#simon ghost x f!reader

[ltash]

"Wicked" pt-2

SimonGhostRileyxf!"Rose"reader

From her highschool bully to her wicked bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost.

"It's tender. It's raw. It's that moment in the story where you realize the boy with the sharp tongue is just trying to survive."

The gymnasium didn't look like a warzone for once. Twinkling fairy lights. Shimmering paper decorations. Music thudding like a heartbeat through the floor. Everyone dressed like they believed, just for one night, things could be good.

They spun in circles under cheap strobe lights.

Laughter, perfume, sweaty palms. Girls in pastel dresses and boys with wrinkled suits. A hundred little moments folding into each other like the ending of a teen film that didn't know it was lying.

Everyone was dancing.

Everyone but him.

Simon Riley stood in the far corner like he'd been carved from stone. Black suit, no tie. Sleeves rolled. Hair slicked back like he hadn't meant to care, but couldn't help looking sharp anyway.

No one came near.

Even now, especially now, he carried the kind of silence that made people nervous. Like a grenade with the pin half-pulled. Boys nodded at him from across the room, girls glanced and then looked away too quickly.

He didn't mind.

He was used to being the ghost in the room.

Used to watching Tommy from a distance, his younger brother in the center of a circle of friends, laughing like nothing had ever hurt him. Like he hadn't grown up in the same house with fists for lullabies.

Simon's jaw tightened.

He turned his gaze to the floor, pretending not to hear the laughter.

Pretending he wasn't waiting for it all to end.

"Why are you always like this?"

The voice startled him, soft, sure, like it wasn't afraid of him.

He looked up.

Rose.

She stood a few feet away. Pale blue dress, hair pinned with tiny silver stars. Small. Gorgeous. Out of place and yet, somehow, the moment.

She looked at him like she wasn't sure why she'd come over, only that she couldn't not.

Simon exhaled a slow breath through his nose. "Like what?"

"You know," she said gently, stepping closer, "Alone. Angry. Like you want everyone to stay away, but you hate being left out."

His mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a wince.

"You've been watching me?"

"I've got eyes, Riley. Doesn't take a genius."

He looked away. "Don't worry about it."

"Too late," she said. "I already do."

He didn't speak for a moment.

Didn't move.

The music pulsed around them like a heartbeat neither of them wanted to claim.

Rose's voice dropped. "You're not just mean. You're hurting. I can tell."

Simon laughed. Quiet and bitter. "That what you think?"

"It's what I see." Her voice didn't shake, even though her hands were clutching her dress like she was afraid of his answer.

"Then maybe you're seeing it wrong," he said, eyes fixed on the glittering floor. "Maybe I'm just broken. Maybe I'm just built this way."

"You're not."

He looked at her now. Really looked.

Her dark eyes were so wide, so painfully soft, and something in his chest twitched.

"You don't know me," he said. But it wasn't cruel. It was tired.

"Then tell me," she said.

He blinked.

A long pause.

Then his gaze dropped again, jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other like he wanted to leave his own skin.

"...My dad," he muttered finally, voice rough. "He's not... He's not the man people think."

Rose didn't breathe.

Simon swallowed. Hard.

"He's hit my mum. He's hit me. Tommy." His voice went quiet again. "For years. And no one stopped him. No one saw. And now I don't know how to stop being what he made me."

The confession hung in the air like smoke.

Rose's heart cracked in places she didn't know existed.

She stepped closer.

Close enough to feel his breath.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Simon flinched like he didn't know what to do with kindness.

"I didn't tell you so you'd feel sorry," he said, backing off a little. Walls snapping back up. "It doesn't matter now anyway. I've already fucked it all up."

"It's not too late," she said, her voice steady.

Simon looked at her, really looked at her. His brow softened, just a fraction.

"You're brave, Rose," he said. "You always were. Even when you were scared."

She gave a small, sad smile. "You don't have to be alone tonight, you know."

He shook his head once. "I wouldn't know what to do with not alone."

She held out her hand.

Didn't say anything else.

Just waited.

Simon didn't take it.

But he didn't walk away either.

And maybe that was something.

Maybe that was everything.

The music faded into the background , muffled bass, the echo of laughter and heels on the gym floor. But for a moment, time stopped.

Rose stood there, hand extended.

Not shaking. Not begging.

Just waiting.

And Simon looked at it like it was a live wire.

His hands stayed at his sides.

He didn't take it.

"I can't," he said quietly. Not cruel. Not cold. Just... honest.

Her smile faltered, just a flicker, but she didn't drop her hand.

"You can," she said. "You just won't."

He looked away again. Toward the door this time. Like if he stared hard enough, maybe he'd already be gone.

"I'm leaving," he said suddenly.

The words hung between them like a blade.

Her hand slowly lowered. "What?"

"British Army," he said, voice flat, eyes locked somewhere over her shoulder. "I enlisted last month."

She blinked. The breath caught in her throat like glass.

"Why?" she whispered, though part of her already knew.

His shoulders shifted. Not a shrug - more like something heavy settling on him again.

"I need out," he said. "Out of this school. Out of that house. Out of this whole damn life."

"And Tommy?" she asked, her voice cracking for the first time. "Your mom?"

His jaw clenched. Hard.

"That's the part that keeps me up," he admitted. "Leaving them. But staying's gonna kill me. And if I stay any longer, I'm gonna turn into him."

She wanted to tell him he was nothing like his father.

She wanted to say there was still time.

That people cared.

That she cared.

But he didn't want comfort.

He wanted escape.

"I don't expect you to understand," he added after a beat. "I just needed someone to know."

Her eyes were wet, but she nodded. Once.

"I do understand," she said softly. "More than you think."

He finally met her gaze again. And in that moment, he looked less like a ghost, and more like a seventeen-year-old boy on the edge of a cliff he'd built himself.

She wanted to reach for him again.

But he was already pulling away.

Already turning.

Already halfway to gone.

"Goodbye, Rose," he murmured.

And then he was gone.

Out the side door. Into the dark. Into the future he hadn't even seen yet.

And Rose?

She stood there under fairy lights that suddenly felt too bright.

With an ache in her chest she didn't have the words for.

Because sometimes the boy who pushed everyone away...

Was just trying to survive in a world that kept telling him to disappear.

Five years had passed.

She hadn't thought about Simon Riley in years.

Not really.

She buried him somewhere between prom night and the letter she never sent. Between the awkward silence of her graduation photo and the last time someone mentioned his name like it was a rumor, not a boy.

He had vanished like a ghost.

She let him.

She was good at pretending things didn't hurt if she wrapped them in silence long enough.

After Simon left,

she never went back to Manchester.

Not really.

Sure, her body stayed for the last few weeks of school, her final exams, her quiet goodbyes, but her soul had already started packing the day he walked away at prom.

She moved to Dubai that summer.

Her parents had been planning it for months, a family opportunity, they said. Bigger dreams. Better life.

A city of glass towers and desert gold.

And she said yes.

Eager, even.

Because anything that took her away from Simon Riley's absence felt like safety.

She told herself she was starting over.

New country. New friends. New version of herself.

But grief doesn't need a visa.

And some boys, no matter how cruel they were, leave shadows you can't scrub off.

Still, she adapted. She always did.

She learned the rhythm of a new place, Arabic coffee at 4 p.m., Marina traffic at 6, rooftop brunches, long silences between calls with old classmates. Everyone had moved on. And so had she.

She smiled in pictures.

She posted stories.

She kept herself polished like the skyline outside her window.

But sometimes,

in the middle of the night,

when the wind howled between the towers like it was lost,

She'd wonder where he was.

Simon.

That boy with the fists like fury and eyes like winter rain.

The boy who never took her hand.

The boy who ran away to save himself and left her holding a thousand unanswered questions.

She wondered if he ever thought of her.

If he ever wrote her name in his mind the way she still wrote his in the margins of her journals.

She never reached out.

Maybe she was scared he wouldn't reply.

Maybe she was more scared he would.

And so life went on.

Until the headline came.

Until the murders.

Until Tommy.

And then everything, every tower she'd built around herself, crumbled like ash.

Because no matter how far she went,

she couldn't outrun the people who made her bleed.

Sun-drenched cliffs, lemon trees in bloom, silk scarves fluttering in sea breeze. A billionaire girl on holiday. A Don with a past soaked in blood. And the kind of silence between them that feels louder than a gunshot.

She was no longer the girl from Manchester.

That girl had burned away long ago, somewhere between heartbreak and rebirth, between grief and grit.

Now, Rose was someone.

The kind of someone who didn't flinch anymore.

The kind of someone who had made her millions before thirty.

The kind of someone who could afford to disappear on a whim.

And so she did.

She went to Portofino for the summer.

To rest.

To breathe.

To stop dreaming about boys with frost-bitten eyes and scars that never faded.

What she didn't know was that he would be there.

Not Simon.

Someone far more dangerous.

Far more... deliberate.

Don Massimo Toricelli.

A name whispered in corridors.

A man who dripped power like cologne.

Sharp suits. Sharper tongue. Eyes like a wolf who knew how to hunt.

She met him at a gallery.

He said her name like it tasted expensive.

She should've known then.

Her multi-million dollar mansion, the crown jewel of the Palm. Walls of glass. Private beach. Armed security. Opulence with a pulse. But safety? That was just an illusion now.

She lived in the biggest mansion on Palm Jumeirah.

The kind you only saw in magazines.

Glass walls, ten bedrooms, imported marble, chandeliers that looked like falling stars.

It was supposed to be her haven.

It became her cage.

It started with shadows in the CCTV footage.

Men in suits parked outside too long.

Unfamiliar calls from Milan. Palermo. Naples.

At first, it was roses.

Always red. Always perfect.

Tucked into her villa's iron gate at dawn like a secret waiting to be found.

At first, it was subtle.

A single rose on the front step.

Fresh. Red. Thornless.

Then another.

And another.

Until they were everywhere, on her doorstep, her window sill, tucked into the wiper blade of her Rolls.

Then came the notes.

Cursive handwriting, inked in Italian.

Things like "Perfection should be protected."

And "You look best when you think no one's watching."

Then came the black boxes.

Wrapped in silk.

Lingerie she never bought. Lace that had never touched her skin, but somehow, the sizing was perfect.

The guards said no one got in.

The cameras said nothing.

But she knew.

She knew someone was watching.

And for a moment just a moment, she let herself believe it was harmless.

But fairy tales lie.

And not all princes save you.

Some cage you.

And then came the voice on the phone.

Low.

Italian.

Like danger dressed in velvet.

"Do you like the gifts, bella?"

"You should smile more. You look lonely in all that gold."

She froze in her own home.

In her kitchen. Her closet. Her bath.

Nothing was sacred anymore.

It was Massimo Toricelli.

The Don she'd brushed shoulders with in Portofino.

The one who watched her like he was reading a book he'd already memorized.

She thought it was a coincidence.

She was wrong.

He wanted her.

Not like a lover.

Like a possession.

"Why me?" she whispered once to the silence.

But silence never answered.

"Run, if you like," Massimo said.

"But I always catch what's mine."

She smashed the phone against the marble floor.

It didn't stop the ringing in her bones.

She didn't know who had sold her name to the underworld.

She only knew one thing:

She had to disappear again.

Because this time,

This time, she wasn't running from a boy who never loved her back.

She was running from a man who swore he did.

And so she tried to leave.

Once.

Got in the car.

Reached the gate.

It wouldn't open.

The guards wouldn't look her in the eye.

Phones didn't work the same way anymore.

Her assistant was gone.

Her staff replaced.

Everyone around her now worked for him.

And suddenly, her empire felt like a mausoleum.

A beautiful, sun-soaked prison.

Her name still glittered in the headlines.

But behind the glass walls, she wasn't Rose the mogul.

She was his prey.

And she didn't know how much longer she could run

when she wasn't allowed to run at all.

[luxcuriousao3]

Based on this post by @dante-mightdie . One line of dialogue taken directly from it so all credit for that goes to them!

Warnings: misunderstandings, mentions of murder (no violence or murder actually happens), pregnancy, no smut, ~1200 words

“I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed your declaration was nerve wracking, and you drummed your fingers against the dashboard of Simon’s car. You’d been coming back to the pub you met him at for three weeks straight since that damn test had turned up positive, wanting—no, needing—to at least tell the man who’d knocked you up about his baby growing inside you. You didn’t expect anything from him, not really. He was a stranger, a ruggedly attractive man you’d gone home with after one too many drinks. Not that you’d regretted hooking up with him, he was as good in bed as he was hot—or at least you hadn’t until you’d missed your period.

