Bunny

Though you suppose that’s what happens when the man takes his anger out on you. Expects you to treat him like a king when he treats you as much less. Maybe the look fooled you at first. Pristine suits and smooth skin, charming smile and glimmering white teeth. An image that portrayed something he wasn’t.

You stay, there’s no other option. Not when the word divorce makes your mother turn her back to you. Not when she endured far worse and stayed longer.

You should be grateful, atleast that’s what he tells you, and some awful twisted part of you believes him. That this is all you deserve. That this is karma for kissing your girl best friend on the playground in primary school. Or for losing your virginity out of wed lock when you graduated.

You’re lucky— he tells you. Lucky that he married someone so tainted. You’ve heard it so many times that you don’t know what’s true anymore, the edges of your beliefs smeared and faded somewhere.

You don’t believe in a God. Never did. Even when your mother pushed it on you, forced her fears into your mind, and made you second guess all your actions. Maybe your lack of faith caused this. Maybe your marriage is punishment for the doubt in a higher power.

Maybe you should’ve believed.

Perhaps this would all make sense if you did.

Though, the doubt isn’t from lack of trying. You’ve prayed on your knees, seeking questions that have gone unanswered. Even wear the cross on your neck, a silver thing that you play with when his words become too harsh and voice too loud.

You think you loved him at one point. It’s all blurry now. You hope you did. Maybe then you’d have a valid excuse for staying other than a religion you don’t believe in.

It’s all you know at this point, all you’ve ever known watching your parents. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be, how this God intended. Tight lip smiles, ducking heads, and shaking fingers out of fear.

You’ve stopped crying long ago, dried up all sorrow and buried it somewhere else completely. You’ve learned to deal with it— you think, if wrapping up all the emotions that threaten to spill from your throat tightly wound with a pretty bow on top to mask your true thoughts counts as ‘dealing with it.’

You’re used to it, despite how draining it is.

You won’t divorce. That’s not an option. Not like this. You weren’t raised that way.

You don’t know how to leave, can’t leave, so you find escape in the small things. The way the sun shines through your kitchen window, casting beams from the sun catcher your husband hasn’t torn down yet. He will, in a stupor rage, and you’ll have to save up for a new one again. Or the bunny that’s found sanctuary in your backyard, a white innocent thing, covered in dirt. Even visiting the small flower shop on the way to the butcher, the same one you get your sun catchers from, is better than any of this.

The bunny’s there now, creeping out of the bush its made its home, branches dented where it crawls. Slowly, hesitantly, it approaches the lettuce you had tucked away for it, nose twitching as it inspects the contents. It draws a smile, the first in a while thats not forced at your new little friend’s bravery.

The smile falls fast, torn from your lips when the front door slams shut loudly. It makes you jump, makes the bunny run from the noise, lettuce falling from its grasp and back on to the ground. You swallow thick at the sight, the man finds a way to ruin everything that happens to bring you joy.

The clock on the stove reads 4:30. An hour early.

The tension in the rooms already shifted before he’s even entered, wooden house creaking under him. You feel it in your spine, an anxiety that only he manages to claw out of you, curled around your back firmly.

“What’s for dinner?”

It’s the first words he speaks. Not even a hello. Grunting them out like it was a chore.

You turn to face him, drying your hands with a rag, tight lipped smile on your face, feigning a warm welcome. “Chicken Gnocchi.”

His ties out of place, white shirt you pressed this morning wrinkled, hair disheveled. You ignore it. Pretend you don’t notice any of it.

He scoffs. “Don’t want it.”

Your smile falters, brows meeting in the middle. “Sweetheart, I’ve already made it. You told me you wanted it before you left this morning.”

“Don’t care. I want rib-eye steak.” He cuts you off, dismissing your words with a wave of your hand.

“We dont—there’s no steak in the freezer.”

He looks at you like you’re dumb. “Then go to the butcher?”

You pause, inhaling deep, fingers tight around the rag. You’ve learned not to fight it. Your response is weak, meager, putting on the same forced smile.

“Okay.”

You take a final look through the window. You wish you could join the bunny, hide away in the bush until the big bad man leaves for work the next morning and you both can enjoy the sun again.

──────────────

It’s dark by the time you arrive, cheeks and fingers numb from the winter air. Sighing under your breath when you see the long line.

You’ve never been this late, your husband expects dinner to be made before he gets home, so you don’t recognize the person behind the glass.

He’s big. Awfully big.

There’s blood smeared on his apron, red splattered up his blue gloves. It’s a sight you don’t normally see with the morning shift. A bit sickening, filthy, but you watch him anyways.

Eye’s trained on his brows, squished together with stress, or maybe it’s annoyance. Wrinkles deep on his forehead, scars gashed along his lip and down his arms like he was cutting practice for apprentices.

His shoulders are broad, pulling the white t-shirt he wears under his apron taut. Head shaved, crooked teeth. The tattoos curled along his arm flex with every shift, veins prominent each time he slices a new slab of meat.

He’s brooding, intimidating. In a far different way than your husband.

You can’t look away from his hands. Swallowing thick as you watch him slice slab after slab. A weird part of you, somewhere deep, warms your skin. Licking your lips instinctively because you can tell how thick his fingers are even under the gloves.

It’s like a moth to a flame, the way your eyes zero in on his movements. Inhaling between your teeth, breathing deep like some animal, unlocking something you didn’t realize you had.

The tag on his apron reads ‘Simon.’

It takes you two seconds to realize it’s the owner of the shop when he stares at you expectantly.

“The hell ya want?”

──────────────

You had begged Laswell to switch him to a different medic, the whole team if need be. When she did, Ghost, again, refused treatment and demanded you by name.

It was comical, the whole situation. The same man who refused treatment from you for months seeking you out. The one time you refused to treat him was the one time he was willing to meet you halfway?

Still, you didn’t treat him. You did your part; you saved him on the mission. He wasn’t your problem anymore.

