴋɪɴ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴀɪʟꜱ ʙᴜʀʀᴏᴡᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ɴᴇᴄᴋ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʜɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏᴘᴇʀ ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛɪꜰʏ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ.

“ɪꜰ ɪ ᴋɪꜱꜱ ʏᴏᴜ…”

ʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏʀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴘᴏᴋᴇ.

“ɪ’ʟʟ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ᴀᴡᴀʏ.”

[sergeantnex]

Graves x Reader: False Love (Angst)

My chest felt light, and my hands faintly trembling was the dead give away to my rising anxiety. I pressed my back more and more against the wall as I listened to Graves speak to the few Shadows he was open with. His word cutting worse than thorns that snagged and tore at the tender skin of someone’s ankles. The way he so effortlessly told his men that I meant nothing more than entertainment. It felt as though everything I had built with him was crumbling. All the good memories, tender moments, and depth ruined by mere words in matters of seconds. Everything felt unreal and off. My movements didn’t feel like my own, my voice not sounding like my own, hell even my skin felt different.

I don’t know how, but I found myself in my barracks, my legs feeling so heavy and yet so light. Had I run back to my room? How would I tell him I knew? That I had heard every word, every proud boast about him using me and my body like I were nothing. Numbly sitting on my bunk, I stared down at my trembling hands. My skin was itchy, feeling too tight and too warm for my own comfort. My hands gently grabbed a hold of the necklace Graves had bought me, it’s thin lightweight chain feeling heavy and like it was burning. I yank harshly, causing the chain to snap and fall limply in my hand. A knock sounded on my door before a voice called out, reminding me of a mission. Swallowing thickly, I get dressed into my black uniform before silently making my way to the armory.

Tugging on my 30-pound tactical vest and securing it to my body before attaching my gun holsters. Side eyeing, Graves, I could see his expression shift as he looked at me. Had everything we had been through really been a lie? Was he just trying to seem cool in front of the others? Why would he brag about it and say such nasty, degrading things about me? I gave him everything, and this is all I get in return? Cheap gifts, false words, and played by this excuse of a man. Graves gently touched my hip, offering that once cute boyish smile.

“Ready to stand with me against those Brits?” He asked softly, tilting his head. The desire to shove him away and yell profanities to him began blooming in my chest. Offering a light smile, I gently lean away from him. This needed to seem normal. There was a time and place to confront him, and now wasn’t it.

“Of course, Phil, sorry I’m not feeling too great. I’m okay. I just feel feverish, I don’t want to get you sick.” I lied while making sure he thought everything was okay. His baby blue hues seemed concerned, his expressions speaking different than his words had. Loading up with the team I pulled my black balaclava on, I settled with the rest of the team. Blending in with the rest of the team, we began traveling to the EZ. Once again, we have to face the elites of Task Force 141 in a dispute between right and wrong. The travel gave me time to think of my actions, the right and wrong, if I was on the right side of this war. Much to my delight, we would all be sent off alone to secure the area.

Splitting off from the others, I nervously placed behind me, making sure I was alone. My heart raced as I ripped off my Shadow Company patch and began pressing forward along the outside of the buildings. Dodging and weaving through abandoned cars and the buildings, I blindly pressed forward. A loud snap echoed through the sky as sharp pain made me stumble. The burning in my thigh drew my eyes down to my right leg, and blood seeping down my leg caused my breathing to pick up. Quickly grabbing gauze and pinching the once white fabric into the aching hole in my thigh, I glanced around. I packed more and more gauze into the bullet hole until I couldn’t fit anymore. With sweaty and shaking hands, I wrapped my leg, distant boots hitting the ground, driving me forward.

“Come now, sweetheart, where are you going? Did you think I didn’t notice you were off the whole way here?” Graves mocked through the communication line. My eyes scanned everything and snapped towards every sound. Panting, I quietly pleaded that I would find the members of 141 before I found myself dead by Graves’s hand. I wince with each step as the pain from being shot created a burn. Quietly climbing into a cars broken trunk, I gently hold it shut, waiting for the Shadows to pass by. I listen to the Shadows rummage around before moving on, quietly climbing out I move to find a safer location.

“So, you finally show your true colors, Phillip?” I sneer as I stick to the insides of the buildings. My heart is racing so hard I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears.

“You brought this on yourself, sweetheart. You just had to betray me like this, I was really loving what we had.” Graves said, his voice holding malice and hatred.

“No you didn’t, Phillip. I heard you earlier bragging and talking so poorly of me… I loved you, and I truly loved you!” I snap back as I dig through a few first-aid cases with hope to find something to help with pain.

“You thought this was real? There is no us, there never was. I was only using you, I never saw a future with you!” Graves snapped out, his words shattering every ounce of my heart and soul with his words. For the briefest of moments, I found myself hoping this was a nightmare and that I would wake up to his soft voice. Those soft words remind me it’s only a dream and that he would never hurt me like this. His battle worn hands gently, playing with my hair and rubbing soothing circles on my back or hips. Sadly, the burning ache from the bullet in my thigh reminded me of how real this whole situation was.