You’d nearly given up on meeting him again when you walked into the pub today and saw him in the same corner booth he’d sat in last time, nursing a pint. He hadn’t smiled when he’d seen you, but his eyes had locked onto you and not strayed as you strode towards him, nervous but determined. When you’d asked to speak to him in private, he’d raised a single brow, letting the silence stretch on for so long you were sure he’d say no. But then he’d just gotten up and walked towards the door, holding it open for you and clicking his tongue when he turned around to see you frozen in place. Like a misbehaving child being scolded, you’d scrambled towards him, whispering a stuttered thanks and then following him to his car, cheeks hot.

The car in which you now sat, still stifled by silence as Simon just stared at you, face blank and giving nothing away. You swallowed thickly, a shaking hand pressing against your belly, a habit you’d unconsciously picked up over the last few weeks. Simon’s dark, penetrating eyes tracked the movement, lingering for a long moment before he suddenly reached over you, ignoring your surprised flinch to grab your seat belt and buckle you in. Before you could ask what he was doing, he’d thrown the car into reverse and peeled out of the parking lot, making you grip the handle above you for dear life.

“S-Simon, what— what are you doing?” You asked, doing your best to keep the tremor out of your voice. Simon just grunted. “We have— we have to talk about our options—”

“What options?” He asked, voice flat and deadly. “Ring options? Mortgage options? Paint swatches f’the nursery?”

You shut up, tears stinging your eyes at his mocking. You weren’t going to ask him for any of that, but it still hurt to hear him be so cruel. You turned away to look out the window, the light from the streetlamps the only thing penetrating the inky darkness of the night. Shadows crawled out from the forest, making a shiver run down your spine.

“Just take me home,” you whispered, dejected. “Please…”

“I am,” Simon answered, still in that same emotionless tone.

You didn’t know if you believed him.

Your gut feeling was proven right when he parked the car in an abandoned lot, wooded and secluded and a perfect place to murder the mother of his unwanted child before disposing of your body. You sat stiffly in the passenger seat as he climbed out of the car and walked around to your side, opening the door and holding out his hand for you. You stared at him, eyes wide, frozen like a deer in the headlights. He huffed in what could have been amusement but was probably annoyance, reaching over you once again to unbuckle you before scooping you up and carrying you deeper into the lot.

“See that tree?” He asked, nodding towards a sturdy looking oak. “That one branch stickin’ out’d make a good place ta hang something from.”

Oh my God, you thought, feeling dizzy and nauseous. Is he going to hang me and make it look like a suicide?

“There’s a pond down there,” he continued, and to your minor relief, walked right past the tree. When you reached the pond a minute later, he finally set you back on your feet. “S’dangerous. Fully grown man could drown in it.”

You flinched, your breathing picking up. He’s going to drown me instead. Simon turned to look back up the hill he’d just carried you down, his back facing you. It was now or never. If you wanted to live, you needed to run.

“Gonna have to build a fence ‘round it. Not too high though, don’t want ta mess up the view from the house—”

You didn’t hear the rest of what he was saying, already halfway up the hill by the time he cut himself off. A gruff, angry “hey!” had you moving double time, nearly clawing at the ground just to get to the top faster.

You didn’t make it.

Strong, thick arms wrapped around your middle and lifted you in the air, and you screamed, shrill and terrified.

“No! No! Let me go!” You begged as you flailed in Simon’s firm grip. It was useless—he was so much stronger than you, so much larger than you, and his hold on you was unbreakable. He didn’t say anything as he carried you back down the hill, towards the pond, towards your death, and your shrieks turned into sobs as big, fat tears rolled down your cheeks. You were hyperventilating, now, animal panic wrapping its hands around your throat and squeezing, cutting off your air. Or maybe those were Simon’s hands? You didn’t know, you couldn’t think straight through the fear. All you knew was that you didn’t want to die.

“Thinkin’ we could name the baby John, if it’s a boy.”

The words filtered through your panic after an indeterminate amount of time, and you slowly came back to yourself, the blackness leaving your vision. The first thing you noticed was that you were cradled in Simon’s lap, face tucked into the crook of his neck as he murmured softly in your ear. The next thing you noticed was that one of his hands was rubbing your back soothingly, while the other rested on your belly. You let out a confused, snotty croak, and his voice quieted, before he pulled back a bit to look down at you.

“You back with us, love?” He asked, but then gently shushed you when you whined. “Shh, s’alright. Try not ta get all worked up again, hmm? S’not good for the baby.”

“But— but— but you don’t want it,” you whispered. Simon blinked at you, the slightest of furrows appearing between his brows. “You’re g-gonna kill me…”

“Am I now?” He tsked. “That’s not very nice of me.”

You whimpered, squirming in his lap and trying to get free. His face softened minutely, and he started rubbing your back again, still not letting go.

“Shh, shh,” he repeated. “S’alright, love. M’not gonna hurt ya. Was just makin’ a shite joke, yeah?”

It took another few minutes of you struggling (and failing) to escape, and him cooing gruff reassurances at you, before you gave up.

“You’re not gonna kill me?” You finally sniffled, scrubbing at your wet, red-rimmed eyes. Simon’s lips twitched into an almost-smile, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. You relaxed, practically melting into him as your heart rate started to slow. Maybe you had been wrong. Maybe Simon really wasn’t dangerous.

“I’d eat my gun ‘fore I hurt ya or our baby,” he vowed.

You stiffened again.

“You have a gun?!”

[fanficwriterlover]

This is my first, so bare with me I'm adjusting. Honestly reading stories of Ghost x Reader won me over so here's my little idea of Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader, I'm hoping to make this a series and learn as I go. This been sitting in my drafts for like....ever and I feel it's about time to share my efforts. Enjoy !

Safe With a Ghost

+18 Readers Only

Chapter One : You're Mine...

Summary of this Series : Dating Ghost has it's ups and downs, you both are busy with your jobs(you work at the ER) . Some days it takes a toll on you during his leaves. You live peacefully nonetheless and always happy when he returns, because no matter what, nothing bad would ever happen to you...right ?

What to Expect : Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader, female reader,SMUT(18+ Only), fluff, flirting, romance, kissing, touching, teasing, emotional obstacles, and more,

Word Count : 4.5k

Pet-Name : Varies but mostly using Pigeon and Kitten (18+)

════ ⋆Safe With A Ghost MasterList⋆ ════

═══════════ ⋆Chapter 2⋆ ════════════

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Looking down at the chart after filling out some collected data and results about your patient, you glanced up at the clock seeing the time as you noticed it was 06:47. You give a soft yawn after a long night shift finishing up your last chart. As you were just finishing up, in your peripheral line of sight, you see a dark silhouette standing in the corner of the ER hallway leaning against the wall. Glancing up from the chart, you beam with a smile, before striding over to the man whom you've loved and missed....Ghost but as you know him Simon.

You rushed towards him in your lab coat, as he slowly moves away from where he stood embracing you back. Both holding each other, his colossal hands wrapping around your small waist as you press your head into his black hoodie chest. Eventually pulling away looking up at him you compose yourself "I can't believe you're here ?! I thought you weren't returning for another week ? " You say softly with excitement.

Ghost eyes soften at the sight of you finally in his arms, his balaclava moving as he spoke "Got let off earlier." he said gruffly taking you in, as he was quite distracted seeing you in your work outfit. He always found you attractive in your medical uniform with your hair tied up high in a ponytail slightly exposing your neck. Without even registering, Ghost had lifted his mask just enough over his nose to kiss onto your bare neck licking there gently. You squirm under his grasp, giggling softly from the sudden affection, yet playfully batting at him to pull away. "Not here babe...I haven't even clocked out yet" he growls softly near your ear nibbling it before pulling away finally looking down at you. "How much longer ? " he asks eyeing you intently. You rub gently over his biceps feeling them flexed under his hoodie, as he holds you in an embrace looking at his chest taking in the moment that he's in front of you. You bite your lower lip glancing up at him. " Gimme, few minutes. I'll meet you in the parking lot." He nods his head curtly, before leaving he leans down to kiss you affectionately, needing, craving, sucking you in as he's longed for you as you for him. Breathlessly catching your breath, he makes his way out of the ER, somewhat grateful rather to wait outside as he hated being in a hospital from past experiences.

You watch him stalk away, wondering if he's caused any other patients to have a heart attack from his large demeanor and skull mask to top it off. You giggle to yourself how many times patients thought he was death itself ready to take them. Snapping back into focus. You finish up your last chart, putting it into files and writing down the time you're clocking out. You make your way to your locker grabbing your stuff, and quickly getting out of your lab coat putting it into your locker.

Eventually you make your way out of the ER into the parking lot, as you see Ghost leaning against his car...our car. You smirk at him taking in the view, as he eventually notices you staring a glint of fire in his eyes as you make your way over to him. "Like what you see, doll ?" He says smoothly, causing a shiver down your spine as you are now in front of him looping your fingers onto his shirt as you gently glide your hand underneath to touch his abs as you make a quip remark "What's not to like ?"...he lets out a husky chuckle which makes you want to melt missing his voice and laugh " Easy lovie, thought you don't wanna make a scene at your workplace...." His eyes squints and the twitch of the mask makes you aware he's grinning underneath as he continues...."Unless you want me to humiliate you in the parking lot, kitten ?"

If it wasn't already humid outside, your body was truly steaming from his flirtatious words. Between your legs itching for the longing attention from him to ravish you was tempting. However, you felt the tiredness creep in, having to work double the amount of night shift lately. You didn't even respond yet, but Ghost knew immediately you were worn down as his eyes softens, reaching up with his skeleton gloved hand to touch your cheek " Let's get you home lovie, we have time to catch up." He says softly, you felt contented and relieved he understood and knew your needs as you smile up at him leaning up to kiss his masked cheek.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The drive home was hazy, you make this kind of drive to work every day driving two hours to the ER and home. Ghost drove you home, and the drive home was silent but comfortable. He had his hand placed on your thighs, as you laid your hand over his, you hands comparably tiny to his as you looked out the window of the view, before eventually drifting to sleep.

When you arrived, you didn't even know you had arrived, as you were fast asleep, overcome with exhaustion. You began to wake up however, when you felt Ghost unbuckle your seatbelt and was carrying you bridle style close onto his chest into your apartment. Was a cute two story building with trees on each side, a fenced gate in front (one which he opened while carrying you with such ease) and cute porch.

Slowly coming to, he obviously notices you start to stir in his arms as he looks down at you seeing you want to be put down. He was tempted to hold you up longer despite it, but knew better, setting you down onto your feet carefully. His hands sliding up to your waist as you slowly wrap your arm around his neck with the other near his neck to slowly pull up his mask, which he allowed, as you slid it up just enough to show his lips, with a scar slit slanted over them. You lean forward kissing him more, as he pulls you closer deepening the kiss. When you finally pull back you let out a soft pant. Turning on your heel you unlock your apartment door, entering, with Ghost following close behind, as he closes the door behind you locking it. Making your way upstairs you let out a soft yawn stretching as you glance back at him, he was still following you up the steps his hand on your waist as you both make your way up to your shared bedroom.

It was spacious, the bed was queen size, with two nightstands on each side, lamps on both. You slept on the right and him on the left, you both have your own closest on both sides and a small lounging couch behind the bed. Already beginning to undress not caring Ghost was watching, you slip out of your clothing, taking in the view of your back exposed only with a bra. You let your hair down out of a ponytail as you drape it over your neck, before glancing at him, giving him a cocky smirk. God he missed you. "You keep staring like that you might burn me alive." He chuckles walking over to you after removing his leather jacket exposing his tattoo sleeve arm and strong biceps. Now only in a short sleeve black shirt that was tight on him, nothing fits him honestly, there's literally no fitting size for his body. "Maybe you're making it hotter in here. Should stop teasing me with your body lovie." He says gruffly as you pat his chest looking at him, your sharp eyes, which was what caught his attention of you so long ago that you're still together. Everything about you, you were bold, smart, caring, and classy. You both been in a relationship for 3 years. Sometimes he had to remind himself you were his, but the reminder always hit when he came home and sees you light up whenever you saw him. Of course you knew nothing about his work, he kept that part private, all you knew was sometimes his job called him away longer than you liked. Despite that, you understood. As someone in the medical field you too were often sent to different hospitals that needed your expertise or meetings. He was just glad the mission was finished early to come home to you. Now he just hope no one disrupted it.