That was months ago, when he was still injured. Now, he walks right past you on base, just like always. Except this time there’s no smile on your part, a head held high, eyes set straight, lips tight.

There’s a weird part of you that twists every time he doesn’t look at you, every time he walks by like nothing had happened between the two of you. A part of you that regurgitates his words late at night when your mind won’t shut off. A part of you that doesn’t understand what he meant by them.

But Simon Riley was never a man you quite understood.

So, you pretended. Just like him.

That his words didn’t hurt you. That your mind hadn’t been stuck on him and cherry lollipops since the day he let you into his room. That you were afraid it turned to something more in your head than his.

You don’t know why you care so much, but you do. So, you avoid him, turning around in the hallway if you hear his voice, darting in the complete other direction if you walk into the same room. Planning around his appointments in physical therapy, so you wouldn’t see him.

You felt stupid, like some schoolgirl with a crush on the big bad boy. But, didn’t you know that only worked in movies? That he would never see you as more. Not even a friend or a teammate. He had even asked Laswell not to assign you to his mission.

Until the day the roles were reversed.

Until the morning he stood at your door and pushed past you inside your room.

You were at a loss for words when you opened the door, confused when he entered without saying a word. He stood at the foot of your bed, eyes trained on you as he let the silence spread thick between the two of you. It made your heart race, swallowing around the pulsing in your ear.

“Why did you ask Laswell to unassign you from the team?”

You wanted to laugh, anger lighting under your veins, “Ghost, you wouldn’t ever let me do my job.”

That seems to set him off.

“Don’t you get it?” He asks, “Don’t you get what I told you on the helicopter?”

“What? That my life is expendable?” You spit, spreading your arms out for emphasis, “That I’m not up to par for the team?”

“That’s what you got from that conversation?” He scoffs, “Not that I didn’t want you to come so you wouldn’t end up in my position?”

“It’s my job!” You shout, “You don’t get to dictate that.”

“And I don’t want you to die!”

You pause for a second, let his words settle in your chest before you start again, voice quiet.

“You were a dick to me because of that?”

“It was the only way I knew how to protect you.”

“You don’t even know me, Ghost.”

“Don’t you think I did that on purpose?”He says, tilting his head with a sigh, “That I distanced myself from you for a reason?”

“Then, why the hell are you here?”

“Because it didn’t work.”

“What didn’t?”

His fingers slip under his mask, peeling it off and wringing it between his hands. It’s the first time you’ve seen him without it.

His brows are tight. Your eyes are wide.

“Avoiding you didn’t stop me from caring.”

It hits you like a ton of bricks, air knocked out of your lungs from 6 words. You stare at him, hands shaking at your side, all the built-up anger at him vanishing into shock.

“You have a weird way of showing you care.” You whisper.

The corner of his lips raises, exhaling a laugh, “Don’t I know it.”

You avert your eyes to the ceiling, it’s as white as it’s ever been. You’re not sure how to respond, not exactly sure what he even means.

“I don’t-I don’t know what that means, Ghost.”

“Do you wanna see it?”

It draws your attention back to him, pursing your lips in confusion. “See what?”

“The scar.”

You nod.

His whole shirt comes off, falling to the floor with his mask. You approach, hesitantly, stopping just short of arm's length. You divert your attention to his bicep, skin thick and jagged over the entrance and exit wound.

It brings the memory back; the image of his blood on your hands. The way you had to hold back the tears in your eyes and the shakiness in your breath when he stopped talking and his head lolled ideally.

You can feel it all. The way your chest had constricted, fingers trembling as you tried to apply as much pressure to the wound, remember your god damn training.

“Healed up nice.” You whisper, quiet, so much weaker than you intended.

“You saved me.”

You reach out, fingers brushing over the raised skin. “Thought you died.”

“Pretty sure I did.”

You exhale a sad laugh, “Yeah.”

You’re glad he didn’t; that he came back to you in one piece. The thought alone makes strings in your chest knit, coiling around your lungs.

“Do you get it now?” He asks, “You saved me, I wouldn’t know how to save you.”

“Ghost I-“

“Simon.” He interrupts.

You gaze up at him, wide-eyed and anxious.

“Simon.”

It makes him inhale, hand splaying to your hip in that same breath. He’s been alive for months, you’ve seen him on base, but the scar resurfaces it all. Like you’re there again, racing heart and blanking mind. You can feel his breath on your cheeks, but you’re stuck there, in the helicopter feeling his slowly fading pulse under your fingertips.

And then his lips are on yours.

It brings you back to reality, pulling you from the tethers of the memory, and grounding you. He’s there, very much so alive, breathing new life into your lips. You gasp, fingers finding purchase on his shirt, scrunching the material when he palms your jaw. You hadn’t even known you were having a panic attack, that you were struggling to catch your breath, heart racing in your chest because you were so entangled in the depths of your mind until he kissed you, reminded you he was there and it was a distant memory.

And just as you’re getting used to it, chapped lips and stubble scratching your chin, finding steady footing in the kiss, he’s scooping the back of your thighs around him and knocks you off your axis.

It happens all over again, but for a completely different reason. Your breathes lodged somewhere in your lungs, heartbeat thrumming in your ears so loud you can’t even hear what he’s telling you, head spinning when he lays you out on your bed. Your visions gone blurry, tunneled only on him and the scar on his face, the glistening on his bottom lip from your saliva.

“Breathe, baby.” He says, and his voice sounds like cognac, warm and so raspy.

It fills your body, warming your skin like you had really taken a shot of cognac, settling between your thighs thick and heavy. You must really look like a deer in headlights, wide-eyed and starry, panting from a kiss, but his own cheeks are flushed, lips parted wantonly.

You have to close your eyes, squeeze them shut to focus on inhaling deeply, feel the air fill your lungs before you exhale. It’s painful, excruciating, when he’s on top of you like this, with his pelvis pressed between your thighs. You were torn from one panic attack to whatever this is, and your heart isn’t strong enough for all of this, and you can’t remember the last time you inhaled because it’s started to hurt, but Simon presses your palm to his chest. He doesn’t have a shirt on, you don’t even know when he did that, but the warm skin helps.

