Kyle catches a glimpse of an intimate moment, and turns his eyes away, respectfully. Simon... presses the issue.
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CW: 18+/MDNI, exhibitionism, dirty talk, (discussion of) hotwifing, under-negotiated kink, dubcon picture sharing, hand job, Simon is bisexual and so is Gaz
Climbing into the back of the truck that’ll take them to the tarmac, Gaz sits next to Ghost while the privates all sit on the bench across from them. Parker is nervy after his first firefight, and keeps looking at the lieutenant like he’s replaying something gruesome in his mind, but the rest of them are jostling each other, joking and checking their phones after a few days away.
He’s already checked his messages. His sister’s asking after Nik again, which he’s not going to read into. Both of his mums have sent pictures of their new dog, their way of not worrying about him. Nothing from Price or Soap, yet, but they should just be landing in Hereford now.
Beside him, Ghost pulls his own phone from a pocket. The screen lights up the mask from below in a way that makes Parker look like he’s about to piss himself.
Gaz glances over, automatic. His eyebrows go up, and then he’s biting back a smile. The lock screen is at a picture of Ghost’s wife. She’s puckered her lips at the camera, blowing a kiss and a wink from the bathroom. Behind her, the mirror shows that her black shirt she’s wearing is an SAS training shirt, RILEY in bold across the shoulders. When he looks at Ghosts face, the mask gives nothing away. But his eyes are soft. After a moment, he enters his passcode, and Bambi disappears. Gaz refocuses on the private in front of him, grimacing at how green he looks.
“Parker,” he calls. The private startles, hands clenching on the straps of his kit, and Gaz huffs out a breath. “You broken?”
“N-no, sir.”
“Gonna vom?”
“No, sir,” the kid says, unconvincingly. “Did, already.”
Ghost nudges Gaz with his elbow, then holds out a wrapped sweet between gloved fingers without looking up. He takes it, and holds it out to the private.
“Here. Ginger. Helps with nausea.” When the private can’t seem to look away from Ghost, he waggles his hand. “Hey. I’m not dealing with you being sick on the plane.”
Next to Parker, Chambers snickers. “Got enough for all of us, Lieutenant?”
“That’ll do,” Ghost drawls. “Take the sweet, lad.”
Parker nearly eats the thing with the wrapper still on. It’s hard to tell if it’s instinctual fear or budding hero worship that drives him, but Gaz will leave that for him and a chaplain to work out. He sits back in his seat and tips his head back.
He’s almost shut his eyes when movement catches his attention. He finds himself glancing at Ghost’s phone again.
And catches sight of a familiar tattooed hand wrapped around a dark throat. The camera is centered there, just close enough that he can see just the barest hint of tits bouncing, just out of frame. There’s no audio, but he can imagine the moan that’s pouring from slick, plush lips at the top of the screen.
Kyle flicks his eyes up to the roof of the transport and rolls his shoulders. It’s not the first time he’s caught of glimpse of an intimate moment like this - it’s not even the most explicit view he’s gotten of Bambi - but there are rules to these kinds of things. Ghost is pretty close to breaking one, here, pulling that up on the fucking truck with the privates, but Gaz won’t stare.
Well. He can sneak another peek.
But the image is gone. He looks up and meets Ghost’s eyes for a long moment, hair standing on end like the mission is beginning instead of ending.
The lieutenant breaks eye contact first. The smile is obvious in his voice as he says, “Stay focused, Sergeant.”
~~~
Back on home soil, Kyle is almost able to put that video clip out of his mind. Almost. From the moment they hit the tarmac, he’s being pulled this way and that. And throughout getting the privates settled, debriefing, meetings, medical, and more meetings, the image of Bambi loops in the back of his mind with his heartbeat. Details he’s not sure he actually picked up layer with what he knows about her, what he doesn’t, what the video recontextualizes about how he sees Simon, on the field and off. It buzzes under his skin until he feels like he can’t sit still.
Simon is very in love with his wife.
That used to trip Kyle up. In the field, the lieutenant is a force. Every moment he’s got a weapon in his hands is a moment Gaz is glad they’re on the same side. To the team he leads, he isn’t cold, exactly. He’ll take care of kids like he had with Parker without a second thought. But compared even to Price, he’s aloof. Self-contained. Unapproachable. To anyone but the 141, and perhaps Kate and Nik, he’s nothing but mask and scars, bulk and the occasional morbid joke. Even with the 141, he’s… reserved. Almost untouchable.
But with his wife? All of the violence winds itself up into something that is not quite a threat. A sheathed knife.
As he throws himself on the treadmill, the contrast of it tickles his brain like lining up a difficult shot.
There had been something animal in Simon’s eyes when he’d shown Gaz a photo of Bambi, months ago. She was in a tiny green bathing suit, hands behind her head, kneeling in the sand. He’d had studied the half-sized polaroid of her for as long as his friend had let him, trying not to read into the wolfish hunger of Ghost’s eyes on his face. She’d looked like a model, and he’d told Simon so as the photo had been tucked away behind body armor. Ghost’s eyes hadn’t left him until they were on the move again, and Gaz had felt the weight of his regard for days. He got the impression that he was the only one who’d seen her that way. All of the 141 may have seen a dim and grainy still of her tits after walking in on Simon stroking off to his phone, but something in Gaz knows that Ghost would eat that photo before allowing anyone else to see his wife smiling on the beach.
Which made the fact that Ghost had pulled that video up in the truck even more perplexing. If any of the privates had seen Bambi that way, even without the knowledge of who she is… But he’d seen it, and Ghost had caught him looking. Had he angled the phone to catch his eye on purpose?
It’s a dangerous line of thought - his whole body is still on alert from the mission and he knows he can easily get tangled up in his own thoughts. But… he’s already chubbing up in his shorts. His mind goes too many places at once, looking for a trap, but also wondering if Ghost is getting off on spinning him up, if Bambi knows and gets off on the idea that her man might let someone see her. The image of Ghost’s hand tight around Bambi’s throat tangles with the idea of being in her place, and of hearing Bambi’s voice as she moans under Simon, under him, between them, him between them, hard and soft-
He slaps End Preset on the treadmill and hops off before the belt can stop.
It takes concentration to make himself breathe, to force himself to focus on the feel of the ground under his feet, the general rumble of the gym. His mind is latched on things he should try to let go of, but he can calm down. He has to.
Of course, as soon as he enters the locker room, his heart is racing again. Simon is already there, pulling off his compression shirt. He scans Kyle up and down once his head is free and smirks.
“Enjoyin’ cardio that much, Garrick?”
“Fuck off,” he laughs, and he hopes the shake in his voice isn’t obvious. He tries not to scan Simon’s body for evidence of Bambi that would be long faded, fails. With a quick shake of his head, he blows a sharp breath. “Mind’s racing. You know how it is.”
“’Ard not to. Lot’s ‘f interestin’ things f’ someone’s mind to grab ‘old of.”
Kyle squints at Simon’s back as the man shucks his pants and wraps a towel around his waist. He knows he’s being fucked with, but it’s always hard to tell why with Simon. The longer he thinks about it, the harder it is to shake the feeling that there’s some hidden threat to this, that Simon is cornering him.
Of course, his cock doesn’t calm down much as he gets out of his own sweaty clothes. If anything, as his mind races through every interaction he’s ever had with Bambi, and looking for something Simon may have been offended by is only ratcheting him up further. Had she really run her fingers through his hair, the last time she’d joined them at the pub? Had she lingered in a hug after a couple of drinks? Hadn’t Simon wrapped an arm around his shoulders, after she’d kissed his cheek goodbye? Or was that another night?
If anyone else were around, he’d already be in the showers, jerking himself off to get to that place where his brain is quiet. But it’s just him and Simon, their internal clocks at opposite ends from the other officers. Just them and the memory of that video. He’s inexplicably nervous to get himself off, now. The hair on his arms stands up at the idea that the other man will see through him, that it will be obvious that he’s wrapped up in him and Bambi, not just the video, but more.
It’s that more that reminds him to pull himself back. There is no more, no threat. Simon is his friend. Teasing him, getting a rise out of him, but still friendly. He wouldn’t set Kyle up to hurt him, they’re not enemies. He wouldn’t hurt Bambi. Kyle tries to center himself in that knowledge, slows down his breathing, again.
Of course, that’s when Simon calls, “Sniffin’ y’r own pits out there?”
It startles a bark of laughter out of him. “Fuck you, I’m not Tav.”
“An’ thank god f’ that. Y’got any of that good soap? The missus don’t like me usin’ three-n-one.”
“Get your own! You get paid more than me.”
Simon’s smiling, a genuine smile, when Kyle hands him the bottle. Kyle rolls his eyes and steps to the other side of the half-wall to start the water in his own stall.
The other man leaves him to it, lathering up a loofah and washing himself. Kyle keeps his eyes down. It’s not new to notice how Simon’s body looks, big and wet and lit up under the fluorescents. He’s fit, and he’s not Kyle’s usual type when it comes to blokes, but he’s not immune to muscles. Unfortunately, because he’s already worked up, he accidentally thinks the phrase military hunk and his brain starts playing three different porno scenes on top of each other. He has to dunk his face under the spray before it heats up properly to get it to stop.
Bambi’s pretty face flashes behind his eyelids.
He physically shakes the thought away with a groan.
“Garrick,” Simon calls, suddenly serious. “How copy?”
“Fine, m’ fine,” he mutters, quick, swiping water from his face and squeezing his eyes tight until phantom lights start flashing. “Not panickin’, mind’s not back on the op.”
“Sure?”
“Positive,” Kyle grumbles, eyes still shut tight. “Told you, my heads all over the place, but it’s not bad. Just… hard up.”
“Might’a noticed,” Simon chuckles, and Kyle sees his big shoulders relaxing in his minds eye.
“Oh, fuck you,” Kyle laughs breathlessly as he lathers up a cloth and starts scrubbing down. “Not all of us have a hot wife sending us videos to wank to.”
“’S ‘at what’s got y’r knickers in a twist? Need to see more’f my wife?”
Before Kyle can figure out why he said that and what could possibly be an acceptable response, a sound he can’t quite parse echoes under the sound of the water. Quick on its heels is a breathy little sigh that sends a zip of electricity up his spine. He swipes water from his eyes to took at Simon, and then at the phone he’s propped up on the tiled partition between them.
It’s Bambi, of course, but it’s not the video from the day before. No, this one shows her whole, naked body straight on, perched on what have to be Simon’s hips with her head tipped back. She’s in the same pose from that photograph, arched into pleasure as she rocks her hips and moans.
Kyle’s cock throbs even as his mind rockets into a frantic and nonsensical threat assessment. “You fucking with me, Riley?”
Simon’s watching his face, eyes hot and ravenous as Gaz looks back. The scars on his face pull as he grins. “You d’n wan’ me t’ fuck with you, Gaz?”
Kyle’s eyes dart down to where a big hand is stroking Simon’s hard cock, then back to the screen where Bambi moans as her man gropes one of her tits.
“Fuck,” Kyle laughs, eyes darting away. His cock throbs as another moan floats from under the sound of the water. “Fuck you, mate.”
“Don’ think my wife’s pretty, Garrick?”
“You know she is,” Kyle grumbles. He ducks his head back under the water.
‘She’s my wife, ‘course I know,” Simon snickers. “But y’re not gonna know if you don’t look at ‘er.”
At that moment, Bambi’s voice rings from the phone, a breathy “Please!” that has them both groaning. Against his better judgment, Kyle blinks water from his eyes to look. And when he sees her his whole body buzzes like a livewire.
The way her soft body bounces has him pressing his hands against the wall to keep from touching himself. He shudders at how bright her eyes are as she looks past the camera, at Simon. Kyle can’t help but do the same, eyes flicking over to Simon’s chest, the safest midpoint between those burning eyes and the way he’s stroking himself, and it doesn’t feel safe at all.
“C’n ‘ear your mind goin,” Simon rumbles, and then his big hand is catching Kyle by the jaw, squeezing when he almost jolts away. His dark eyes are amused when Kyle finally meets them. He gives his jaw a gentle shake. “Easy. Don’ overthink it, Gaz.”
