#simon×reader

[artmiabynana]

Pilantra. (Simón Hempe)

Notas: estarei me escondendo depois dessa, porque é uma das coisas mais eróticas que eu já escrevi 😁

Avisos: Power play (bem de levinho) praise kink, size kink, no protection (já sabem que não pode 🖕), dubcon, um tiquinho de exibicionismo 🫸🏻, manipulação, creampie, Simón!traficante (uh lala🤓) Manipulação, drogas lícitas e ilícitas, possessividade, ciúmes, oral, penetração vaginal, linguagem imprópria. Minha inspiração foi a oneshot da @interlagosgrl sobre Gaucho. Créditos totais de minha inspiração para ela, além de Nahír.

Notas²: apreciem com moderação e tenham consciência de que é +18, então se você for de menor e insistir a ler, a consequência é sua.

Carinha de pilantra, com os amigos do seu bairro, você dança sem olhar pra mim

Eu te odeio, 'cê me odeia e aqui todo mundo sabe

Você nem bebeu tanto assim

Eu já tive muito medo de te encontrar no baile

E se me vê, vira de costas, vai até o chão e chora, mas levanta sorrindo pra mim.

(...)

Mas senta ni mim, deita ni mim

Finge que 'cê 'tava louca

Mente pra mim, foge de mim

A gente jura que não conta

Desse nosso jeito, mas não é porque eu te odeio

Que eu não posso mais beijar tua boca

12 chamadas perdidas

Número desconhecido - provável spam

Desliga o celular assim que o tal número para de te ligar. Se fosse uma alternativa plausível, você já teria bloqueado mais esse, mas Simón sempre dava um jeito de conseguir outro para falar contigo. E se não era por ligações, mensagens ou sms, era através dos seus pais, das suas amigas, e até mesmo do seu irmão mais novo.

Maldito dia que cedeu a tentação e se envolveu com Hempe. Certo, você já sabia da índole do homem e do que ele era capaz de fazer, graças ao poder que tinha em mãos por ser um traficante de uma das maiores redes da pequena cidade em que viviam. Ninguém nunca desconfiava daquela cara de bom moço, e isso ajudava ele a manipular os mais próximos de ti. Seus pais chegaram até a brigar contigo quando contou que o relacionamento - que nunca foi um namoro - havia acabado.

— Você nunca vai achar moço melhor que ele, minha filha. - Sua mãe disse negando com a cabeça, enquanto segurava os óculos na mão. - Vou ligar pra ele, o coitadinho deve estar arrasado.

Ah, mamãe, se você soubesse o que o coitadinho estava fazendo para ter sua filha de volta, não o defenderia tanto assim. Mas não poderia contar, ia ser demais para que eles pudessem assimilar e você não queria parar com aquele jogo.

Não podia negar, seu ego inflava quando via Simón te seguindo com os olhos, observando cada movimento como se o mundo ao redor não existisse. Havia algo atraente naquela obsessão silenciosa, um poder que você sentia em controlar as emoções dele, mesmo sem dizer uma palavra. Ele sempre fazia de tudo para se aproximar, para tentar falar contigo, e isso te dava uma sensação de controle sobre a situação. A intensidade com que ele te olhava, o jeito possessivo de marcar presença onde você estivesse, como se ele não fosse capaz de te deixar ir.

Simón era obcecado, necessitado de ti. Não aceitava que vocês tinham terminado - algumas vezes - e muito menos suportava a ideia de te deixar ir. Tentava se controlar, superar, mas assim que te via interagindo com outro homem, não tinha alto controle de ignorar e partir pra outra. O ambiente que viviam não facilitava. Os amigos em comuns não facilitavam. Seus pais e os pais dele não facilitavam. A obsessão de um pelo outro não facilitava.

Esse jogo, essa caça um pelo outro era perigoso. Sempre era o mesmo roteiro. Se evitavam, ficavam longe, fingiam que não existiam por quase duas semanas, e quando se viam em qualquer lugar que fosse, davam um jeito de ficar sozinhos e matar a saudade um do outro. Mas o que nunca acontecia, eram as promessas. Nunca prometiam um pelo outro que iam mudar, que iam se esforçar para ter algo melhor, porque não queriam. Assim era gostoso, então pra que mudar?

00:30 - PM.

As luzes piscavam em sincronia com as batidas eletrônicas, enquanto corpos suados se moviam freneticamente pelo espaço apertado. A música alta reverberava no seu peito, no meio da pista de dança, ria e se divertia ao lado das amigas.

Usava um vestido sem vergonha, como sua mãe comentou antes de sair de casa, que marcava suas curvas e revelava mais do que talvez fosse adequado para um ambiente tão lotado. Cravejado de pedrinhas brilhantes, aberto nas costas até o início da sua lombar, protegiam somente a polpa da sua bunda e deixavam suas coxas de fora. O recorte ao lado esquerdo, com somente duas tiras de pedras, evidenciava que não usava calcinha. As alças finas prendiam de seus ombros e seguravam seu colo, formando um decote até o meio dos seios.

Enquanto dançava, rindo com as amigas, não podia deixar de sentir os olhos dele queimando em você, quase como um toque invisível. Era aquilo que te deixava confiante de estar tão exposta, porque mesmo fingindo que não tinha o visto ali, sabia que te observava desde que entrou.

Nanda, sua amiga mais próxima, dançava colada com você. Ria no seu ouvido toda vez que você a rodava, e ela fazia o mesmo. O ritmo da música era contagiante, você tenta se concentrar nisso, fingindo que não tinha percebido o olhar insistente de Simón vindo de sabe-se lá onde.

— Amiga, olha só quem não tira o olho de você... – Nanda sussurrou no seu ouvido, rindo enquanto continuava a rodar com você.

Você tentou ignorar, mas não conseguiu evitar olhar de soslaio para o mesmo sentido que Fernanda observava. Encostado na grade, cerveja na mão e aquele sorriso presunçoso no rosto.

— Ah, qual é... – Você murmurou, revirando os olhos.

— Ele nunca muda, né? – Nanda riu, empurrando levemente seu ombro. – Não sei por que vocês não assumem logo de uma vez. Todo mundo já sabe como vocês são um com o outro.

— Porque ele é impossível, só por isso. – Você respondeu tentando manter a expressão neutra, enquanto caminhava com Nanda para o bar.

Ela sorriu, sacudindo a cabeça. — Não sei quem gosta mais dessa perseguição, ele ou você.

— Não é uma perseguição, Nanda. Ele só é maluco. - Se senta no banquinho alto, observando a opção de bebidas disponíveis. - E eu não quero alguém desse jeito na minha vida.

