I used to be @echo-of-memory and @echo-ofmemories before my account was deleted by tumblr 🙄 I also used to be echo-ofmemories3 / daddy’sspoiledlg before deleting my account because I kept getting threats after breaking up with an ex on here
You can find my three main tags at the bottom of this post
NICKNAMES: Do not call me anything derogatory or anything that starts with “My/Mine”. If you insist on calling me something other than Ash, you may call me Bunny
MESSAGING RULES: I will only respond to messages from accounts that have interacted with this post. Be respectful and say hello before trying to start any conversation with me. Please read my bio to see if my DM’s are open or not
RELATIONSHIP: I am TAKEN 🔒 neither of us are looking for a third
ASKS/QUESTIONS: Be respectful when asking a question and if you have an accusation about me make sure that you have PLAUSIBLE proof (meaning that there might be some truth and not just something you are pulling out of your ass)
REBLOGS: I allow reblogs of a majority of my posts. The only ones where I would turn reblogs off are for my digital art and any pictures I might post of myself
KINKS: GREEN (yes), YELLOW (can be talked about), RED (hard limit - If you try to get me to do these you will be blocked)
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synopsis: a boxer down on his luck ends up meeting you, the woman who can take care of all his needs. Immediately he latches onto you in every way he can. At first he seems submissive but just try and deny him your attention. See what happens.
pairing: Subby Yandere!Boxer x fem!reader
content: power dynamics in your favor, body worship, praise, marking, teasing, oral (f!recieving), pussy drunk off of you, he cums in his pants from it, cum eating, high sex drive, brief blood mentions
Subby Yandere!Boxer was going nowhere in life. Making weak money in back alley fights, busted up so bad at the end of them that most nights he couldn’t see who he was fighting. Then afterwards chasing after whatever tail showers an interest in him. But he’s always get too attached by the end he’d end up scaring them off.
Most people expected him to be the same in the ring as out of the ring. Dominate, ruthless, with the aura of the kind of man who’ll toss you around the room and spank your ass till it was red and bruised.
They all react the same when that time comes. None of them know what to do, leaving them to gape like a fish outta water when he falls to his knees and begs them to tell him what to do.
When he misbehaves on purpose like a brat he hopes they punish him and when he craves their cunt in his mouth and a dildo in his ass he hopes they’ll reward him with it. Whatever they want, he’ll do it.
He looks at them with those puppy dog eyes of his, waiting, hoping that they can give him the release he’s desperate for. Shoulders heavy and looking to tap out, just for a little while. Yet it always ends the same way. Neither of them satisfied and a newfound awkward air between them as they leave with a weak excuse no one really believes.
Then one night after a long fight he was panting like he’d run a marathon, having just scraped by on a win. Though his eyes had taken quite a beating, deep gashes just beneath his brows, causing blood to spill down his face and paint his vision red.
That’s when he saw you, your gaze trained on him. Walking over in what seems like slow motion like this was some kinda movie. Or maybe it was just all the blood rushing to his head.
“That looks bad, are you ok?” you ask, voice so soft he wanted to melt.
Your hand reaches out before he can speak, tilting his head back while the other lightly brushes against the wounds. The pain didn’t register as his eyes flutter close in bliss, instinctively leaning into your touch. Yan!Boxer never has any trouble getting women but he has a feeling something about you would be different.
“Why, wanna go kiss em’ better?” He asks, trying to sound rough but it comes out too hopeful and needy. Pathetic.
Somehow it ends up working out anyway as you find your way back to his place. Before he could even fall to his knees himself you push him down gently. His eyes widen, staring up at you in awe. You give him one simple demand without him ever having to ask.
“Worship me.”
Yan!Boxer moans like you’ve just answered his every prayer, taking handfuls of your thighs and pulling you against his body. His lips go on the attack, kissing every inch of skin that meets his eye as he strips you of your clothes.
Suckling on your flesh and trembling at the taste. You’re so warm and soft, he can’t get enough. And your body just keeps getting hotter as he makes his way down to your dripping core.
Never breaking eye contact with your swollen pussy lips he wraps a thigh over each shoulder. You stop him as he’s about to dive in, hands threading through his hair. He whimpers in protest, needing to make you feel good. Instead you yank in his sensitive strands, guiding his lips to your inner thigh.
His already throbbing cock leaks copious amounts of pre, each kiss he presses into your skin and closer to your core has him spilling for you. When he latches onto your clip he groans, the reward so much sweeter when he has to wait for it. The vibration shoots through you and you moan long and hard.