“I’m right here.”

You feel him inhale for 5 seconds, chest pressing against your hand before he exhales, warm breath filling the gaps between the two of you. He does it again and again, until you start to match him, breathing his air.

He’s there. Alive. Breathing. Warm. Flushed pink skin was proof of the blood running under his pale skin.

“Good girl.”

Your eyes flutter at that, the grasp of arousal clawing down your spine, and curling into your core.

You help him take your clothes off until all that separates the two of you is a thin barrier of cotton underwear. It’s jarring, all of it, going from being convinced your Lieutenant hated you, and now he’s seconds away from having his fingers in your pussy. You watch him with scorching skin peel your underwear off, ignoring the small dark patch in the center. You don’t need to see how wet you are, you can feel it, embarrassingly so.

His eyes are dilated, drinking in the sight of your pussy, soaked in your arousal all for him. You turn your head, knees pressing together because you’ve never had a man examine your pussy like that before.

“You want to stop?” He asks.

You snap your neck, shaking your head quickly, “No!”

He pushes your knees apart, “Then, keep your legs open.”

His voice has gone mean, dark, similar to the deep rumble over comms on an assignment when he’s giving you an order. You nod, chills blooming down your neck.

Your breath hitches when his finger glides between your folds, dipping low before pushing back up, brushing against your clit. He’s gentle at first, teasing the sensitive bulb with light touches until the stiffness in your hips loosens, legs falling apart easily, granting him access to you entirely. That’s when he slides lower, one finger slipping into your aching cunt.

You moan when he hums, like he’s satisfied with the way your pussy stretches easily around his digit. Then, he adds a second, two fingers slowly curled inside your walls.

He starts slow, so much so that your toes curl into the sheets. The pace is agonizing, completely opposite from the way you had imagined he would tear you apart limb by limb with jagged and harsh thrusts. Maybe he thinks you’re fragile, something entirely too tender to split in two. As if you mean more to him than a random hook-up, something he has to handle with care.

You don’t know if you should love it or hate it. If you should really think too much about it at the moment.

It doesn’t matter, god you couldn’t care less when he knocks against that gummy spot in your walls, smirking when it makes you whimper because he knows he’s found your spot. That’s when he starts fingering you like he really means it, an entirely different intensity when he’s found the spot that makes you sink into the mattress, turning into mush in the center of his palm.

You think he’ll let you cum like this, god you’re close. Your cores turned warm, scalding, churning with your impending orgasm with each stroke. Your legs kicked to his hip, arched into his hand as he flicked his wrists.

He sees you’re close, that your orgasm is building like honey, sweet and molten with his name broken on your lips.

And yet, he pulls away, leaves you empty, and gasping in dismay, pushing to your elbows.

He just tuts his tongue, curling the pink muscle along his teeth as he smirks. You don’t have the chance to respond, not really when you feel his cock brush against your thigh, thick and heavy. You look at him between your legs, pinching your lip at the sight of his head, bulbous and red, smeared in precum.

The embarrassments suffocating when you watch him spread your own arousal along the shaft, his precum mixing with yours as lube. He slides his head from clit to entrance, guiding himself inside with a wet pop.

You stretch around him, sheathing him completely as he bottoms out. He stays there for a few seconds, arms gripping his shoulders as you accustom yourself to his girth. You shake when his hips cant back, gasping against his skin when he ruts forward again.

It's overwhelming, grasping at anything to cling to reality when he really goes at it. When he starts thrusting into your cunt with precision, fucking into you like he's claiming you, like he means to take you with every inch.

His forehead is pressed to yours, too sweaty for your liking, but you can't find it in yourself to care. Not like this. Not when he's got you around the tips of his fingers, slowly dragging you along to the brink of an orgasm. So, you just moan, light and airy against his lips, brows pinched as he pumps into you like no one before.

It's brutal, God its brutal. You're not used to this, you think if he went any faster, you'd cry, hiccupping over fat tears, but if he slowed anymore, you'd whine, begging him for anything more. It's debilitating, the way he can leave you bare like this, stripping you bit by bit and it's the first time he's been inside you.

You're in a bit of a daze when he grips your face, drawing your eyes to him with a hard grip. You blink at him the best you can through your rasps and moans, embarrassed by the fact that he's still blurry even through your efforts. You can't blame yourself, not like this, not when the bulb of his head is pressed to every sweet spot buried in your cunt.

"Pissed me the fuck off when you left that helicopter." He spits it out with each thrust.

You laugh, as best as you can, some weak form of a chuckle mixed between breathless pants. "Lucky I cared about my job enough to do it."

The thrust that follows is particularly hard.

"That's all?" He grunts through his teeth. "Just your job?"

You try to laugh again, but it's cut off with a deep stroke, enough to make you curl into him, whining in broken sounds.

"You too." You manage to get out, "Needed you here too."

That seems to satisfy him, long enough for him to really fuck into you. Find a home against your sweet spot, the one that feels like molten honey is running through your veins, and makes you feel like dough in his hands. soft and malleable.

You don't even realize you're orgasming. Not like this, with so many emotions pulsing under your skin for a man who's given you fewer words than you can count, but it's happening before you can do anything, walls clenching so tightly around him that your breath is stripped from your lungs again.

He's here. Alive. and so fucking warm. And he came to you. All on his own.

──────────────

Simon’s pulse flutters like you’ve just given him the most heartfelt compliment. Truth is that you’re looking damn lovely like this, with half-lidded eyes and a wonky smile dimpling your cheeks, and that is enough for his heart to stutter just fine.

His lips twitch in a corner, softening his eyes. “Yer proper charming, aren’t ya?”

Your smile blooms, albeit a little crooked. “S’how I got ya.”