— É, diz isso e liga pra ele quando tá com saudade. - Reverba enquanto se senta ao seu lado, retocando o batom nos lábios. - Vocês vão ficar nessa pra sempre, amor. Acorda! Só vão parar quando um de vocês dois vazarem daqui.

Você bufou, desviando o olhar para a prateleira de bebidas atrás do balcão, tentando ignorar o desconforto que as palavras de Nanda provocaram.

— Não vou ligar pra ele. Nem hoje, nem nunca mais.

Nanda soltou um riso sarcástico, passando o dedo pelos lábios recém-retocados. — Claro, amor. Não tô aqui pra julgar, só tô dizendo que todo mundo vê o que tá rolando.

Você mordeu o lábio, frustrada. Queria poder simplesmente ignorar Simón e fingir que ele não mexia tanto assim com você. Olha para a direção do camarote de novo e o vê conversando com um amigo de vocês, rindo e bebericando sua cerveja.

— Ele não vai parar, Nanda. — Você admitiu em um suspiro, como se finalmente estivesse reconhecendo o óbvio.

— E você também não. — Nanda completou, pedindo uma bebida para si e te lançando um olhar cúmplice. — Não tem como escapar desse jogo se vocês dois estão no tabuleiro.

01:12 - PM.

A festa tinha perdido o brilho para você, especialmente com a presença incômoda de Simón pairando no ar. Nanda estava lá fora, ajudando um amigo de vocês com o uber e na espera do garoto que iria buscá-la.

Você aproveitou o momento de distração para ir ao banheiro, já sentindo o cansaço da noite se acumular. Depois de lavar as mãos e tentar se recompor no espelho, decidiu que já era hora de ir embora.

Pegou sua bolsa, verificou se tinha tudo consigo e saiu, pronta para chamar um táxi.

Ao atravessar o corredor que levava ao salão principal, seus passos desaceleraram assim que notou a figura familiar no canto mais escuro. Estava ali, os braços cruzados, observando você com aquela mistura de intensidade e calma, te esperado a noite inteira.

Você tentou ignorar, continuar andando, mas antes que pudesse passar direto, ele deu um passo para frente, bloqueando sua passagem com o corpo.

— Vai embora sem nem falar comigo, neña? — A voz dele soou baixa, abafada pela música distante.

Você suspirou, já esperando por isso, mas não pôde evitar a tensão que subiu pelo seu corpo. — Simón, já é tarde. Eu só quero ir pra casa.

Ele arqueou uma sobrancelha, dando aquele sorriso enviesado — E eu só quero conversar. Nada mais. — O tom dele era calmo, quase persuasivo, mas havia algo nos olhos que fazia você hesitar, como sempre.

— Não tem o que conversar — você respondeu, sem muita firmeza, sentindo a proximidade desconcertante dele. — Isso já tá decidido faz tempo.

— Decidido por quem? Por você? — Ele se inclinou ligeiramente para mais perto, não de um jeito ameaçador, mas o suficiente para te deixar sem escapatória. — Porque eu não concordei com nada disso.

— Simón… — Você tentou respirar fundo, mas ele continuava ali, te cercando, não de forma física, mas emocional. A presença dele sempre mexia com suas certezas. — Não dá mais. Eu tô cansada.

Ele riu baixo, sem humor, inclinando a cabeça para te observar. — Cansada de quê? De mim? Porque pelo jeito que você dançava ali, não parecia tão cansada assim. — As palavras saíram provocativas, mas não agressivas. Ele estava testando seus limites, como sempre fazia.

— Cansada desse jogo — você rebateu, sem recuar. — Você me cerca, me observa, mas não faz nada de verdade, Simón. Eu não aguento mais isso.

Simón soltou os braços, erguendo as mãos como quem se rende, mas sem perder aquele olhar penetrante. — Não é um jogo pra mim. Nunca foi.

Você o encarou por um momento, os olhos se encontrando, uma tensão elétrica pairando no ar. Ele deu um passo para trás, te dando espaço, mas você ainda sentia o peso da proximidade.

— Só quero cinco minutos, neña — ele disse, mais suave agora. — Me ouve, se não gostar, eu te levo pra casa. Sem perguntas. Só cinco minutos.

Simón não precisou insistir. Quando você olhou de volta para ele, o silêncio falou mais alto que qualquer palavra. Ele entendeu. Deu um pequeno sorriso de lado,

o tipo de sorriso que sempre te fazia estremecer, e se aproximou de novo, dessa vez mais devagar com a intenção clara.

- Sabia que você ia me ouvir ‐ murmurou, as palavras quase um sussurro enquanto ele se inclinava mais perto.

Antes que você pudesse dizer qualquer coisa, Simón já estava ali, próximo demais. Seus lábios roçaram sua bochecha de leve,

deixando um beijo suave que fez você fechar os olhos por instinto. Odiava como gostava da sensação da barba ele no seu corpo. As mãos dele tocaram sua cintura, desceram até a sua mão e pegou seu celular. Colocou o dispositivo no bolso traseiro de sua calça, escuta você resmungar, mas te cala com um selar nos lábios.

— Eu sinto falta de você - ele

sussurrou contra sua pele, os lábios descendo até o pescoço onde ele depositou um beijo longo que fez seu corpo inteiro arrepiar.

Você mordeu o lábio, tentando segurar a resposta física que seu corpo dava ao toque dele, mas era impossível ignorar o quanto sua pele queimava onde os lábios

dele passavam.

- Não faz isso, Simón..- você tentou, mas sua voz saiu mais fraca do que planejava - Você disse que ia falar e não me beijar...

— Não vou parar - ele respondeu - Não vou, porque sei que você também sente a minha falta.

Ele beijou sua bochecha de novo, subindo até o canto dos seus lábios, deixando você à beira do que sabia que viria. Sua mão, que estava firme na sua cintura começou a te puxar para mais perto, colando o corpo dele no seu. Você podia sentir a força contida nele, mas também o carinho que ele tentava passar.

— Vamos fazer dar certo dessa

vez - sussurrou entre beijos agora próximos o suficiente dos seus lábios para que você sentisse o hálito quente dele. —Eu prometo, neña. A gente vai ficar bem.

Você sentiu o coração disparar e,

antes de pensar, suas mãos já estavam na nuca dele, puxando-o para mais perto.

Simón aproveitou a abertura e finalmente

capturou seus lábios nos dele, em um beijo intenso, que trazia toda a saudade, o desejo, e até a raiva acumulada. Tudo em um só gesto. As mãos dele apertaram sua

cintura, como se ele temesse que você pudesse mudar de ideia a qualquer segundo, mas você não recuou. Não dessa vez.