He didn’t think it can get much better as he starts to explore, gliding his tongue up and down your folds, your taste bursting across his senses. But then you. Push. His. Head. Forcing his face to get stuffed in your pretty cunt, nose grinding on your clit. He nearly fucking cums in his pants, completely untouched. Nuzzling closer himself he teases at your entrance and when he pushes in your pussy sucks him in deeper, gripping the muscle like it’s his cock.
Hell, he could die here, he really could and he’d go happily.
Losing himself in you he starts to pick up pace, working his tongue in your cunt and looking for what brings out the biggest reactions. Needing to ruin you, to tilt your world on its axis like you were doing to him.
He tongue-fucks you harder and harder, slurping up your arousal, the sound loud and messy as he makes out with your sex. His own moans even louder than yours and you’re the most beautifully vocal person he’s ever been with. At least you are with him.
He what’s to hear more. Craves nothing but to drown in your pleasure. His lungs twist with the need for air but he couldn’t care less. Your essence is the only air he needs.
“More, more, more,” you whine, body shaking, holding onto him for dear life. How could anyone think about breathing when you need him this bad? His grip tightens, pimpling your skin hard enough to leave bruises, unwilling to let you escape him.
Believe him, he wants to give you so much more. His jaw unhinges as humanly possible, the flat of his tongue moving in repetitive motions, hitting all your sweet spots one right after the next in a constant onslaught of euphoria. Sensations crash into you with no mercy.
Yan!Boxer babbles incomprehensibly into your pussy, drunk off her as he begs for her cum. And when your climax finally crashes into you it’s everything he’s been hoping for. A flood of your release spills right into his mouth and down his eager throat. He guzzles it down, body spasming at the taste and something snaps within him as he starts coming with you.
Together you ride out the waves. He works you through every pulse from your core that gives him more of your yummy cum. The more you cum the longer he does too, absolutely soiling his pants till a giant wet stain decorates his crotch.
When your hands slip from his hair and your legs from his shoulders he’s a bit hesitant to let you go. He wants to latch back onto your pussy and make you cum so many times your legs turn to jelly. But he lets you go and waits patiently for your next order with his eyes dazed and the lower half of his face soaked with your fluids.
“Do you wanna be something special, baby? I can make you into something special,” you purr, slowly backing your way onto his bed.
Yan!Boxer digs his nails into his skin, impatiently waiting for your command to come onto his bed with you. Proving just how perfect he’ll he for you if you decide to keep him.
That’s how Yan!Boxer finds out that you actually run a massive underground fighting ring. Probably the biggest one in the city that he knew of. He follows you around the strange new environment like a lost abandoned puppy.
Yipping at your heels while eyeing down his future competitors. Not only in the ring but outside of it too and all those vying for your attention. When it comes down to it he’ll be the only one to keep it.
Which proves to be harder than he initially thought. This is a great opportunity for his career, sure, but he followed you here thinking you’d get to be together. That’s hard to do when you’re always rushing around the place taking care of this or that fighter, dealing with customers trying to skimp out on bad bets, or arguing with sponsors about who should fight who in order to bring in the biggest crowd.
Yan!Boxer is getting more pent up the longer you barely give him the time of day. But you’re you and he’s yours to do with as you please. The only thing he can do is unleash it out in the ring, bringing down a world of hurt to all the fighters stealing away time that belongs to him.
The overhead lights bear down on him once again, creating a darkness around everyone but his opponent. Another night of fighting like every other. The crowd a sea of cheering mixed with booing from all sides. He can still feel the cracked rippling of flesh beneath his taped knuckles. The last guy having to be taken out on a stretcher after he was done.
Serves him right too. It’s still burned into his mind how just yesterday the man had taken you away from watching his training session to check on some shipment that could’ve been done by anyone.
Revenge is sweet and he’s still thinking about the damage he inflicted when his next opponent steps into the ring. Now Yan!Boxer hasn’t talked much with this fighter but he’s certainly heard about him. He was your first fighter and the man who made your ring famous, breaking not only other fighters records but his own too.
What he’s also heard was that the fighter is constantly lingering around you as if there’s more to your relationship than meets the eye. That alone is enough encouragement to kick his ass.
“Who d’you think you’re lookin’ at like that, pup?” He asks, a scowl deepening the lines of his face. He cracks his knuckles to intimidate him or what, he has no clue. As if that will scare him. He’s prepared. “Someone outta reach you your place.”