“Am I really that useless to you? Did I ever mean anything to you?” I asked, my voice trembling as I did my best to keep my emotions in check. My throat burned and felt dry as I fought off my tears, doing everything in my ability to keep myself grounded and focused on finding safety. I pressed through the house, limping as quickly as I could even as it felt like my throat was closing in on itself. I watched and waited for a moment before slipping into a worn down apartment building and began searching for a good spot to lay low. The bullet hole in my thigh throbbed and ached in ways I never thought a wound could.

“You never meant anything to me. You made for decent company and made for a good lay. That’s it.” Graves hissed as he waited to hear if his men found me. His curse coming through the earpiece as the Shadows sent to find me got ambushed by the Task Force. Praying to whatever God could hear me, I hoped the attack would create an opening for me to get further to safety. Limping through the apartment building, I could feel my eye burn as water gathered in them. Hot tears slid down my cheeks lightly, dripping to my uniform top as the energy I once had faded. With each step, I found my mind wondering what would’ve hurt more, him dying in that tank or this?

“I’m glad I got to see who you really are, Phillip Graves. Everything is temporary. This was merely one of those things. All those things people warned me about with you? They weren’t wrong, and I should have trusted them.” I seethe as I slip back outside limping towards one of the buildings. My body was beginning to feel like lead, a chill creeping into my skin. Exhaustion weighing me down enough I let my body slide down the side of a broken-down car. My eye fluttered open and shut, fighting to stay open with each waking moment. In the darkness behind my lids, a warmth touched me, lifting me up and cradling. I didn’t fight it. Instead, I let my body relax into the warmth. A gentle swaying lulling me into a comforting rest, away from the pain Graves caused me. This would be the end, I knew that. I knew I wouldn’t wake up again, and for some reason, that was okay. The darkness was comforting, and it was definitely better than constantly in pain from both the bullet or a broken heart. From within the darkness, the silence, a beeping, was heard. Steady and low. A beeping that was growing familiar with each passing moment before finally I found my eyes opening. The bright lighting made me groan and close my eyes again.

“Easy mate.” A low British accent hummed, the voice was comforting and warm. With my eyes adjusting to the light, I glance towards the voice and am greeting with the familiar face of John Price.

[succubusvalentine]

Simon Riley who never gets mad at his wife. No matter how angry he is. CW : None. Pure fluff

Simon was practically fuming. First he'd been ordered by Price to train a group of new recruits, then, the young recruits decided to be a colossal pain in the ass, and to top it off, he'd missed his lunch break where he would normally have some respite by calling you.

So now, he was shouting at the recruits. More than usual. The recruits all looked dead on their feet. But Simon didn't care, they decided to be annoying little pricks. They needed discipline or they'd never make it in the military.

"For fucks sake, you mongrel! Run ten laps!" Simon roared at a recruit, the others looking nervous. Not wanting to be the next one to face Simon.

"Uh, sir?" One of the recruits squeak.

"What?!" Simon roared, the recruit pointing behind Simon.

Simon turned with a low growl, clearly not in the mood for anymore antics, only for him to look down and see you. His wife, in a pretty little sundress and holding a Tupperware container full of something. It didn't matter what was inside, his stomach was growling at the thought of your cooking.

"Swee'heart" Simon sighed in relief, his shoulders visibly relaxing and his arms wrapping around your waist. He relished in the squeak that came from you as he lifted you up and buried his face in the crook of your neck.

"You alright, big guy?" you giggle. Simon grumbling in agreement. Making you laugh again.

Simon set you down, barking at the recruits to find Price and that he'll be taking over the training, before walking behind you with his hands on your waist to guide you to his office.

"Si, if you're busy I can go" you offer, and Simon can barely handle how fucking sweet you are to him.

Simon shook his head, taking off his balaclava and sitting in his office chair. Pulling you to sit on his lap.

"Made you some cottage pie" you grin, opening the container in your hands and handing it to Simon. God it was still warm. "I thought you were gonna yell at me with how mad you were at the recruits"

"Would never yell at you, princess" Simon said, rubbing your hips as you fed him a forkful of the cottage pie. He groaned at the taste, making you giggle.

"good?"

"so fucking good, lovie. Needed your cooking after how shit today has been" Simon smiled, bringing your left hand to his lips and kissing your wedding ring gently.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

btw guys I pulled white lily cookie and dark cacao cookie while writing this :p

[sai-int]

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

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

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | AO3 . MLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that it really mattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The studio audience laughs on cue.

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

It doesn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

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

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

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

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

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flick back to him.

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

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

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

Just silen—

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

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

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

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

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

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

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

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

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

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

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s addicting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

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

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

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

“Go fuck yourself.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No underwear. A Right dog, he is. 

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

“What’d y’want?”

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

How could he even fit inside of you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

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

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

You could slap him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“for a first-timer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “No.”

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

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

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

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

Two cops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shut the door.

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

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

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

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

GYM CRUSH SIMON

sfw + nsfw. unsafe sex. womb fucking. no condom.

you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.

you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.

there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.

at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.

midnight schedule it was.

it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.

the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.

and then there was him.

tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.

the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.

(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)

he moved through his workout with terrifying

efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.

you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.