Deu alguns passos para trás e te chocou contra a parede. Tomou a pequena bolsa da sua mão e a deixou no chão, libertando suas mãos, estas que seguem até as costas dele. Finca as unhas por cima do tecido da camisa que ele usa, não se importa se vai estragar o tecido.

As mãos dele circulam a barra do seu vestido, levantam e espremem a sua bunda com as mesmas. Mata seu gemido durante o beijo, apalpa sem medo, você não vai pedir para ele parar. Colocou a roupa justamente para provocá-lo. Ele grunhe quando sente o meio de suas coxas úmido, provoca com um sorriso nos lábios.

— Molhada só com um beijo? Tá carente, bebita? - Amansa o tom para te perguntar.

— Duro só por me ver dançar? Ah, você já foi mais resistente, Hempe. - Soa viperina, tentando tirar as mãos dele de seu vestido e voltar a ficar coberta - Simón, tá cheio de gente!

— Relaxa, neña, ninguém tá prestando atenção na gente — Simón murmurou com um sorriso, sem soltar sua cintura, as mãos ainda insistentes em seu vestido. O olhar dele brilhava com aquela confiança irritante.

Você tentou empurrá-lo levemente, rindo nervosa. — Simón, sério, aqui não... — Falou tentando afastar as mãos dele de novo, mas era como se ele nem ouvisse.

— Você tá linda demais pra eu ignorar — ele continuou, agora inclinando-se para beijar seu pescoço mais uma vez, a voz baixa e grave, enviando calafrios pela sua pele. — Só um pouquinho, vai.

— Simón, para. — você pediu novamente, se afastando o suficiente para ajeitar o vestido.

Suspirando, ele finalmente soltou sua cintura, passando a mão pelos próprios cabelos, tentando se controlar.

— Ninguém ia reclamar se visse a gente, bebita. - Arruma seu cabelo bagunçado, colocando os fios para trás e sussurra no seu ouvido. - Ninguém pode mexer com a minha mulher.

— Sua mulher? - Pergunta enquanto solta uma risadinha, encara a própria mão - Engraçado, não tô vendo nenhum aliança no meu dedo.

Geme dolorida ao sentir o chupão em seu pescoço, estapeia o braço de Hempe e o afasta de seu corpo. Analisa a marca com a ponta dos dedos, encarando o argentino de cara feia.

— Não brinca comigo, garota. É isso que você quer? - Pergunta enquanto analisa a sua face, assiste você conter um sorriso e nega com a cabeça. - Ser mulher de traficante?

— Se for pra ser sua e você ser meu, não vejo problema. - Da de ombros, se sente retraída por ter confessado.

Ele ficou em silêncio por alguns segundos, analisando sua expressão com cuidado. Soltou uma risada nasal, se aproximando novamente.

— Você é mais corajosa do que eu pensava. Mas eu gosto disso. - Simón passou o polegar pelo seu queixo, inclinando-se para beijar sua bochecha e, depois, sua mandíbula, enquanto você sentia as mãos dele voltarem a segurar sua cintura, te puxando mais para perto.

Simón removeu o anel de prata do próprio dedo com um gesto, os olhos fixos nos seus enquanto fazia isso. O metal brilhou suavemente sob as luzes da balada, um contraste sutil com a intensidade do momento. Sem dizer uma palavra, ele ergueu sua mão e deslizou o anel no seu dedo, o metal frio contra sua pele quente.

O anel ficou um pouco largo, balançando levemente no seu dedo, mas o significado por trás dele não deixou dúvidas. Era uma promessa silenciosa entre vocês.

— Agora você sabe que é minha, e eu sou seu. — Ele murmurou, abraçando seu corpo novamente. - Te compro outro amanhã cedo, tá?

Você olhou para o anel por um segundo, sorriu sozinha e selou a bochecha do argentino. Ele segurou sua mão e a puxou suavemente, conduzindo você para fora da balada, o som ensurdecedor ficando para trás enquanto vocês cruzavam as portas em direção ao estacionamento.

Do lado de fora, o ar estava mais fresco, quase aliviando a tensão crescente que pairava entre vocês. Ao chegar no carro, ele abriu a porta do passageiro para você entrar. Seus dedos ainda estavam entrelaçados quando você se acomodou no banco de couro macio.

Ele deu a volta no carro e se sentou ao volante, ligando o motor com um ronco suave. Vocês dois se encararam por um momento, o silêncio preenchido pela promessa não dita, mas sentida. O casaco quente circulou seu corpo, uma garantia de que você ficaria confortável.

Antes de dar partida no carro, Simón se inclinou e, sem dizer nada, começou a tirar os saltos dos seus pés com cuidado. Sem dizer uma palavra, ele pousou seus pés em seu colo, enquanto ligava o carro.

A sensação de estranhamento permaneceu enquanto ele guiava pelas ruas da cidade. Até então, vocês sempre se encontravam em lugares discretos, longe de olhares curiosos, e nunca tinham cruzado a linha de irem para a casa um do outro. Sempre era algo rápido, apenas o suficiente para matar a saudade, sem se aprofundarem demais.

— Simón... — Você começou, a voz hesitante, tentando entender o que estava acontecendo. — A gente nunca... você nunca me levou pra sua casa antes.

Ele lançou um olhar rápido para você, mas sem perder o foco da estrada. Um sorriso pequeno apareceu no canto de seus lábios, como se soubesse exatamente o que estava passando pela sua cabeça.

— Hoje é diferente. — Ele disse simplesmente, os dedos agora acariciando seus pés em seu colo. — Não quero mais ser rápido. Nem quero esconder.

O silêncio voltou a preencher o carro enquanto as luzes da cidade passavam pelas janelas. Aquele gesto de te tirar os saltos e te deixar confortável, do anel em seu dedo, este que você não parava de mexer, te deixava nas nuvens.

Ao chegarem, ele saiu do carro primeiro, andando até sua porta e a abrindo para você, como sempre fazia, o que te arrancou um sorriso discreto. Assim que colocou os pés no chão, após voltar a calçar os sapatos, sentiu a brisa suave da noite bater no seu rosto.

Ele abriu a porta com a chave que sempre trazia no bolso, te dando espaço para entrar primeiro. Por sorte, os pais de Simón estão fora da cidade. Odiaria ver os seus sogros vestida desse jeito, apesar de já conhecê-los, tendo os conhecido em uma festa de bairro, aonde Simón te apresentou como uma amiga.