The bell rings and before Yan!Boxer can even lift his fist the man slams his own right into his cheek. Force so strong it snaps his head to the side. Blood fills his mouth, pain crashing over him in an instant. Flashing his opponent a blood-stained smile he shifts his hips and swings. Taking a beating in a fight is something he’s used to, this’ll be a breeze.
Unfortunately, Yan!Boxer has never taken a beating quite like this. For every one swing he sneaks in, his opponent gets in two more. Bruises and blood are appearing out of nowhere, he can’t keep track of just where he was injured anymore. But every time he gets knocked down he always gets back up.
Until he hears someone call the match over the ringing in his ears and he falls to his knees in gratitude. Still, he’s about to argue, insist he can keep fighting for you, when it’s your scent that floods his wrecked senses.
It’s you, you’re here. You saw everything. But are you here for him or the other guy?
All thoughts and brewing feelings of jealousy vanish when a pleasant warmth replaces the pain as your hands cup his cheeks, dragging his focus onto you.
“You good, baby? You can take it, I know you can. But you gotta learn to know when you’ve been beat,” you say comfortingly, rambling on and on.
Fussing over him, giving him all your attention. Yan!Boxer looks over your shoulder at his opponent and shoots him a cocky grin, pushing through the pain that explodes within his cheeks. Grumpy Yan!Boxer glares back at the younger boxer before storming off, knowing he can’t interfere.
So this is the way to undoubtedly get your attention… he’ll have to remember this for next time. And the time after that. He isn’t afraid to get hurt if it means you’d be all his.
He’ll do whatever it takes to win. Accepting he’s been beaten has never been an option for him and it certainly won’t when it comes to you.
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “Mhm.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
summary ━ After two years of a deeply loving relationship, the intimacy of a shared afternoon triggers a deeply rooted panic from past relationships and a fear of intimacy. Instead of pushing away or growing frustrated, Chan entirely dismantles the fear with overwhelming gentleness, reminding you that love is not a transaction and that he is willing to wait exactly as long as you need.
pairing ━ Bang Chan x Reader
genre ━ Established Relationship, Angst to Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
cw/tags ━ Fear of intimacy, emotional vulnerability, crying, deep insecurity, reassurance, slight? angst with a happy ending, just pure comfort.
word count ━ 760 words
A/n — something short and sweet I hope you guys like this!!!
Two years. Two years of his hand in yours, his laugh in your ear, his quiet presence filling the spaces in your life you hadn't even known were empty. Two years of kisses that started as chaste promises and deepened into something that made your soul ache. Two years of feeling safe, seen, and so desperately in love it was a physical warmth behind your ribs.
But beneath that warmth, like a fossil buried in sedimentary rock, was the old, cold fear. The script you knew by heart. The pattern that had played out before: the growing closeness, the escalating intimacy, the moment of truth… and then your body locking up, your heart seizing with a panic you couldn't name or control. The confused, then frustrated, then distant looks. The eventual, inevitable endings, cheating always excused around "needs" and "compatibility," but whose unspoken core you knew: You weren't ready. You held back. You ruined it.
You were in his bed. The late afternoon sun painted gold across the sheets where you lay tangled. His weight was a comforting anchor, his kisses turning deep and wanting. His hand slid under your shirt, warm against your skin.
And there it was—the old, familiar specter. The panic, sharp and sour, rising in your throat. It wasn't about him. It was about the ghost of every failed "almost" that lived in your muscles, your nerves. You were going to ruin this, too. The most beautiful thing you'd ever had, and you were going to break it with the same old broken part of yourself.
You broke the kiss with a choked gasp, turning your face away. The tears came instantly, hot and shameful. Here it is, a cruel inner voice whispered. The part where he realizes you're too much work. The part where he leaves.
The movement of his hand stilled.
You braced for the sigh, the withdrawal, the beginning of the end.
His voice, when it came, was softer than you’d ever heard it. "Hey… what’s wrong, angel?"
You shook your head, mute with misery. You couldn't even form the apology. It was all just a replay.
But his touch wasn't impatient. His fingers brushed your tears, then his whole hand cradled your face, turning you back to him with unbearable gentleness. His eyes held no trace of frustration, only a deep, searching concern.
"Talk to me, sweetheart" he whispered, his voice even softer, a sanctuary of sound. "Please."