Kyle freezes. He’d seen Simon’s hands do some horrifying things, not even three days ago, but now he’s imagining that palm against his throat, pale and powerful but maybe gentle. Bambi’s moans light him up as they continue echoing through the space, splitting his attention and making him aware of all of his senses at once. It’s blinding, overwhelming. All he can do is squeeze his eyes shut again, shudder and brace himself against the half wall when Simon draws Kyle’s forehead to his own.
“Easy,” Simon rumbles. “Why you ‘oldin’ back? Stressin’ y’self out?”
Kyle’s diaphragm feels frozen. He shakes his head, forces out, “Can’t.”
Simon chuckles. “Y’know what I do when Bambi says she can’t?”
Kyle’s eyes fly open as the other man’s hand disappears from his jaw, a shiver zipping down his spine as Simon rounds the barrier between them. He backs up, jumping when his back hits cold tile and Simon’s reaches up to grip the back of his neck. Simon’s grinning, eyes sparkling as he presses his forehead against Kyle’s again.
“Wha’s wrong, pretty boy?” Simon growls as Kyle grips his forearm. “Got my wife pantin’ aft’ ya an’ y’don’t want to watch her?”
Kyle sucks in a sharp breath. “W-what?”
“’Ere I am,” Simon chuckles, “Showin’ you ‘ow nice she looks, ‘ow pretty she is takin’ cock, an’ y’re in y’ head. Gonna give ‘er a complex.”
The feeling of Simon’s hand around his cock makes him gasp out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His mind scrambles to take in everything - the drops of water caught in Simon’s lashes, the firmness of his grip, the sound of water hitting tile, and moaning, his, Bambi’s, lukewarm tile against his back and -
“Eyes on me,” Simon commands.
It’s all just a little much.
“F-fuck,” Kyle yelps, hips thrusting into Simon’s hand once, twice, before he comes like he’s been zapped in the taint. Lights flash behind his eyes, and all of his muscles twitch and fire. It doesn’t feel good, exactly. Almost the opposite, honestly. But it does clear his mind, all of the nebulous worry sloughing off of him until all that he can focus on is Simon, Simon, Simon.
And the pitchy breaths of that damned video.
“What the fuck, Riley,” he pants, dropping his forehead against the man’s shoulder and blowing water from his lips.
“Better?”
“Why’re you tugging me off?”
“When Bambi gets in ‘er ‘ead, an orgasm straightens ‘er out,” Simon answers, like that’s a reasonable thing to say. “An’ I told the missus I’d try it.”
“You told Bambi you’d stroke my cock?”
“More ‘r less. This might be more.” Simon shrugs. He opens his grip to press his own cock against where Kyle’s still hard with a groan. “She’s been gettin’ greedy on me, might need a second pair of ‘ands. An’ she likes yours.”
Kyle’s laugh shivers out of him as Simon pulls at both of them. He can hear Bambi’s noises getting more frantic. “Greedy?”
“Didn’t see ‘er yesterday? Can’t ‘ear ‘er now?” Simon rumbles into his neck. “Told ‘er to watch ‘erself, or you’d get an eyeful.”
“Thinkin’ too much, Garrick,” Simon chuckles, then groans as his own hips pulse forward. “M’ pretty girl is bouncin’ ‘er tits ‘n moanin, ain’t we got better things to focus on?”
As if to punctuate his declaration, Bambi yelps, a sound that makes both of them groan. Kyle tips his face so he can try to get a glimpse of the phone, but he’s at the wrong angle. Simon chuckles and takes a couple of steps back, drawing them both into the spray of water, then spins Kyle around until his hands are braced on the partition. Having Simon against his back feels like it should make his hair stand on end, but the warmth of lips on the back of his neck settles him. It also doesn’t hurt that the new position gives Kyle a perfect view of the phone, and of Bambi.
The video has changed. It’s just her, now, laying on her back on dark sheets. She’s got a hand between her thighs, pushing something into herself as she tips her head back and moans.
“Every time I get back,” Simon whispers, big hand coming around to grip Kyle again. “’S like she can’t get enough. Pretty, greedy girl. Never satisfied with one, gotta make ‘er come over ‘n over or she’ll spend all night whinin’ like a cat in ‘eat.”
On the screen, Bambi whimpers as she pulls the toy from inside of herself. It’s big. It shines, lube and her own wetness that Kyle can’t hear over the shower, but he knows would be loud in a quiet room. Her eyes are closed as she thrusts it back into herself. Kyle bites back a moan as Simon strokes him in time with her movements.
“She’d be real sweet t’you,” Simon mumbles. His fist slides against Kyle’s arse as he strokes himself, too. “My pretty girl c’n get impatient, but I’d wear ‘er out first, make sure she’s on ‘er best behavior.”
On the screen, Bambi’s fingers pinch one of her nipples, and a trick of the light and water of the shower makes it look like her fingers are wet. Kyle moans low in his throat, can’t help it, as the hand between her thighs presses the toy deep, again. Her own shuddering noises make him aware of how close he is to another orgasm.
Simon chuckles. “Best behavior don’ last f’long, though. Y’ think she sounds nice now, wait ‘til you ‘ear ‘er beggin. All those pleases, while she’s squeezin’ down, chasin’ ‘er pleasure. Pretty legs’ll wrap right around ya. Might ‘ave to tie ‘er down if you still want to go slow.”
“Fuck,” Kyle bites out, rolling his hips forward again as he pictures it, Bambi’s legs tied apart while she whines. It takes a moment to find words. “She d-doesn’t like slow?”
Simon makes a noise like he’s been kicked in the stomach, hand going still on his own cock before he starts stroking again. “She loves takin’ it slow, fuck, but when ‘er brain shuts off she can’t ‘elp gettin’ impatient.”
“Hard to believe,” Kyle chuckles, even as he feels himself getting impatient with the way Simon’s hand slows, every time Bambi’s does.
“Oh, she’ll prove it,” Simon growls. “Once ‘er pussy starts doin’ the thinkin, all she wants is t’ come. She’ll say ‘n do anythin’ for it. Beg prettier’n anythin’ you’ve ever heard. But she settles down real nice once you get a couple fingers on ‘er clit.”
Kyle can picture it, Simon’s hands or his own between those thick thighs, taking over, pushing hers up and away. Tied up, maybe, like her legs. Fuck, the way she whimpers in the video would be just as pretty as Simon keeps insisting on if she couldn’t move.
He licks his lips as he pictures it. “What’s she taste like?”
“Like ‘eaven,” Simon groans, and his hands speed up as he leans more heavily into Kyle’s back. “Salt ‘n sweet, ‘n so wet.”
Bambi’s movements grow frantic, on screen. She’s writhing, and Kyle bites his lip as her rhythm starts and stops, hands and hips working against each other. Impatient, like her man said, and it’s so easy to imagine taking over, holding her hips down as Simon takes her wrists, pushing into her, finding the pace she likes and making her take it ---
The noise he makes is loud before he can bite it back as another orgasm slams into him. He spurts over Simon’s fingers as it washes through him, shivering and panting. Behind him, the other man goes almost silent, hand working hard before Kyle feels his cum splashing over the curve of his arse. He tips his head to the side, watches Bambi shake through her own orgasm and wishes, bizarrely that he could press his lips to some part of Simon - his shoulder, his neck, his lips.
And then the three of them are panting under the sound of the shower.
Kyle shakes water from his hair, and by the time he opens his eyes again, Simon’s back in his own stall, washing like nothing’s happened. He stares at the other man, waiting for his legs to stop shaking. Slowly, the outside world starts trickling in around the edges.
“Riley.”
“Garrick.” He starts scrubbing at his hair with the same soap he’d been using on his body, then pauses. “Pass me some of y’ shampoo?’
This fucking asshole. “What the fuck? You have a wife.”
“An’ I told you,” Simon cocks his head. “She d’t like me usin’ three-n-one.”
If his arms weren’t shaking, Kyle would throw something at him. “Simon. You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Y’re thinkin’ too ‘ard. Told you I talked to the missus. Makin’ ‘er come slows ‘er brain down.” Simon rinses himself under the spray, then grins as he looks at Kyle from the corner of his eye. “Seems y’ both need more’n two to really relax.”
The laugh that bursts from Kyle’s mouth surprises both of them, and then he tosses the bottle of shampoo for Simon to catch. He feels light as he cleans himself off.
If his eyes drift to Simon’s phone again, where Bambi’s looking satisfied, curled up under a top sheet, neither of them comment.
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20K words, Simon’s hair has grown out, reader wears glasses, Simon doesn’t know how to dance, smut, the fluffiest fluff, angst, size kink, Simon is huge, pee mentioned, Simon is filthy but we all knew that. Tell me if I missed any tags.
He was four years old when he stole your crayons.
Not all of them. Just the good ones. The red one. The yellow one. The bright, sunflower-gold one that you'd been saving to colour the sun in the corner of your drawing, the way all four-year-olds drew the sun — a circle in the corner, rays shooting out like a child's idea of joy.
You looked at him across the low art table in that bright little preschool room that smelled of poster paint and digestive biscuits.
He was stocky even then.
Chubby-cheeked and heavy-set. A thick, sturdy little boy who sat with his legs wide and his fat fists curled around your crayons like he'd earned them.
He wasn't even looking at you.
He was colouring something — a car, maybe, or a blob that might have been a dog — and the yellow crayon moved in big, purposeful strokes across his paper.
You did not cry.
You considered it.
Then you leaned across the table and took them back.
He looked up.
Brown eyes. Even at four, they were startling — dark and serious and far too watchful for a boy his age.
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Then he slid the gold crayon back across the table to you, said nothing, and went back to his drawing.
His name was Simon.
You would not learn that until the register was called the following morning. But you remembered his eyes before you remembered his name.
— ✦ —
He broke your glasses in Year Two.
Not on purpose — or so you believed, for most of your life, until you were old enough to accept that
Simon Riley did very few things without purpose.
He knocked into you in the corridor outside the dining hall, your plastic NHS frames hitting the linoleum floor, one arm snapping clean off at the hinge.
You stood there, the world going soft and blurry at the edges the way it always did without them, and you felt the particular, humiliating sting of being unable to see properly — the vulnerability of it, the indignity.
Simon picked up the frames. Looked at them. Looked at you.
He didn't say sorry straight away. He examined the break with the seriousness of a boy who was already, at seven, very careful about what he said and when he said it. Then, "I'll carry your bag till they're fixed."
"You broke my glasses," you told him like he didn’t know.
"I know." He nodded.
"That's not the same as fixing them."
"No," he agreed. "But it's what I've got."
He carried your bag for three days. And when your mum brought the repaired frames in on the fourth morning, he handed the bag back without ceremony, turned, and went to join his mates by the football cage. No further apology. No acknowledgement that anything had occurred between you at all.
That afternoon, you kicked over his sandcastle in the playground.
He watched you do it. Didn't say a word.
You felt better.
And somehow, after that, you were friends.
— ✦ —
He couldn't read very well. You figured this out in Year Three, during the round-robin reading in class — when the teacher went along the rows and each child read a sentence aloud.
You noticed the way Simon's jaw set and his hands went flat on the desk the closer it got to his turn. The way his eyes moved across the page, laboured and slow, tracking words like they were things to be wrestled rather than known.
He got through his sentence. Barely. His face was blank when he sat back, the particular blankness he'd already learned to wear — that carefully constructed nothing that meant everything was fine when everything was not fine at all.
You didn't say anything about it. Not then. You were eight years old, not stupid.
What you did was start reading with him at break time. You presented it as something you needed — you told him you were practising for a reading competition and needed an audience.
Simon was not fooled. He was never fooled, not really.
But he sat down with you on the bench by the library door and listened while you read, and then slowly, carefully, you handed the book to him and asked what he thought happened next, and he had to read ahead to find out.
It took most of the school year. But by the summer he was reading chapter books. He never thanked you. He did start saving you a seat on the library bench every break time, and that was the same thing.
— ✦ —
He played football and rugby.
You read on the grass bank above the field.
It became a kind of institution — the ritual of your shared proximity without shared activity. Simon on the pitch, broad and determined and already bigger than the other boys by Year Five, already moving with that particular physicality that seemed less like playing and more like declaration.
And you on the bank above, your book open, your reading glasses (a better pair now, tortoiseshell) perched on your nose, half-reading and half watching without ever quite admitting to the watching.
He always knew you were there. He didn't do anything about it. But sometimes, when he scored, he'd look up at the bank first before he looked anywhere else.
You told yourself you were only there because the grass was nice and the light was good.