You look at him "I can't help but tease you Simon, you're too easy " you give a smirk, he chuckles removing his mask to reveal his handsome face. He had scars adorning his face, but despite them, if anything, made him look more handsome, almost like he was "a tapestry of scars". He had told you long ago the stories behind his face scarring, it was when he was more determined to take your relationship to another level. His brows furrow you didn't even realize he backed you up to your closet door as you let out a gasp looking into his eyes the whole time, his towering figure leaning over you with his arms outstretched over your head against the closet "I'm that easy you say ? Didn't seem to be the case the last time you whimpered for me to go easy on you." The remembrance of the night before his last departure, you two were in a heated passion you were screaming out in the moment of lust that the words slipped out of your mouth. You were blushing intensely, it was obvious. Simon knew his way with words and remembering every word you say, he'd use them against you. You fumbled with your words "Well... I- " before you could finish his hand was on your throat, tongue pushed into your mouth as you let out a moan through the heated intense kissing. Your hands reached up to his neck sliding up his nape, you could feel Simon's other hand that was on the closet slide down pulling you towards him at your waist, as he slid more down to give your ass a squeeze. That got a whimper out of you. Despite your tiredness, you wanted, needed to feel him, all of him. You moved your hands down his pectoral muscles as they seem to tense as you glide your hand down his stomach, as you slid your hand up under his shirt to touch his bare abs. Your hands were cool, so this caused him to tense under your touch with his heated abs warming your fingers to the touch. Simon, lowered himself more as he broke the kiss, to kiss onto your bare exposed neck. You willingly tilting your head to the side for him to have full access as you lift your head slightly back, as his kisses and licks sent a shiver down your core.

Your soft moans lingering in the air, as it made Simon go even crazier, he sucked onto your neck to leave little marking knowing you'll scold him tomorrow when you're not in a heated trance about not making them obvious. But he didn't care, you were HIS and he wanted to make sure everyone saw that. His hands were already making their way down to unclip your bra, the snaps easily coming off with just one hand as it released from behind. Eyes looking down to examine your body, he could see your perfect breasts and nipples hard as his one hand slid the straps off over your shoulders, as you allowed so he can see your full breasts. His dark eyes lingering on them as you pant softly, his eyes than bore into you as he gave a smirk "Now how easy am I going on you kitten ? You're already panting" he chuckles moving his head down to lick between your breast getting a whimper from your lips "Y-Youre not being fair- " he picked you up in that moment getting a yelp from your lips as he throws you onto the bed on your back. You sprawled out onto the bed blushing even more as he hovers over your small body, smirking down at you, his hands pressing down near your head "Oh ? Didn't realize this was a competition? If that's the case..." He leans down closer to your face kissing your shoulders as he starts pulling down your pants exposing your panties. Simon stands up looking at your body in your tinted pink panties, they fitted nicely but barely covering your cunt. It was already wet, he chuckled moving his hands up your thighs making his way to your pantie line, before pulling them down slowly. Tossing your panties aside he looks down at you more hungrily, as a predator ready to eats his meal, and you were his prey and main course. His hands spread your thighs apart resting one of them over his shoulder as he kneeled into the bed moving down to lick your wetness.

You let out a moan as you feel his tongue begin to lap over your clit, it was already throbbing your walls were tightening from the tease. You wanted to squeeze your legs shut but would than feel strong arms keeping them open and his warm breath growl against your cunt "I'm not done with my "fair" share kitten" it made you shiver as he spoke with licking your clit, it made it harder not to want to squeeze your legs together when he pushes the tip of his tongue into you. That really threw you over the edge. Your back arched as Simon's hand slid under you gripping and clawing at your hips as he kept eating you out. His voice rumbled against your cunt "Mmm, sweet little thing, you must've missed me that much eh ?" You squirm as he continue, now more aggressive as he grips at your hips as you whimper and moan out "F-Fuck, yes I missed you Simon" he chuckles lowly sucking your cunt and juices heavily seeing you were close, but instead he pulled away right when you were about to hit it. Your eyes were begging, lips trembling, thighs shaking from the closeness of your climax "S-Simon...let me cum" he shushes you grinning down at you as his dog tags hand down on his neck brushing between your breasts, his hand gripping your thighs as he presses his bulge onto your wet throbbing aching cunt "Negative, not till you beg properly" he had an eyebrow raised at you as it made you ache more feeling him grinding against your cunt, you knew what he meant and your cunt was aching for it "Please fuck me..." You let out a pant, as your eyes looked into his whimpering as he presses himself more into you "Oh yeah ? You that desperate for my cock, kitten ?" You moan out only able to nod your head as this made him press harder onto you gripping your neck "Use your words, kitten, or I'll leave you aching" Eyes locked into his, he was hungry, it was like a game to him making you beg and ache for it "Yes ! I want you to fuck me hard !" You pant out as you rock your hips back on him, he was pleased with this smirking down at you "Much better" he says gruffly, working his pants down as your mind was frantic and busy trying to settle your lust, your felt his throbbing tip hitting your wet entrance. He was fully erected, stroking it up and down against your clit, making you squirm and pant "Put it in Simon" you gave an impatient whimper as he cocked his head slightly raising a brow still teasing your clit "Nah, not until you ask properly" he was torturing you and your body was screaming for him to push inside you as you bit down on your lips saying softly "....please", within a second he was already pushed inside you. Your body immediately coils as his large cock forces your walls to spread around his hard shaft. He grunts feeling your walls tighten around him as he begins to set a pace thrusting in and out of you. With each thrust your walls clench and making the juices coat his cock as he groans out looking down at you "Fuckin' 'ell you gotten tighter" he keeps going making your cunt spread to his size, his hand still around your throat with the other gripping your ass as he pushes himself into you hovering over your body.With each thrust, your body shakes from the impact, letting out a panting moan. Simon keeps working your cunt making it more easy to slide in and out, his cock throbbing inside you feeling your insides swallow him whole. He looks down at you as you're in utter bliss from the pleasure, a long awaiting passion you've yearned for when he returned.

He pushes harder and deeper making every thrust count. You were close, he could feel the way your legs trembled and your eyelids grow heavy. After a few thrusts you both hit your highs, you climaxing first as your body shook from the release with Simon continuing his pace. Until he reached his high burying himself deep into you as you both hold each other. His forehead pressed onto yours as he looks at you “Was I easy enough for you kitten ?” He chuckles as you whack him playfully “Shut up” both laughing until you fell asleep in each others arms. The morning sun peeking through your window as you both slept contently.

Two Weeks Go By...

Probably one of the most relaxing last two weeks Ghost has had in a long while. Hearing nothing from Laswell or Price was almost refreshing. Besides the normal annoyance from Johnny sending him random messages about his day to day.

Soap : Yo LT !!! HOWS IT GOING ?!

Ghost: Was going nice.till you messaged.

Soap: You don't mean that LT ! Bet you lonely and miss cracking your lame war jokes.

Ghost: I'm not lonely.

Soap: oh ? You with company these days ? Who ? Why wasn't I invited ?!

Ghost: You ask too many questions.

Soap: alright. I get it I get it, keep sulking by your lonesome. See you soon LT !

Ghost: Hope not.

Ghost snorts, he somewhat meant it, at the same time he was glad Johnny was doing alright. He glances up from his phone looking up at you as you were wearing his shirt. The way his big shirt nearly passed your thighs as you were cleaning up in the kitchen after having a lovely breakfast together, you took time off from work to fully spend every day with him which he was glad, it was nice just being home in each other's presence, with of course the normal "activities"... A vibration snapped his attention back to his phone seeing an unknown id number calling. He almost gripped the phone tightly as he knew who that could be. He answered. It was Price.

Aye Ghost...I know I promised you a longer vacay but...we need you back at base. Laswell found a lead. Apparently the cartels are up to something big.

Part of him clenched his jaw as he darted his eyes into your direction before standing up from the couch making his way to his office. Closing the door behind him so you didn't hear the conversation.

When do I need to leave...?

This question he dreaded asking as he stood in the center of his office near the door. That's when he could hear Price puff out a smoke and give a heavy sigh, as Ghost could imagine him smoking his cigar as if he were in front of him. Just hearing him give a sigh he could tell he wasn't going to like the answer.

Tonight...I'll send a heli to pick you up at midnight. We'll meet at base to discuss a strategy. This lead....it's big Ghost. Bigger than anything we've gotten in a while. Could finally figure out why the cartels are smuggling shit through the borders of Iran.

Hearing this, made Ghost clinch his fist, as he pressed his head back against the door. He hated having to tell you he's leaving again, as he hoped he'd have more time with you Why can't I fuckin have time...now I have to fuckin tell y/n out of the blue I got called away for a mission, and just up and leave...

'right Price...I'll be there. Ghost out.

The line ends...

He glances at his phone for the longest time. Just when he thought he could live in peace he gets dragged right back into hell again. This was his life, he knew that when he joined 141, there was no going back the minute he took on being Ghost. He thought that was the only life he could live until he met you... As much as he knew how understanding you were, sometimes he felt he didn't deserve you. The thought of you always waiting, never knowing what he does or when he'll return, must weigh down on you every waking day. Prior to you two meeting, even though he never told you exactly what he does, you were very aware and understanding to always having to be called away. For all you knew, you only knew he was in the military. That barely was enough to scratch the surface of what he truly does. He doesn't know how long he was staring for, until he heard a gentle knock against the door he was leaning on....until he heard your soft voice speak...

"Simon ? Everything okay ?" You noticed his body tense from the kitchen as you didn't know the nature of it. Watching as he shut the door to his office room as you frowned slightly. Made you worry when he shut himself into a room, you could only presume it meant something was wrong and he didn't want you to hear or know about it. However, how could you not ? He's all you worry about whether here or not. The only family you have, and someone you love dearly. As you look at the closed door in front of you, you notice the doorknob turn as you stand back slightly to see Simon's eyes, how they almost seemed...hollow. He seemed to no longer try to hide anything from you lately as you have already mentioned how much it upsets you seeing him actually show emotions made you ache. You say in a soft voice "Your base called....?" He just looks down at you eyes squinting a little, as he seems to wince when you mention his job. Nodding your head and biting your lip trying to hold back tears Shit...don't cry in front of him. It'll make him feel worse... "um, when do you leave ?" Seeing him seemed to flinch and clench his phone tighter, you were going to make a joke about him going to squeeze the life out of it but decided against it because your voice ran away when he answered "Have to leave tonight..." Felt like the whole roof came crashing down on you, and like a waterfall your tears came down gushing.

Simon knew this would hurt you and he hated it. Seeing you squirm yet already know the inevitable was just your facade to stay strong. Yet he knew...your eyes always seem to never focus, brows furrow, and lips purse when it runs through your mind and makes you sad. In a second before a tear came down, he had his arms around you gently, enveloping you, holding you. "'S alright pigeon let it out..." He hated this...it made him want to burn everything to the ground. All these missions and leaving you. He wish he could just walk away from it all..Mumbling softly stroking the back of your hair "I'm sorry pigeon...I thought we had more time too, but you know I'll always come back" you sniffle burying your face into his chest taking in his scent "I-I know...but still. I never know when you'll be back. What you do...and God Simon...I don't want to have someone from the military come to our door and tell me you're - " your voice hitches with sobs. As a doctor, you've watched tons of patients weep for their loved ones when you've had to announce a coding. It never was easy. Or telling someone they have something incurable and that they only have so long to live. You could look patients, their families, loved ones, and friends in their eyes and tell them this...yet the thought of being on the other end scared you most.

Simon lifts your chin looking deep into your eyes, his other hand caressing your cheek to wipe your streaming tears. "I know I can't promise you time...but..." He breathed through his nose waiting to have your attention which he does as you sniffle blinking your eyes to stop the tears...heart wrenching to watch "I swear. I'll always come back, bleeding or broken..." He gives you a soft smile, one that he sees is returned with yours. The twitch of your lips wanting to but giving up. "I know no matter what state I return in... I'll always make my way back to you." This gets a more softer smile from your lips, one that makes his heart beat hard and put into memory when things are tough in the field. "Atta girl.." stealing a loving kiss from your lips, you return with same passion and love one he deeply will remember until he returns. For now...he held you close until he couldn't.

Two hours before departure...