Não tem tempo de admirar a decoração ou o ambiente ao redor. Distraída com as luzes baixas da residência, Simón circula sua cintura com as mãos e te pega no colo, carrega até o próprio quarto. Escuta você rir com o susto, te colocando deitada na cama dele quando chegam no cômodo.

Volta a tirar seus saltos, coloca sobre o chão. Abre a própria camisa, exibe o peito bem malhado, as finas correntes de ouro que ficam ali e se mostram depois que a camisa é jogada no chão, algumas tatuagens espalhadas pelos ombros, braços e clavícula te fazendo suspirar com a cena. Quando pensa que ele vai se desfazer da calça, reclama ao vê-lo abrir somente a braguilha e não tirar a peça.

Morde o lábio inferior, incapaz de quebrar o contato visual que estabelece com o argentino.

O corpo grande fica por cima do seu, guia seu vestido pra cima, mas não o tira. Deixa-o preso na sua cintura, o suficiente para expor sua parte inferior. Guia as suas pernas para que fiquem abertas e apoiadas no colchão, mostrando suas entradas para lá de necessitadas. Abaixa o próprio tronco, deixa uma lambida de cima a baixo em sua buceta. Suga, dança e passa o músculo babado sobre seu clitóris sensível. Simón, você geme, pega desprovida.

Fecha os olhos e tenta se esfregar contra o argentino, este que põe a mão no seu quadril ao lado direito, e o trava contra o colchão. Lambe mais uma vez e cospe seu líquido junto de mais saliva contra seu íntimo, espalhando com a ajuda dos dedos da mão livre. Estapeia a região, mas não dá tempo de você ter uma reação correta.

Vira seu corpo na cama, retira a roupa do seu corpo e volta a ficar por cima de ti. Junta seu cabelo em um rabo de cavalo mal feito, beija a sua nuca, esfrega a barba rala em seu pescoço, nuca e desce até as suas costas. Morde aonde consegue, só pra deixar uma lambida onde ficariam as possíveis marcas. Prende a sua cabeça contra o colchão, a mão livre o liberta do aperto da calça e da box babada.

Solta um gemido quando sente o pau liberto, envolve o próprio pau em uma masturbação lenta. Espalha o pré gozo pelo comprimento - nada pequeno - enquanto assiste você pulsar contra o nada. Se Simón estava excitado desde a festa que estavam, só por te ver dançar, agora ele sentia que podia gozar só com aquela visão de você rendida por ele.

— Quem tá desesperada agora? - Sussurra em seu ouvido, ao passo que te invade aos poucos. Deixa uma lambida em sua orelha, morde o lóbulo a medida que entra por inteiro em seu íntimo.

Fica parado por alguns instantes até que tu se acowtume. É tão bom, geme chorosa, sentir ele sem nada pela primeira vez é algo indescritível. O sente pulsar, seu íntimo alagar a medida que tenta relaxar e quando ele guia sua mão até seu baixo ventre, te faz sentir a pressão que causa ali e o suficiente para que você empine ainda mais em direção ao namorado.

Simón puxa seu cabelo para trás, o suficiente para que sua cabeça encoste no ombro dele. Desce as mãos até sua buceta lotada, acaricia a pressão que tem ali enquanto passa a tocar seu clitóris com os dedos.

Inicia as estocadas sem muito cuidado, não se importa em segurar nos seus braços e te manter reta. Joga seu corpo para cima, finge não escutar os seus gritos e até mesmo o seu choro. É cru, dolorido mas é prazeroso, gostoso.

— Não importa o quanto eu te coma, você continua apertada pra caralho, amor. - A voz abafada no seu pescoço faz seus pelos arrepiarem, se sente como uma presa.

Os sons que ecoavam no quarto naquela madrugada, das peles se chocandos, dos gemidos e dos pedidos proibidos, os cercava. As respirações pesadas não eram um problema, continuavam se beijando sem parar, babando na boca um do outro e enchendo os lábios de mordidas. Seu corpo ficaria todo marcado pelas mordidas, os tapas, a marca de unhas em suas costas e lombar.

Quando está quase lá, sente o baixo ventre contorcer e está pronta para gozar, Simón trocou de posição novamente. Encaixou você no colo dele, grunhiu quando você passou a cavalgar contra ele.

Suas mãos tiraram as dele de sua bunda, as pressionando contra o travesseiro. Sorriu com a cena, devasso demais. Por mais que pareça, quem comandava o namoro não era ele. Simón era seu servo, se sentia como um mero humano na presença de uma deusa, e se esse era seu destino, que fosse. Iria agradar você pra sempre e sempre.

Era gostoso pra cacete ver a sua cara de acabada depois de gozar, com os olhos marejados, a boca aberta enquanto soltava grunhidos doloridos. Poderia gozar só com isso tranquilamente, mas agradeceu internamente a ti quando saiu de cima e o colocou na boca.

Tomou a sua nuca com a mão e empurrava o quadril na direção da sua boca, fodia sua boca sem o mínimo de cuidado, como se fosse sua buceta no lugar. Admirava o rostinho cansado, mas não demorou para que ele virasse uma bagunça também.

Esporrou contra a sua boca, o suficiente para melar o canto de sua boca e escorrer para seu queixo. Se afastou para conter a sensibilidade, nem notou que apertava o lençol com tanta força. Fecha os olhos, geme sozinho ao se sentir quase vazio.

Observa a cena, lambe os próprios dedos enquanto assiste Simón se encolher sobre a cama. Sempre gostou de vê-lo sensível, mas agora parece mais gostoso, sente o ego inflar.

Beija desde a coxa exposta, o abdômen e por fim deixa um selar sobre os lábios inchadinhos. Sorri cansada, se deita ao lado do argentino e o abraça, encaixando a cabeça dele em seu peito.

Acaricia os fios suados, sente ele te abraçar a medida que se recupera. A meia luz que ultrapassa o vidro da janela, acalma os ânimos e Simón acaba adormecendo entre os seus seios. Analisa o corpo do argentino contra seu corpo, admira a face agora calma, pensa em como ele pode ser tão diferente quando acordado, e que agora não tinha mais escapatória.

Seu celular acende e o número de sua mãe aparece na tela. É rápida em atender e se lembra de que não avisou onde está.

— Mãe, eu...

— Eu sei onde você tá, filha. A Nanda me avisou que o Simon tinha falado com ela, eu já sei de tudo tá?

— "De tudo" o que?