“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.

you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”

“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”

you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”

he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"

“i do not know his entire workout routine.”

your friend raised a brow.

you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”

his brow lifted higher.

“…and arms on thursdays.”

silence.

“right.”

“shut up.”

you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.

the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.

and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.

What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.

so, you stayed quiet..

until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.

in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.

“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”

“i use it,” you protested.

“you walk through it.”

okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.

you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.

you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.

the bar didn’t budge.

you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.

okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—

"y’need a spotter?"

you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.

you swallow. "uh."

his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"

"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."

he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.

your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.

"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.

you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!

he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.

"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"

you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"

"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.

you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."

you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.

he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.

a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.

but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.

"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"

he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."

you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?

he hesitates. "depends."

"on?"

"the day."

you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."

"sure it is."

you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.

it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)

you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.

"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."

and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”

he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”

you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.

"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."

you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.

“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”

“drop it.”

“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”

“drop it.”

some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.

it’s unbearable.

like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”

you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.

you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.

the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."

you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”

he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."

you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”

his eye twitches. “just drink it.”

and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.

one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.

you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.

simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.

"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.

you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”

he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.

"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.

you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—

his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.

"fix that grip, sweetheart."

you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.

"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."

your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.

his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."

you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.

you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.

and then— "good girl."

barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.

your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.

you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.

and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.

"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."

simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"

your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."

his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"

"yes."

he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."

you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.

"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."

your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.

"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."

low, warm, approving—

"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."

simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.

"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”

“please.”

the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.

simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.

his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.

his hips roll up.

you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.

he does it again.

your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.

"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."

his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.

his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.

you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.

"fuck-"

he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.

"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."

your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.

"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"

you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.

his patience snaps.

one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.

simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.

he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.

the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.

simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”

he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—

he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.

"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"

"yes- yes, please-"

"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."

he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.

the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.

"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"

you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.

his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”

your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.

simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”

you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”

he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.

your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.

his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”

then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.

you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.

simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”

he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.

his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”

you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.

his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.

“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”

he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.

then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.

his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”

the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.

simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—

he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.

"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."

your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"

"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"

you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"

"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."

you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."

then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.

you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.

"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.

"s’not fair," you mumble.

"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.

"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."

you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.

"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"

you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.

when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.

then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—

you take him.

the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.

"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."

you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.

breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"

"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."

but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."

his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."

"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"

he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."

then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.

"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.

simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."

the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.

"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"

he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.

it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.

but you’re already gone.

your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.

"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"

you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.

he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.

"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."

"s-simon-"

"what, love? too far gone already?"

his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.

you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"

"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."

he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.

"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.

"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."

he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.

"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"

"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.

"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."

then he fucks you properly.

[sarahs-secrets2]

Suit and Tie ˋ♡ˊ

phillip graves x fem!reader

help me pick out a suit yeah? 1.6k words

pet names, innuendos, alc, some swearing

graves masterlist!!

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

It was a slow day, as usual. High-end suits were not usually an everyday purchase for some, and the store's main cash flow was regulars who had their suits delivered. This meant another boring day of reorganizing an already spotless store. You busied yourself behind the counter pretending to be going over the delivery list for tomorrow when in reality it had already been looked over 3 times today.

That was until the door chimed, and a brand new customer walked in just an hour before closing. Perfect. Your eyes flickered up to greet him, and wow did he look out of place. Of course, it isn't polite to judge a book by its cover, but sometimes if you wanted to make enough commission to cover your rent a few assumptions were necessary. Typical customers came dressed for the part, maybe they were overcompensating but it sure made your job easier. This one was different, old blue jeans with obvious fraying, a blue button-up that was just a shade lighter than the jeans, and black dirty work boots. You had seen the type before but it had been awhile.

“Sorry sir, we don’t sell jeans here. Can I redirect you to a different store?” Maybe it was a tad rude but there was no way this guy was serious, and you weren't in the mood to have your time wasted. 

He laughed, walking further into the store and right up to the counter. The man rested his palms on the glass countertop, leaning closer as he whispered, “Good thing I’m not lookin’ for jeans.” A smirk danced on his lips as he leaned back and stood up straight. “Phillip Graves, I need a suit doll, help me pick one out?”

The forwardness caught you off guard, you could feel the heat rising to your face. Maybe he wasn't going to waste your time? Trying to keep your composure you walked out from behind the counter, heels clicking against the wooden floors in the suit shop. Phillip Graves, the name echoed in your head, bouncing around, and making sure you wouldn't forget it. “Can I ask what the occasion is?”

“Mhm,” he rubbed his jaw as he thought. While he took his time, you took in his appearance. A pretty blonde, blue eyes, a stubbled jawline with the faintest scar on his cheek, who was Phillip Graves? “Military thing,” he finally said.

“So you’re military?” you scoffed, now sifting through a rack of suits. 

“You could say that.” He walked over to join you by the racks. “I’m not sure if I’m goin’ yet, but better be prepared,” he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. 

“Do you know your inseam?” turning to face him, eyeing him up and down trying to gauge what it could be. 