With his balaclava back on, leather jacket and cargo pants, duffle bag in hand. Simon...Ghost was pulling on his skeleton gloves about to leave. You came out of the kitchen with a box of his favorite tea bags, handing it to him, as he smiled under the mask. "Thanks, pigeon." Glancing at you, your eyes were red from crying yet you were trying to keep a stoic face, he thought to himself Tougher than my rookies... He leaned down kissing the top of your head as you look up into his eyes giving a smile. "Promise you'll message me when you can ?" You gave a pleading look, those eyes which would make him cave in. "I promise lovie, don't forget to get some food...and..." she sighs out waving her hand dismissively, one no one in his unit would have lived to see another day had they interrupted him. "I know...don't come walking home late alone. "Don't want no bloody douché looking at my girl"" as you give off the best British accent of Simon, giving a smirk. He chuckles "Pigeon, I love you, but that accent is shitty" you smirk "Learn from the worst I guess." He raises a brow at you as he thinks to himself Cocky little thing, should've called her hen instead. Picking up his duffle bag and truck keys, he lifts up his mask to give you one finally kiss, making it deep as possible before tearing away.

"I love you Simon..."

"Ya...I love you too y/n"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for Reading !

ꨄ︎Taglist: @kat-nee

[ryuzakemo128]

Reason to date someone like you?

Pairing: Poly!141 x female reader // Simon 'Ghost' Riley x female reader

Content warnings: fluff?, fluff mixed with angst maybe?

Word Count: 255

Note: this is my view on the type of person Simon would date. Because I got pissed and saw only loud girlies for the dude. And as someone who is quiet. Yeah. That hurt my feelins babes.

Masterlist

If someone screamed where is your fucking whimsy at you and Ghost? Best believe that both Soap and Gaz would attempt to kill said person. Why?

Who says you need to be a certain way to date ghost?

Disney adult? Hmmm. No. You don’t have to be.

Purely old fashioned cartoon? No you don’t have to be that either.

People don’t understand is that Ghost dates people who are strongly passionate about the things they love the most. He doesn’t give a fuck what it is. As long you love it. He loves it too.

Just because others might think he is better off with a bubbly one. It doesn’t fucking matter to him.

He loves the loud ones and the quiet ones. Because why should it be one thing or the other?

Why do things have to be strictly one thing and one thing alone?

Who are they to tell you that you are not enough for Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley?

Who was game enough to tell you that you weren’t enough with a six foot four or taller man at your side? Who?

Hopefully. No one.

You weren’t loud like most of the girls you knew of. But that’s ok.

You were too quiet sometimes though.

You don’t leave your bedroom all that much and sometimes he forgets that you’re up there. Starts to panic that you ran off some place only to be relieved that you only ducked into the kitchen grabbed the Nutella and raced back upstairs again without saying a word.

[mellieangel]

MIDNIGHT TALES : THE ANTHLGY

( SIMON RILEY X READER ) COME SOON!

The pool sat there glowing faintly, its water an off-putting shade of teal that looked almost radioactive under the weak string lights strung above it. Half the bulbs had burned out, the rest flickered lazily, casting jumpy shadows across the cracked tiles. The neon motel sign buzzed in the background, its pink and blue glow rippling on the water like something alive, the "VACANCY" barely clinging to life, just like this place.

The air was thick—chlorine, cigarette smoke, and that faintly sour smell you couldn’t quite place. The loungers around the pool were old, the kind with vinyl straps that creaked and stuck to your skin, most of them tilted or missing screws. A palm tree leaned off to the side, like it had given up years ago, its leaves barely moving in the still air.

Somewhere, a faucet dripped. Steady. Too loud. Beyond the rusted chain-link fence, the rest of the world dissolved into dark, empty nothing. It was quiet, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of quiet that made you feel like you were being watched. The pool just sat there, still and silent, like it was waiting for something—or someone—to fall in.

[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.

[cameronsbabydoll]

more blunt!simon because he’s hot

he doesn’t even look up from his phone when he says it.

just sprawled across the couch, one arm behind his head, legs spread like he’s on a throne instead of a beat-up cushion that still smells like smoke and sweat.

“ya know, if you’re gonna walk around like that, you oughta be ready to get fucked.”

you freeze. halfway across the living room, wearing nothing but a big t-shirt and the tiniest pair of shorts you forgot you even owned.

“like what?” you ask, already feeling the heat crawl up your throat.

he finally lifts his gaze.

smirks.

“like a mouth-watering little tease,” he says. “jesus. i can see the crease of your pussy from here.”

you make a shocked sound—half gasp, half laugh—and wrap your arms around yourself like that’ll help.

he scoffs.

“don’t act shy. you bent over the fridge earlier like you wanted me to notice. ass all high, thighs squeezin’ together like you were tryna get off on the cold air.”

you open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, lazy and cruel.

“if i pulled your shorts down right now, you’d be wet already. bet your fuckin’ panties are stickin’ to you.”

you stare. breath caught in your chest.

he grins wider.

“c’mon. lemme see. won’t even touch. just wanna take a look. see if i’m right.”

his eyes drop, heavy-lidded and hungry.

“you do like it when i talk like this, huh? your nipples are hard.”

you cross your arms tighter, turn to walk away, but his voice chases after you—

low and amused and absolutely depraved.

“run off if you want. just know the second i hear that shower start, i’m gonna be sittin’ here jerkin’ off with the door open. loud. so you know what you did to me.”

[laceyfaeryy]

MDNI 18+

loner! simon riley being completely unaware that he’s largely endowed

mentions of: huge dick simon riley, loser simon riley, vaginal sex - part 2

just loner! simon riley with a huge cock that’s all

he was completely unaware of how big he really is, thinking it’s probably just average or maybe even smaller, and straying awkwardly away from any sex talk with his friends.

he was also completely unaware of how it literally swings when he walks, especially when he is alone in his apartment with no boxers just because they felt so unreasonably uncomfortable, like his cock was suffocating. his tight cargo pants always bunched up at the crotch area.

he was quite messy whenever he came whilst fisting his cock. his rough hands marred with scars moving up and down sloppily, lewd wet noises filling up the room as he leaned his head on the wall, his black skull balaclava in his mouth to stifle any groans.

his cock felt heavy, weighing down his hands and sometimes would even make his hands ache.

and he had a heavy load of cum when he came it would spurt all over his abdomen, making a sticky mess on his hands as he tried to wipe it with a towel, his actions sloppy due to the ache in his right hand.

so when he first fucked you he felt like an amateur, completely unaware of your gaze glued to his bulge as he freed his aching cock, looking already huge in his large hands. he struggled, like a lot getting it in.

he was so excited to feel your warm cunt around him, missing your hole multiple times.

“fuck, ‘m sorry luvie, don’t know why it’s not going in.” his cheeks beat up, a faint dust of pale pink as his fat tip nudged against your glistening hole, his hand steady trying to guide it. “jus’ a lil stretch,” he cooed as he watched the way his tip was enveloped by your cunt, a loud squelching noise before he finally sank in.

god he loved watching that small tummy bulge whilst fucking you.

he never thought he’d feel so good, your gummy walls so tight and warm around his cock, squeezing him like you wanted to milk him dry. simon was used to the feeling of his palms, the rough dry skin, but god it did not compare to the feeling of your cunt.

he came within seconds after you, his cum dripping out despite his cock being plunged so deeply into your cunt.

he swore that he saw your stomach swell just slightly due to his cum.

[scoobywrites690]

Ghost wanting you to sit on his face.

Simon pulling you off his dick mid bouncing, his hands gripping the fat of your hips as he try’s to drag you up towards his face.

“Up, mama” he mutters as his grip tightened trying to get you to just sit on his face. He just wants to feel your soft supple thighs on either side of his head, and your sweet cunt on his mouth. He wants to be surrounded by you. To be engulfed by you and your delicious pussy.

Trying to refuse what he’s asking of you only gets him to beg more, mutter sweet words to you as he continues to pull you up towards his face, just aching for it.

This is something that the two of you haven’t done together yet, but it’s been the only thing that Simon can think of. Your hips rocking back and forth your slick coating his face as he has his tongue buried deep inside you. Making you squirm around on top of him, trying to lift up and away from his teasing tongue. Only making him wrap his arms around your thighs to hold you in place, his strong arms holding you steady with ease whilst he continues his assault on your poor little pussy.

Sometimes he’ll land a light slap to your ass as a warning if you still continue to squirm after he’s contained you with his arms, mumbling something about behaving as he’s sucking your clit into his mouth.

Simon takes great pride in pleasing his woman, it’s probably his biggest turn on to be honest. Seeing you all sweaty with your flushed face and your legs shaking as you try to recover from the 3 orgasm that Simon gave you all in a row.

[khioneee]

simon is too big for you.

his hands gripped your hips firmly, his breath heavy and labored as he tried—really tried—to ease himself into you. but no matter how patient he was, how slowly he pushed, your body resisted, tightening around the sheer size of him.

simon was desperate—aching to thrust, to rut into you without restraint. every muscle in his body screamed for release, the urge to roll you beneath him and pound his seed into you overwhelming.

he wanted to bury himself so deep that your body had no choice but to take him, to force his release to take root in your belly.

“fuck…” he muttered under his breath, resting his forehead against yours as he tried to catch his composure. “you’re so tight, lovie. i don’t think i’m gonna fit.”

every inch he fed you burned with pressure, leaving you gasping, your fingers digging into his arms as you trembled beneath him. your body clenched instinctively, fighting to accommodate him, but it was too much—too thick, too deep. you whimpered, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “si, it’s… you’re too big!”

“shhh, you’ll take it,” he whispered, voice hoarse with restraint. “you’ll take all of me, i promise.”

he exhaled sharply, every muscle in his body tense from holding back. “relax, sweetheart,” he coaxed, brushing a soft kiss along your jaw, his hands slipping lower to hold you steady. “i know it’s a lot… but you can take it, yeah?”

you nodded shakily, lips parting with a soft moan. “try again… please,” you whispered, gripping his shoulders tighter. “i want you. all of you.”

with a low growl, he began to push forward, inch by agonizing inch, feeling your walls flutter and stretch around him. “good girl,” he murmured through clenched teeth, savoring the way your cunt fought to take him. “that’s it. you’re doing so good for me.”

it was slow—painfully slow—but with every careful thrust, you felt yourself adjust just a little more, inch by inch, as he stretched you wider than you’d ever thought possible. and the moment he was finally buried inside you, completely, ghost let out a low, guttural groan.

“see?” he whispered against your ear, a grin tugging at his lips. “i told you—you’d take me, love. every inch.”

[ltash]

The Unwanted Wife pt-3

SimonGhostRileyxfemalereader

When want becomes obbsession, obbsession turns into madness

The pizza hit just right.

Warm, greasy, and comforting, like a balm over the wreckage of a day that should’ve been the happiest of your life.

You leaned back into the plush couch with a little sigh, fingers still wrapped loosely around the empty plate on your lap. Your head tipped against the velvet armrest, golden waves cascading over your shoulder like silk.

Eyes fluttering.

Breath slowing.

And then

Sleep took you.

No ceremony. No permission. Just exhaustion dragging you under like a tide.

Simon didn’t notice at first.

He was chewing absently, staring blankly at the muted TV screen, still half-pissed, half-numb.

But when he turned to say something, something probably gruff and sarcastic his words caught in his throat.

You were curled up beside him.

Out cold.

Your long lashes cast little shadows on your cheeks, lips slightly parted, soft breaths leaving you like sighs.

The ruined wedding dress still clung to your body, crinkled and torn, but you looked ethereal all the same. A little porcelain angel, delicate, heartbreakingly soft.

He stared.

For a moment.

Maybe longer.

Then with a quiet exhale, he stood up and bent down, so gently, sliding one arm under your knees, the other behind your back.

You didn’t even stir.

Light as a dream.

He lifted you easily, holding you close to his chest, warmth bleeding from your body into his as he walked through the quiet house. His boots thudded softly against the wood as he nudged open the bedroom door with his shoulder.

The room still smelled like bridal perfume and mascara tears.

He laid you down carefully, carefully, like you might shatter if he let go too fast.

Pulled the blankets over you.

Paused.

Then, sighing, he sat beside you, back against the headboard, one boot still on, arms crossed over his chest like a man guarding a vault.

He glanced down at you again.

Still asleep.

Still beautiful.

Still his, whether he liked it or not.

His jaw tensed, but his eyes softened just a fraction. Just enough.

Then, without meaning to, without even realizing it.

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in what felt like days.

Simon Riley stayed.

Right beside his bride.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One minute, you were curled up on the couch with your half-eaten slice of pizza resting on a paper plate, the warmth from the food and the exhaustion from the day settling in your bones. The next, your eyelids were too heavy to fight, and the silence of the room wrapped around you like a blanket.

When you stirred hours later, it wasn’t the sunlight that woke you, it was the cold.