You were not a good liar, even then.
— ✦ —
The boy's name was Daniel Holt and he pushed you over in the playground in Year Five because you'd refused to give him the answers to the maths homework.
You'd said no three times and the third time he pushed you and you went down hard on your palms and your knees, the concrete was unforgiving.
You were crying before you'd fully registered what had happened. Not dramatically — small, shocked, indignant tears, the kind that arrive before the pain does.
Simon was there before a teacher was. You didn't even see where he came from. One moment the playground was its ordinary mid-morning noise, and the next Daniel Holt had a split lip and Simon Riley was standing over him with blood on his knuckles and a look on his face that was completely, utterly calm.
The calm was the frightening part. Even at ten.
He got three days at home for it. He spent the first afternoon sitting on your front step, eating crisps, because he knew you'd be furious with him and wanted to face it head-on.
You were furious. You told him he was an idiot. He told you Daniel Holt had it coming. You told him violence wasn't the answer. He told you Daniel Holt wasn't going to touch you again.
He was right. Daniel Holt never came near you again.
You didn't thank him either. You went inside and made him a sandwich, and that was the same thing.
— ✦ —
Secondary school arrived like a change in weather — everything slightly larger, slightly louder, the corridors longer and noisier, the stakes somehow higher and more ambiguous all at once. You arrived with a bag so heavy your shoulder ached within the first hour: your textbooks, yes, but also the extracurricular books you carried everywhere, the extra notepad you used for non-school thoughts, the six different highlighters you colour-coded by subject.
Simon took the bag from you on the third day without asking.
"I can carry it," you told him.
"I know," he said.
He slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing, which for him it probably didn't. He'd grown over the summer — not just taller, though he was that, but broader, thicker through the shoulders in a way that made him look like a man playing a boy, trying the shape of it on. He wore it well, even at eleven. He wore everything like he'd already decided what he was and was simply waiting for the world to catch up.
He carried your bag when it was heavy, and it was frequently heavy. He did it without comment and without making you feel small for needing it. That was the thing about Simon — he never made you feel small. He made other people feel small, sometimes, when they deserved it. But not you. Never you.
— ✦ —
The bruises were never from rugby.
You knew by the second year of secondary.
You were not naive — you had read enough, observed enough, understood enough about the world to recognise the shape of what was happening in Simon Riley's house even though he never said a word about it.
The bruises were in the wrong places for rugby. They appeared in the wrong season. They were around his ribs and his arms and once, memorably, along his jaw, and he came to school the Monday after the jaw bruise with that face — that blank, carefully constructed nothing face — and you sat next to him at lunch and said nothing at all.
You said nothing because there was nothing you could do. You were twelve. You were a girl with a book bag and highlighter pens and absolutely no power over the man who was hurting your best friend, and knowing that — the impotence of it, the helpless, hollow ache of caring about someone you could not protect — was the first truly adult pain you ever felt.
What you could do was this: you could make sure he had somewhere to go.
Your mother, who was perceptive in the quiet way that some mothers are, never asked questions when Simon turned up at the back door on a Sunday evening or a Wednesday after school.
She just set another plate.
Your house became a refuge without anyone naming it as such. Simon did his homework at your kitchen table, ate your mother's cooking, watched telly with your family, and slept on your sofa sometimes when the option was presented naturally enough that it didn't feel like charity.
— ✦ —
You got your period for the first time on a Tuesday in November, in Year Nine. In the school toilets, third period, when you were thirteen years old and the day had been entirely ordinary right up until it wasn't.
The particular cocktail of shock and pain and embarrassment and the specific existential bewilderment of being a person whose body was doing something enormous without prior adequate notice left you sitting on the closed toilet lid crying in a way you hadn't cried in years.
You got out your Nokia. That familiar brick of a phone, the keypad worn smooth at the number five. You typed Simon's number and pressed call before you'd properly decided to.
He picked up on the second ring. "Yeah."
"Simon." Your voice came out wrong. Too thin.
A beat. When he spoke again his voice had changed — quieter, more careful. "Where are you?"
"Girls' toilets. Near the science block."
"Right," he said. "Stay there."
He appeared outside the girls' toilets seven minutes later — you could hear him through the door, his voice low and flat, telling a Year Eight girl to go use the other ones — and then he was there, right there on the other side of the door, talking to you through it in that steady, even way he had when he wanted to be calm on your behalf.
"You're alright," he said. “Do you need me to go to the office?"
"No," you managed. "I need — I don't know what I need."
"I'll get you something from the vending machine," he said, that Manchester accent of his low and unhurried. "And I'll text your mum."
When you came out of the toilets twenty minutes later, looking wrung-out and clutching what the school nurse had provided, Simon was leaning against the wall. He looked at you for a moment — took you in, the way he always did, that comprehensive, assessing look — and then he stepped forward and kissed your cheek. Quick. Certain. His mouth warm and deliberate against your cheekbone.
"You're alright," he said again. He said it like a fact. Like he was making it true by saying it.
You cried a bit more, for different reasons, and he pretended not to notice.
— ✦ —
He was captain of the rugby team by Year Ten. It suited him — the leadership, the sense of purpose, the structure of it.
You went to his matches sometimes, wrapped in a scarf on the touchline, and watched him move across the pitch with that same quality you'd noticed on the primary school field: less like playing, more like declaration.
He was ferocious and focused and occasionally frightening, and the other boys deferred to him not just because he was bigger than them but because he had the kind of authority that doesn't need to be announced.
Afterwards he'd find you on the touchline, still carrying that quality — coiled, alert — and it would take him a few minutes to come back to himself. To come back to you.
"Good game," you'd say.
"Yeah," he'd say.
And then slowly, the set of his shoulders would ease, and he'd become Simon again. Your Simon. The one who stole your crayons and carried your bag and ate your mother's shepherd's pie like it was sacred.
— ✦ —
He could make you laugh. This was not a small thing.
Simon Riley was not, by general consensus, a funny person. He was serious and quiet and his face in repose looked like a man carrying a private weather system. But he had a dry, deadpan wit that he deployed rarely and precisely, and it landed, every time, like a key in a lock made specifically for it.
He knew how to make you laugh because he'd spent years learning you. The specific frequency of your humour. The things that made you dissolve into giggles rather than just smile. He deployed his wit with the same precision he deployed everything else, and the result was that when Simon Riley made you laugh — really laugh, the helpless, breathless kind — it felt like being given something he didn't give to anyone else.
Which, you would eventually understand, was accurate.
— ✦ —
His name was Ryan Marsh and he was your first kiss, in the park on a Friday evening in Year Ten, and it was fine. It was nice, even. Ryan was sweet and nervous and smelled of his older brother's aftershave and the kiss lasted approximately forty seconds.
Ryan Marsh had a broken nose the following Monday.
Simon maintained, with total conviction, that Ryan had walked into a door. Ryan, to his credit, corroborated this story completely.
You did not push the matter, partly because you had no concrete evidence and partly because some part of you — the part that read on the grass bank and watched the pitch and noticed when Simon looked up at the bank before he looked anywhere else — felt something that was not entirely uncomplicated about it.
You and Ryan Marsh did not have a second kiss. You told yourself it was because the chemistry hadn't been right.
You were getting a bit better at lying to yourself, by fourteen. But only a bit.
— ✦ —
GCSEs arrived the way all important things arrived — with more weight than you'd expected and less warning than you'd have liked.
Year Ten and Eleven were the years you restructured Simon's entire approach to studying, methodically and patiently, the same way you'd helped him learn to read, finding the approach that worked for how his mind moved.
Simon was not unintelligent.
He was, in fact, formidably sharp in ways that didn't translate easily to an exam paper: quick to read people, quick to understand systems, possessed of a spatial and strategic intelligence that you recognised and admired even as you taught him how to write it down in ways that the mark scheme would accept.
He sat with you at your kitchen table night after night — your mother quietly replenishing the tea,— and you explained things in the language that made sense to his brain rather than the language of the textbook.
He sat with you at lunch during school hours and glared at anyone who called you a nerd. The glaring was extremely effective. Simon Riley's face, by fifteen, was a significant deterrent.
His GCSE results, when they arrived, were good. Better than anyone who knew his circumstances might have expected from a boy who'd had so much working against him.
He rang you on the house phone when he opened the results envelope. He didn't say much. His voice, when he spoke, was different — something in it unguarded, the Manchester in it softer somehow, without the armour it usually carried.
"Couldn't have done it without you," he said.
"You did it," you told him firmly. "I just held the torch."
"Still needed the torch."
You smiled so hard your face ached. "Go celebrate, Simon."
"Yeah," he said. And then, quieter, "Thanks, sunshine."
— ✦ —
He was an apprentice at the butcher's on Renshaw Street after school — learning the trade with the same focused, physical competence he brought to everything else, solid and unhurried, his big hands learning new kinds of precision. You had a job at the bookshop two streets over.
On his lunch breaks you would walk over with a sandwich and a packet of crisps, and you'd sit on the low wall around the side of the shop while he ate and you talked about nothing in particular and everything in general.
He had sawdust on his boots and you'd have ink on your fingers from pricing stickers, and you'd sit in the thin afternoon light talking about books and people and where things might go from here, and it was the most ordinary, irreplaceable thing in the world.
You didn't know, then, that you were storing it up. You didn't know you were in the middle of something finite.
You were seventeen and you thought you had time.
— ✦ —
It was the eleventh of September, 2001.
You were at work when it happened — the bookshop had a small television in the back room, and you watched the footage with your hand pressed over your mouth and the world rearranging itself into a new shape around you.
Simon came to you that evening. He didn't knock — he had a spare key, had done for years — and you heard him come in and go into the kitchen and fill the kettle, the sound of him so familiar and domestic and real that something in your chest loosened a fraction.
He brought you tea. He sat on the sofa beside you and you watched the news together in silence, and at some point your head found his shoulder without either of you deciding it had.
"I'm going to join up," he said. Not asking. Telling.
You lifted your head from his shoulder. Frowned at him. "Join up what?"
"The military."
The word landed in the room and stayed there. You looked at his face — that flat, certain expression he wore when he'd already decided something — and you felt the ground shift slightly under you.
"Simon. You're seventeen."
"You can join at sixteen with parental consent," he said. Straightforward, as though he'd already looked into it. Which of course he had. "Seventeen without."
"That's—" You stopped. Started again. "You've thought about this before today."
"Yeah."
Of course he had. You could see it now, the shape of it — this was not a reaction to the footage on the television, not a hot, impulsive thing. This was something Simon had been building toward without telling you. The structure of it. The purpose. The particular kind of belonging that came from being part of something larger than yourself. You'd always known he'd go toward something like this. You'd just hoped, without ever quite admitting to the hoping, that it might be further away.
"You're not going to try to talk me out of it." Not a question.
"Would it work?"
He held your gaze. "No."
"Then no," you said. Your voice was very steady. You were proud of it. "I'm not."
He was quiet for a long moment. The television continued its awful repetition. Then his arm came around your shoulders, heavy and warm, and he pulled you in closer against his side.
You stayed like that until the tea went cold.
— ✦ —
The train station was grey and noisy with other leavings, other arrivals, other people in the middle of things.
Simon stood in front of you on the platform with his kit bag and his big, careful hands and the face he'd spent seventeen years learning to keep blank, and it occurred to you, not for the first time and not for the last, that you loved him.
That you had loved him in different quantities and different registers for most of your life. That you did not know how to say it and were not sure it would do either of you any good if you did.
So you didn't say it.
You went up on your toes and you hugged him — truly hugged him, arms around his neck, your face pressed against his jaw — and he held you back with both arms, the kit bag dropping to the platform, and he was so solid and warm and real that you memorised it.
"Don't be an idiot," you told him, muffled.
He made a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost. "Best I can do is try." The Manchester in his voice, low and warm and his.
"Simon."
"I know," he said quietly, against your temple. "I know, sunshine."
You stepped back. You held it together. He picked up his bag and he walked toward the platform and at the door of the train he turned, and looked at you standing there with your glasses and your coat and your hands pressed together in front of you, and for a second you saw something in his face that wasn't blank at all.
Then he was gone.
You cried on the way home. Proper, ugly crying, in the front seat of your mother's car, while she drove and said nothing and passed you a tissue.
You cried because you thought you might never see him again. Because the world had cracked open on a Tuesday in September and people were going toward the fracture and Simon Riley was one of them.