“Got me there, not a clue. Been a long time since I got a real nice suit,”

“Figured,” you laughed, Graves tilted an eyebrow up at you jokingly. “Go to the fitting rooms, just over there,” you pointed off towards the pedestal in front of the big mirrors, “and I’ll get your measurements, then we can start trying some stuff on yeah?”

“Whatever the pretty lady says,” Phillip walked over to the mirrors and stepped up onto the pedestal. You were just a few paces behind him with a loose tape measure. Taking the measuring tape in both hands you kneeled down in front of him. It wasn't hard to feel how his eyes burned into you as you began to line the tape measure against his inner thigh. Your fingers ran down his leg along with the numbers as you took his measurements. Carefully you stood up, taking a mental note of the number of his inseam. 

“Large?” Phillip raised his eyebrows, “Maybe extra large?”

“No, and not how it works” you quickly retorted, lightly slapping his chest with the tape measure. “Stay here, I’ll go pull some options. Need a drink?”

“A drink? Thought this was a suit store, not a bar,”

“Well it’s a high-end suit store, and if you're willing to pay as much as these suits cost then I can swing one whiskey your way,” 

“And how am I supposed to say no to that?”

“Thought so,” smiling, you walked back into the main showroom looking for some options. After a few minutes of digging you pulled a few different suits and brought them back to Phillip. 

“Here you go Mr. Graves,” you hung each suit on a different hook in the fitting room and motioned for Phillip to go ahead. 

“Mr. Graves,” he smirked, “No one’s called me that in a while.” As you stepped out of the fitting room to make room for him, you scrunched your face in confusion to which he caught on. “Sorry, I’m a Commander, usually it’s just Commander or Phillip. I don’t really hear mister too often now,” 

“So which do you prefer, Commander?” 

Phillip could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand as you used his rank to address him. He wasn't blind, you were stunning. It didn't help that just minutes ago you were already on your knees for him. His heart nearly pounded out of his chest as he waited for you to get his measurements, any longer and Phillip could have sworn he was going to faint. Graves’ eyes met with yours, “Just call me Phillip hon’,”

“Well, let me go get you that drink Phillip. Go ahead and start trying these on,”

“Will do,” he winked, tugging the velvety curtain across the fitting room entryway. While Phillip tried on his first suit, you went to get his drink. The bar cart wasn't far, it was important to have it close for the clients to feel welcome. Pulling out a glass you poured the whiskey in, glancing at your watch you realized it was past close. If this was any other customer maybe you would've been bothered, but you had grown quite fond of Commander Phillip Graves. Deciding to treat yourself, you poured a second glass before setting the top-shelf bottle back down. 

“Phillip, I have that drink whenever you’re done in there,”

“Go ‘head and open the curtain for me, I’m just about done,” his voice was muffled as he spoke. Setting down your glass of whiskey, you walked over to the curtain with Phillip’s drink in hand and pulled back the divider. To your surprise, Phillip was nowhere near being done. The Commander was standing shirtless, only getting the dress pants on before giving up it seemed. 

“Ah thanks, darlin’,” he slipped the whiskey out of your grasp and took a swig before setting it down on the small table in the fitting room. Your mind was elsewhere, eyes too busy taking in the physique of the man in front of you. He was fit, clearly, the military would do that to you. There were various scars, probably from combat but if anything it made him that much more attractive. “See somethin’ you like?” the southern drawl snapped you from your trance. 

The Commander laughed before turning around facing the mirror in the fitting room, his back now towards you. Fuck, his back, his shoulder, his everything. If you hadn't just met this man today, especially considering the fact he is a customer, you would be all over him. Honestly, you weren't even sure if that was enough to stop you at this point. Graves began to slip the white button-up on, your eyes glued to his back intently watching how his muscles flexed. 

“I like that suit,” you quipped back, trying to play off your obvious staring. 

“Just the suit?” Phillip turned back around, now taking his time buttoning up the shirt. His abs peeking through the fabric 

“Just the suit, I picked it out you know,”

“I know, that’s why I like it,” he finished the buttons and glanced up at you.

“You need a tie, one second,” it was part excuse and part serious. He was a sweet talker, always knowing exactly what to say and it was becoming impossible to hide the effect he was having on you. Grabbing a pale blue tie, you returned having regained some composure. “Here try this, just for the full effect,”

“Look at you, thought I was just comin’ in for jeans, now you’re pickin’ me out ties,” he teased as he adjusted the tie around his neck in the mirror. 

“Hm and you still need new jeans,” you giggled, picking up your whiskey, and taking a small sip as you watched him finish getting dressed. Phillip was finally done and stepped out of the fitting room and back onto the pedestal. 

“How’s it look?”

Taking your time, you walked around him surveying the fit of the suit. Your hands ran along the sleeves of the jacket, “A bit loose through here, but we can get this tailored.” You continued and kneeled down in front of him again, tracing the inseam of the black dress pants. “And how’s the fit on these? Do you like it?”

Phillip let out a cough, “Yeah, these are good,” he shifted in place as you stood back up. 

“Perfect,” your hands ran down the collar, grabbing onto the lapels, “Well, now we know what fits, it all comes down to what you want to do,”

“What I wanna do?” he huffed out, his head rolling back slightly, “I wanna take you out on a proper date that’s what I wanna do,” 

“Oh?” it took you by surprise, in a good way. 