You blinked slowly, disoriented, tucked beneath your comforter. The room was unfamiliar, but the mattress was soft beneath you. You could still smell him faintly on the fabric.

He had carried you here.

But he hadn’t stayed.

Your gaze darted to the other side of the bed, untouched, empty.

Your heart sank.

You slipped out of bed, the soft silk of your bridal dress brushing against your legs as you padded down the hall. One glance into the guest bedroom, and your breath hitched.

The sheets were messy.

He’d slept there.

Not with you.

And now, he was gone.

You looked toward the front door, then to the quiet living room, and finally to the clock on the wall. It was nearly nine. He had left without saying a word. No note. No message. Just a void of silence where his presence should’ve been.

A knock on the doorframe made you turn.

“Ma’am,” the house staff chef greeted gently. “Breakfast is ready. Shall I serve it in the dining room?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded wordlessly.

Moments later, you sat at the long dining table, alone.

The food was beautifully laid out: fresh eggs, toast, fruit, steaming tea. A perfect spread. But it felt cold without him. Lifeless.

You picked at your plate in silence, the clink of silverware echoing in the stillness.

No husband. No warmth. No wedding bliss.

Just you. And the ghost of him.

And somewhere in your heart, something began to harden, but something else still hoped.

Hoped he’d come home. Hoped he’d look at you like you mattered.

Hoped this wasn’t going to be the rest of your life.

You spent the entire day in silence.

No calls. No texts. Not even a shadow of his presence in the mansion your father bought for the two of you.

You wandered through its empty halls like a ghost, your heels echoing on the polished floors, fingers brushing against the velvet drapes and cold marble counters as if trying to feel something. You dressed up, just a little, did your hair, put on your soft perfume… foolishly hoping.

But he didn’t come.

You sat on the couch for hours. Curled up with a blanket, hugging a cushion to your chest. Eyes glued to the clock.

8:00 p.m.

10:00.

Midnight.

Still nothing.

The staff had all gone to bed. The lights in the house dimmed. Even the air felt still. Your eyelids began to drop against your will as you waited, your head lolling against the arm of the couch. You told yourself you'd stay awake until he came, but exhaustion had other plans.

You didn’t hear the door when it opened at nearly 2 a.m.

Didn’t hear the heavy tread of boots over the hardwood floor.

He stepped inside, quiet as a shadow, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. His tactical gear was still on, vest unstrapped, black shirt damp at the collar. He smelled faintly of gunpowder and sweat, of wind and the cold night.

And there you were.

Asleep on the couch.

Still waiting for him.

Even in your sleep, you looked heartbreakingly delicate. Your hand tucked under your cheek. Your hair fanned out like gold. A frown etched gently between your brows, as if your sadness had followed you into your dreams.

His jaw clenched.

He stood there for a moment, unmoving, unreadable.

Then without a word, he turned, walked down the hallway, and disappeared into the guest bedroom. The door shut behind him with a quiet, final thud.

This was routine now.

You’d wait all day.

He’d return when the moon was high.

You wouldn’t speak.

And each time, it chipped away at the hope you stubbornly clung to.

Days bled into weeks.

Weeks slipped into months.

And still… nothing changed.

You lived in the same house, shared the same last name, but he felt galaxies away. Simon was like a shadow that drifted in and out of your world, never touching it, never acknowledging your presence unless it was necessary.

He never ate with you.

Never spoke unless it was clipped and cold.

Never looked at you the way he did that first night, when he carried you to bed after pizza, when he leaned on the headboard, watching you sleep.

Now he barely looked at you at all.

You woke up alone every day. Went to sleep crying most nights. No one saw the cracked pieces of your heart scattered across the mansion floor, no one except the walls that had grown used to your sobs echoing through the night.

You kept your pain hidden from the world. Even from your father.

Especially from your father.

Because the one thing scarier than living in silence was the thought of your father finding out. The threat that had cornered Simon into marrying you in the first place, it still hung heavy in the air, unspoken, but always there.

You couldn’t risk it.

You couldn’t bear the thought of your father storming into the base again. Or worse, ruining Simon’s life just because you were hurting.

So you stayed quiet.

Played the part.

Smiled politely when your father called to check in. Said he’s just busy with missions, Daddy, like that explained the darkness under your eyes and the hollow ache in your chest.

You bought new clothes. Tried to bake. Read books. Took long walks in the empty garden.

But nothing filled the space where love was supposed to be.

Your life wasn’t a life.

It was a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

And worst of all,

You still loved him.

More with each day.

Even when he didn’t look your way.

Even when he never said your name.

You had enough.

Valentine’s Day.

The one day the world turned red and soft and sweet. And yet your world, still gray. Still quiet. Still haunted by the man who never looked your way.

But not today.

Today, you weren’t going to cry in silk sheets or wait by the window for headlights that never came.

You were going to remind him.

Remind him who you were. What he had. And what he was losing with every cold, silent night.

You dressed in silence.

The gown was rich burgundy velvet, sculpted to your figure like it had been made for your body. Off-shoulder, hugging your curves in all the right ways. Your neck shimmered with diamonds. Your ears dripped with it. And your heels, six-inch Louboutins, red as vengeance, clicked like a promise with every step.

Hair cascading in soft waves, eyes done just enough to slay, lips painted the color of heartbreak.

You looked… expensive. Effortless. Untouchable.

You slid behind the wheel of your black G-Wagon and drove.

The SAS base didn’t expect you.

The security checkpoint was stunned into silence the moment your window rolled down. They saluted you hastily, waving you through like royalty.

And when you pulled into the parking lot, every head turned.

Some jaws dropped.

Others whispered.

Is that…?

That’s her.

Ghost’s wife.

The wife he never mentioned. The wife no one had seen.

Until now.

You stepped out like a queen, every movement measured and graceful. Your heels clicked across the gravel, your diamond anklet glittered in the sunlight, and your eyes, those heartbreak eyes, scanned the grounds like you owned it all.

You did own it.

You owned him, too. Whether he liked it or not.

And today, you weren’t leaving until he saw you.

Until he heard you.

Until he remembered who the hell he married.

You walked past the soldiers like they weren’t even there.

Whispers buzzed around you like electricity. Their eyes followed every step you took, stunned silent by the image of you, ghostlike in your beauty, heartbroken but defiant. A living, breathing reminder that Ghost wasn’t as untouchable as they thought. He had a wife. And she was here.

You didn’t stop. Not for them. Not for the stares.

Heels clicking across the halls, you made your way to his office and without hesitation, without knocking, you pushed the door open.

He was standing behind his desk, eyes focused on a stack of classified files, a pen in hand.

And then he looked up.

He froze.

You watched the surprise flicker in his eyes, just for a second, before that cold mask of indifference snapped back into place.

But you saw it.

You saw it.

“Simon,” you said, walking in like you owned the damn room. Your voice was smooth, but your heart thundered in your chest.

He straightened slowly, jaw tightening. “What are you doing here?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you walked across the room with that quiet, devastating grace you wore like perfume. You took the seat across from him, legs elegantly crossed, bag tossed onto the desk like you had every right.

You picked up the intercom receiver on his desk and calmly pressed the button.

“Two coffees. Hot. Now.”

You set it down.

Then looked at him.

“Surprised to see me, babe?” you asked, tilting your head with a soft smirk that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

He said nothing, eyes scanning you. Taking in every inch of your figure in that gown. The shine in your hair. The way your wrist rested gently on your lap like you weren’t trembling on the inside.

You leaned forward slightly.

“I was tired of waiting at home. Thought maybe you'd appreciate the company on Valentine’s Day.”

Still, he said nothing.

But his eyes…

They were burning.

You reached into your purse, Hermès, naturally, and pulled out two sleek, glossy envelopes.

You placed them on his desk like a winning hand in poker.

Simon’s eyes flicked down.

“What is this?” he asked, voice low, guarded.

You didn’t blink. “Our honeymoon tickets. First class. Turks and Caicos.”

His brows tightened. “Honeymoon?”

You tilted your head again, that soft smile playing on your lips. “Arranged by Daddy. He thought we deserved some time together now that you're back from your mission.”

Simon stared at the tickets, unreadable.

“I’m not the honeymoon type,” he said flatly, arms folding across his chest, voice dry as gunpowder.

Your eyes sparkled.

“I don’t care.” You leaned forward, lips parting ever so slightly. “You’re coming with me.”

A beat of silence stretched between you.

He knew he couldn’t say no. Not to you. Not with your father’s shadow looming over everything.

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t speak.

Just then, the knock came, sharp, and almost afraid.

The door cracked open and a young soldier stepped in with a tray of two steaming cups of coffee. He set it down with shaking hands, glanced at Ghost like he wanted to disappear, and left the room in a hurry.

You lifted your cup with grace.

Took a slow sip.

And when you looked over the rim of the porcelain mug… that smirk danced across your lips.

“Pack light,” you said smoothly. “We’re wheels up in the morning.”

He didn’t respond.

But his silence wasn’t rejection this time.

It was surrender.

And you knew it.

[rosiereveries]

Neighbor!Simon who just got home from a mission and he just wants a good night of sleep. But when he is in bed, on the verge of falling asleep he hears you.

His lovely neighbor who he shares a wall with. You moved in just a few month ago, and since then you had a crush on Simon. He hears you walking around your room, opening drawers, and then you getting comfy in bed. Simon hopes that you're also going to sleep but he is out of luck.

He hears the quiet vibrating noise that your toy makes and he is immediately hard. He hears your soft moans and he knows that he can't go back to sleep now. He tries to ignore you. He puts pillow on his head but all he can hear is you trying to reach your orgasm in the room next to his.

After the next 20 minutes of listening to your moans he feels like a pervert. He just wants to go to sleep but you're still not done. Simon thinks that if he was in the room with you he could help you cum in the next 5 minutes.

So when he hears you moaning his name he knows that he needs to help you. After all he is a good neighbor. He knocks on your door and when you open, looking confused just in tank top and your panties he is immediately on you.

He's kissing you telling you not to worry, that he will help you feel good. You don't even know how you end up on your bed. On your knees with Simon fucking you from behind. He makes sure that you reach your orgasm more than once.

When he finally cums in you you're so exhausted. You fall asleep in his arms almost instantly, and he can finally go to sleep. After all a good night of sleep was all he wanted. But he has to admit that you just made his night a lot better.

Masterlist You can support my work here : ko-fi

[fanficwriterlover]

Safe With A Ghost

18+ Readers Only

Chapter 5½: Longing for You

Summary: It's been a month since the birth of your son Colton, and this has left you wanting Simon more than anything longing for his attention.

Expectations: Smut...Smut....Smut...teasing, kissing, licking, oral, fingering, petnaming, pinning, etc.

Pet-Names: Pigeon & Kitten

Word Count: 2.9k

════ ⋆Safe With A Ghost MasterList⋆ ════

═════════ ⋆Chapter 6⋆ ═════════

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It was a month after you had your son, Simon was letting you sleep in the morning, taking care of your son while you slept. Often night the two of you alternated on who'd wake up in the night to take care of Colton. More then often Simon insisted on taking care of your son, he loved your son very much more than imaginable. Finally coaxing his son to fall back to sleep after getting some food in his belly and a changed diaper, he carefully, sets him down in his crib to sleep more.

Then next thing he knew, you had your arms around him gently stroking his abs. Your touch made him almost shiver as you kiss onto his back "Already got him knocked out to sleep ?" You mumbled softly into his back, tracing your hands slowly down his stomach, this made Simon glance back at you "Yeah, little bugger ease to knock out." You look up at him smirking "Knock out eh ? Just how you-" in that moment Simon did a full circle facing you pressing his finger to your lips "Careful Pigeon, your next words will decide what I'll do to you" he was so quick on his feet it was almost impressive and attractive how dominant he could be. You bite your lower lip playfully, giving him a seductive look, eyeing him up, then you smirked. This was when he knew you wouldn't let it slide as you spoke slowly and softly "Just like how you knocked m-" in an instant Simon slung you over his shoulder getting a squeak to escape your lips as he held your legs together walking out of the nursery.

Once closing the nursery door, he almost growled speaking gruffly "You never listen do you Kitten ?" Your playful pet name you haven't heard in so long, it made you blush forgetting how long you've longed for him. He grips your thighs earning a moan to escape your lips "Don't tell me you've gotten quiet on me now ? That easily ?" You were about to retort "I ain't -" but he had thrown you down onto the bed getting a gasp to escape your lips, he begins to lean over you as you part your legs as he presses himself between you, still wearing his balaclava as you could tell from his glint in his eyes, you crossed the line. He lowered over you, as he grips your thighs make you gasp out pushing your legs up as he presses his now growing bulge against your crotch.