You cried because you never told him.
— ✦ —
He sent a birthday card every year.
They arrived with no return address and postmarks from places you'd never heard of, and sometimes they were late and sometimes they were so early you suspected he'd sent them weeks in advance in case he couldn't later.
They were always plain — Simon Riley was not a man who browsed the sentimental section — white or cream envelopes, the kind of card that was almost generic, and inside: his handwriting, which had improved vastly from the boy who'd struggled across the page in Year Three, and always the same thing. Your name at the top. Happy Birthday, sunshine. And then: S.
Just S.
Like he was still close enough that you'd know exactly who that meant. Like the initial was sufficient.
It was.
You sent his birthday gifts to a P.O. box he'd given you, wrapped carefully, the tag always: From your best friend. You didn't know if he received them all. You sent them anyway. It felt important to keep sending them — to maintain the thread, even when you couldn't see both ends of it.
— ✦ —
Thirty-four years old now.
You have no husband. You had come close, once — a man named Patrick who had been perfectly acceptable in every measurable way and who had wanted to marry you and had probably deserved someone who could give him more of herself than you could manage.
You had not been fair to Patrick. You knew that. You had been in love with someone else for most of your adult life, and even with the someone else absent and silent and possibly dead, there wasn't room for anyone else.
You have no children, though you wanted them. The timeline on that was becoming its own quiet ache, the kind you didn't prod too often.
You have a job that pays the bills and not much else — admin in an office building that smells of carpet cleaner and recycled air, the kind of work that requires enough of your brain to stop it from wandering but not enough to satisfy it.
You have an apartment that is functional and yours and that you have tried to make cozy, with books on every surface and plants that are mostly surviving and a kitchen you actually cook in.
It is not the house. It is not the house you told Simon about when you were sixteen and lying in his back garden on a summer evening, staring up at the sky.
No birthday card for five years now.
Five years of the particular, specific silence that was different from all the silences before, because the silences before had been interrupted. Annually, reliably, he had broken them.
Five years of nothing had the texture of conclusion. Of a chapter closing. And you had reached the point — slowly, painfully, with the kind of acceptance that doesn't feel like acceptance but feels like exhaustion — where you were fairly certain Simon Riley was dead.
Your heart ached for your best friend in the low, constant way of grief that has become so familiar it's almost structural.
You carried it the way you carried other things, quietly, with your spine straight.
Which is why you are sitting across from a man named — it didn't matter, it really didn't matter what his name was — on what your colleague Debbie had described as 'a perfectly nice date with a perfectly nice man' and trying to remember what it felt like to be interested in your own life.
The man sitting across from you was the complete opposite of Simon Riley.
He was trim and well-dressed and had the kind of face that was handsome in a way that required no effort to appreciate and inspired no particular feeling from you.
He had been talking for, by your reckoning, forty-seven minutes. In that time he had covered: his career (impressive, in his telling), his car (expensive, in his telling), his last holiday (exotic, in his telling), and his general philosophy on modern dating (nuanced, in his telling).
He had not asked about your job. He had not asked about your books or the one peeking out of your handbag; the one he'd glanced at and not commented on. He had not asked if your pasta was nice, which it was, actually, genuinely nice, and you'd have told him so if he'd asked. He had not asked you almost anything, come to think of it.
Simon Riley, who spoke perhaps a tenth as many words as this man, had always asked.
Simon Riley had always wanted to know. Not because it was polite. Because he actually, genuinely, in the particular way of people who care about very few things very deeply — wanted to know.
You excused yourself to use the bathroom and stood at the sink running cold water over your wrists and looking at your own reflection, and you thought: this is fine.
This is a perfectly nice evening with a perfectly nice man. This is what moving forward looks like. This is what being a person in the world, a person with a life and a future and reasonable expectations of company, looks like.
You dried your hands. You went back to the table. He had ordered himself another drink without asking if you wanted anything.
You finished your pasta and smiled at appropriate intervals and thought about Simon Riley and felt, as you so often felt, quietly furious at him for being gone.
— ✦ —
The birthday card arrived on a Thursday morning.
You almost missed it entirely — it was tucked between a pizza delivery leaflet and something from your energy supplier, the cream envelope almost camouflaged by the mundane. You shuffled through the post on autopilot and then stopped.
Your name, in handwriting you would have recognised anywhere, would have recognised in your sleep, had recognised in your bones for thirty years.
You sat down on the bottom stair. Your legs suddenly uneasy.
Your hands were not steady.
The envelope opened. The card was white. Plain. Almost generic.
Inside:
Happy Birthday, sunshine.
I'm sorry it's been so long.
I'll explain everything.
Come, if you want to.
If you can stand the sight of me.
Below that, an address. Three towns over. A postcode you didn't recognise.
And then, at the bottom, the way it had always been at the bottom: S.
You sat on the bottom stair for a very long time.
Then you got up, went to your room, and started thinking about what to wear.
— ✦ —
You plucked up the nerve to go on a Saturday.
The drive took forty minutes and you spent most of it trying to manage yourself — talking yourself through reasonable expectations (he is alive, that is enough, start there), warning yourself against things you could not control (the five years, the silence, the way your hands were doing that unsteady thing again), cataloguing everything practical (the address, the map).
The street was quiet. Semi-rural, the kind of neighbourhood that sits between things — between town and country, between the ordinary and the aspirational. The houses were spread out, set back from the road, each with its own front garden and its own character.
You parked. You looked at the address. You looked up.
And you stopped breathing.
It was a beautiful house.
Large, substantial and solid, the kind of house that had been built to last. White painted render, clean and bright in the afternoon light. A white picket fence surrounding the front garden, which was full of flowers. Roses climbing the gatepost. Lavender edging the path. Foxgloves and dahlias and great loose clusters of something purple you couldn't name from here. The kind of garden that had been planted with intention, tended with care, left to be a little wild in the best way.
A porch. And a porch swing, painted white, with a yellow cushion on it.
And flying from the corner of the roof, bright against the blue afternoon sky: the Union flag.
You sat very still in the driver's seat.
You were sixteen years old. It was a summer evening and you were lying in Simon's back garden on an old sleeping bag, looking up at the sky. He was beside you in the way he was always beside you — solid, quiet, taking up exactly the right amount of space. You'd been talking about the future the way teenagers do, in great floating hypotheticals that feel more like weather than plans.
"What kind of house?" he'd asked. He asked follow-up questions always, quietly, wanting the specifics. It was one of the things about him you loved.
And you'd described it. A big house, not ostentatious but real — space for books and for people and for a garden that did what it wanted within reason. A white fence, because you'd always liked them. A porch with somewhere to sit. A flag, because you were — despite everything — proud of where you were from.
Simon had been quiet for a long moment.
"Okay," he'd said. Just: okay.
You had thought he was humouring you.
You had not thought — you had not let yourself think — what it might mean, that he was going to do anything about it.
You got out of the car. Your legs were not entirely reliable. You held the gate and walked up the path — lavender brushing your hand where it grew close, the scent of it too perfect, almost staged — and you stopped at the foot of the porch steps.
The door opened.
He had to duck.
That was the first thing you noticed. The physical fact of him, the sheer size of him, his shoulders nearly touching the doorframe on both sides simultaneously, the automatic dip of his head as he stepped through onto the porch.
He straightened.
The afternoon light landed on him and you had to spend a moment recalibrating, because the last time you'd seen Simon Riley he had been seventeen years old with sawdust on his boots and a train ticket in his hand, and this man —
This man.
The white button-down shirt was simple, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and from his left wrist to well past the roll of the sleeve his forearm was dark with ink — a sleeve of tattoos, intricate and considered. A whole geography of imagery that you couldn't read from here but would, you thought, take time to learn.
His right wrist carried a watch. His black slacks were fitted close enough that you could see the muscle of his thighs pulling the fabric with every shift of his weight, and his shoes — loafers, black with gold buckles, completely unexpected and somehow exactly right — were precise.
His hair. A dark sandy blonde, longer than military specification presumably allowed and slicked back from his face, which meant you could see all of it, his whole face; the angles that had sharpened from boy to man, the jaw, the set of his brow, and those eyes. Those brown eyes that had been watching you since you were four years old and had never, not once, looked at you with anything less than complete attention.
He was raking those eyes over you now. Slowly. With the same quality he'd always had — that comprehensive, unhurried assessment that somehow never felt like being measured — and his hands were in his pockets and he was standing there like that, on the porch he'd built or bought or arranged specifically around a description you'd given him at sixteen.
He looked like something out of a magazine and like Simon all at once.
You were going to murder him.
"Hi, sunshine."
His voice. Lower than you remembered, rougher, carrying all the years he'd lived since you last heard it. That Manchester accent — still there, unmistakably, that warm northern flatness underneath everything, the vowels shaped by a city, by a street, by a particular kind of upbringing that no amount of training had entirely smoothed out.
That nickname, in that voice, in that low, deliberate way he'd always said it: like you were his.
Like it was a prayer.
You opened your mouth. And you closed it. And you looked at him — this enormous, tattooed, stupidly handsome man who had stood on your mother's doorstep at twelve years old with bruises he didn't mention, who had kissed your cheek at thirteen and broken Ryan Marsh's nose at fourteen and waved goodbye from a train platform at seventeen and then sent you birthday cards from the edges of the world for a decade and then stopped for five years —
"Five years," you said. Your voice was very quiet.
Something moved in his face.
"I-,"
"I thought you were dead." You snapped cutting him off.
"I figured you would’ve."
"Simon."
"I know, sunshine." He said it the same way he'd always said things he couldn't argue with — not deflecting, not dismissing, just absorbing. The Manchester vowels in his voice like a hand on your shoulder. "I'll explain everything. I promise. All of it. Whatever you want to know."
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
The afternoon settled around the house, around the garden that was your garden in your own sixteen-year-old description, around the flag and the porch swing and the lavender and all of it, and the distance between you on the path and him on the porch steps was perhaps four feet and thirty years and five years of silence and a whole life of choosing not to say the one true thing.
"You built me the house?" you asked, whispering it. Like you were afraid to say it.
He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Bought it. Had the garden done the way you said."
"Simon." Your heart ached.
"You said lavender at the edges," he said. His voice was completely level. "You said a porch with somewhere to sit. You said you wanted to see the flag from the garden."
You pressed your hand to your mouth.
The rage was still there — it was not going anywhere quickly. The five years of it, the grief of it — but underneath it, something else. Something that had been there since you were four years old at a preschool art table, larger and quieter and more permanent than anything else you'd ever felt.
"You were sixteen," he said. As though this explained it. "You told me what you wanted. I just..." He stopped. Started again. "I wanted to be enough first. I wanted to have what you needed."
There was a long silence. A bee moved through the lavender. Somewhere a few streets away, a lawnmower hummed.
"Come inside," Simon said. "I'll make you tea. And I'll tell you everything."
You looked at him on the porch of the house he'd built you from a word, and you thought: you absolute idiot. You wonderful, impossible, infuriating man. You thought I'd stopped. You thought thirty years of this was something you could be enough for eventually, like it was a bar to clear, like there was a version of you I was waiting on instead of just —
Instead of just you. Always just you.
The lavender brushed your hand again. You walked up the steps and he looked down at you with those brown eyes that had never once left you.
"Hi, Simon," you said.
Something happened in his face. Something opened.
"Hi, sunshine," he said, his hand coming to the small of your back to guide you inside.
He made the tea.
You stood in the kitchen of a house that smelled of fresh paint and cedar and something faintly floral from the garden drifting through the open window over the sink, and you watched Simon Riley move around it like he'd always lived here — filling the kettle, finding the mugs without opening the wrong cupboard, knowing where the teabags were — and you thought: how long. How long has he been here, in this house he bought for you, learning where everything lives, waiting.
You sat at the kitchen table. It was a good table, heavy oak, the kind built to last and you ran your thumb along the grain of it and tried to arrange your feelings into some kind of order and failed.
Simon set the mug in front of you. Milk in last, the way you'd always taken it, which he knew because he'd made you approximately four thousand cups of tea over the course of your lives. He sat down across from you, his own mug between his big hands, and looked at you.
You looked back.
The kitchen light was warm and it caught the angles of his face. The jaw, the brow, the slight crook in his nose that was new, or newer, the result of something you didn't know about and weren't sure you wanted to.