Simon scoffs, subtly shaking his head in case you take that action as an affront. Then, he bends down so his forearm bumps the back of your knees. “Jump up, c’mon.”

“Nuh uh!” You wiggle a finger in front of his face. “I can walk, thank you very much.”

But you can’t, not in those heels, and not with that amount of alcohol sloshing in your stomach. Simon can smell it wafting from your mouth, a mix of cherry sugar and pungent gin. Whatever it is, it has you absolutely pissed and frankly impossible to deal with.

Cute, amongst other things.

“Nah, you can’t.”

Just like that, you’re airborne. Giggles spill out of your lips, perhaps liking this much more than what you let on initially. Simon loves to hear it—fills the house with his favourite song. Plus, he’d much rather have you giggly-drunk than fussy-drunk. Fussy-drunk is cute, but she’s got quite a kick to her, especially when her hands start flying around.

“Why don’t you be—” Hic “—lieve in my walking skills.”

He takes the stairs one by one instead of two at a time. For caution purposes, obviously. Definitely not because you’re nuzzling the spot behind his ear with the cold tip of your nose and it’s sending shivers down his spine.

“’Cause I ain’t seen ‘em.”

A warm chuckle brushes his neck. “That’s ‘cause you aren’t looking carefully.”

As he walks upstairs with the goal of tucking you under the covers, a glass of water on the nightstand and a kiss to your cheek, your tongue forces his feet to fall to a standstill once he reaches the second floor of your flat. Just a lick at first, one he almost mistakes for his mind playing tricks. But then, your mouth opens and lands a wet kiss on the side of his throat.

“What—” He takes in a steadying breath. “—are you doing.”

“You smell so nice,” you say, breathy voice followed by a hot sigh.

“Not now, love—”

“I don’t tell you enough,” you interject, landing another slow, languid kiss just a little upwards, right below his lobe. “I should. You smell really nice.”

Simon huffs. Closes his eyes. Bad move, because now all he can feel is your tongue drawing the outline of his ear. It doesn’t help that your breath has that cloying scent of fruity cocktails. Doesn’t help that you smell of a night-out with friends: of cigarettes and strangers, sweat from the club and the petals of your perfume.

Doesn’t help that when his eyes open, he sees the strap of your dress giving in to gravity, caressing your bicep instead of your shoulder. He burns holes into it—fabric so thin he could rip it with a snap of his fingers.

He grits his teeth. “Yer drunk.”

“You’re hot,” you mouth to his skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs, and resumes walking. But you make it hard, because you see right through his reluctance and twine your fingers at the nape of his neck.

“Why d’you have to play hard to get, Si?” You say, voice sultry and low. Soft teeth nibble his lobe. “I’m your girlfriend, I shouldn’t have to fight for it.”

“Cut it out, love,” he rumbles, frustrated and now obviously hard. He crosses the threshold of your bedroom, walks with purpose to the bed, and gentlylays you down on the covers.

“You’re such a killjoy, Simon Riley,” you pout.

“Yeah, yeah—m’a wet blanket, an’ yer pissed. Reckon we’re even.”

He kneels at your feet. Long fingers unclasp your heels and slide them off, only leaving your legs clad in sheer black tights. Lord help him, he fucking loves how you look in tights—his cock does too, suddenly awakened and throbbing in his briefs.

He hopes—begs some God who might listen—that the softness of the mattress and the warmth of the blankets will be comfortable enough to lull you into a deep, alcohol-induced slumber.

But you’re a menace, and he should know that by now.

You lift your foot, trace the line of his jaw with your toes. Your leg trembles in the effort, but you seem intent on pushing through, driving down the bump of his throat, the middle of his chest. And Simon, to your defence, is doing nothing to stop you, enamoured by the picture you paint right now.

Legs spread wide, little black dress riding up your hips. He can see the shimmer of the lace you’re wearing under those tights—hues of red and pink peeking through the cheap nylon.

God, you’re a vision.

“You look so good on your knees, baby,” you say, voice dripping like honey. “And I’m so wet.”

Simon gulps. No.

“Dry yerself,” he mutters, pushing your foot away.

You’re proper sloshed, have been babbling nonsense ever since he came to pick you up and bring the other girls home. Not a single person in that car, him excluded, had the faculties to entertain a conversation—especially Ellie, who was bawling her eyes out in the backseat.

He’s a gentleman. He likes to think he is, at least around you. When you’re klicks away, and he’s padded in Kevlar and neoprene, he can be the beast he was born to be. But here, when you’re within reach, he promises to shed the pelt his family has sewn on his skin.

He stands up, knees clicking. His eyes try their damned hardest to avoid the pouty look you’re giving him as he walks around the bed.

“Come on, Simon!” You whine, turning around to get on your fours on the bed.

Instead, Simon sits at the opposite side, giving you his back. Bends to unlace his trainers, kicks them off his feet. All he can think about is that glimpse of a cherry hue mocking him from between your legs. He knows those knickers there. They’re crotchless. Got beads of fake crystals embroidered on the silk tracing your lower stomach. He’s gotten them for you on a Valentine’s Day. They came with a pink card with hearts all over it—you’re my favourite present, and presents should have beautiful wrapping. He thought about ripping it off because it was too cheesy, but you giggled like a schoolgirl when you read it, so maybe it wasn’t that bad.

And you only wear that flimsy thing whenever you have sex, uncomfortable as it is. Which means this is all a ploy you’ve concocted even before leaving the house. Your little tactic. You’ve prepped yourself specifically for this—specifically to be his little present, wrapped in lace and imbued with cherry and gin.

He can imagine how wet those tights are, right between your legs. With nothing to cover you, you must’ve soaked through the nylon, and he could eat you out directly through your tights.

This honour thing—fuck off, since when was he an honourable man?

But he perseveres.

You’re not being subtle. Perhaps you’d be, were you sober, but you’re breathing a little heavier, stumbling even on your fours on the bed. He can feel the warmth of your presence press against his back. Lithe fingers tickle his back, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades, nails scraping where his muscles coil on his shoulders.