You were blushing more now, his body pressing against yours as he leans over you breathing near you "Now you're speechless huh kitten ?" He chuckles lifting up his mask a bit showing his mischievous grin with some scars crossing over his lip, he began kissing onto your neck, making you pant softly, you wanted to touch his back, but instead he grabbed your hands holding them over your head, making him press more into you. He gives you a smirk "Negative, you lost privilege" you almost start to pout as he continues torturing you with kisses. He then even begins leaving bite marks over your neck, sucking, licking, nonstop. This made you whimper, panting out "S-Simon, you're teasing me." He grunts still continuing his pursuit "Good, serves your right for testing me" you moan out more when he kisses down to your cleavage, one that has been more perked since having a baby, as he uses his free hand to slide under your shirt, to cup your breasts, as you moan out more blushing "You've become quite sensitive now love" he says deeply as he lifts up your top to show your breast, they were already firm, he lowers himself down more as he licks at your nipples, teasing them with his tongue, this obviously made your back arch, yet this didn't make him stop, no in fact made him want to rile you up more. He began sucking on your nipple pulling on it, while twirling is tongue around it this obviously was making you squirm as he breathes over your nipple "Didn't think you'd be so fidgety kitten ? Miss feeling me suck you ?" He continues as you moan out more when he switches to your other breast to suck that ones nipple "Fuck yes Simon, I missed you touching me" you moan out breathlessly, he almost chuckled at how needy you were sounding.

Pulling away from your breasts looking at your sprawled out body, he then makes his attack down lower. You were in just his shirt and panties, something that made you look far much more attractive being in his clothes. He begins to trace kisses down your stomach causing you to pant more from the touches and arch into them as he made his way down to your panties. Kissing over your cunt, as your legs seemed to want to close together but he holds them apart "Not today kitten, you're letting me have my fair taste" he almost says in a growl, as you were too weak by his teasing to resist. He then slid his hands up your thighs, as he gripped the waistline of the panties before starting to pull them off to show your exposed cunt. It was already wet from the teasing he had done as he smirks "Already that eager lovie ?" Leaning down Simon flicked his tongue over your already throbbing clit, it was warm, and sticky, you walls closing from his tongues warm sensation pressing against you.

It had been so long since you felt such pleasure, feeling his tongue slowly lap over your clit continuously, unrelenting, you arched your back pressing your head back into the bed, clawing at the sheets, his teasing was addictive. He knew he had you just where he'd wanted, you weak and aching for more. You had longed for this kind of attention for so long, that now finally receiving, your body is truly heating up. Moaning as he begins to become more aggressive with eating you out, he claws on your thighs making your legs stay wide to prevent you from wanting to close them, he was aggressive, hungry. You could feel him buried into your cunt, sucking your juices and running his tongue over the outside of your walls and clit. Your eyes begin to roll back from his persistent sucking, as he then starts to push his tongue in and out of your walls, your walls immediately tightening from the touch as you moan out "Fuck Si- I can't take anymore of this-" he huffs against your cunt licking over it "You can and you will." Without so much as a chance to catch your breath he pushes his tongue inside your cunt, this really sends you over the edge. Simon was now drilling your walls with his tongue, his panting breath against your cunt which only intensified the sensation as you squirm, whimpering as he knew he was making your body shiver from such. With his hands he still kept your legs spread, not wanting you to stop his attack as he kept increasing the pace of his tongue thrusting and lapping in your walls. You grip the sheets, toes curling, body sweating as you had truly lost all sense of control over your body.

Simon could tell you wouldn't last long, he knew this because from his grip he could feel your thighs begin to tighten and tremble in his grasp, you were fighting the urge to release. You were a stubborn one, you refused to give in easily, he knew this, which is why he took it to the next level by including a finger into your cunt and fingering your fast pace. This was obviously making you tremble more, you body was shaking and your moans and pants began mixing "Simon ! I can't take that !" You would whimper and protest but he didn't care he wasn't going to stop until you hit your high which he knew you would last no matter how hard you tried. Being more aggressive by sucking on your cunt, and continue fingering as deep as possible was a combination your body wouldn't withstand. As such, you hit your climax, moan out loudly, legs finally trembling weakly as you release your juices onto his fingers. Finally, it had been long since you released such pleasures and your body was shaking from it. Pulling his finger out he looks at you seeing you trying to compose yourself weakly. Took you a few minutes as you give him a glare panting "You're not fair Simon" your body still trembling as he chuckles leaning down "I never play fair kitten."

You wrap your legs around his waist pulling him closer, his bulge on your wet exposed cunt "Payback then" he almost seems confused by your intention, as you touch his shoulders as he seems so distracted by you, that you had flipping him onto his back on the bed. He looks up at you bewildered seeing you're now on top, eyes burning "Now it's my turn Simon Riley." You smirk at him, he almost could hear his heart beat, the sight of your boldness turned him on more. Moving to his side on your knees, you start tugging on his pants, which he obliges to show his growing boner. His hard cock was obviously not full length as you gently tease his tip, he grunts at this tempted to make you start going, as you glance at him "Nuh uh Simon, my game, my rules" he groans at this when you twirl the tip of your tongue over his tip, making small circles eyeing him as you then take his head into your mouth. Slowly hanging your tongue out as you rub your tongue up and down his tip. He groans a bit, as you continue, stroking down his shaft as you start sucking him, he groans more cursing under his panting breath as you start moving your head down further. This gets a growl out of him he groans out as you keep going, watching him as he enjoys it. He reaches his hand to grip some of your hair as he begins to pump into your mouth. You begin to gag at this action, as his growing member hits into your throat, your saliva coating his full shaft.

Despite how pleasurable he was getting off from it, he wanted you more than anything, to be inside you. He gently convinces you off him, as you sit up looking at him, you knew what he wanted and you wanted the same as well. You got onto his lap straddling your legs on his side, your hands resting on his shoulder with his on your waist. You could feel his throbbing tip poke at your entrance as you bite your lower lip, using your one hand to guide it before moving yourself down on him slowly. Both of you had let out a panting moan, the longing feeling of having one another. Pressing your head against his masked face, his lips only thing revealed. You begin, a steady pace as you rise and fall rocking your hips. The only sounds could be heard is both of your breaths intermingled and the sound of the two of you rubbing each other's high. Kissing one another on the lips, moaning into the kiss you begin to set a faster pace, he guides your hips with each post almost encouraging your hips to move faster by simply balancing you.

The intimacy and complete longing for each other, made you both devouring each other's breaths, you had to break the kiss, feeling his throbbing member rub your insides repeatedly, it made your eyes roll back and lifts your head back in utter bliss. He held you though, with his strong arms circling around your body, laying kisses against the collarbone with heavy pants as you continue to rise at a quicker pace. Simon, could feel your walls clench around his shaft, almost demanding to sucking him to dry. Neither of you knew how long you both were going for, was an entire trance, you had hit your high moaning out loudly near his ear, he held onto your hips keeping them moving despite how trembling your body was, gently, he flipped you onto your back.

Looking up breathlessly and shivering from hitting your climax, Simon was towering over you, his very much full throbbing member red. Grabbing your hips, he pushes himself back into your cunt which makes a moan escape your lips, he leans down hands holding your wrists as he starts thrusting at a quicken pace, hitting deep and hard. Already numbing your walls, you almost whimper from the continuing stroking of your walls. He grunts with each thrust watching your body shake from the pounding, how your body moved up and down, your breasts bouncing , eyes rolled back, mouth parted, your body sweating, your breathing erratic from the passion. All of it turned him on higher. Before he knew it, pressing himself closer to you, he makes his final pump, hitting as deep as possible releasing his load.

The utter feeling of him releasing his load in you was so warm, you could feel his semen fill your insides, almost leaking out as he slowly pulled out as it began to fill your womb. He pants hard holding you, his breath hitting against your neck, making your skin warm, you gently rub his back gently, smiling panting out "Still got it despite worn down easily," you grin as he looks at you giving you a cock brow eyes narrowing on you "Worn down ? What makes you think I'm done ?" This made you blush. After this you instantly regretted opening your stupid mouth.

After another hour well spent, you were truly weak to the knees laying sprawled out onto the bed, you were too limp to get up, your thighs aching and back from arching. You mumbled into the bed as he moves from behind you smacking your ass, chuckling "Now look whose worn out Pigeon" he was cleaning himself from another release he had down before pulling on his sweat pants. You mumble softly "Shut up....you're big as fuck. It's not my fault I'm small" he laughs leaning over you kissing you "Keep telling yourself that Kitten." You were about to make another comeback but hearing your son through the baby monitor cut you from saying anything. With that Simon pulled away "Get cleaned Pigeon, I'll take care of Colton, then start making lunch" your eyes widen looking at the time. The two of you had been in the bedroom for hours making out, the thought made you blush more and it gave Simon a triumph smile under his mask. "Fuck off Simon" he laughs

Walking into your son's bedroom, he sees the little one squirming in his crib crying. Simon says lowly pulling off his balaclava, "Easy little bugger, I got you little man" lifting the baby, he was so tiny in Simon's grasp, even laying him on his bare chest the baby, he carried the little one over into the kitchen putting the pacifier back in his mouth, the little one suckling calming down. His little hands clawed on Simon's shoulders resting his little head to the side, sometimes Simon couldn't believe this was his son, that he even had a son, this little bundle who wasn't planned. Honestly he removed his mask whenever he was around Colton, he didn't want to scare him but sometimes when he'd forget, Colton would still seem to recognize it was him. He held his son with one hand going into the kitchen to put out some food to make. He could hear you were getting out of the shower already, as he heard you making your way down the stairs. Looking your direction you were now in shorts and a loose shirt (one of his of course) barefoot. You walked over smiling seeing Colton sucking on his pacifier, gazing at his father, his little head resting on his shoulder. The sight of your big boyfriend holding such a tiny being was such a mental adorable picture. Simon could see your mind dazing as he grumbles "Eat your lunch" you giggle walking over grabbing the sandwich he made while still holding Colton as he bit into his sandwich. Both of you were simply looking at your son until you spoke "You know, might be expecting baby number two after this session" you grinned deviously as he looks at you with almost horror. You giggles from his expression "Relax Simon. I'm teasing" he grumbles "Better keep it that way, least until this little bugger older before going for a number two" now it was you who almost choked from the idea of a second "I was joking !" You wheezed, he smirked looking at you then at your stomach "Better hope it stays that way, after how unprotected we were." You blush at the reminder as he chuckles as he leans down kissing your furrowing brows "I love you y/n" you smiles up at him leaning up, gently touching your son's back, and holding Simon's arm, with his one arm around your waist while the other holding your son "I love you too Simon Riley."

Thanks for Reading this little short 🙈💓

ꨄ︎Taglist: @jadama20 @lunamoons-posts @babygirl-panda19 @kat-nee @marshallowy @bi-witch-bxtch @unit-1021 @wwe1rdc0re @crazy-phan-girl13

[ryuzakemo128]

Nothing but a dream

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Italian! Serial Killer! Housewife! Female Reader

Content Warning: Violence against women, men, homophobia (story relevant),. murder, serial killing, serial killer female reader, biphobioa (against female reader, not from simon.) Possibly other things I might have missed.

Masterlist

Words: 4888

Divider Credit: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Summary: But it wasn’t your sexuality he found out about it was that you are a serial killer who had killed at least twelve people in the past four years alone.

You weren’t stupid. Not by a long shot. Studying to be a nurse before you decided to dive into Forensic Pathology. The thing about death is that it never leaves. It never makes sense, and it never tells you how to deal with it when prejudice is the cause of death. Your older brother, Giovanni, found out the hard way, murdered in the alleyway twenty minutes past midnight just for being homosexual. 

Stabbed 47 times by a man twice his age, who lured him out to a secluded location with the premise of sex. You were a nurse at the time, recently finishing your nursing bachelor’s. You felt like your world fell from underneath you. 

Eventually, you had found the man responsible for his death. After months of tracking him, stalking his habitual places and digging into his personal life. You bought a home in the countryside, hoping it would be further enough away from civilisation and to keep the police from looking into the matter further. A calculated choice in your part. 

Studying into the criminal mind, figuring out what made them tick and how to undo themselves, rendering their flesh into confessions. Dissolving their corpses into a bathtub, a melting pot of acidic chemicals to erase the fact they had ever existed in the first place. 