He was watching you with that particular quality of attention he'd always had. Complete. Patient. Like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.
"You're not wearing your glasses," he said.
You blinked. Of all the things. "No."
"Contacts?"
"For about ten years now, yes."
He was quiet for a moment, studying your face with that same unhurried attention, "I missed them."
"You missed my glasses?" You say with the deadpan tone you'd perfected over the years.
"Tortoiseshell ones," he said. "Used to push them up your nose when you were concentrating." He took a gulp of his tea, Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed.
You stared at him. Eighteen years. Eighteen years of distance and war and God knows what else, and he missed your glasses. "Simon."
"Just saying."
"You are unbelievable." You scoff.
"The contacts suit you," he said, and the corner of his mouth moved — barely, almost nothing, but you'd spent your whole life reading that face and you caught it. "Everything suits you. But I liked the glasses."
"Stop it." You snap.
"Stop what?"
"Whatever that is," you said, and you pointed at his face, at the not-there-almost-smile, at the quality of his voice when he said everything suits you, at all of it. "You don't get to do that. You've been — Simon, you've been gone. You've been gone for eighteen years and for five of them, I thought you were dead." Your voice stayed steady, which surprised you. You'd expected it to crack on that. "So you don't get to walk out onto your porch looking like — like that — and tell me you missed my glasses and flirt at me like no time has passed."
He listened without interrupting. He always had — it was one of the things about him, the way he gave you the whole space of what you were saying before he entered it.
"You're right," he nodded.
"I know I'm right." Your spine straightened.
"I owe you an explanation."
"You owe me considerably more than that, Simon Riley, but yes. An explanation would be a start."
He wrapped both hands around his mug again and looked at you across the table and there was something in his face that was not the blank-nothing face, was not the armour he'd worn since he was twelve years old but something that was quieter and more exposed and a great deal more frightening because of it.
"Not here," he said.
You frowned. "What?"
"I don't want to do it like this. Sat in a kitchen." He glanced around the room briefly, as though orienting himself. "Come to dinner with me tomorrow night."
"What I—"
"The Grill on Merton Street."
You went very still.
The Grill on Merton Street. You hadn't been in years — not since you'd moved away from the area, not since things had shifted and the rituals of your old life had quietly been replaced by other things.
But you knew it. You knew every table in it. The way the light came through the front windows on a Sunday, the smell of it — roasted meat and old wood and the particular warmth of a place that had been feeding families for decades.
Your mother had loved it. Your father used to order the same thing every time and be pleased about it every time, and you and Simon had sat across from each other in the corner booth with the sticky laminated menus and kicked each other under the table and laughed.
"That's still open?" you managed.
"Had a look earlier this week," he said. "Still there. New owners but the same building. Same corner booth."
You looked at him. He looked at you. Outside, through the open window, a late bird was making itself known in the lavender.
"Fine," you said. "Dinner. Tomorrow. And you're going to tell me everything." you struck at him with a serious face.
"Everything," he agreed.
"I mean it, Simon. All of it."
"I know you do."
You drank your tea. It was exactly right. The temperature, the strength, the milk ratio and you hated him a little bit for that. For the fact that he still knew, that across seventeen years and God knows how many miles he still knew exactly how you took your tea, and he'd made it correctly on the first attempt without asking, and you were absolutely not going to cry about that.
You were not.
— ✦ —
You dressed carefully.
Not because you were trying to impress him.
You told yourself this firmly, standing in front of your wardrobe in the room you'd taken in the local B&B — you'd booked a night, not knowing how long this might take, not knowing what state you'd be in for the drive home afterwards — and you told yourself that you were simply dressing appropriately for a dinner at a decent restaurant.
That was all.
That was the entirety of it.
The dress was deep green. Fitted through the waist, falling to just below the knee, with a neckline that was elegant rather than dramatic.
You'd bought it for a work event two years ago and it had lived in your wardrobe since, waiting for an occasion that felt worth it. You put your hair up — not elaborately, just neatly, the kind of arrangement that looked effortless and had taken twenty minutes — and you wore the small gold earrings that had been your grandmother's. Low heels. The good handbag. A slick of red on your mouth that you almost wiped off twice before deciding to leave it.
You were not trying to impress him.
You were absolutely trying to impress him.
He was waiting outside The Grill when your taxi pulled up, standing on the pavement with his hands in his pockets. The air around him relaxed and easy. An anchored stillness, like a man who'd learned to wait and had made peace with it. He has the same dark slacks as yesterday, same loafers with the gold buckles, but the shirt tonight was black.
A deep, clean black that made his shoulders look approximately the width of a doorway, which was in fact an accurate assessment — and he'd left the top button undone. His hair was the same: pushed back, dark sandy blonde curling at the nape of his neck and catching the amber of the streetlights.
He saw you get out of the taxi.
He went very still. Completely, suddenly, entirely present in a way that landed on you like a hand against your sternum. Under your heartbeat.
You crossed the pavement toward him and his eyes moved over you — slowly, comprehensively, that same rake of attention he'd given you yesterday on the porch steps, only this time there was nothing restrained about what it did to your pulse.
He eyed you the same way he used to look at the extra cuts of slow roasted beef your mother added to his plate every time he joined you for a Sunday roast after church.
"Hi," you said.
"Hi, sunshine." His voice was low. The rough Manchester sending tingles down your spine.
He opened the door for you.
The Grill smelled exactly the same.
Roasted meat and warmed bread and old wood and something faintly of candle wax. It hit you the moment you stepped through the door and you had to stand still for just a second, just one second, to absorb the weight of it.
Your father's coat on the hook by the door. Your mother's reading glasses going into her bag as the menus arrived. Simon across from you, fourteen and fifteen and sixteen, his big hands wrapped around a Coke glass, his eyes on you under that careful brow.
The layout had shifted slightly — new owners, as Simon had said — but the bones of it were the same. The dark wood panelling. The low warm lighting. The tables set with proper linen and actual candles in glass holders. And in the back left corner was the booth.
Simon's hand was at the small of your back as the host led you through. A light touch, barely there, the kind of thing that could be merely courteous and was absolutely not merely courteous.
You said nothing about it.
You were almost at the booth when a voice said, "Well. I don't believe it."
You turned.
Margaret and Gerald Howarth.
Margaret had been your mother's friend since before you were born — a small, bright-eyed woman who had somehow barely aged in two decades. Her silver hair cut the same way it had always been, her husband a large, genial man beside her with a napkin already tucked into his collar. They'd been eating here since before you were born too, you suspected. Some people were simply woven into the furniture of a place.
"Margaret," you said, and you felt a genuine, warm rush of it. Of being seen by someone who had known you as a child, who had watched you grow up, who carried that particular knowledge of you that only people of a certain generation can hold. She was already rising halfway from her seat, her hand extended, and you took it and she covered it with her other one, the way she always had.
"We heard you were back in the area," she said — which was interesting, since you'd only arrived yesterday, but news apparently still moved at its old speed around here. Her bright eyes moved to Simon, and something in them softened with recognition and surprise in equal measure. "And Simon Riley. My goodness."
"Mrs Howarth." Simon's voice was respectful, quieter than usual, and you noticed — because you noticed everything about him — that he straightened fractionally. Not stiffly. Just the particular adjustment of a man in the presence of someone he'd known when he was young and unguarded.
"Look at the size of you," Gerald said, not unkindly, staring up at Simon with the frank appreciation of one large man for another. "What are they feeding you?"
"Gerald," Margaret scolded mildly.
"It's a compliment." He shrugged.
Simon almost smiled. "Good to see you, Mr Howarth."
Margaret was looking between the two of you with the expression of a woman who had been quietly observing people her entire life and drawing accurate conclusions from very little evidence. "Are you together?" she asked, with the particular directness that came with age and with having known you since you were in a pushchair.
"We're having dinner," you said carefully.
Margaret's expression said, quite clearly, that she had heard this and had also heard everything it was not saying. "Well," she said, patting your hand once more before releasing it, "it's lovely to see you both. You always did belong together, the pair of you. I said that to your mother once, do you know. I said those two—"
"It was lovely seeing you, Margaret," you said, with great warmth and only mild desperation.
She laughed, a bright, pleased sound and settled back into her seat.
As you turned to follow the host the rest of the way to the booth, you were almost certain you heard Gerald say, to his wife, "told you" in a tone of quiet marital satisfaction.
Simon was very carefully not reacting to any of this. You were very carefully not looking at him.
You saw two others you knew before you reached the booth.
Kim Ashworth, who had been in your form in Year Ten and who looked essentially the same as she had in school except that she had a baby on her hip and a husband trailing behind her with a changing bag.
She stopped mid-step when she saw you, did a small, delighted double take, said oh my God twice, and then looked at Simon in a way that was extremely uncomplicated in its appreciation before remembering the husband with the changing bag. There were promises exchanged to catch up properly, phone numbers that would probably not be used, genuine warmth on both sides.
And then at the bar, perched on a stool with a whisky, Dave Pearce — who had played alongside Simon on the secondary school rugby team and who greeted him with the particular vocabulary of men who knew each other at fifteen and have not changed as much as they think.
There was a brief, loud exchange that involved at least one shoulder-clap that could have knocked a smaller man sideways, and then Dave shook your hand too and told Simon he was punching. Which Simon received without expression and you tried your hardest not to laugh, biting your lip.
Finally the corner booth. You slid in. Simon folded himself into the seat across from you, the table scaled to ordinary human beings and therefore slightly absurd against the size of him, his knees bracketing it, his shoulders blocking the view of the room behind him entirely.
The menus came.
They were not laminated anymore — proper printed card, changed seasonally, the kind that meant the new owners had ambitions. But the roast was still on. The proper Sunday roast, the one your father used to order when you could afford to.
"Same corner," Simon said quietly.
"Same corner," you agreed.
He was looking at you across the table the way he used to look at you across this table, except that now his face was older and larger and had been to places that had clearly asked things of it. The look was different in its texture. Deeper, maybe. Older in the same way he was older. Like it had more weight behind it from all the years of being carried.
"You said everything," you reminded him. "All of it."
"I know."
"So." You gestured for him to start.
He set his menu down. Looked at you. And then he started talking.
He told it the way he told everything — without embellishment, without drama, in the flat, precise language of a man who had learned to communicate facts and trusted the facts to carry the weight without decoration.
He'd gone in at seventeen and he'd been good at it. Not surprising. He was built for the structure of it, for the clarity of having a purpose and a unit and a chain of things that made sense.
He'd moved up fast — faster than he let on in the cards he'd sent you, which had been careful, he explained, deliberately careful, because the more you knew the more you might worry. Which, you pointed out, had not been his decision to make. He didn't argue with that.
Task Force 141 came later. Years later, after deployments that he summarised in a sentence each and you understood enough from his face to know that each sentence was doing the work of much longer things.
He was a lieutenant now. He said it the way he said most things about himself, flatly, without vanity, presented as information. He had certain freedoms now that he hadn't had before, certain ability to make choices about where he went and when and what he did with the things the years had given him.
You both ordered your food.
"And the five years?" you asked, sipping your cocktail the waitress had brought over.
He was quiet for a moment, he stared at his San Miguel pint, the condensation sliding down the glass. Your food had arrived at some point during the waiting, while Simon collected his thoughts.
He picked up his fork and then set it down again.
"There was a man," Simon said.
Something about the way he said it made you put your fork down too.
"He ran drugs. Major operation, international — I won't go into all of it." He said this without flinching, looking at you steadily, not softening it. You'd always appreciated that about him — the way he treated your intelligence as a given. "After I escaped him, he decided to make it personal. He went after the people I—" He stopped. Chose the word carefully. "The people I was connected to."
The candle in the glass holder between you threw warm, unsteady light across his face.
"He killed them," Simon said. "My brother. Tommy's family." A pause that cost him something; you could see it cost him. "My Mother."
The restaurant continued around you — the murmur of other tables, the clink of cutlery, someone laughing softly near the bar — and you sat very still.
"Oh Simon," you whispered, you could feel the way your face formed the sympathy.
"I'm alright." He said it the way he'd always said it, the Manchester flat and absolute. The way that meant; don't make it bigger than I can hold right now. You knew that voice. You honoured it.
"He knew about you," Simon said and you froze. "That was the other thing. He'd done his research." His jaw shifted slightly. "As long as he was alive, you weren't safe. If I'd contacted you, properly contacted you, kept the thread going the way I wanted to, it would have given him a cleaner line. A more reliable way to reach me."