“I mean, already saw me half naked. I think we skipped a few steps but a date would be a good place to start. Don’t you think darlin’,” 

“I think a date is good,” you leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on Phillip’s cheek, “Now about these suits…”

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

[fortheb0ys]

⇲ 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐀 𝐆𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐑!°

✝× charlie/cj | he/they | gay | filipino/germen | 02 | top male reader/masc aligning blog @fortheb0ys2 is my primary account that i post random stray fics and like other posts :)

✝× i write the boys, call of duty, marvel, yellowjackets' jeff & coach ben, peacemaker, will graham, hannibal lecter, law & order, master chief, house md, dexter, flashpoint,

✝× basement dwellers:🥭, 🦈, ☀️, 🐢, 🐙, 🦴, 💥,🔮,🐦‍⬛, steve/🧃, 🧷

× request + asks are always open | FEM ALIGNED + MINORS DNI

[royaltysuite]

So, today is my birthday 🎂! And to commemorate this, I am opening up my inbox for birthday commissions ONLY! Any other requests will be added to a separate list and posted on later dates. My inbox will open until the end of August, so get your commissions in. For more rules and info about my commissions, I will post it down below along with a list of fandoms I will be writing for. Happy Birthday to all in August Leo Season🎂🥳🎉🎂🥳🎉

Fandoms I'll Write For

Resident Evil

Tomorrow Kdram

The Glory Kdrama

Call Of Duty MW2

Demon Slayer

Kpop Groups

Avatar/Avatar The Way of Water

Across the Spiderverse

Commission Info

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

taking one (& another & another & another) for the team | soap x reader x ghost | inspired by: @softaestluv johnny's pent up blurb

It started as a joke. "I'm gonna die if I don't get my cock wet soon," Johnny whined, sprawled backward over the couch, legs spread, hand draped over his forehead like he was seconds away from his last breath. *"Swear I can feel it in my fucking molars, mate. I'm gonna explode."

At first, you and the others ignored him. Typical Soap — loud, dramatic, a walking sexual frustration PSA. But it didn't stop. If anything, it got worse: every mission debrief, every meal, every late-night sit around the barracks, Johnny lamented his poor, poor cock like it was a national tragedy.

When he started describing how tragic his wanks were — "My hand's too fuckin' rough, not the same, need something wet, something tight—" — you snapped. Loud enough for everyone in the room to hear: "Christ, Soap, I'll fuckin' take one for the team if it'll shut you up."

Johnny sat up like you'd just offered him oxygen.

Which is how you found yourself bent over the nearest flat surface, jeans yanked halfway down your thighs, Johnny pressed tight to your back, rutting into you like a man possessed.

"Fuck—fuckin' hell, love, yer savin' my life," he groaned, hips slamming into you like he was trying to crawl inside. "Warm 'n tight, fuck, could stay here forever."

You barely bit back a moan, hands braced hard enough to hurt. You weren't supposed to enjoy this, just do your duty to the squad’s sanity.

But then Johnny started whining again — not his usual loudmouth bitching, but these needy, half-choked sounds against the back of your neck.

"Need ya," he rasped, like he couldn't help himself. "Need yer cunt, fuck, not gonna be enough, need it again—'m not done—"

Even after he came — hot, messy, filling you to the brim — he didn't stop. Still rocking against you, still murmuring desperate filth into your skin, already hardening inside you again.

You realized then: You hadn't fixed the problem. You'd made it worse.

He barely pulled out before he was pushing right back in, thick and slick with his own cum, grinding into your overstretched walls like he could merge the two of you if he tried hard enough.

"Fuckin' perfect," Johnny slurred against your neck, teeth scraping along your skin. "Mine now, y'know that? Filled you up good—fuckin' claimed you—"

You tried to push him off, half-hearted at best — muscles trembling, brain fogged from how full you felt — but Johnny just wrapped an arm around your middle and held you there, hips rolling slow and filthy, fucking his own mess deeper inside.

"Nuh-uh, love," he muttered, pressing kisses to your shoulder, messy and possessive. "Said I'd lose my mind if I didn’t get to fuck you. Y’think one load's enough to fix this? After all that sufferin’?"

You whimpered, feeling his cock twitch again, fully hard despite just cumming. He chuckled low against your skin, voice dark and wrecked.

"Told ya I'd go mad. Now yer stuck with me, sweetheart."

He fucked you slow the second time — not like the frantic, desperate slamming from before, but a grinding, possessive rhythm, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. Every time you clenched around him, he gasped, praising you in that ruined, filthy brogue.

"That's it, good girl," he breathed. "Take it all, take it like y'made for it. Fuckin' born to milk my cock, huh? Gonna pump you so full you won't remember what it feels like to be empty."

You felt him bulge even thicker inside you, grinding down into your cervix, every thrust stretching you wider, making you feel owned in a way that had nothing to do with orders or duty.

Johnny growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. You barely registered it before he was moving — hands gripping your hips, manhandling you onto your back like you weighed nothing.

"Wanna see," he panted, almost delirious. "Wanna see how fuckin' ruined you are for me."