Your basement, built to contain the mess into one small area, had become a morgue of death, depravity, a silent way for you to make those who hurt others meet their maker. 

The basement is made from concrete and limestone, the room is covered in crimson tiles to disguise the blood stains. The metal bathtub against the far wall to dispose of the bodies after you were done with them. Compost bins in case there were too many bodies to dissolve. Using them into your garden to prevent people from getting the idea you had something to hide.

Your basement had four extractor fans on the ceiling and two in the walls to quickly remove odours, chemical smells, the smell of slowly decomposing body parts inside the compost bins against the wall beside the metal bathtub.

The same place you clean, wash and remove hard stains from your children’s clothes, your clothes and your husband’s clothes.

Industrial cabinets to store the acidic chemicals you used to dispose of the dead bodies in your metal bathtub. Which are also used to store your equipment inside too. Locking them to prevent your children from getting into them and finding them.

On the outside it looked like a normal basement with clothes soaking in the bathtub to get them cleaned properly before you repaired them. The smell of bleach and fabric softener filled the room, but underneath that faint scent was the lingering odor of something much darker. The extractor fans hummed quietly in the background, working tirelessly to maintain the illusion of a typical household space.

You didn’t think he would have noticed by now. Though you kind of hoped you would be able to keep it a secret longer but alas that wasn’t the case with you and your secret basement anymore. You were prepared to be served with divorce papers and the ‘I don’t want you around the kids’ afterwards like you’ve seen with your older brother with his ex-wife after he came out as a homosexual.

Though in your case it is far different, you weren’t straight either but you certainly weren’t gay either. You’re bisexual and that wasn’t really well received by most of your previous partners in the past. So, you stopped telling people your sexuality because you got drained of the same song and dance.

But it wasn’t your sexuality he found out about it was that you are a serial killer who had killed at least twelve people in the past four years alone. You played the role of a housewife to Simon so well he almost didn’t catch it.

Almost.

Whenever he was deployed you would take down your targets. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him right? Tough he did see the mark where the previous victim of yours tried to strangle you to escape. But that didn’t prove anything related to the missing person report he heard over the news, right?

The neighbourhood you two lived in became peaceful, eerily so, people felt safe to walk around at night without having to look over their shoulder. But he wrote down the small changes occurring. Small enough to notice if someone paid close enough attention to the area. But not large enough to be worth causing a fuss over.

At least you weren’t like most of the cheating military wives you often bumped into. With their affair partners in tow. “If you can’t handle being married to a military man than you shouldn’t have done so and I don’t think you are qualified to give me advice on my own marriage when you are so content with ruining your own.” You snapped at one of them with a low growl. You didn’t speak to her again after that conversation.

At least you weren’t cheating on him, right? You were killing people. But you weren’t cheating on him. You were a killer not a emotional soul sucking demon posing as a housewife with several affair partners to suck off while your husband was deployed. You weren’t like the mothers and military wives who serially cheated on their husbands instead of communicating about what they wanted in the bedroom, right?

One thing they hated you for is that you always told their husbands that they were cheating on them. You would rather have no friends in the entire world than to accept that as something morally just or morally correct. If anyone excused them for it you would cut contact with them too.

Simon walked in when one of his exes came over making you absolutely uncomfortable. Saying your curves would be better as a sex worker rather than a housewife. Odd conversation to walk in on. But your discomfort remained palpable. Trying to be a gracious hostess while also contenting with the behaviour of someone who wouldn’t leave you alone.

The thought of being filled up with hot sticky semen forcing his ex-wife to listen to your moans and his grunts to drive home the fact he wasn’t going back to her again. It was becoming far more tempting the more you thought about it. You weren’t ashamed to admit that is what you wanted if he ever asked you in private either.

It would most certainly put his ex into her place, right? Right. It all hinges on whether Simon is willing to go along with it though.

Simon took off his shoes by the door, placing them neatly beside yours. The scent of freshly cut grass and gunpowder followed him into the living room. He glanced at his ex, raising an eyebrow, “What's she doing here?” he asked, his tone cold enough to make you shiver.

Simon knew you were far too polite for your own good sometimes. When you told him she had car troubles, and you paid for it to be towed to a car mechanic? Simon frowned thinking his ex-wife must have caused it on purpose or must have wanted to saw something to him in person. You were never comfortable with having her there. He couldn’t blame you. A stranger in your home? Preposterous. It won’t happen. Ever.

Another good reason why Simon always told his teammates in the task force 141 to call ahead of time. Preferably a three to four hours before they were going to be there in person. You never liked to be caught off guard at the last minute and you found it rude when guests never called before coming over unannounced.

He still remembers when John Price was scolded for it for thirty minutes for doing so. It wasn’t the type of scolding a child would get. No. No. No. It was the kind you would give an adult who should know better than to cross a boundary set by another adult.

John Price had to give her a handwritten apology to say he wouldn’t do it again. It was a first for Simon. His captain hadn’t been scolded like that in his life, not by his own mother or his own wife either. The look on his face when you were serious about his handwritten apology? Priceless. He knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it from Price the next time he’s deployed. But he also knew you had a good reason for it, even if he didn’t know the extent of your secret.

“Price, at least you can say you met my wife.” Simon snickered when he took his mates down to the pub nearby.

“Oh, I’ve met her before.” Price replied, his voice filled with a hint of embarrassment. “I just didn’t know she was like that. She’s so sweet and polite usually. Who knew she had a spine of steel?”

However, this wasn’t like Price’s visit, it wasn’t a misunderstanding and a handwritten apology. It felt far more deliberate on her part. Like she wanted to weasel into your life without having to say a word. It felt wrong. It wouldn’t be you. It would be someone posing like you and pretending like you hadn’t stepped into his life after his divorce.

You told him the children were in after school care, and they won’t be picked up until five. Another way you safeguarded them from external drama happening at home. He couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief at that, knowing that he had at least a couple of hours before he had to deal with the awkwardness of her presence around them.

It was when you were starting to make dinner, the excuses came piling in and the look you gave Simon every few minutes. Saying, ‘Is she serious?’ and ‘I can’t believe you married that woman.’ His ex was pushing all of your buttons, and it was clear she wasn’t leaving anytime soon. She was trying to start something and you weren’t going to let her ruin your evening.

You muttered something in Italian about your frustration knowing for a fact his ex-wife won’t understand it, “I think you should leave, it's getting late and I don't think your new husband would take kindly to having you in someone else's home.” you remarked your Italian mannerisms starting to show your slight frustration.

Her eyes narrowed at you, and she took a sip of her wine, “Oh, I forgot you speak Italian. Did you learn that to impress Simon? Did you learn how to cook for him too?”

“I beg your pardon. Signora Shelby, what are you implying?” you remarked raising an eyebrow any possible implication she might have had.

Her smug expression didn't falter, “I'm just saying, it's suspicious how conveniently you know everything he likes after he's been married to me for so long.”

“Communication is a wonderful thing, I suggest you try it before you knock it dear. Perhaps you can always try that with your new husband Signor Shelby. I am sure you will have a much less bitter conversation when you learn how to communicate better.” you replied with a polite smile. “Perhaps he might listen to you more if you learned to listen to him better.”

You handed her a book on etiquette and manners, “Maybe this might jog your memory and help you with being polite. “Maybe this will help you in the future, I'm sure you'll find it quite enlightening.” The smug pride finally flowering inside your chest cavity. It wasn’t like you had given her a book on how to be a better housewife. It wasn’t like you made a comment on her looks.

You had dived straight for her faults, her attitude and her lack of respect. You didn’t make a comment on her fertility issues because your own mother had those, and it would be a low blow even you wouldn’t stoop down to.

Simon couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of his ex-wife’s face turning beet red. He knew you had clawed your way through a dozen of men in the past, both physically and mentally. He was quite surprised she didn’t catch onto your subtle hints and decide to leave sooner. Though, it was quite entertaining watching the two of you spar verbally. It was like watching a cat and a mouse, except the cat had teeth and wasn’t afraid to use them.

Not only that, but you also have a bachelor’s degree in nursing, a master’s degree in trauma surgery and a doctorate in Forensic Pathology. You were smarter than  people loved to assume you were. Something Simon picked up on while he started dating you. You're still a mortuary director for the funeral home in town.

“You know what's suspicious?” Simon's voice cut through the tension, his eyes flashing with a hint of irritation. “It's suspicious that you're here, unannounced, and you're causing trouble. What's your game, Mel?”

You sighed relieved, you said you were getting the children from school and you were going to get dessert on the way home. Fully trusting Simon knew what he was doing with his ex-wife.

Mel looked at Simon with a smug smile, “I just wanted to talk to you, Simon. It's been a while. And you know I never could resist a good surprise.”

“Well, you've had your surprise,” he said firmly, “And now it's time for you to leave.”

Mel, short for Melissa, didn’t take kindly to that, “You changed Simon, you used to like these surprises.”

“I liked your ‘surprises’ when they weren’t you being a thorn in my side,” Simon replied with a stern look. He knew his ex-wife well enough to know that she had an agenda and it wasn’t just to catch up.

Melissa replied, “So you would rather stay with your monster of a wife who kills people at night rather than stay with me?” She batted her eyelashes, which she conveniently had done longer to make herself appear more innocent than she truly was.

It didn’t matter that you weren’t there to defend yourself. It didn’t matter how foul your own deeds were in comparison to his own? They were rather tame, war criminals were in a different lane than serial killers, didn’t she know that? Did she have to bring your own personal issues to the forefront like that?

Simon had his own issues you weren’t blind, just like you had issues he wasn’t blind to either. But in the most twisted way possible. They complimented each other in ways most people wouldn’t possibly comprehend it.

On the way home, your children were oddly silent, “What happened? Did you have fun?” You asked, trying to ease their discomfort.

“Yeah, we had a blast at the park,” your youngest said, her eyes looking down at her lap.

You frowned, “What’s wrong, piccolo fiore?”

Your oldest spoke up, “It’s nothing, Mamma. Just a misunderstanding with a friend at school, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“When you want to, you’re more than welcome to speak about it alright?” you remarked hoping your oldest, Emilia would come to you when she wants to talk about what happened at school that day. Friend problems is something you were familiar with and you had a few of them growing up.

Your twin girls, Giovanna and Emilia, along with your youngest, Lucia, ran to their bedroom to watch their cartoons and do their homework. You had a careful discussion about your night work, Simon decided you had to do it while he was there and he wouldn’t want you doing any of it while it was just you alone in the house.

“Are you sure it would be better that way?” you asked him, as he sipped his earl grey tea in the basement as you finished the laundry.

Simon nodded, his eyes never leaving the TV where the news played quietly in the background, “Yes, I’d rather you didn’t have to deal with any of that...stuff on your own.” His voice was low and gruff, hinting at the weight of his past. You knew he was referring to the times when his military service took him away, leaving you to handle everything alone.

“If it makes you feel better, then I’ll make sure you’re home.” You reassured as you hung up the wet clothes up on the indoor clothesline above the metal tub.

Simon nodded, “It’s not that, I just don’t like the idea of you being down here all alone doing...that.” He gestured to the crimson tiles and the tub.

You listened to his concerns silently, you weren’t the type to talk over someone when they felt like they needed to say something. Simon noticed you were paying attention to him silently as you moved around. It felt like his own accepting silence is displayed to him this time, which is a rarity in his line of work. Yet, here you are, doing just that and you weren’t even in the military.

Simon saw the qualifications you have hanging on the basement wall. He knew you were smart, but he didn’t know just how smart you are. He had no idea you had that much education under your belt.

“What’s with all these degrees?” He asked, looking surprised.

“I got into wanting to help people even before all of this. I was going to be a nurse but I changed my mind after finally getting my bachelor’s. I got into trauma surgery and after getting a master’s in that, I changed my mind again. And finally settled on Forensics Pathologist.” You explained.

He looked at you with a mix of awe and admiration, “You’re a doctor?” He questioned, his voice low, as if he was afraid to disturb the air between you two.

“Yeah. Technically I am.” You answered.

“But you never said anything,” Simon was genuinely surprised, taking a step closer to you, his hand reaching out to touch your shoulder gently.

“You didn’t ask. So, I just didn’t bring it up?”

Simon nodded slowly, “I guess I didn’t think you’d be interested in something like that.”

“I also do body horror art in my spare time.” You told him, making him chuckle as he gazed at your art pieces close to it.

The art prints you had yet to hang up were by Vincent Van Gogh, Francisco Goya, H.R. Giger, Hans Memling, Hieronymus Bosch, and many other artists you keep going back to. Regardless of how much time has passed on.