Your mouth, curled in a smile he can feel, breathes heavy against the shell of his ear. Alcohol and cherries. Fuck you’re a devil, especially when you threaten to taste so good.

“I need you, baby,” you whisper wantonly, still slurring through your vowels. “You haven’t touched me in so long.”

That’s a lie. He touched you yesterday. Pretty thoroughly, if you asked him. There’s also proof, somewhere in the laundry, where you put the by-then unusable sheets.

“Playin’ with fire, girl,” he rumbles, eyes closed and fists collected on his thighs.

Your nails rake over his chest, catching onto the folds of his t-shirt—sliding up leisurely, with only the tips of your fingers drawing parallel lines from his pecs up to his shoulders.

“Oh, but I like to rile you up,” you mouth to his neck.

And then your tongue joins in the mix, licking the curve of his ear. He swears you’re breathing heavier on purpose, now—mimicking the sounds he’d steal with a couple of fingers and his mouth latched on your clit. It does the trick, and although he’s still got a resolve of steel, his cock definitely doesn’t. 

Strained in there, pushing against the zipper of his jeans. He feels it jump whenever you draw your teeth along the shell of his ear. He also feels the weight of your eyes, peering over his shoulder and spotting the bulge in his jeans.

“I bet you’d feel so good,” you whisper, hands now sliding down his arms. “Don’t you remember, Si?”

You sneak to his side. In his peripherals, he sees your tits essentially spilling from the cleavage of your dress. Scooting closer, you press them to his biceps. Simon’s jaw hurts from how hard he’s gritting his teeth, his own eyes deciding to instead focus on the dresser pushed against the wall ahead. 

Then, he feels your fingers touch his jaw—soft, so fucking soft. Palm to his cheek, you turn his head your way.

You’re breathtaking. Glossy pupils, makeup lightly smudged under your eyes and the top of your lip. The straps of your dress slipping down your arms, tits strained underneath all that stupid fabric. He can see the line where it digs in. It must hurt, right, sweetheart? So uncomfortable.

You lean in, sinuous like a siren underwater. Your lips brush his, sweet like cherries. “I cum so easily when I’m drunk.”

Fucking hell.

Honour is such a fleeting concept, isn’t it?

Simon’s body reacts before his mind can conceive it. Callous hands grab your waist, and, with little effort, he brings you over his thigh, one leg on either side. Then, his fingers curl around your jaw, pushing in your cheeks. 

Your smile is triumphant even with puckered lips. He can see it. You’ve got a twinkle in your eyes, shrouded by all that makeup that he will melt off your face and transfer onto the fucking comforter.

“You wanna cum?” He barks like he would an order.

Your hips reply before your mouth does, dragging your cunt against the taut muscle of his thigh. 

“Yes.” Breathless. Excited.

An admonishing hand lands on your ass as a punishment of sorts. It isn’t received as one at all, instead spurring your hips to sway once again. Obviously frustrated, he bites on his tongue—though Simon is nothing but a curious man, and he wants to find proof of that thought ruining his mind.

The hand on your ass finds your front. Roughly, he tugs your dress upward, letting it coil around your waist. Then, two fingers dip between your legs, and yes, God yes, he was right. You’re soaked, dripping through those cheap tights and directly onto his jeans. The crystals on the top hem of your lingerie twinkle through see-through nylon. Fucking mouthwatering.

“Wore this for me, uh?” His jaw jumps. “Thought I’d fuck the drinks outta you, did ya?”

Your nails dig into his shoulder. 

“Yes, yes I did—”

“Too fuckin’ bad.”

It must be hard to speak if he keeps pushing your cheeks together, you poor thing. 

“Please, baby—”

But you still manage to plead like you’re begging for forgiveness from your god.

“Nuh uh.” Simon tongues his cheek, watching how you shamelessly grind your pussy against those two fingers he still keeps there. “Not fuckin’ you.”

You whine. He can’t tell whether it’s from his fingers dragging along your clit, or if it’s your disappointment. Too fucking bad, alright—if you insist like that a bit longer, you might even convince him.

He nods his chin at you. “Cum, then. Since it’s so easy, uh?”

“What?”

“What?” He parrots, smirk wide.

“Simon, don’t be mean—”

“Oh, I’ll be cruel love.” He nudges your head back, leaving the grip on your cheeks. That same hand finds your hips, guiding them down to grind your cunt against his thigh. 

“Said you cum easily when yer drunk, no?” He coos. “Show me how fuckin’ easy tha’ is.”

You know he’s not going to give in unless you give him a win, first. He likes you ruined. He likes it when you plead with a little voice after he’s done roughing it up for you. Loves you wrecked with makeup drooling down your cheeks. You’re smart and decide which battles are worth fighting and which ones you should hand to him.

He likes this thing with you, where you two fuck with your brains as well. Tactical on the field and in the sheets. Although you seem a bit dopier than usual, glossy eyes and teeth nibbling your lower lip, he knows you’re thinking, even as your mind swims in alcohol.

Obviously, you don’t respond. Some questions don’t need a verbal answer, especially when they’re clearly not waiting for one. His was an order, and you decide this is a battle not worth fighting, since the outcome will be a win anyway.

“Thank you,” you sigh sweetly. “I’ll—mmh—show you.”

Simon gets a firm grip on your waist. Your soles are planted on the floor for leverage, slipping against the wooden tiles whenever you push your hips to swing. He helps, merciful, guiding your movements with his hands. Then, as soon as you find your balance, you start riding his thigh.

Sight for sore eyes, you are. 

Head thrown back as your cunt drags along his jeans, straddling his leg. The friction must burn, but you don’t seem to mind. In fact, he’d wager that you like that slight pinch of pain, maybe because it’s softened by how wet you are. You’re right, though—you do cum easily when you’re drunk, or at least you get aroused faster, because it hasn’t been long and yet he can already feel wetness dampening the skin of his thigh, all the way through his denim.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, attempting to hide the awe in his tone and remain condescending. “Needed this, didn’t ya.”