The confession tumbled out, stained with the history you carried. "I'm… I'm still not ready. I'm sorry. I just… I can't…" You swallowed a sob. "It always happens. I ruin it because I get scared and I can't… and you've waited so long and I'm just—" The old wounds split open, bleeding into the present. You weren't just telling him you weren't ready tonight; you were showing him the cracked foundation of your heart, the reason others had walked away.
He didn't pull away. He didn't look at you like a problem to be solved or a puzzle he was tired of.
He looked at you with pure, unadulterated seeing. He saw the fear, the history, the shame. And he leaned down, kissing the tears from your cheeks with a tenderness that felt like absolution.
"Oh, baby," he breathed, the words a balm. "Listen to me." He rolled to his side, pulling you firmly into the shelter of his body, tucking your head under his chin. His arms wrapped around you, solid and unshakeable. "You are not ruining anything. You could never ruin this."
His hand stroked your hair, his touch infinitely patient. "Those other guys? They were just… placeholders. Temporary people who didn't know how to cherish something precious. They were looking for a transaction, not a treasure."
He kissed your temple, his voice a low, steady vow against your skin. "I'm not waiting two years in spite of you. I'm waiting two years for you. For every part of you. The ready parts and the scared parts. They're all mine to love."
You clutched his shirt, the fabric damp with your tears. "You'd really wait… longer? However long?"
He nudged you until you looked up. His eyes were clear, certain, holding a love so vast it seemed to rewrite your entire history. "Angel, I'd wait an eternity. I'm not going anywhere. This isn't a line I'm standing behind, impatient for you to cross. I'm right here with you, wherever you are. Your pace is my pace. Your 'not yet' is just a 'later' that I get to look forward to."
The old, cold fossil of fear in your chest didn't just warm; it dissolved. It was replaced by the solid, living reality of him—his arms, his heartbeat, his promise that wasn't a promise of future action, but of present, unwavering acceptance.
He reached for the remote. "Now, I believe we were arguing about action movies."
He pulled the comforter over you, holding you close. As the movie played, his hand never stilled in your hair. Each stroke, each soft kiss pressed to your forehead, was a silent repetition of his vow. He wasn't just comforting you from a single moment of fear; he was methodically, lovingly dismantling the entire architecture of your old pain, brick by brick, and building something new in its place. A fortress where "not yet" wasn't a failure, but a sacred space he was honored to share with you. And in that fortress, for the first time, you felt truly, completely safe.
A/n — lmk if you guys want to see one where the reader is finally ready!!! (edit it’s posted!!!)
Many Many Months later on a little holiday (smut) — Almost Is Enough Part ||
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You, who cant STAND the horrible heatwave engulfing the UK right now, with the heat only being a million times worse on base.
Youve finally made the decision to switch to summer uniform, opting for a tank top when able to do so, and thinner cargos. And occasionally having your hair tied higher up, rather than the standard low bun, on more casual days on base.
Weirdly enough though, your Lieutenant seems to be more evasive these days. He already was, to a degree, but he was now moreso than ever. You chalked it up to the extra layers and mask he wore, making the heat all the more unbearable for him.
Ghost who refuses to spar with you nowadays. You thought you had finally proved yourself to him, saving his ass on the last op, but apparently not!
You, who, rightfully, gets annoyed, confiding in the other sergeants to which they placate you as best they can, but it only riles you up even more!
Ghost who is entirely unused to seeing so much of you, having seen you as nothing but a capable soldier before this... only to learn that you were doing things to him. Things you had no right doing.
Ghost who cant stand the sight of the exposed nape of your neck, the very sight of it setting off something inside him, drgging his thoughts to nothing but being able to bite and ravish your soft skin. Night after night he thinks about you, you and your stupid neck that make him think impossibly dirty thoughts.