Your legs were shoved open before you could think to protest, ankles tossed over his shoulders. Johnny leaned back just enough to look — and groaned, obscene and ragged.

"Fuckin' hell, look at that," he hissed, watching his cum leaking out of you, your cunt red and puffy, still clenching greedily around nothing. His cock throbbed in his hand, still wet, still ready.

"So messy, love. Drippin' for me already. Y'know what that means, don’t ya?"

You shook your head weakly, breath stuttering in your chest. Johnny just grinned, all teeth and danger.

"Means I’ve gotta fill you up again. 'Til you can't take any more."

Without warning, he lined himself up and pushed — forcing his cock back inside your sore, sloppy cunt in one thick, slow thrust. You cried out, back arching, and Johnny moaned like you were his whole damn salvation.

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Started fucking you immediately — deep, grinding strokes that had your whole body jolting with each brutal snap of his hips.

"That's it, that's it," he gasped, head tipping back, sweat dripping down his temple. "Take it all, pretty thing. Gonna make sure yer stuck full of me. Walkin' round leakin' my cum for days."

Your brain barely worked anymore. Just open-mouthed whimpers, toes curling, walls spasming around him like you wanted it — wanted everything he was giving you and more.

Johnny's pace turned frantic again, slamming into you harder, the sound of skin against skin filthy and wet between you.

"Belong to me now," he growled, words punching out of him with each thrust. "No one else. Fuckin' mine."

You couldn’t even pretend to fight it. Couldn’t think past the way he filled you so perfectly, the overwhelming heat, the way his cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you until you felt tears spring to your eyes.

He buried himself to the hilt one final time, grinding down against you, hips jerking as he spilled deep again, thick and endless. You could feel it — the heat, the stretch, the way he pulsed inside you like he was branding you from the inside out.

Johnny didn’t pull out. Just collapsed over you, mouth hot and messy against your jaw, still twitching inside your wrecked cunt.

"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "Still not enough. Need you again, love. Gonna fill you 'til you’re round with me, swear it."

Johnny stayed buried in you for a long moment, hips grinding lazy, slow circles, as if trying to force every last drop even deeper. You could feel it leaking out around his cock — hot, sticky, obscene — and you whimpered, overstimulated and wrecked.

Johnny noticed immediately. Growled against your throat, feral.

"Leakin'," he muttered, almost offended. "Can't have that. Gotta keep it all in, love. Need you drippin’ full for me."

He finally, finally pulled out — and the flood of cum that gushed out made you sob, weak and broken. But Johnny didn’t give you a second to recover. He dropped between your legs, shoving two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep and obscene, scooping the mess back up.

"No wastin' it," he rasped, fucking his cum right back into your cunt with slow, filthy thrusts. "Take it all, greedy girl. You fuckin' need it."

Your legs kicked weakly at the overstimulation, but Johnny just grinned — wild and unhinged — before spreading you wider, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit while he stuffed you full with his fingers.

"Gonna breed you proper," he whispered hoarsely. "Fill you so deep you’ll be round with me. Belly all heavy, stuffed full of my fuckin' load—"

You sobbed, hips rolling despite yourself, body desperate for more even as your mind shattered into static. You should have known it’d be like this — Johnny didn’t do anything by halves.

He leaned down, mouth dragging messy, possessive kisses along your trembling stomach like he could will it to swell.

"Mine," he murmured. "All fuckin' mine."

And that’s exactly when you heard the door creak open. You barely had the strength to lift your head, vision blurry — but you saw a tall shadow in the doorway.

Ghost.

He stood there, silent, unreadable behind his mask — just watching. Johnny didn't stop. Didn’t even slow down. He curled his fingers inside you again, making you cry out, making more of the mess spill down your thighs.

Ghost's head tilted slightly, almost curious.

"Problem?" Johnny barked over his shoulder, voice wrecked but cocky as hell. Like he wanted Ghost to see — to know.

Ghost said nothing. Just crossed his arms slowly over his broad chest.

Johnny smirked and turned his attention back to you, dragging his fingers out with a wet squelch just to stuff them right back in — slow and possessive.

"That's right," he said lowly, clearly for Ghost’s benefit now. "Had to take care of it myself. Filled her up so good she's fuckin' leaking. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?"

You whimpered in response — too broken, too full, too wrecked to argue.

Ghost watched you for a long, heavy moment — chest rising and falling — before he spoke, voice flat and unreadable: "You better clean up after yourself, Soap."

Then, calmly — without another word — Ghost shut the door behind him with a click.

Johnny barked out a wild, breathless laugh against your stomach. "Come to help, mate?" he panted, fingers still lazily dragging through the wrecked mess of your cunt. "Think she needs it. Poor thing's so fuckin' stuffed already, can't hold it all."

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to.

He stalked closer, heavy boots thudding against the floor, until he was standing right at the edge of the bed — looming over your trembling body. You watched through blurred eyes as he popped the button on his cargo pants, dragging the zipper down slowly, deliberately.

Johnny shifted you slightly, spreading your legs even wider, thumbs digging bruises into your hips to keep you open — presenting you like a ruined offering.