“Yeah.” Dreamy, breathy. Fucking hell, he can’t wait to have you say that with your face slammed into the pillow.

He looks at the rest of you as you grind your cunt against his thigh. Looks at the curves of your body as it undulates like it would if you were fucking his cock. He deprived you of that, but it doesn’t seem to deter you—he knows the game you’re playing. Getting off while making him regret what you could do, what he could feel, if only he weren’t as stubborn as you are.

The dress you’re wearing is tight, leaving very little to the imagination. Your nipples are perked, but the stretchy fabric strains them. It’s served on a silver platter, honestly, and Simon has always been one hungry dog. 

Immediately, his hand leaves your hip, snatching down the V of your cleavage. Your tits spill out with the sound of fabric tearing in the background. 

You whine. One of the straps of your dress hangs on by a thread that he decides to snap with a second tug.

Just like he predicted, uh?

“Simon!”

“Quit whinin’.”

His mouth lands greedily and opens on your nipple. You tremble above him, hips stuttering when he sucks in and bites with soft teeth. His thumb brushes over your other nipple, flicks until it hardens again, and he can tug it between two fingers.

You’re never really quiet during sex, but you’re loud when you’re tipsy, and even louder when you’re drunk. A waterfall of yes and please and more drowns him, while you shudder and gasp shallow breaths—a threat to his sanity, honestly. Also a threat to his cock, bobbing every time your hips drive forward and grind against his thigh.

He looks up at your face through his lashes. You meet his eyes with your glassy ones, cheeks puffed and irritated. He’s tiring you out with all this movement, when you’re so used to him doing the heavy lifting. Poor girl.

“What.” He mouths around your tit.

“I’m tired,” you mewl, confirming his suspicions. “I wanna cum.”

“Said you could cum easily when you’re drunk,” he reiterates. “Then do it, no?”

“Simon.”

He hums. It buzzes around your nipple, making you arch your spine. Then, he pulls back with a pop, spit lining his mouth and your breast.

“Some perfect tits you got,” he rumbles, giving one a light slap to watch it bounce. 

Go on, girl. Lay out your plan.

“Simon, please.” Phase one. 

Both his hands return to your hips. He throws his head back just to look at the effort you’re putting into remaining level-headed while getting off on his thigh. Admirable. It was never your intention to cum like this, was it?

“Yeah, bird?”

“Simon, baby.” Phase two— “Please fuck me.”

You skipped a few phases. No build-up to your request. No gentle moans and breathy pleases, no bending to submission so that his blood would rush to his cock and leave his brain defenceless.

A new tactic. You clawed your way to his cock before he decided to fight. Up the stairs with your dopey smile and garbled accent. With your tongue licking his neck and your tits pressed to his arm. Or maybe even earlier, when you slid on those knickers under your tights.

Clever, clever little thing.

Alright, then. He’s been craving to see that makeup smeared down the duvet for quite some time, after all.

He smirks. “Yer a dirty fuckin’ slag, aren’t ya?”

You nod. If he didn’t know you, he’d have missed the twitch of your eye—the one preceding celebration. You won, even as you’re willing to debase yourself to reach that high.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m a fucking slag.”

He chuckles low, grating. “Lemme treat ya like one, then.”

“Fuck—God, yes—”

Whatever you say next, he doesn’t hear. He grabs you and lifts you off of him, unceremoniously tossing you on the bed. You bounce there, scrambling towards the centre. He kneels at the edge and reaches for you, one big hand curling around your wrist.

He nods at you, lightly tugging at your arm. “On your front—go on.”

Doe eyes light up like he’s offered you a goldmine to sift through. Your head bobs in a yes so vigorous he thinks you might fucking snap your neck if you do it any faster. He chortles under his breath, and there it dies when you present your ass to him.

Pretty thing you are, spread open. A wet patch between your legs, the globes of your ass slick and tight as the nylon reflects the soft rays of light coming from the window—pale moonlight and the foggy yellow of lampposts. 

Further confirming what he already knew: he fucking loves it when you’re wearing tights.

The arch of your back is delicious and deep. He settles his palm there, at the base of your spine, just to make you bend further. You comply, soft like clay.

As he unbuckles his belt and zips down his jeans with one hand, he zeroes in on your face. Cheek flat to the bed, eyes hooded and pointed at him in anticipation. And when he finally manages to spring his cock free of its restraints, he sees your tongue slowly drawing the line of your lips—famished.

He smears his precum down his shaft. Looks down at the perfect picture you paint, and also at the annoying layer of fabric separating your cunt from him.

“Got somethin’ in the way, mh?” He drawls, languid and calm. 

With his hand, he slaps the head of his cock on your ass. You clench around nothing—he sees it clearly, since that pathetic string he gifted you barely covers a thing, even there at your backside. He could get his mouth there and make you cum with nothing else.

“Just pull it down—r-rip it,” you mumble. “Don’t care. Rip it.”

“’right, ma’am,” he slaps your ass. Watches it bounce in recoil. Then, Simon settles both hands on the inseam of your tights. “Someone’s fuckin’ greedy.”

And pulls. They rip so easily, he should tell you to file a complaint with the website you bought them from, but now he couldn’t be more grateful for their poor quality.

Because that’s the last of his obstacles, since you wore this pretty lingerie. 

Your cunt glistens with the wetness collected there. The thin straps of your knickers frame your pussy and pinch it in the centre, leaving it constricted and puffy—clit just as swollen by the continuous friction and need for release. He wishes to wrap his mouth around it, lavish it with his tongue and feel it throb when you’ll inevitably cum into his mouth. It’d be so easy, too. You said it yourself, and he’s tried it firsthand. 

But you asked him to fuck you, didn’t you? And he is nothing but a loyal soldier, following orders to a T when it’s you dispensing them.