The Halloween costumes you made your children never failed to make them happy. Last year they were princesses, the year before that they were pirates. This year? They wanted to be spooky ghosts. The sheet over the body kind of ghosts, but with a twist. They had to be Italian ghosts.

“Italian ghosts huh? What does an Italian ghost entail?” you asked.

“They get to wear fancy clothes and eat pasta all day.” Emilia exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

You laughed, “I suppose my grandfather would be eating pasta all day.” You remarked talking about their great grandfather.

Simon nodded, “I guess so. Though he’d probably be enjoying a nice Chianti with it, too.”

“And a tiramisu for dessert. He always did have a sweet tooth.” You added with a smile, remembering your Nonno’s love for the dessert. The conversation shifted to lighter topics as Simon helped you fold the clothes. You appreciated his company down here, even though you had grown quite accustomed to the solitude of your basement. It was a stark contrast to the darkness you usually brought down here, but his presence made it feel almost...normal.

The shirt folder folding board flip fold helped you fold shirts faster than you had before you got it from Amazon. Simon watched as you used it to fold the shirts up. You knew your girls would have to start learning how to do their own laundry when they grew older. But you weren't going to rush into that any time soon.

“I didn’t know you liked art so much.” Simon commented, his eyes scanning over the unframed art prints you had neatly stacked against the wall.

“My grandmother liked the painting of Kronos eating his child so much she had one in the sunroom, one in the living room and one in her bedroom.” You told him.

Simon’s eyes widened, “Your grandmother had a morbid sense of humour?”

“Something like that, she had a taste for the darker things and she wasn’t afraid of expressing it either. But she loved, loved cooking, she didn’t care if you wanted things a certain way, if you wanted a dish to your specifics, she will give it to you how you wanted it. My mother often complained, ‘She can’t have mac & cheese for dinner all the time’. But my grandmother knew how to win over her grandkids, especially when we were feeling sick. Her lasagna was heaven sent. She’s the one who taught me how to make it.” You spoke fondly of your grandmother as you folded the last of the laundry.

Simon nodded, “My mother was a bit of a neat freak. Everything had to be just so or she’d have a fit. It’s probably why I’m so... particular about my living space.” He chuckled, looking around the pristine basement.

“Did she tear out your clothes and tell you do it again?” you remarked remembering your mother doing that to your closet.

“More like she’d scrub the floors until they shone brighter than my medals and the kitchen looked like it was from a magazine. But she had a good heart, she just liked things clean.” Simon said with a small smile, “I guess that's why I noticed when something was off down here.”

“Odd considering the four extractor fans.” you stated. You told him your secret months after the fourth date, but you didn't think he took it nearly as serious as he should have. You figured it was the military in him, always so stoic and unfazed by everything.

Simon's gaze sharpened, “Is that what you do down here, when I'm not around?”

“Not lately, I haven't had the cause or reason to do it.” you assured him.

Simon's shoulders visibly relaxed at your words. He knew you had a vendetta but seeing your children grow up without their biological father due to his ex-wives spite was something that had been weighing on him.

“But I know you’ve done it before,” he said, his voice even, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I told you remember?”

Simon nodded slowly, “I do, but I need to know for sure.”

“I have done it before.” you reminded him. “I am capable of doing it. I can and I will do it again if someone threatens me or our kids.”

The basement felt hot and stuffy suddenly, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Simon looked at you, his expression unreadable. He had known about your past, but hearing you confirm it so bluntly was still a shock.

“But why?” he finally asked, his voice low and steady. “Why go to such lengths?”

“My reason is still the same. I don't think people should get away with heinous things just because they got rich blood.” you reminded him. “But I haven't done it again or seen something heinous enough to do it again.”

Simon nodded, “And what happens when you do?”

“You will be the first to know.” you promised.

Simon took a deep breath, his hand still on your shoulder, “I want to help you, you know. I don't want you to have to go through this alone.”

You promised to involve him from now on, you promised to make sure he was there in person before you decided to anything on your own and you made sure no matter what happened you would be honest with him.

Any normal person would have scoffed at Simon and tell him to leave you. Turn you in to the police. But Simon isn’t normal. He wasn’t raised in a normal environment either and he wasn’t a typical husband like you would see in the movies either. Suited you just fine. It was better for the both of you this way.

Simon finally saw the three chinchillas and the four bunnies you kept as pets. You didn’t know how he would react to them. But you weren’t prepared for the way his eyes lit up. He had a soft spot for animals. Something that was surprising considering his career choice.

“I told you they were fine.” You smirked, “I brought them in just before the storm rolled in.”

Simon chuckled, kneeling down to stroke the nearest rabbit’s ears. It twitched its nose at him and leaned into the gentle touch. “They’re adorable, I can see why you picked them up. What are their names?”

“The white one is Marshmallow, the black one is Moth, the light brown one is Princess, and the dark brown one is Panini.” You rattled off the names of the rabbits as Simon's eyes lit up with curiosity.

“The three chinchillas are Peppermint, Bee and Mouse.” you remarked.

Simon chuckled, “Mouse for the chinchilla with the little nose?”

“Yeah.” you answered. “The shyest one too.”

As you watched him interact with the animals, something shifted inside you. It was a rare moment of peace and vulnerability from a man who had seen too much war and bloodshed. His rough exterior melted away, revealing the gentle soul that had captured your heart.

The three girls had drawn mouse as a knight a few times, which Simon had found hilarious. He had promised to take them to the nearest castle when he had leave next. It was something they had talked about in passing. The children didn’t know about his line of work. They were too young to understand. You liked that about them, they still had their innocence.

And you always planned to have them keep that for as long as they possibly could. You taught them a few Italian phrases to use when they were annoyed at something or someone. As you believed it was healthier to let them vent out their frustrations to let them know it’s okay to express themselves in a safe and controlled environment, than to hold it all in and let it fester.

Simon heard Emilia say Cazzo when she bumped her toe into her wardrobe, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. You had taught them a few Italian curse words to use when they were upset. Nothing too serious, just enough to let off steam. He turned to you with a playful smile, “You’re a bad influence, you know that?”

“Better here than out there.” you remarked. Which was true, considering what you had seen in your line of work. You had seen people take out their frustrations in the most violent ways possible. This was the least of it.

Simon looked up at you, his hand still stroking the rabbit's soft fur, “I don't want you to be alone in this. If you ever need help...”

“You'll know it long before you say Cazzo.” you reassured.

After dinner you were fixing a dress Lucia had torn that afternoon after she was tripped over by her bully. You had decided to homeschool her, after multiple incidences at her school. Simon sat beside you, watching you skilfully mend the fabric with your nimble fingers. He had never seen you do this before, but the way you handled the needle and thread was mesmerizing.

“You're good at that,” he said, his voice a soft murmur.

“I hope so. I had practice with my teddy bears growing up.” you chuckled, the memory of your first sewing machine flashing through your mind. It was your mother’s old one, but you had made it your own, patching up dolls and clothes until you moved on to more complex things.

“It’s surprising you weren’t a fashion designer.” Simon teased, his eyes never leaving the stitches you were making on Lucia’s dress.

“Considering I only wear neutral and monochromatic shades like black, grey, and white, I think fashion might not be the best choice.” you quipped. “Besides half the naughty things I made would be illegal to wear outside.”

Simon remembered the lace night gowns and the leather outfits you had in your closet, and his cheeks turned a shade of pink. You had always had a flair for the dramatic, especially when it came to lingerie, you were specific in your tastes. Which was one of the many things he found fascinating about you. He took a sip of his tea, his mind wandering to the first time he saw you in one of those ensembles. It had been a surprise, one that had left him utterly speechless.

Things would be fine.

Right? Melissa wouldn’t know what hit her when her own affair came to her new husband’s attention. Sent anonymously to him in a large yellow envelope in the hope it would be enough to scare her into silence. Cruel but necessary. She should thank her lucky stars she was allowed to walk out of your home. Alive.

[elysianightsss]

Something something becoming an accidental prostitute for Simon lol.

Hear me out though, you’re at a bar. You’re making out, you’ve had a little too much to drink. Not enough to be completely gone like you’re sure Simon is but enough to be making out with a stranger.

Then you’re back in his truck, he’s practically begging for you to let him fuck you and you say no. You ‘don’t do that type of shit, one night stands and all that’ you say. Simon’s next thing is to beg for a blowjob, you again say no. ‘Part of the boyfriend package’ blah blah blah.

Then Simon delivers his final offer. He is so desperate he offers to pay for a handjob, he cringes after the words come out of his mouth thinking you’d be offended. But to his surprise you say yes. You need the money, and want him to feel good so why the heck not.

And it’s the best damn handjob he’s had in his life.

He drives you home and soon enough after a few days he’s at your door offering more money for another handjob. You feel a little dirty but when his calloused hand slides up your thigh and his hot breath is fluttering on your neck, the feeling fizzles away into something else.

Seeing him come undone with just your touch drives you wild, it becomes increasingly difficult not to do more for him. So when Simon comes over again, this time you kneel in front of him watching as his dark eyes widen when your knees hit the ground.

And just like your handjobs, it’s the best damn blowjob he’s ever had in his life. All sloppy and filthy, not like he imagined but so much better.

You don’t ask for anything but after Simon has kissed you goodbye -(after he’s done begging to let him make you cum)- you turn to find a stack of cash on the coffee table, almost double the amount he’d given for the handjob.

It’s not long after that, that you give in and let him spend hours between your thighs. He even pays you for that, mumbles into your cunt that it’s just as good as your lips around his cock as he ruts his hips into the mattress. You don’t see it until later, long after he’s left, but there is a triple stack of cash on your nightstand.

A day later you receive a text from him saying he’ll be gone for a couple of weeks on work but he can’t wait to see you when he’s back. You feel a strange fluttering sensation in your tummy that makes you feel sick. You thought Simon was the type to hide his feelings and be more stoic and blunt so seeing that message from the hulking giant has your stomach in knots.

It stays that way, you can’t rid the feeling so much so that when he finally shows up at your door you tell him whatever it is between you had to end. It was certainly not the welcome Simon was expecting after dealing with a gruelling mission with nothing but men for weeks on end. He feels something snap in his mind and suddenly he’s throwing you on the bed, gripping your jaw, brown eyes glaring into yours as he speaks, “I’m not goin nowhere sweet’art.”

You ‘fight’ with him blah blah blah but let’s get real you let him finger fuck your pussy until you go cross eyed. You let him fuck you into the mattress until you can barely remember your own name. You let him kiss your neck until the sun starts to rise. And you let him pull your body into his as you both drift off to sleep together.

In the morning you hear the envelope, heavy with weight to it, placed down on your nightstand. Then Simon kisses your forehead and whispers he’ll be back later to take care of you.

Then, the money stops appearing but he’s still fucking you. Soon the rent is paid in cash by an anonymous ‘good samaritan’. And before you know it, you’re waking up with a glittering diamond on your wedding finger and a swollen belly that moves when Simon says I love you.

[majinbangus]

You're sprawled on the couch when he comes in the room, eyes zeroing in on you instantly. He doesn't give you the chance to greet him, stalking up to you as if you're his prey. Which, in this moment, you probably are.

It's not hard to tell he's still in that soldier headspace he gets stuck in sometimes. He looks tired. Stressed.

You're about to get up and ask him what he wants, what he needs, once he's looming over you, but the words die out when his hands shoot out and start squeezing your breasts.

You don't stop him, but you do laugh a little, incredulous. "What are you doing?"

"Fluffin' your tits." He's gruff, both in tone and groping. "What's it look like?"

"That's not how- nevermind." You chuckle and fondly roll your eyes. "Why?"

"Cuz they're mine," he says as if that's reason enough, and you suppose it is.

He let's go to get on the couch with you, batting your legs open to settle between them. The man practically flops on top of you with enough force to push an oof out of your lungs, but you can tell he's careful not to crush you entirely. His arms shove underneath your body, squeezing tight as he nuzzles his face against your newly fluffed breasts. You bring a hand up to scratch the back of his scalp the way you know he likes, and he sighs, melting into your body.

"Just like a big baby." Your chest bounces with silent laughter, and he gives a little sleepy warning nip to your clothed breast.

"Stop gigglin'. Tryna nap."

You almost laugh harder. He's not dispproving your point, but if this is what he needs, who are you to deny him?

"Alright, alright, I'll let my soldier rest." You calm yourself, softening your voice. "And I'll be here when you wake, too."

You know you're forgiven when he grunts and presses a kiss to where he bit.