— Ué, dá ideia deles. De ele conseguir falar com você hoje naquela festinha de vocês. Ai! Tô tão empolgada pra apresentar ele como genro oficial agora.

Seus olhos descem até a figura desacordada em seu colo, tem vontade de acordá-lo e fazer perguntas, mas se controla, respira e decide fazer isso amanhã. Se despede de sua mãe, decide tentar dormir mas não consegue parar de sorrir.

Filho da mãe.

— Que fique claro... - A voz dele soa baixinho, encara você com os olhos pesados de sono - Minha sogra que me deu a ideia.

[succubusvalentine]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"good?"

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

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

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

[mcntsee]

The real barbie is Y/n.

Y/n’s a doctor, a cop, a scientist, an agent, vet, hero, villain, astronaut, lawyer, spy, criminal, artist, chef, engineer, psychologist, architect, journalist, firefighter, event planner, mechanic, photographer, musician, actor, interior designer, bartender, fashion designer, barista, florist, forensic scientist, flight attendant, profiler, tour guide, translator, etc.

[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 ]

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

✘ SEQUEL : ' IN CONTEMPT '

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that it really mattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The studio audience laughs on cue.

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

It doesn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

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

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

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

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

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flick back to him.

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

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

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

Just silen—

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

Oh.

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.

[readwritealldayallnight]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who from the moment he laid eyes on you, has only ever referred to you as his wife

You, this sweet little thing, running through the halls on base one day when you turn a corner and nearly run headfirst into the Lieutenant, who’s walking alongside Soap

“Oh! Sorry about that, sir.” You told him, never slowing down in your hurried pace as you snuck around his large frame and continued down towards whatever you were evidently late for

The only reason his gaze had followed your retreating form, was that unlike everyone else, you had met his eyes when you spoke, even smiled warmly up at him

That one smile and he was done for

“Who was tha’?” The sergeant had questioned, seeing Ghost’s attention still fixated on you.

“Think that was my wife.”

“Yer what?!”

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who makes it a point to let everyone know that you are in fact his wife

Well, everyone apart from you apparently

He would certainly never abuse his position as a Lieutenant, but some new recruit had the audacity to whistle at you as you walked by? Well 100 laps around the base don’t exactly run themselves

Another soldier saved you a seat next to him in a briefing? He can enjoy scrubbing toilet seats for the next week in that case

Someone actually had the bollocks to ask you for your phone number? Perfect, he needed a volunteer for demonstrating hand to hand combat to the recruits, medics on standby of course

By the time he properly introduces himself to you for the first time, it’s understood by everyone else around that you are, for all intents and purposes, Mrs Riley

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who listens to you tell him your name in a voice that resembles music to his ears, hardly bothering to remember your last name, seeing as it’ll be changing soon enough anyway

“You can call me anythin’ you want, love.” His deep, gravelly voice had sent shivers down your spine, cheeky smirk widening beneath his mask. “So long as you call me, that is.”

By the end of your first date, (you were sitting alone in the dining hall and he wordlessly joined you what do you mean this isn’t a date) he’s wondering if you’ll insist on a ceremony or if he can sweep you away to the nearest courthouse and make this official, slipping a ring onto you finger and himself into you

You had laughed when he put his number into your phone and named himself ‘Husband’, certain that the man was only messing with you, some kind of hazing that you apparently weren’t aware Lieutenants played on the new communications hire, but it was only fair seeing as he’d saved your contact under ‘Wife’

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who is over the moon every time you play along, even if he knows you believe you’re only playing

“Ach, thanks Lt. Just what I needed.” Soap said, seeing Ghost’s approaching form enter the common room, holding a steaming cup of tea in each hand

“S’for my wife. Get your own.” The older man gruffly replied, sliding the mug onto the side table next to where you’re curled up on the couch, reading a book

“Aw, thank you honey.” You giggled, smiling up as him with an expression he thinks would taste even sweeter than honey if he were to run his tongue across your upturned lips

“Happy wife, happy life, sergeant.” Ghost shrugged, ignoring the other man’s pout, landing next to you and reaching an arm behind you across the back of the couch

“God, maybe I really should keep you.” You’d laughed, reaching a leg out to dig your socked toes into his muscled thigh, teasing him

Grasping your foot into his large, strong hands, he began massaging it, uncaring that you were only two of the many people in the common room, not when you looked at him like that, smiling together as though you truly were nothing more than a married couple

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who surprised you one day, insisting he needed your help with something crucial off base, and drove you to a local shopping outlet to look at none other than dresses

“Is there some sort of party happening?” You’d questioned, confused out of your mind

“Suppose you could consider it a party.” He’d answered, leading you through the many racks of dresses, you noticed were all, very conveniently, white

“Now while you’re lookin’ through dress sizes,” he’d added, taking your left hand in both of his. “You know your ring size? Got my own shoppin’ to do ‘round here.”

Series masterlist

[l0velysmut]

family: “why are you just sitting in ur room smiling at ur phone?”

me who’s been reading smut about fictional characters for the past 6 hours:

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

GYM CRUSH SIMON

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

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

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

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

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

midnight schedule it was.

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

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

and then there was him.

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

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

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

he moved through his workout with terrifying

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i do not know his entire workout routine.”

your friend raised a brow.

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

his brow lifted higher.

“…and arms on thursdays.”

silence.

“right.”

“shut up.”

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

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

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

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

so, you stayed quiet..

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

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

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

“i use it,” you protested.

“you walk through it.”

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

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

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

the bar didn’t budge.

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

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

"y’need a spotter?"

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

you swallow. "uh."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"

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

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

he hesitates. "depends."

"on?"

"the day."

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

"sure it is."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“drop it.”

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

“drop it.”

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

it’s unbearable.

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

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

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

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

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

he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."

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

his eye twitches. “just drink it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"fix that grip, sweetheart."

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then— "good girl."

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

your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.

you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.

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

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

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

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

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

"yes."

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

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

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

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

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

low, warm, approving—

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

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

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

“please.”

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

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

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

his hips roll up.

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

he does it again.

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

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

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

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

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

"fuck-"

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

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

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

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

you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.

his patience snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"yes- yes, please-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"s’not fair," you mumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you take him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but you’re already gone.

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

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

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

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

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

"s-simon-"

"what, love? too far gone already?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then he fucks you properly.

[simonscumdump]

Simon enjoys Prone-boning.

The first time you’d brought up trying the position with him, he agreed to try simply to see if you’d both enjoy it or not. Though at first he was somewhat hesitant as this man really enjoys being able to see your face whenever you’re intimate together.

However.

Doing it…was different.