Gaz and Soap who know how much Ghost is going through it right now, and at the same time, pissing you off. They both share a wall with the Lieutenant after all, and know all about the effects you've had on him.
sweet angel babies, i'm gonna have to delete some posts and repost them again bc tumblr is on one please do interact with them as much as before if you don't mind. i don't know what's going on. this shit gets so frustrating and discouraging when all i wanna do is share my brain with you. makes a girl wanna nuke the whole damn page😭
tldr; deleting and reposting mafia!jisung's fic, the smau teaser pics reactions, and HOPEFULLY that's it🙄. in the meantime, please feel free to read/comment on anything else on the blog to tell tumblr my page isn't a bot😭
a ton of people have unexpectedly followed me over the last 2 days so here is my rent-lowering gunshot:
the american south is the most racially diverse and poorest region of the united states, and any political sentiment that treats the south is stupid or expendable is inherently racist and classist. a lot of y'all are racist and classist. the south is also the heart of american culture. argue with a wall. you cannot deny that everybody in the entire world does not emulate artists from atlanta. there is vested interest in keeping the south poor and uneducated BECAUSE this is the most racially diverse region in this country. if you actually give a fuck about progress, you would fight for the south, not mock us.
thinking of ryland grace and his classroom culture because i’m a preschool teacher and i think this is so important to talk about
ryland grace who always makes school supplies available for his kids and actively helps with school supply, clothes, etc drives that benefits the community because that’s what him and colt needed when they were younger.
ryland grace who teaches his kids how to take a step back, take a deep breath, and come back to it—he wants his kids to succeed past academics, he wants them to believe in themselves.
coming from a man who was rejected and shunned by academia, ryland knows the important of giving your students the chance and confidence to succeed.
ryland grace who keeps the lights low in his classroom and actually has those skylight panels to let natural light in, it’s better if his kids aren’t super overwhelmed in his class.
ryland grace who loves it when his kids answer questions, there’s no stupid question and he’ll find himself saying “holy smokes, that’s a really good question!” and turning the question into a learning opportunity. especially biology.
ryland grace who really stresses the importance of learning over results, your grades aren’t what dictate your capability and he stresses that everyday, it’s practically a mantra for his students.
ryland grace who follows every 504 plan to a tee not because of the law but because he respects his students—his kids need extra time? you’ve got it. you need noise canceling headphones to focus better? of course. ryland grace who professionally tells parents that they’re tools for his kids to succeed and he WILL follow them to a tee. it also reminds him of colt a lot who he misses like crazy.
and when mr. grace disappears into space for a long time, his kids never forget him. his kids who always remember to take a deep breath in moments of stress, his kids who developed a sense of perseverance because of how he taught them.
mr. grace was a damn good teacher. his kids will always miss his classroom.
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not seeing a lot of people on here talking about ICE murdering another man yesterday. His name was Lorenzo Salgado Arajou. He was a Mexican man living in Huston Texas. He was killed at age 52 and lived the past 35 years here in the USA, and was in the process of obtaining a work permit. He was shot and killed during a traffic stop that ICE claims was part of a targeted operation, and claimed he was “weaponizing his vehicle”- the same claim ICE agents made when they shot and murdered Renee Good.
During the stop, Lorenzo had 3 coworkers with him in his truck who have all been taken into ICE custody.
His family described Lorenzo as a hardworking family man who didn’t deserve to be killed. All he wanted was to provide for his wife and see his sons become great people. His eldest son recognized his father by his cries and pleas when trying to identify who the victim was.
The Salgado Araujo family has set up a gofundme to help with funeral and legal costs, and to help keep their family supported since Lorenzo was the sole provider.
On the morning of July 7, 2026, Lorenzo Salgado Araujo was ta… LULAC Institute, Inc. needs your support for In Loving Memory of Lorenzo Salg
let’s be real the pressure to use AI as an adult is exactly what they said the pressure the do drugs as a teenager would be like but the people that told us that caved immediately for the AI and definitely did not just say no
not seeing a lot of people on here talking about ICE murdering another man yesterday. His name was Lorenzo Salgado Arajou. He was a Mexican man living in Huston Texas. He was killed at age 52 and lived the past 35 years here in the USA, and was in the process of obtaining a work permit. He was shot and killed during a traffic stop that ICE claims was part of a targeted operation, and claimed he was “weaponizing his vehicle”- the same claim ICE agents made when they shot and murdered Renee Good.
During the stop, Lorenzo had 3 coworkers with him in his truck who have all been taken into ICE custody.
His family described Lorenzo as a hardworking family man who didn’t deserve to be killed. All he wanted was to provide for his wife and see his sons become great people. His eldest son recognized his father by his cries and pleas when trying to identify who the victim was.
The Salgado Araujo family has set up a gofundme to help with funeral and legal costs, and to help keep their family supported since Lorenzo was the sole provider.
On the morning of July 7, 2026, Lorenzo Salgado Araujo was ta… LULAC Institute, Inc. needs your support for In Loving Memory of Lorenzo Salg
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