"C'mon, Ghost," Johnny muttered, voice rough and wild. "Don't leave the girl waitin'. Look how pretty she is—drippin' fuckin' ready."

Still silent, Ghost wrapped a hand around the base of his cock — thick, flushed, already leaking — and lined himself up.

He didn’t ease in. Just pressed the fat head against your already-used, dripping hole and pushed.

You screamed, body arching off the bed, overwhelmed instantly by the stretch, the pressure, the unbearable fullness of taking another man inside you without even a second to adjust.

Ghost let out a low, broken sound, not quite a grunt, not quite a moan, and buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

"There we fuckin' go," Johnny whispered against your ear, laughing breathlessly. "Take him, love. Take us both."

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Ghost fucked you without mercy — slow, devastating thrusts that forced Johnny’s mess and his own spit to spill down your thighs in filthy, wet streams. He said nothing — just breathing harshly through the fabric of his mask, hands brutal on your hips, using you like a living, breathing fucktoy.

Johnny kept whispering filth into your ear — encouragements, praises, commands — while Ghost destroyed you from the inside out.

"That's it, good girl," Johnny crooned, petting your hair while Ghost slammed into you. "Take it like you were fuckin' made for it."

You felt your mind fracturing — pure overstimulation, pure broken pleasure — as Ghost fucked you harder, grinding deep, his cock stretching you to the point of tears.

And then Johnny shifted again — ducking low between your legs to lick around where you were stuffed full, his tongue dragging over your overstretched rim every time Ghost pulled out just a fraction.

"Fuckin' hell," Johnny gasped, almost reverent. "Look at that, Ghost. Cunt's swallowin' you like she needs it."

Ghost let out another low, broken sound — and picked up the pace. The bed creaked violently under you, your body jolting with every brutal, punishing thrust.

You could feel it building — some dark, overwhelming climax you couldn’t fight — tightening low in your stomach, burning up your spine.

Ghost suddenly reached down and gripped your throat — not tight, just heavy, possessive — and that was it.

You shattered. Clamping down around him so hard Ghost actually groaned, thrusts going sloppy, brutal. And then you felt it — hot, thick, spilling deep inside you, Ghost’s cock pulsing violently, joining Johnny’s mess inside your ruined cunt.

You lay there twitching, barely conscious, as Ghost finally pulled out — slow, heavy — and watched as his cum immediately leaked out after him.

Johnny's hand was already there — catching it, stuffing it back inside you with lazy, satisfied fingers.

Ghost pulled his gloves back on silently, redressing with mechanical efficiency. Said nothing. Before he left, he pressed one gloved hand to your trembling thigh — firm, approving — and then disappeared out the door without a word.

Johnny leaned down over you, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

"Told ya, sweetheart," he whispered with a wicked grin. "Was gonna fill you proper."

And from the ache in your gut and the obscene mess between your thighs —you knew he wasn’t lying.

Morning hit like a slow, heavy sledgehammer.

You barely even remembered falling asleep — just flashes: Johnny fucking his cum deeper into you with lazy, loving thrusts while you sobbed into the sheets; Ghost’s heavy hand gripping your thigh one last time before disappearing without a word.

Now your entire body ached. Your thighs were sore, trembling even at the slightest twitch. Your pussy was a wreck — raw, swollen, still leaking a slow, lazy drip of milky white that soaked into the crumpled sheets beneath you.

You tried to shift — to roll onto your side — and whimpered immediately. Everything hurt. You could feel the mess drying on your skin, inside your cunt, coating your thighs.

And Johnny, of course, was already awake.

He lay stretched out beside you, arms tucked behind his head, a smug, satisfied smirk spread wide across his face.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he drawled, voice rough from use, eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "Sleep well?"

You glared at him weakly, too exhausted to even muster words. Johnny just grinned wider.

"Y’look wrecked," he said cheerfully, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from your sweaty forehead. "Proper job, that."

You tried to move again — a pathetic, sluggish attempt — and Johnny laughed, full-bodied and warm.

"Aw, poor thing. Can’t even fuckin' walk, huh?"

His hand drifted down — over your collarbone, the bruises he’d left, the fingerprints, the possessive marks — until he palmed your lower belly, pressing down just slightly.

You gasped, muscles clenching reflexively around the lingering mess inside you.

Johnny's grin turned wolfish.

"Still full, are ya?" he murmured. "Good girl. Holdin’ it all for us."

He sat up slowly, bare chest gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat, and pulled back the sheets.

You whimpered as cool air brushed your ruined, sore cunt — thighs automatically trying to close, to hide yourself.

Johnny tsked softly, spreading you open with two rough hands like you were something precious to be displayed.

He hummed low in his throat — a sound of satisfaction.

"Ghost’ll be pleased," he muttered, almost to himself.

You blinked sluggishly at him, confused.

Johnny chuckled and gestured toward the nightstand. There — sitting neatly next to a bottle of water — was a simple piece of paper. No name. No explanation. Just three short words, written in Ghost’s heavy, blocky scrawl: “Hold it in.”

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest.

Johnny laughed again — delighted, wrecked — and leaned down to press a filthy, claiming kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.

"Guess we’re not done after all, love," he whispered against your skin. "Orders are orders."