The tip of his cock is of a furious red, leaks against your cunt as he drags it slowly along your slit. It glides on smoothly, seamless. Makes you fist the sheets and drool on them, too. You might be drunk on alcohol, but he’s drunk on you—he’d wager the latter is stronger, especially considering that you know how much power you hold over him.

Bent over like that. Lord help him keep his cool.

The first inch of him doesn’t enter you as smoothly as he was hoping. His fault for not prepping you right, your fault for being so damn insistent on him skipping the steps. 

“Ah fuck yer tight,” he mumbles, feeling his eyes roll back.

There’s no need to roughen up your voice; you’ve already lost it. Maybe screaming at the club, singing over the overwhelmingly loud volume of the music. You mewl and babble nonsense, squeezing your thighs together in the discomfort of being ripped open.

But he manages. Fit like a glove, you do. Perfectly tight and soft, wrapped around his every ridge and dent, welcoming like it’s what you were born to do—to take him just right, just right there to the hilt.

He’s adamant on staying frozen stock-still for the next handful of seconds; he’ll cum then and there, with how pretty you look. Your skin peeks through the rip he opened barehanded, framed by the jagged perimeter of the fabric that wraps around you from toe to waist. It cinches you there, where your skin begins again, folding softly at the hem of your tights. Dress rucked up just above, like a cheap rag he’s already torn.

Maybe he’s got a kink for those. Next Valentine’s Day, he’s gifting you a stack of tights of all shapes and colours, just so he can rip them once on you. Maybe ask for the website you ordered these from, because the quality is cheap and easy to break.

You curse and wiggle your hips, inciting him to move. The barest friction has him see stars; the urgency in your voice does him in.

“Fuck me, Simon—” You groan. “Just fuck me—”

He obliges, because he’s an honourable man, and what kind of cunt wouldn’t fold at the polite request of such a gem.

Simon pulls back his hips and slams back inside. It takes him a couple of thrusts, and your knees give out, until your whole body is flattened to the mattress. He doesn’t want that, not now. Pulls you up with an arm around your waist and demands that you stay still.

“Don’t fuckin’ move, ya hear?”

“Yes,” you babble, probably not having heard a single word. “Yes, yes, yes—”

It’s alright, though. He’ll keep you steady.

“I got you, love,” he rumbles. “Got you right ‘ere.”

Both hands grab your hips, and suddenly, he’s not fucking you, he’s fucking you on him. You move like a ragdoll, abandoned in his clutch because that’s what you need, isn’t it? For him to fuck you until that’s the only thing you can think about.

“Show me how easy it is, swee’heart.”

And you show him, alright. 

While the sight of your ass bouncing against him is one to swear by, it’s your face that has him breathless. Your eyes are rolled back, there’s a puddle of tears and drool under your face, soaked up by the bed sheets. And there he sees it, that blissful expression when he hits a spot just right, and your mouth twitches in a smile—involuntary, just like that. Tugging at the corners of your mouth because that’s what ecstasy does to your body once it has a taste of it.

The first time you cum is loudand almost petty, like you’re not doing it for yourself but to show him—a sort of that’s all you needed to do, see? Though no matter the reason why you’re putting on a show, it still has your cunt clenching around him tight enough to rob him of his reason, of the air in his lungs.

You gasp and moan, push back your hips for more, knowing he’ll give it to you. He does, not because he’s an honourable man, but because when you look like this, he’s only a slave to your whims.

His chuckle is a breathless one. “Now that’s a sight, yeah?”

“Told you,” you mumble, panting just like him. “It’d beeasy.”

He likes you like this: looking like a doll, with ripped tights and rucked-up dress, with makeup smudged down your cheeks and onto the bed, but still mouthy, still hellbent on proving your point.

He smirks. That’s my girl.

“Then keep comin’, love.” He gives a firm slap to your ass. “Give it t’ me.”

Simon fucks you until he’s the one on the verge of an orgasm. He bites his own teeth and keeps it in, focusing on anything that isn’t the filthy squelch of your pussy whenever he bottoms out. He bends down, wraps his arm around your waist and skims your clit with the tips of his fingers. You clench around him, so he does it again—just brushes at first, with his cock barely leaving your cunt. 

Then, he finds a steady rhythm. Slow circles over the hood of your clit, then directly onto it, where you’re most sensitive. He doesn’t bother pulling out at all, instead rolling his hips to hit deeper inside you.

Your moans are drowned in the sheets, and while he’d love to hear you scream, he knows these are the sounds that precede earth-shattering bliss—the ones uttered in privacy, the ones that punch the air out of your lungs.

“Oh—Oh my G—” Can’t even manage to finish it, can you?

You fall forward, just like before, but now he keeps you there. His chest is flush to your back, yours to the mattress. One finger turns into two, then three, gliding smoothly from side to side over the tight knot of your clit.

“Like tha’ love,” he grunts, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. “Fuckin’ hell cum for me, go on—”

“Shit—shit, shit, sh—”

Simon feels it—he feels it before he hears you. You gush around him, a dribble falling onto his fingers, soaking his hand. That is enough to push him over the edge, too. The tightness that wrapped around his balls wrenches loose, like a waterfall traveling backward, tingling through his spine and tipping at the base of his skull. Simon cums inside you with a groan muffled by the skin of your back.

“Take it—"

His hips stutter only an inch, if not less, because he knows you’re still drowning in your own high and he doesn’t want to disrupt it—but God, it feels good to ram inside you, watch you shiver as he fills you.

“Fuckin’ take it.”

You’re quiet, only yielding high-pitched breaths as he ruts his hips one last time. Eyes rolled back and mouth open—just there, within his reach. And when you’re within reach, he sheds that pelt, doesn’t he?

Gentle kisses land on the corner of your lips. You flood his senses with the taste of gin and cherries, with the filth of sex you now both reek of—and he loves that scent, his and yours, mingling into one.