At first, he’s put you into doggy simply to make it easier to get into position without any awkwardness, and the moment his hand pressed on your lower back to flatten you out…

The man almost tweaked out right then and there.

“Oh…oh fuck…”

There was something about the sight of you completely and utterly at his mercy that had his cock twitching within you, his fingers would intertwine with yours…pinning them to the sheets before he’d give an experimental roll of his hips to see how you felt.

And in that moment, he’d find out that this position was perfect to hit your g-spot…and then? He simply couldn’t stop.

Each thrust was so perfectly angled that he’d have to almost restrain you through the pleasure earned by every snap of his hips.

“Nuh-uh…c’mon baby…you wanted to try this…don’t try and run now love…take it for me…please..”

He’d deliberately lean down, just to let you feel the heavy pants of his breath at your ear, the way sweat rolls down his chest with every merciless thrust.

The pleasure is almost too much and yet not enough at the same time. He’d relish in the way you’d claw at the sheets beneath your grip, the way his name would fall from your lips in such a broken tone.

“Shit…look at you…fuck…my pretty missus…yeah…”

The moment he feels your ass pushing up as if you were trying to get him even deeper, he couldn’t remotely stop himself. Bottoming out and grinding his hips to let you feel the way he kissed your cervix. Whispering praises into your ear, mingled in with the rough groans that tumble out of him.

He could feel when you were close, his hands digging into your lower back to keep you still as he fucked you into your release, and in this position…it didn’t take him long to follow. Pressing his entire weight into you as he floods your cunt. Panting right beside your ear as his sweaty body borderline laid across you.

“We’re doin’ that again.”

[kkusuka]

simon riley fucks you like he'll never see you again.

you're pinned top the mattress, thighs to chest, trying to hold onto the headboard that is absolutely denting your apartment’s walls. but it feels so good- his cock stretches your poor cunt so well and he's pounding into the spot that makes your brain go fuzzy.

you've come on his dick more times that you can think of at the moment, and he just keeps going. his mouth licking and biting around your ear so you can hear all of his growling and panting, “so good f'me, cunt squeezes me perfectly."

then he's at the junction of your neck and biting down- he has to leave something that can stay imprinted on your skin until he comes back. it's not like the hickeys he left on your chest, down your stomach, or between your thighs will do the job.

and just when you think he's about to come- and give you some rest until he picks you up and starts again- he flips both of you over as if you can do anything but grind your pounded pussy on his cock.

"aw, is it too much f'ya? can't handle a little dicking down?" and you almost believe that he'll take pity on you, and get you on your back, his hand reaches down to your abused clit and gives it a good pinch, "need help? tha's too bad aint it? yer not gettn' shit until you start riding like you mean it." 

[softaestluv]

more! | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Just thinking about Ghost having a shy, quiet wife. The glaring opposite of Ghost, painted in black and blood while you’re adorned in lace and frills. Smooth skin and delicate flesh, warm eyes and a bashful smile. Soft-spoken and so fucking sweet.

No one else knows about you, or that he’s married, not from lack of wanting people to know he has such a pretty dove waiting for him at home, but because he knows all the men on base would eat you alive.

But one day, he forgets the lunch you made him. It takes everything in you to refrain yourself from driving to base to make sure he has something to eat— you know he doesn’t have the healthiest eating habits.

You choose to message him, something he usually responds fairly quickly to. Always at your beck and call just in case his sweet girl needs him, but he doesn’t answer. Your lips are pinched raw with worry by the time you decide to get in your car.

So, imagine everyone’s surprise when a sergeant interrupts the meeting Ghost’s in— ‘Lieutenant, um, Mrs. Riley is waiting outside for you.’

Ghost is on his feet in an instant, it must be some emergency if you’re there. He rushes to the hallway, everyone else in the room stumbling behind to snoop through the thin crack of the door, see who their big bad Lieutenant is married to.

And there you are, Tupperware container in your manicured hands, white dress covering your frame with matching ribbons and bows in your hair. The look on your face is anxious, right up until you see Ghost, your eyes softening as he approaches you with wide strides despite the fact that he’s twice your size, hulking and threatening.

“Sweet’art, everything okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” He asks, brows furrowing as he does a once over your figure, checking for injury.

You exhale a quiet laugh, “No, baby. You just forgot your lunch, and you didn’t answer your phone so I got worried you would go the whole day without eating.”

He cups your jaw, a smile breaking out on his face. His sergeants are baffled for several reasons— they did not expect their Lieutenant to be married to such a sweet thing, nor had they ever heard their Lieutenant speak in such a soft, hushed tone, never seen him touch something with such care, like you were so fragile in the palms of his hands.

They would’ve thought it was all a joke if it wasn’t for the massive diamond ring on your finger, or the way you pushed deeper into his touch.

“Sorry, dove, just been in a meetin’ all day.”

He stamps a kiss against your lips, lets himself linger just a little longer than he should because he knows the whole room is watching from behind the door.

“Sweetest little wife, aren’t you?”

[shinoko-oshi]

Simon, tits or ass question

Simon never understood the whole ass or tits debate.

It was the kind of question that got tossed around by the younger recruits, the loud, cocky ones who acted like they’d never touched a woman—probably hadn’t—let alone knew where to find a clit. He’d hear it in the barracks, in the gym, during downtime on base, always the same brainless conversation.

And every damn time, his mind went straight to you. His fiancée.

Sure, Simon liked your ass. Liked the way it felt in his hands, the way he could squeeze it in public just to hear you scold him, swatting his arm and hissing about other people being around—like he gave a shit. He liked resting his head on it, treating it like a pillow when you laid on your stomach, liked feeling it press up against him in the middle of the night when you shifted in your sleep.

But he also liked your tits.

Liked watching them bounce when you ran on the treadmill in that little sports bra and shorts. Liked sinking his face into them after long, brutal days, letting himself get lost in your warmth. Liked sneaking up behind you while you got ready, pressing his hands over them just to hear you sigh, half-exasperated, half-amused.

But then there were your eyes.

Simon fucking loved your eyes. Loved that he could stare into them whenever he wanted because you were his and that meant he had that privilege. Loved the way you squinted when the sun was too bright, how you’d complain about it getting in your face while he just stood there, mesmerized by how it made your irises glow. He got grumpy whenever you wore sunglasses. Not that he’d admit it, because it meant he couldn’t see them, just his own damn reflection staring back at him.

And your hair. Jesus.