You understood the logic of it. You understood it clearly and immediately in the part of your brain that processed information. The other part — the part that had sat on the bottom stair with a birthday card after five years of silence, the part that had thought past tense — that part was going to take considerably longer.
"So you cut me off," you said. Not as an accusation. As a fact, laid down. You were starting to understand the shape of it.
"To keep you safe. Yes."
"Without telling me why." You sighed but you knew you were being unreasonable, but you hoped he would let you for a little longer.
"If I'd told you why, you'd have known there was a threat. And you'd have—" He stopped. The corner of his mouth moved, something that was not quite a smile and not quite not one. "You'd have done something about it. Gone looking. Made noise."
"I would not have—" You stopped, because you would have. You absolutely would have. You'd spent thirty years being completely unable to sit on the sidelines where Simon Riley was concerned, and the knowledge that someone was threatening him would have made you entirely unreasonable. "That's—" you huffed.
"Yeah," he said.
"You could have found a way—"
"There wasn't one. Not one that was safe." His voice was very level. "I went through every option, love. I promise you. Every one."
The word arrived quietly, without ceremony.
Love.
He'd never called you that — not in thirty years, not in all the time and all the familiarity of what you were to each other. He said it the way he said everything that mattered: without preamble, without dressing it up, laid down like the fact it was.
"And now?" you asked. Your voice was quite steady. Steadier than you felt.
"He's dead." No elaboration. None needed. The flat Manchester vowels carrying the weight of it cleanly, without mess. "And you're safe. And I—" He looked at you across the table, across the candle and the white linen. "I bought the house," he said. "I've spent a while making it what it is. Making if perfect. I saved up for years. The 141 pays well when you get to a certain level and I wasn't spending it on anything else."
"For years," you repeated, feeling a shiver rack up your spine and your toes go numb.
"Since I was about twenty." He said this without apparent embarrassment, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to spend fifteen years saving money to buy a woman a house from a description she'd given you at sixteen years old. "Took a while to find the right one that wasn’t too far from your parents. The lavender took three growing seasons to look like it did when you pulled up."
Three growing seasons.
He had planted the lavender three years ago. He had stood in a garden three towns from where you lived and planted lavender along a path because a sixteen-year-old girl had mentioned it lying on her back in his garden thirty years ago, and he had tended it for three years, and he had waited.
"Simon Riley," you said.
"It's got room for your books Sunshine, built the shelves myself." His lips quirked up at the corners at your flabbergasted expression.
"You are the most—" You stopped. Started again. "Do you have any idea what the past five years have felt like? Do you have any idea what I—" Your voice did the thing you'd been preventing it from doing, cracked at the edge of the sentence like a plate under too much weight. You stopped. Pressed your lips together. "I grieved you. I sat in my flat and I genuinely, actually grieved you and decided you were dead. I had — Simon, I had a plan for getting through it. I was managing it."
"I know."
"Don't say I know." you snapped sounding more like a bratty child than angry.
"I'm sorry." And this was different. This was not the automatic I know, the absorbing of your anger. This was something he said the way he said very few things — carefully, with full weight behind it. His eyes on yours across the table. "I'm sorry for the five years. I'm sorry I couldn't find another way. I'm sorry you were on your own with it." A pause. "I'm sorry it took me this long to have something worth coming back with."
"The house is not—" You stopped. "You didn't need to buy me a house, Simon. I didn't need—"
"I needed to," he said. Simply. "I needed to know I was coming back with something real. Something that wasn't just me turning up with nothing after all that time, asking you to — to accept—" He moved his hand across the table, and his fingers stopped just short of yours. Not touching. Close. "Asking you to take me as I was. I needed it to be enough. I needed there to be something I could give you that was—"
"Simon." Your voice was very quiet.
"I know it's not—"
"Simon." You turned your hand over on the table. Just that. The small, deliberate movement of turning your palm up.
He looked at it. Then he looked at you. Then, slowly, he put his hand in yours — his enormous, careful, tattooed hand. Not quite the one that had carried your bag through every corridor of secondary school and pulled you up off the pavement after Daniel Holt and held you on the platform at the train station, but this one now and his fingers closed around yours and he held on.
"I only ever wanted you," you said softly.
"Sunshine-"
"You were always worth it," you cut him off. And then, because it was time — because it had been time for approximately thirty years and you were done waiting for the right moment when the right moment had repeatedly failed to arrive — "You were always enough. You were always the thing I was — Simon, you have always been the only one I wanted. Exactly as you are."
He was very still.
"I didn't tell you on the platform," you said. "I should have. I've thought about it every day since."
"So have I," he said.
The candle between you flickered in some movement of air from the kitchen, and in the warm unsteady light his face was open in a way you had waited thirty years to see. His hand was warm and sure around yours, and from the other side of the restaurant you were almost certain you heard Margaret Howarth say something to Gerald in a satisfied undertone.
"You planted the lavender," you grinned.
"Three years ago." He finally smiles back at you, it was crooked and uneven and you loved it.
"You are," you said carefully, "the most ridiculous man I have ever known." You shook your head still grinning.
"Missed you too, sunshine," he smirked.
Dinner ended the way the best dinners end — not with a definitive conclusion but with a gradual, reluctant unwinding, the kind where both people keep finding one more thing to say, one more thread to pull, because the alternative is standing up and the evening becoming past tense.
You ordered dessert.
Neither of you particularly wanted it but you both ordered it, and you both knew why, and neither of you said so. The chocolate brownie was very good. Simon ate his methodically, the way he ate everything, and at one point looked up and caught you watching him and said nothing.
The candle between you had burned down to a stub by the time the bill came.
He paid. You protested on principle. He gave you a look that had not changed at all since he was fourteen years old — flat, certain, faintly amused — and handed the card to the waiter without further discussion.
"That's not—" you started.
"Next time," he said.
Next time. You let it sit there between you, warm and presumptuous and everything you wanted.
Outside, the evening had cooled.
The last of the summer still holding in the air, the kind of September evening that felt like a concession, like the year wasn't ready to be done.
The street was quiet for a Saturday, just a few couples moving between the restaurants and a group of lads outside the pub further down having a smoke. The amber of the streetlights made everything look like something worth remembering.
Simon stood beside you on the pavement, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he turned to look down the street, and you were very aware of the warmth of him and the black shirt and the lavender you couldn't smell from here but could somehow still feel in your hands.
"Walk with me a bit," he said. Not a question, not quite. He'd always done that — phrased invitations as though the outcome were already agreed, as though he simply assumed you'd say yes because you almost always did.
"Alright."
He fell into step beside you, and for a little while you just walked — past the wine bar with its fairy lights, past the old library that had become a gin distillery at some point in the last decade, past the post office that had been there since before either of you were born. You talked about small things. Easy things. The kind of conversation that runs alongside the real one underneath.
Then he stopped.
You stopped too.
Simon looked down at you. His hands were in his pockets. That brown gaze of his moved over your face in the way it had been moving over your face all evening — like he was cataloguing it, like he was making up for lost time in the looking.
"Dance with me," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
He tilted his head, "Come dancing with me."
You stared at him.
Simon Riley, who had sat against the wall at every school disco you'd ever attended, arms folded, watching everyone else with the expression of a man conducting a private risk assessment.
Simon Riley, who you had never, in thirty years of knowing him, seen voluntarily approach a dance floor.
"You don't dance," you said.
"No," he agreed. "But you do."
The simplicity of it landed somewhere very central.
You do.
As though that were reason enough. As though your enjoyment of a thing were sufficient justification for him to walk into it without hesitation.
Which, you supposed, when it came to Simon, it always had been.
"Alright," you said, for the second time in ten minutes.
His hand found the small of your back again, that same light, deliberate touch from inside the restaurant and he guided you down the street.
Simon said you weren't far, when you heard it.
The particular sound of a Domino's box. The slight crinkle of a carrier bag. And then your mother's voice, carrying across the quiet street in the way it always had — warm and clear and entirely without volume control.
"Oh honey! We thought - oh!"
"Oh fuck," you cursed.
You said it very quietly. Not quietly enough. Simon chuckled under his breath.
Your parents were coming along the pavement from the direction of the only car park around here — your father in his weekend coat, your mother in the blue one she'd had for fifteen years. A Domino's pizza box balanced in her arms and a carrier bag hanging from your father's hand.
Movie night. Of course. They still did it every other Saturday, had done since you were small, and of course they would do it tonight of all the Saturday nights in the entire calendar.
Your mother's face when she saw you was pure, unguarded delight — the face she always made when she encountered you unexpectedly, as though each time were still a pleasant surprise. Then her gaze moved, naturally and automatically, to the man standing beside you with his hand at the small of your back.
The delight didn't disappear. It did something more complicated.
"Oh honey," she said again, but differently this time. Softer. Her voice going somewhere else entirely. "Simon?"
The Domino's box dipped. Your father caught it with the reflexes of a man who had been catching things your mother nearly dropped for forty years.
Simon had gone still beside you. Not that controlled, present stillness he had, the one that wasn't tension but something adjacent to it. He was looking at your mother with an expression you couldn't fully read from the side, but you could see the line of his jaw, and it was careful.
"Mrs—" he started.
"Don't you Mrs me," your mother said. Her voice was not angry. That was the thing — you'd prepared yourself, in the split second between seeing them and now, for anger, or for the brisk, self-protective coolness she used sometimes when she'd been frightened. But it wasn't that. It was something that had tears in it, which was considerably worse to witness.
She handed the pizza box to your father without looking at him — he took it with the silent competence of long practice — and she crossed the pavement in four short steps and she put her arms around Simon Riley.
He was so much larger than her. He had always been larger than her, even at fifteen when he'd eaten her shepherd's pie at the kitchen table and been careful to seem like it was casual and not like he was starving. Even when she gave him seconds and he looked like he would beg for thirds.
But now it was almost absurd, the smallness of her against the width of him, and he stood there for just a fraction of a second — that fraction where you could see him recalibrating, receiving something he hadn't prepared for — and then his arms came around her and he held on.
Your mother was crying. Small, quiet sounds, the kind she made when she was trying not to. Her face was pressed against his chest and her hands gripped the back of his black shirt and she said, muffled and with great feeling, "You absolute boy."
Simon said nothing. His eyes, over the top of your mother's head, found yours.
You had to look away. The street was very interesting. The lamppost in particular.
You bit into your lip.
Your father appeared at your shoulder.
He was a quiet man, always had been. The kind of steady, observant presence that took things in without making a production of the taking in. He stood beside you with the pizza box over one arm and the carrier bag in the other hand and watched his wife hold the boy who had eaten at their table for a decade, and he said, very quietly, to you,
"Well. He's not dead then."
"No Dad," you managed. "He's not dead."
"Good," your father said.
As though this settled it. As though the entirety of the past five years of your grief and his, because he had grieved Simon too in his quiet way, in the way of a man who doesn't say things aloud but feels them thoroughly. He looked at Simon over the top of your mother's head and gave him a single, deliberate nod. The kind that meant; we'll talk. The kind that meant; I have things to say to you. The kind that also, underneath both of those, meant; I'm so glad son.
Simon received the nod with equal gravity, which was exactly right.
Your mother finally pulled back. She held Simon by the arms — or tried to, her hands not quite making it around the circumference of them — and looked up at him with red eyes and the particular expression of a woman who has a great deal to say and is choosing, for now, not to say most of it.
"You'll come for dinner," she said. Not a question. The same tone she'd used on him at fifteen and apparently intended to continue using indefinitely. "Sunday. Proper dinner. Not a restaurant. Mine."
"Yes," Simon said. Immediately. Without hesitation.
"Good." She released his arms and reached up and patted his cheek once, firmly, the way you might with someone who had done something frustrating and beloved in equal measure.
Then she turned to you, and her expression did something complicated and warm and knowing, and she didn't say any of the things she was clearly thinking, which you appreciated deeply.
What she said instead was: "Don't stay out too late. You're thirty-five, not seventeen."
"Mum." You scolded.
"I'm just saying." She shrugged.
"We're going dancing," you told her, with the energy of someone redirecting a conversation through sheer momentum.
Your mother looked at Simon. Simon looked at your mother. Something passed between them that was private and thirty years old and not yours to have.
"Of course you are," she said.