“Fuck yer perfect,” he rumbles. “Fuckin’ lucky bastard I am.”

You mouth something unintelligible, something trying to crack through this dizzy shell of bliss and alcohol that shrouds you. He waits for you to regain your senses, slowing down with his hand and his hips to make the comedown less harsh.

“Breathe, love,” he rumbles slowly, steering you to clarity. “Slow an’ easy.”

“Oh my God that was insane,” you rush in one breath. “That was fucking insane and I love you.”

Simon’s chest rumbles above you, a laugh breathed to your lips. “Right. Love you too, swee’heart.”

Gently, he lifts himself off of you. He’s pleased to see that the comforter has streaks of red lipstick and black mascara. Simon pulls out of you slowly, catching on to the slight wince of your brow as he does. The mess flooding the sheets is something he’ll think about after he’s taken care of the other mess before him.

“Shower?” He offers.

“Sleep.” You mumble.

He hums, wrinkling his mouth. “Not like this.”

“Yes like this.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll take it with ya.”

You pop one eye open. “Yeah? Scrub my back and hold my hair when I’ll inevitably throw up because fucking hell, Simon, I drank too much, I’m queasy as f—”

“Yes.” He grunts. “Yes, the whole package, alrigh’?”

You open your other eye, too—lips softening in a smile. “Thank you,” you say fondly.

You know the power you hold. Keep smiling at him like that, and he’ll wash your hair, too—even now, in the dead of night.

He peels the clothes off of you. Tosses them blindly on the floor until they’re a problem to deal with tomorrow. Kneels before you as you sit on the toilet. Helps you clean up in the shower, as your brain dissipates the fog under the soft drizzle of lukewarm water—you insisted on sizzling hot, but he refused to have the skin peel off his bones. 

And your sluggish attempts at chatting from before now turn into a flurry of stories he hums and nods along to. He brushes your hair back as you brush your teeth, slips into a pair of clean briefs as you ramble on and on about how much of a bastard Ellie’s now-ex-boyfriend is.

Pelt shed on the floor, something to grab again when he’ll be deployed to dispense death. He realises, however, that you might like it sometimes—that grizzly fur, spiky with blood and gore. His callous hands and his guttural growls. That you might even brush your fingers through his hackles as they rise.

Perhaps you love all of him. Pelt on or off. You do love his mug, after all, even if it isn’t a pretty sight—brutalised by merciless hands. 

Tough thing to digest, love. Maybe he’ll think about it tomorrow, when he’s less drunk on you—and you on Cherry Gin Fizz, as you called it.

For now, though, he just listens. Internalises. Watches how you stumble in the attempt to insert a foot in the hole of a pair of sweats. You didn’t throw up—yet. So, he grabs a basin from the bathroom cabinet and places it next to your side of the bed while you tuck yourself under the covers.

You curl up against him, press your cold toes onto his much warmer legs. Arm draped over his stomach, you babble yourself to sleep, saying he should come once or twice to the club with you and the girls, that they like him already, and they think he’d be a good deterrent for all the pervs that sneak up on them when they’re on the floor.

Simon nods blindly, face soft and occasionally rolling his eyes. Though you lost him, somewhere along your chatter, because you still smell of cherries, less of gin. 

He hopes he won’t sound like a lunatic when tomorrow he’ll ask the clerk at Boots to find him a perfume that smells like Cherry Gin Fizz.

That’s not so easy, even on a good day, Simon is big. Always has to remind you to breath through your nose every time you take him in your mouth. His hand in your hair, slowly easing you down, he hissed, “Watch your teeth.”

You take him deep, opening your mouth wider, till you gag, Simon brushes your hair back, sweet, calm, “Don’t have t’ take ol ‘f it if you can’t.”

You nod, but you itch to hear it, so eager, burn to hear him say how good you are. The tip of his cock brushes against your tight throat, he rasped, “Fuck baby, think you can get it hard like this?”

You hum, vibrations sending chills all over him. You swirl your tongue around his cock, bobbing you head up and down. Your eyes watering as you take him, “Tha’s a good girl, kid, taking my cock so well.”

Heat polls in between you thighs, you gripping his knees and sucking him in harder, tongue gliding against the bein of his curved cock then letting it go with a ‘pop’ that bounces off the walls.

“Look at that, huh” he says, voice rougher, rubbing his now leaking cockhead against your full bottom lip, “All hard now. Still think ‘M old kitten?”

You shake your head, panting, spit at the corner of your mouth. And he smacks his hard length against your face, “Shit, make your Dad come kid.” He groans when your lips wrap around his cock again, relaxing your throat so you can take him to the base, your nose settled in his pubic hairs, slurping from the base to the top faster than before.

Simon watches the way you wiggle on the floor, nipples peaking through his shirt. He takes your hand, taking his fingers in his mouth and sucking till they’re wet. “Go and rub your cunt kitten, know you’re achin down there.”

You moan around him, taking your drenched fingers and stuffing them in your underwear. Simon watches every move, the way your eyes roll back when you start to rub your pulsing clit. “Shiiit you’re perfect kid, look at you, you’re soaked down there.”

Simon grunts, gripping your hair and slowly thrusting into your mouth, meeting you as you hollow your mouth tighter, so fucking warm around him, You rub your chubby pussy fast, mewling and moaning, tears streaming down your face. you feel Simon twitch at the back of your throat.

“Shit kitten, fuck-“ and his cums at the back of your throat, making you gag, unable to breathe. Simon pinches your nostrils together right as you cum, cum filling your nose and gushing in your underwear. You choke as you push yourself away, a deep chuckle in your ears as you catch your breath.

“You’re so- hck- fuck- yer so mean Daddy.”

“Can’t help m’self swee’art.” He chuckles, lifting you off the floor and into his lap. He licks up the cum dripping down your messy chin.

And you feel it, his cock against your waist, still hard and pulsing.

“Shit doll, think you can ride your old man to sleep?”