Then there was your hair—your sweet-smelling hair that he could sit for hours just breathing in. He loved the way it felt against his skin, whether it was soft, loose or styled with care. Loved when you let him play with it, even if he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing half the time. And when you slept, he didn’t mind if it ended up in his face, didn’t care if it tickled or got in the way. he’d just bury himself deeper, content in the warmth of you.

Then there were your legs.

Simon liked them no matter what. He liked the slight prickle when your hair started growing back, liked running his hands up and down your thighs just to feel the texture. But he also liked when you let him shave them, taking his time, careful and precise, making sure not to nick you. Didn’t matter if they were smooth, stubbled, or fully grown out—he just liked you.

Your hands. Your belly. Your arms. Your face. Every part of you.

So no, Simon never really understood the whole ass or tits question. It was too small, too simple.

Because he didn’t just like your ass or your tits.

He liked you.

[artmiabynana]

ABC NSFW - (Simon Hempe)

Notas: OLAAAAA, bom dia 🤓☝🏻 debute do meu argentino fav😞

___

A = Aftercare

Assim que vocês dois estão com a respiração mais regulada, depois de alguns longos minutos de chamego e sussurros, sempre perguntando se você estava bem, se foi bom e o quanto te amava, Hempe toma a atitude de levantar e te levar pro banheiro. Sempre te toca com cuidado, quando vão tomar banho ou quando ele te limpa, toma cuidado pra não acabar tocando em algum lugar que esteja sensível demais (seios, íntimo, etc). Ajuda você a se vestir, arruma seu cabelo e fica de conchinha contigo o resto da noite/dia, e quando não está cansado demais, faz um jantar rápido e garante que vocês dois estão alimentados suficiente.

B = Body part

Extremamente obcecado pela sua bunda, pescoço e nuca. Imagino ele sempre beijando seu pescoço quando tem oportunidade, elogiando o seu perfume, dizendo que você tá sempre muito cheirosa. (🫦🫦🫦) beija sua nuca sempre que vê você com os cabelos pra cima, e sempre que pode, segura na sua bunda e deixa um aperto, até mesmo em público o que te deixa com muita vergonha 🥸

C = Cum (onde gosta de gozar)

Dentro, obviamente porque ama ver você escorrer entre as coxas, na sua boca (entre os lábios e nas bochechas) e nas suas costas, caso você esteja de bruços.

D = Dirty secret (um segredo sujo ou algo que ele deseja mas não fala)

Te ver com outro homem ou mulher, e te prender na cama pra fazer o que quiser durante uma noite. Acredita que você acharia estranho o desejo de voyuver, porque você é muito insegura sobre, mas ele não se importaria em te assistir com outra pessoa, especialmente alguém como Enzo, Pardella ou Fernando.

E = Experiência

Amigas, estamos falando de Simon Hempe. É claro que ele tem MUITA experiência no âmbito sexual, e pratica elas todas com você. Sério tem coisas que ele faz que você fica tola quando experimentam, e a maior satisfação dele é te ver mole com tal ato.

Ex: a vez que praticou uma hiper estimulação em ti, ou quando fez você o chupar enquanto estava deitada na cama (com os pés na cabeceira e a cabeça no fim do colchão) nessas duas vezes, você ficou exausta e perguntou pro argentino onde ele tinha aprendido tal coisa. Ele sempre mexia os ombros e falava "ah, amor, eu sou curioso demais."

F = Favorite position (Posição favorita)

De ladinho (🫦🫦) quando vocês estão com preguiça, de quatro pra ele bater na sua bunda e gemer no seu ouvido, papai e mamãe, e você por cima, pra ele poder te enforcar com as mãos (ou você enforcar ele também 🫢)

G = goofy (se ele é mais sério ou brincalhão no momento)

Os dois. Ele faz graça quando te vê toda sedenta e desesperada, até você sentar nele e fazê-lo ficar em desespero 🫢 e fica sério quando a foda tá intensa demais pra fazer piadas.

H = hair (higiene com os pelos)

Ele sempre apara pro pelo ficar curtinho, mas nunca chega a depilar. Um porque ele odeia a sensação do pelo crescer e coçar, e dois porque você pediu um dia e disse que é sexy. (Simon todo bobo e obediente SIIIIM) a mesma coisa com a barba, sempre deixa ela aparada e nunca raspa (só se for fazer um papel específico) porque você também disse que é gostoso sentir a barba dele no seu pescoço (🥺)

I = Intimidade

Simon e você tem uma intimidade incrível, e isso só surgiu depois que ele te fez enxergar o seu eu verdadeiro. Ele é romântico sempre, então não espere comentários inconvenientes dele sobre o seu peso, aparência, estrias, etc. Ele é o mais respeitoso possível e entra em desespero quando você pergunta se está gorda demais/magra demais. Pra ele você é perfeita ☝🏻 (e vocês são perfeitas porra 😡)

J = jerking off (masturbação)

Depende muito, e só acontece quando vocês estão longe. Normalmente sempre te espera, mas em casos assim ele se toca sim ☝🏻 acessa a pasta pessoal de vocês dois, onde vocês tem algumas fotos íntimas e vídeos também. Sempre é sozinho e no banho, porque ele não tem controle do barulho 🥴

K = kink (fetiches)

A diferença de tamanho entre vocês, acha muito atraente o quão grande ele é comparado a ti.

Creampie (🤓☝🏻)

Voyuver: Ama ver você se dar prazer sempre que pode, ele pede pra você se tocar como se ele não estivesse ali. (As vezes goza só com isso)

overstimulated, cumplay, praise kink, e óbvio, unprotected sex.

L = local

Os principais são: o quarto de vocês, banheiro (tanto o de vocês, quanto o de uma balada) sala, cozinha e recentemente no carro dele. Não arriscam outros lugares porque sabem que não vão se aguentar, e o Hempe ama te ouvir gemer pra ele.

M = Motivação

Você.

Ele só precisa olhar você que já sobe uma coisa indescritível. Desde que se conheceram ele sentiu um tesão descomunal por ti, e isso pra ele já basta.

Mas, se você quer ver ele maluco das ideias e não conseguir se controlar, é sair do banho sem nada e ir pro quarto nua, ou usar um vestido ou um short que marca demais a sua bunda e deixa ela redondinha. Amigas, ele quase desmaia 🫦

N = Não (o que ele não gosta ou faria na cama)

Algo que te machucasse, então nada de velas, facas, estiletes, etc. Tudo que ele faz pra te marcar é com o seu consenso, assim como tu nele, e nada mais passa disso.

O = oral

Simon é viciado no seu gosto.