Your father passed the Domino's box back to your mother, and said, "Right then. We'll leave you to it." He looked at Simon one more time. "Sunday," he confirmed.
"Sunday," Simon said.
Your parents moved off down the pavement.
Your mother looked back once — just once — and her face when she did was the face you'd seen her wear at your primary school nativity and at your GCSE results and on the morning you'd gone to university; the particular face of a woman watching her child be happy and feeling the full, complicated, loving weight of it.
Then she turned back to your father and said something you couldn't hear, and his hand found her shoulder as they walked, and they rounded the corner and were gone.
You stood on the pavement in the September evening and breathed.
Beside you, Simon was also very carefully just standing there.
"She cried on me," he said, after a moment.
"Yes."
"Didn't expect that."
You turned to look at him. He was looking at the corner your parents had turned, and his face had the quality it sometimes had when something had reached him — not visibly, not dramatically, just in that particular stillness that meant something had got through.
"She cried about you," you told him. "When you stopped writing. Three years ago — there were several times, actually, but three years ago was the worst. She held me in her kitchen and we both—" You stopped. Managed the next part carefully. "She loves you too, Simon. She always did. You were at our table every other night for years."
He was quiet for a moment. Something moved in his jaw. "I know," he said. And this time the I know was different from all the other times he'd said it tonight — heavier, and private.
"You agreed to Sunday dinner," you giggled.
"Of course I agreed to Sunday dinner," he said knowing full well he would have been stupid not to and gotten an earful from your mother.
Simon offered you his hand.
Not at the small of your back this time. His hand, palm up, in the space between you. Old-fashioned and deliberate.
You put yours in it.
"Come on then," he said. "Let's go dancing."
There was, as it turned out, only one place to go dancing in this town on a Saturday night if you meant actual dancing — the kind with a proper floor and music with a real structure to it.
It was not a club.
It was not a bar with a cleared space near the speaker.
It was the old church hall on Callow Street, which had been hosting the Saturday Evening Social Dance since before either of you were born, and which Simon seemed to know about with the specificity of a man who had done his research.
"A dance hall," you said, standing outside it. Through the tall, thin windows the warm light was visible, and the sound — strings, a proper band, something with a waltz rhythm that made the windows hum faintly. "You're taking me to a dance hall."
"Only place with a floor."
"Simon, this is a — there will be pensioners in there." you said quietly.
"There'll be a dance floor," he looked down at you. "And you said yes." he shrugged but looked smug.
He pushed the door open and held it, and because you had in fact said yes, and because the music through the door sounded genuinely lovely, and because you were still holding his hand from the pavement, you went in.
The church hall smelled of floor polish and tea. Fairy lights were strung along the rafters — someone's addition, not the original fixtures, and they made the whole space amber and soft.
Round tables lined the edges, most of them occupied by couples in their sixties and seventies and eighties, a few younger faces dotted among them, everyone dressed with the particular care of people who still believed an evening out was worth dressing for.
On the small stage at the far end, a four-piece band was working through something in three-four time with the ease of musicians who had played together for years.
And at the edge of the floor, clipboard in hand, wearing the same expression of organised authority she'd worn every PE lesson for fifteen years was Mrs Valerie Croft.
She was smaller than you remembered. Or perhaps you were simply larger.
She'd retired at some point — the hair was fully silver now rather than streaked — but the posture was identical: spine straight, chin up, the bearing of a woman who had spent decades telling teenagers to stand properly and had eventually simply become the embodiment of the instruction.
She looked up from her clipboard as you approached and her eyes moved from you to Simon, and to her credit, she didn't miss a step.
"Well," she tilted her chin up to meet his eyes, "Riley."
"Miss," Simon said. Which was technically incorrect given that she had a ring on her finger and had for as long as you'd known her, but you suspected it was because he'd called her Miss in secondary school the way you had. "Mrs Croft. Sorry. We were passing and— " He paused, which was unlike him. "Is there any chance we could crash it?"
Mrs Croft looked at him. She looked at you. She looked at your joined hands with the expression of a woman who had supervised enough teenagers to recognise a development when she saw one.
"Can you behave yourselves?" she asked.
"Yes," you said nodding.
Simon said nothing.
Mrs Croft made a sound that was not quite a laugh but was adjacent to one. "Floor's open," she said. "Don't knock anyone over." And she turned back to her clipboard.
The first dance was not elegant.
Simon was, as he had always been and had openly admitted, not a dancer.
He was a man built for other kinds of movement — purposeful, directed, the kind that had somewhere to go. Dancing required a different relationship with your body, a willingness to be present in it without agenda, and that was not naturally his.
But he was trying. And Simon Riley trying at something he wasn't good at with complete, unhesitating commitment was one of your favourite things in the world.
He held you correctly — one hand at your waist, the other holding yours at the right height — because he had clearly looked this up at some point, which you were choosing not to think about too hard. His footwork was careful. Deliberate. Slightly behind the beat in the way of someone counting silently.
"You're counting," you told him trying your hardest not to laugh.
"Shut up."
"Simon, I can see your lips moving." you snorted.
"I said shut up."
You were laughing now. Properly, helplessly, the kind that came up from somewhere real — and he looked down at you with that face, that flat, long-suffering, completely fond face, and something in his eyes that was warm in a way that had nothing to do with patience and everything to do with the fact that your laugh had always been, apparently, one of his favourite sounds.
"You're doing fine," you told him, once you'd recovered.
"I'm doing terribly," he answered. "Keep going."
By the second dance, he was better.
By the third, he had found something. Some adjustment in the way he held you, the way his hand settled more fully at your waist, drawing you closer so the movement between you became less about individual steps and more about one shared thing. He was a quick study. He always had been, once he'd decided something was worth doing.
You became aware, gradually, of the room watching.
Not intrusively. Not all at once. But in the soft, peripheral way of a room full of people who have been in love for decades and recognise the particular weather of it when it walks through the door.
An older couple near the stage — she in pale blue, he in a suit that had been good once and was still cared for — had stopped talking to watch you.
A woman at one of the corner tables had her chin in her hand.
Mrs Croft, by the door, was very deliberately looking at her clipboard and failing to look only at her clipboard.
You didn't mind. You were too busy watching Simon watch you.
The band changed tempo at half past nine.
The waltz gave way to something with a different shape entirely — something that moved from the hips rather than the feet, a rhythm that was slower in its pulse and considerably less innocent in its intention.
A rumba.
You looked up at Simon.
He looked down at you.
"I don't know this one," he said.
"I'll show you." you breathed.
You took his hand and placed it lower at your waist, right above the curve of your ass. Deliberately watching his face when you did it, watching the shift in his expression, the way something in his eyes went very still and very focused. "Hip to hip," you told him. "Slower than you think. Let the music pull you."
He followed your lead with an attention that was frankly overwhelming in its completeness.
Simon Riley giving you his full, undivided, physical focus was not a small thing. He was so large and so present and he moved with you rather than against you, adjusting with every shift of your weight, and somewhere in the second minute of the song the counting stopped and something else replaced it.
He drew you closer. His hand at your hip pulled you in until there was no space left between you, until you could feel the warmth of him through the green of your dress and you were very aware of every point of contact, of the music and of the room full of people who had gone very quiet.
Then he turned you.
It was not technically correct. It was not what the dance required. But he turned you in a single, smooth movement that his body had decided on and yours simply followed, because that was what it did with him.
And then he dipped you.
The room tilted. His arm was across your back, solid and immovable, and you were suspended in the amber light with the music around you and your hand at his shoulder.
He lowered you — slowly, with complete control, no hesitation in the hold and then his face was close, very close, and his nose grazed the line of your throat making your breath hitch.
A slow, deliberate graze. The warmth of his breath against your pulse point. You felt it in places that had nothing to do with dancing, between your legs throbbing.
His hand — the one at your hip — slid down, just slightly, just enough, finding the outside of your thigh where the fabric of your dress lay, and he hooked your leg, slowly, around his hip. His fingers at the back of your thigh. Holding you there. His nose still at your throat.
The music resolved. Somewhere behind you, someone started clapping.
He brought you upright. Smoothly, slowly, until you were standing again and his hand was still at the back of your thigh. Your leg still around his hip and your faces were very close. Your heart was conducting itself in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with exertion.
You were panting. Slightly. Just slightly.
He was not panting. He was looking down at you with the almost-smile, the one that had always been rarer than gold and twice as valuable — and his eyes were warm and very dark and entirely, completely satisfied with themselves.
"You looked that up as well," you managed.
"No," he said.
"Simon—"
"That one," he said, "I just wanted to do."
From the table by the stage, the woman in pale blue was applauding with great enthusiasm. Her husband had two fingers in his mouth and was whistling.
Mrs Croft had given up entirely on the clipboard.
The taxi back was not a long ride.
It felt longer than it was, and shorter than you wanted.
You sat beside him in the back seat with his thigh against yours and the city moving past the windows and neither of you speaking. The silence had a texture to it that was thick and warm and anticipatory in a way that made the air feel heavy in your lungs.
His hand was on your knee. Just resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything — with complete, unapologetic certainty.
You did not move it.
The house appeared at the end of the lane with its white fence and its dark windows and the lavender silver in the moonlight.
You were out of the taxi before it had fully stopped and you were aware how eager this appeared and you didn't care.
Simon paid the driver and caught up with you in three strides because his legs were considerably longer than yours and always had been.
He got to the door first. Key in hand.
The door opened.
And you did not wait for him to step through it.
You took him by the front of his shirt, that black shirt, warm from his body, the fabric bunching in your fists and you lips were suddenly on his.
You walked him backwards through the doorway and you felt the moment his back met the wall just inside and you were already kissing him before he'd fully registered the sequence of events.
Your mouth on his. Your hands in the front of his shirt. Thirty years of it finding its way out all at once, without ceremony, without preamble, without any of the careful management you had been applying to yourself since you were four years old at a preschool art table.
He kissed you back.
He kissed you back the way he did everything — thoroughly, completely, with his full attention and no apparent interest in doing anything else ever again.
His hands came to your face, big and careful, tilting your jaw, and for a moment you were simply inside the realness of him and the warmth of him and the fact that he was here and alive and kissing you in the hallway of the house he'd bought for you.
He pulled back.
"Easy, sunshine," he said against your lips. Low. A little breathless, which you would be privately triumphant about later. The corner of his mouth pulled up in that crooked smile.
You became aware, in the slightly dazed way of someone returning from somewhere, that your hands were still in his shirt and his hands were still on your face and you were standing approximately two inches apart in his hallway.
You also became aware, in the refocusing of your vision, of his mouth.
Of the scar on his upper lip.
You didn't know how you hadn't noticed it before — through dinner, through the dancing, through all of it.
Perhaps you had simply not been this close before. Or perhaps you had been looking at so many things that you hadn't been looking at everything.
It was small, a thin pale line bisecting the left side of his upper lip, old enough to have faded to silver, the kind of scar that had been there for years and had been lived with so thoroughly that the face had absorbed it.
You lifted your thumb and touched it, gently. "How'd you get this?"
He went very still, alert and present and reading you.
You kissed it. Softly. Just that.
Something moved in his throat.
His hands shifted from your face to your waist, warm and settled, and he began to move you gently — backwards, one steady step at a time — turning you both away from the wall and deeper into the hallway. His foot found the door behind him and pushed it closed with a quiet, final click.
"If I tell you about that one," he said, his voice low and even above your head as he guided you past the entrance and toward the stairs, "I'll have to tell you about the rest."
He looked down at you as he said it, that look, the one that said you were the most interesting thing he had ever encountered. The one that made you feel simultaneously seen and slightly undone — and his expression had in it something that was fond and amused and entirely, devastatingly warm.
You kicked your heels off at the bottom of the stairs. They went somewhere behind you. You didn't look.
Your bag went next, dropped against the banister.
"The rest?" you repeated. Your voice came out slightly smaller than you intended. Your eyes, entirely without your permission, moved down the front of him — the black shirt, the breadth of his shoulders, his torso, his thick thighs, all of him — and back up again. Slowly.
He watched you do it. He said nothing.
You swallowed. "Tell me then."
His hand at your waist steered you up the first step, and then the second, and the stairs curved slightly toward the landing above, and at the top of the stairs he pushed open the door to a bedroom.
The room was large and furnished.