And from the wicked glint in his eye, you knew you weren’t getting a break anytime soon.

[realmsb4rbie]

"si."

"doll."

"what's this flower called?"

simon looked at the billionth flower you showed in just twenty minutes, sighing. "im a soldier love, not a gardener." though he took the pink colored flower from your hands, and placed it in the small box you brought, just to turn them into a sticker later and put it in your notebook.

"makes sense," you murmured. "though i thought you'd knew since you guys are always on the forests or mountains."

"we don't really have time to search which flower is which doll." he said softly, moving everything that was sharp in front of you, in the small forest you two discovered in your hike. you liked getting lost in nature walks with your husband, who was as useful as a swiss army knife in your eyes.

"shame." you murmured, holding his hand when you felt like you were stumbling. though you liked to be a little dramatic sometimes. as you both continued to hike, and pick flowers, you occasionally liked to touch big tree's. "how fast you can climb this?" you asked curiously, looking up at the big oak tree.

"three minutes, max." he said with a casual confidence that made you remember why you falled for this man. he could do anything, and it was impressing you embaressingly enough.

"wanna test it out?" you asked with a mischief smirk on your face. simon mirrored.

"what do i get in return?"

"a big kiss."

he started climbing that moment, finding bumps to step on or using his big knife to help him climb, going all in for a kiss. you chuckled as he sat on one of the sticks, looking at the time. "two minutes and a half, lieutenant!"

as if it was nothing, he jumped down from that tree, landing on his feet with a loud thud. "my reward." his hands immediatly reached out and you happily hugged his neck, giving him the biggest smooch.

the next time he returns from a deployment, he has a bunch of squished mountain flowers on his gear pocket, a few of them losing their leaves but it mattered to you nonetheless. because he thought the weird and rare flowers would look great on your little notebook, and you felt special that he remembered that while fighting for his life.

[amaranthinespirit]

please PLEASE Can you write reader ovulating with Simon Riley, his dick would hurt by the end.

what happens to simon riley when you're ovulating (his dick would fall off if it were me tbh)

your sex life with simon is already active as is, so the moment you start ovulating, he's in trouble. serious trouble. you can barely keep yourself off of him. everything he does sends a throbbing want to your pussy.

manspreading? you're already on top of him, tugging his jeans down just enough to ride his heavy cock. his big hands find purchase on your hips, grunting lowly.

"fuckin' eager, huh?" he's only half hard by the time you're bouncing on him, and you don't get off until either of you can't speak, and you've ruined yet another pair of his jeans from the amount of slick and cum that stains the fabric.

rolling up his sleeves, seeing the way his forearms and veins flex? you're begging him to finger you, and he gladly listens.

"need me t'fuckin' fill ya full, don't ya?" bent over whatever surface of your house, stuffed full of his fingers knuckle deep as your walls clench around him. one orgasm isn't enough, two, three, four, five until you're babbling incoherently and spraying the front of his shirt with your release.

the thing men do when they reverse, placing one hand behind the passenger seat? belt, GONE. you make hasty work of his jeans just so you can suck his dick as he drives—bonus points if he's still reversing. half-way laid across the center console with a face-full of his throbbing cock, already leaking pre. he's a mess, whimpers spilling from his lips as he bites down on the plush flesh. he's pulling your panties to the side, burying three fingers deep in your cunt with ease at the sheer wetness of your pussy.

him, reading with glasses? you bet he isn't taking his eyes off a single page as he ruts into you from behind, book laid across your back slick with sweat. he might be a little mean, make you fuck yourself back on his dick, balls slightly slapping your clit enough to make your eyes roll back into your head. get a drop of cum on his book, and he'll punish you.

getting passionate about his interests? fuck in missionary so he can continue yapping as he toys with your clit and pounds into your throbbing cunt. his words are long lost on you—you don't even notice when his words start getting condescending.

"always gettin' in m'pants..." he grunts, the sound of skin slapping and mindless whimpers and mewls fill the room, "fuckin' slut, you tryin' to get pregnant? want me t'fill you? dirty whore..."

by the end of your ovulation phase, you might've definitely gotten knocked up, and his dick is no longer with us. (he still has his hands and face, ladies...)

[omgitstatertot]

@bitterrfruit art gave me this idea

Simon Riley with a "Do Not Resuscitate" tattoo across his chest, big and in bold, who put it there in hopes that it would be followed, though the tattoo holds no legal binding and unless you have a written DNR your doctors are required to ignore it

Simon Riley, who spent those years with the tattoo, thinking that no one would truly miss him, were the occasion to arise

Simon Riley, who gets a partner, becomes quite comfortable and content with said partner, to the point he's taking off his clothes.

Simon Riley, who doesn't even get to reach for his belt to finish changing when his partner gasps, and begins anxiously fretting over the tattoo, fingers tracing the bold letters, doe-like eyes staring into his damn soul and a lip worried between their teeth.

Simon Riley, who can't seem to close his eyes as his partner insists on clinging to him that night, their hand resting over his heart as it finally sinks in that he would be, in fact, missed were the occasion to arise.

Simon Riley anxiously googling how expensive and how much time a tattoo removal takes.