Sempre, >sempre< que pode e você deixa, ele te faz um oral independente do momento. Gosta principalmente de fazer quando você acorda e tá com preguiça, quando te vê vestida pra uma festa e só quer provar um pouquinho de ti, mas não o suficiente pra te cansar. Não precisa necessariamente usar os dedos, apenas a língua dele nos pontos certos te fazem gozar rapidinho, e principalmente quando o bigode passou a participar. (🚶‍♀️🚶‍♀️)

Agora você nele (🫦) sempre o surpreende quando pede pra mamar. Ele quase chora, sim! Quase chora quando te vê com a boca ao redor do pau dele, toda esticada, porque Simon é grande e quando o barulho de engasgo atinge seus ouvidos. Admira seus olhos molhados pelas quase lágrimas, sentindo que gozaria demais na sua boca.

P = Pace (a velocidade que eles gostam de transar)

Depende do dia e do horário ☝🏻

Se é um dia de manhã, ele vai mais devagar pra ser gostosinho, aquela foda lentinha pra acordar, sabe? (Porém ama quando você se irrita com a lentidão dele e assume o controle, sentando nele como se sua vida dependesse disso)

Em outros momentos, tipo uma pós festa (onde ele que se aguentar porque você tava muito atraente naquele vestido preto) onde ele te agarra no elevador mesmo, e quando chegam em casa ele te encosta na parede e te come com tanta força, que quando goza contigo, sente você mole nos braços dele.

Q = Quickie (rapidinhas)

Simon é amante da rapidinha ☝🏻

A vida sexual de vocês é ativa, então sempre se pegam quando é possível, porque não são o tipo de casal que fogem do evento pra foder. Não, aguentam até o final (e ficam se provocando 🫦) até chegarem no carro e poderem fazer direito. Pode até ser rapidinha, mas é A rapidinha.

R = Riscos (o quão disposto ele está a fazer algo mais arriscado)

Como eu disse, Simon JAMAIS envolveria facas ou algo que queime durante o sexo, e a mesma coisa funciona quando ele sugere e você se demonstra meio receosa. Filha, você disse que não, ele não vai insistir, e sim fazer do modo que sempre fazem.

Vocês são adpetos a conversar antes sobre, e entram em consenso se vão fazer ou não.

S = Stamina ( quantos rounds ele aguenta)

Sem oral nele, 3 e com oral 2.

Ele fica fraco depois de um oral seu nele, fazer o que 😞 então sempre que você pede pra chupar ele, pede pra ser depois, porque sempre que você faz o oral, ele quer é deitar e dormir.

T = Toys (brinquedos sexuais)

EXTREMAMENTE VICIADO 🫢

Ama testar você com aqueles vibradores que pode controlar pelo celular, também aquelas bolinhas de pompar, e outros como vendas, e plugs. Também amou a ideia de você tocar uma pra ele enquanto usa um vibrador ☝🏻

U = Unfair (quão injusto ou provocante ele é)

Preciso falar que ele te provoca toda hora?

Ele vai andar nu pela casa, ou só com uma cueca. Se ele vai te ajudar com o jantar, vai te espremer contra o corpo dele e atentar na sua cabeça quando te vê toda boba, mesmo que esteja roçando na sua pele desde que começaram. Se exibe no espelho, acariciando o próprio abdômen e pergunta o que você acha. (CANALHAAAA)

V = volume (quão vocal ele é)

Não tem vergonha nenhuma de gemer pra você, então vai ser vocal sim! Geme, rosna, implora pra parar ou continuar. Se é você que tá por cima, geme em um tom manhoso e se é ele por cima, vai gemer no seu ouvido sim.

W = Wild Card (Um headcanon aleatório)

Hempe aprendeu a gostar de pintura contigo, então num dia em que ele pede pra te pintar no novo quadro.

o que não dá certo, porque você estava nua por debaixo daquele roupão e acaba com todas vezes que vocês tentam terminar aquele maldito quadro, com as mãos de Simon sujando seu corpo com tinta depois que ele te ataca no sofá.

X = Raio x (tamanho do brinquedo)

🫦 O Simon é grande em todos os sentidos, e também meio grossinho. Levemente amarronzado, com a cabecinha bem vermelha quando sensível.

Y = yearning (sex drive/libido)

Alto, mas é saudável. Nunca exige demais de ti e dele mesmo. Se você está cansada, ele dá um jeito de se satisfazer sozinho e nunca te força a nada.

Z = zzz (nanar depois do sexo)

Quando acabam, ficam de chamego por alguns minutos e acabam dormindo após. Não se importa de ver você dormir, fica do seu lado, faz carinho nos seus cabelos e nas suas costas, sussurra o quanto te ama. Não tem dificuldade em dormir também, apenas fecha os olhos e dorme agarrsdinho contigo.

É isso, na minha cabeça faz sentido. 😀💫

[amaranthinespirit]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[sgtgarricks]

simon would sit you on his lap and feed you meat he’s cooked to perfection after his hunt. if you let out the slightest of moan from the taste this man would instantly get bricked up. has a praise kink. loves to see your reaction to his food.

“mmm, you like that lovie?” while you just nod excitedly.

sometimes you really can’t help yourself so you start grabbing his hand and sucking his fingers into your mouth. you’re not even trying to be sexy about it! it really is that good!

too bad, because he will lose his shit and immediately drag you to the bedroom and give you another serving of #meat

[omgitstatertot]

@bitterrfruit art gave me this idea

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

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

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

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

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

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

[connorsui]

He stood outside the courthouse, using the building’s reflective glass as a makeshift mirror. He adjusted the tie she’d picked out for him that morning, tugging it loose and then tightening it again until it sat just right. His free hand ran through his hair, smoothing the strands she’d ruffled when she kissed him goodbye with a sly smirk. The faint scent of her perfume clung to his shirt, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Man, your wife is insane,” an officer muttered as he walked past, throwing him a glance.

Without missing a beat, he chuckled, straightening his collar. “Yeah, no shit. Why do you think I married her?” He shot the officer a grin through the reflection, adjusting his cufflinks like this was just another day in his life. “I’m literally on my way to her trial right now, carrying her favorite cookies and wearing the shirt she insisted on. Hell, I’ve even got her eyeliner in this bag because, and I quote, she wants to look stunning for the pictures.”

He gave himself one last look in the glass, smoothing the fabric of his shirt, before turning to the officer. “And when this is all over, I’ll be paying her bail. Not because I have to—because I want to. She’ll come out, probably ask for a shopping spree or some fancy dinner, and you know what? I’ll give it to her. Every last bit.”

His voice softened as he glanced down at the cookies in his hand, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Because she’s my wife. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”