A bed, properly large, the kind that accommodated a man his size without complaint. Low lamps on either side casting the same amber warmth as the hall below. Dark wood floors, a window looking out toward the garden, the curtain shifting slightly in a crack of night air.
He kissed you, just inside the door you kissed him back and his hands were at your hips.
Then he pulled back with a groan. Both of you breathing slightly harder than was strictly accounted for by climbing one flight of stairs.
"I want to, sunshine," he said. His voice was very low. Restrained. His hands still on your body, holding you there, his thumbs moving in a small slow motion against the fabric of your dress that was doing nothing to help you think clearly. "I do. But I need to hear it from you first. Your permission. Clear words. I don't want to misunderstand you."
You opened your mouth.
And then your eyes moved, over his shoulder, to the dresser.
A skull mask looked back at you.
You closed your mouth. You looked at it. The mask, white and stark and precise but somehow both alien and completely, recognisably his. The balaclava beside it, folded neatly. And tactical gloves — enormous, black, reinforced, approximately the size of your head.
"That yours?" you asked.
Simon turned his head, following your gaze. He looked at the dresser, then back at you. "Yeah."
"What is it?"
"What I wear on missions."
"Oh," you said.
And then your brain did something entirely beyond your authority. It constructed, with great speed and considerable detail, an image: Simon, broad and enormous, in black tactical gear. Gloved hands. That mask. Hovering over you.
You swallowed.
The image did not leave. It simply settled in, warm and vivid and decidedly unhelpful.
"Sunshine."
His hand came to your face — his big, warm, ungloved hand, his actual hand, the one you knew — his thumb sweeping gently under your eye, bringing you back into the room and the amber lamplight and the present moment.
"Hmm?" you managed meeting his gaze.
His eyes moved over your face with the same comprehensive attention he always gave you.
"Your permission, love," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"Oh." You blinked. "Yes. Yes, you have it. Always."
The almost-smile. "Not for everything I want to do to you." His thumb was still moving, very gently, under your eye. "I'll ask. Multiple times."
You stared at him. "Multiple—"
"Times," he confirmed. His voice was entirely level. His eyes were not.
You pushed his shoulder and your cheeks burned.
He caught your hand as you pushed it and laughed, a low, real, full sound, the kind that you had spent most of your life engineering because it was so rare and so completely, unreasonably good.
You laughed too, properly, the helpless kind, and his forehead came down to rest against yours and you were both laughing in the amber light of his bedroom with the skull mask on the dresser and the lavender outside the window and thirty years behind you and everything in front.
The laughing settled.
Not all at once — it unwound gradually, the way laughter does when it's the real kind, leaving something warm and loose in its place.
His forehead was still against yours. His hands had moved from your face to your waist, both of them now, holding you the way he'd held you on the dance floor — with that complete, unhurried certainty, like you were something he'd been waiting to hold properly for a very long time and intended to do it right.
The amber light of the lamps lay across everything. Through the gap in the curtain, you could see the edge of the garden — the pale shapes of flowers, the dark of the lawn.
"Tell me about the rest," you said quietly.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. "The scars?"
"You said if you told me about the one on your lip you'd have to tell me about the rest." You reached up and touched the scar again — that thin, silver line — with the pad of your thumb. "So tell me about the rest."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached up and began, without ceremony, to unbutton his shirt.
You were very still.
He did it the way he did everything — without drama, without performance, button by button from the collar down, and when he shrugged it from his shoulders and set it aside you understood, in a way you hadn't before, what eighteen years of that life had written on him.
He was enormous.
You'd known that in the abstract — had known it from the doorframe and the dance floor and the way rooms seemed to reorganise themselves around him — but this was different.
This was the specific, undeniable reality of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the muscle of his arms that carried the tattoo sleeve on the left, the ink wrapping from wrist to shoulder in dark, intricate patterns that in this light you still couldn't fully read but wanted to.
And the scars.
There were more than you'd expected.
Each one a different shape and age and story, written into the topography of him in pale and silver lines. A long one along his left ribs. Something older, fainter, across the top of his right shoulder. A circular scar below his collarbone on the left side that your medical knowledge was sufficient to identify and that made your chest constrict briefly and completely before you put that particular knowledge away for now.
He was watching your face as you looked. Careful. Giving you the time of it.
You stepped forward. You placed your hand flat against his sternum — his heart under your palm, steady and real — and you felt him exhale.
"The lip," you said.
"Kandahar. 2004. Caught the stock of a rifle." He said it the same way he'd told you everything tonight — flat, factual, trusting the fact to carry the weight. "Bit through my lip. Wasn't pretty for a while."
You moved your hand from his sternum to his ribs. Found the long scar there, traced it gently with your fingertips.
"That one."
"Knife. 2009. I moved the wrong way and the other man moved the right way." The shadow of something in his face that was not quite humour and not quite not. "Lesson learned."
Your hand moved to his shoulder. The older, fainter scar.
"Before the military," he said, before you asked. His voice changed, just fractionally. Flatter. Doing more work to stay level. "Not a mission."
You understood. You didn't ask further. You pressed your lips to it instead — gently, just that, your mouth against the old pale mark — and you felt the breath go out of him in a way that was different from all the others. Slower. Deeper.
"Sunshine," he said. Very quietly.
"The one below your collarbone," you said.
A pause. "That one's not a story for tonight."
You tilted your head back to look up at him. "Is it a story for eventually?"
His eyes on yours. Something in them that was considering, assessing, "Yeah," he said. "Eventually."
"Alright," you said. You meant it. You had waited thirty years; you could wait for the story of one scar.
His hand moved to your face. That same gesture from the hallway — his thumb at your cheek, slow and deliberate and he tilted your chin up and kissed you. Not urgently this time. Slowly. Deeply.
His hands found the zip at the side of your dress — careful, unhurried — and he looked at you, a clear question in it, and you nodded, and his hands were very steady and very gentle. Your dress went the way of your heels and your bag, somewhere behind you, unmissed.
He looked at you the way he had looked at you on the porch yesterday, and outside The Grill tonight, and across the restaurant table, and on the dance floor — with that complete, comprehensive attention.
Only now there was nothing restrained about what was in it. It was simply there, open and certain, and it was thirty years of something finally being allowed to be exactly what it was.
"Hi," you said. Which was absurd. Which made him laugh again, low and real.
"Hi, sunshine," he said. His hands at your waist. His forehead dropping to yours.
“Si I need to-“ you breathed in deep, “I um,” he pulled his head away from yours, looking into your eyes with those brilliant brown ones of his.
“What is it Sunshine?” He asked, his finger under your chin tilting your head up.
“I’m, I’ve never-“ you sigh, “I’ve told you so many things, I can’t believe I can’t even say this to you.”
“Do we need to slow down?” He asked, his voice softening.
“No. It’s not that. I mean I’m not a virgin if that’s what you’re thinking I just, no guy has ever-“ you sigh again, your eyes dropping from his.
Simon is quiet. He waits, the way he always waits — giving you the whole space of it, not rushing you toward the end of the sentence.
“Made it good,” you finally say, to his chest. “For me. It’s always just, fine. Maybe sometimes I get close but then it’s over. Not that there’s been loads of guys, maybe three.”
A beat.
You make yourself look up at him.
Something changes in his face.
You see the flare of it.
Anger.
Not toward you — you feel that immediately, the anger isn't at you, it moves through him and settles somewhere else entirely. His jaw shifts. His eyes, for just a moment, go somewhere dark and quiet.
"Every one of them," he says. Low. More to himself than to you.
"Simon—"
"Had you," he says. "And didn't—" He stops. The jaw again. His eyes squeeze shut. "Didn't pay attention."
"It's not—"
"It is." His eyes open. He looks at you, his hands moving to your hips, both of them, settling there with a weight that feels like anchoring, like he needs the contact as much as you do. The darkness has settled now, controlled, underneath everything else.
"And I wasn't here." Something moves through his expression — not guilt exactly, but something adjacent to it, something private and old. "Should've been your first, sunshine. Should've been there to—"
He stops himself. His forehead drops to yours.
"I've waited years for this," he says quietly. "I'm not rushing it. And I'm going to pay attention."
“Pay attention?” You ask breathless.
“To every sigh,” he kissed your cheek, “whimper and moan.” His lips moved down to your jaw. “To the way your hips move, the way your back arches, the way you’ll writhe under me, how I’ve imaged it every time I’ve gotten off for the last two decades.” He whispered the last bit into your ear, teeth tugging on your earlobe.
You gasp, “Simon.” Your cheeks burn.
“Oh don’t tell me you never thought about it.” He grins pulling back to look down at you.
You look at the floor sheepishly cause of course you have. Of course you’ve cum the hardest you ever have in your life only when thinking about Simon fucking you.
"Oh you have." He smirked titling his head.
“Shut up.” You push his shoulder and he laughs.
His hands leave your hips and then you're moving, his arms around you, and the edge of the bed meets the back of your knees.
Then his massive paws are in your hair and his lips are on your neck as your back meets the sheets. His weight heavy and solid on you. You could tell he was holding himself up so he didn’t squish you.
He leaned back on his heels, kneeling between your legs. You sighed in satisfaction when his fingers ran over your bare skin. His blunt nails scratching softly where your pelvic bone sits.
"So beautiful Sunshine," He grabs your hips and squeezes, "Fill my hands with you finally." Simon groans. A noise you've been picturing in your head. This and everything else that happens this evening, you truly believe, will be one of those times when reality is better than anything you have imagined.
Simon's brown eyes have always been intense, but right now the way he's looking down at you it's like he is someone else entirely. His eyes almost black with how much they have darkened.
"Simon." You tangle your fingers with his.
"Can I?" He asks. His hand, the one not in yours, trailing down your thigh and stopping on your mound. You clench around nothing when he pushes down, just a little bit of pressure that you feel in your clit and makes your hips buck.
You don't miss the way his lips do the almost smile thing. You nod furiously but he shakes his head.
"Need your words love." He raises a brow.
"Yes, yes Simon touch me." You breathe out, your chest feeling tight when he nods, moving his hand down to cup your cunt over your underwear.
And maybe its because you haven't had sex in three years, maybe its because you are touch starved or maybe its simply because its Simon, but your back arches and your moan is down right pornographic with a simple touch over your underwear.
"So responsive." He mumbles, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit through the fabric. "Get your tits out for me Sunshine, wanna see em." he grunts feeling your underwear getting wet.
Shakily you reach behind your back and unclip your bra. "Been thinking about them for years. What they look like, how they'll bounce when I fuck you." He groans as you pull the straps down your arms and fling the bra on the floor.
His eyes are on your chest, he doesn't blink. Then as if his system has rebooted, he blows air out of his cheeks and whistles low. "Fuck lovie, so pretty. You're a dream." Simon leans forward and wraps his lips around your breast, his tongue swirling around the nipple as his thumb continues circling your clit.
You moan, fingers tugging at his hair.
He comes off your breast with a pop making you whine and push at his shoulder. He grins pressing his thumb firmer against you, while sliding his other hand over your leg, index finger tracing over the small scar on you leg from when you fell off your bike after Simon broke your training wheels.
There was something comforting about this. Simon wasn't someone you had to explain yourself to, he already knew every version of you, he was simply adding this one to his list. This version, open and honest and begging the man you'd known for thirty years to make you cum on his fingers.
This didn't feel like a hook up, not like other guys have, but it felt like two people who have been each other's home for years and they're finally admitting it.
"Kiss me Simon." You're not even sure if what you said made sense with how much you were panting. But he leaned down to graze his lips along yours. Teasing and soft, despite the fast past he'd started to set with his thumb.
"Stop teasing." You huffed.
"Its my favourite pastime." He grinned hooking his fingers in your underwear, pulling them down and moving with them to settle between your legs.
You gasp, when his tongue slides from your asshole to your clit. "Simon!" His dark eyes are locked on yours as he swirls the tip of his his tongue around your entrance. Your toes curl, your head falling back onto the soft bed sheets.
A few occasions, you could count on one hand, had a guy you were with eaten you out and it was good but fuck, it didn't feel like this.
You felt like you were burning all over with each swipe of his tongue, each dip inside your entrance, each pattern he begins to circle over your clit.
He was learning you.
Simon groans against you, his breath hot, it made you dizzy. You feel everything, its too much to quick and your hips start to buck against his mouth.
Simon clearly had no intention of slowing down or stopping as he slides his arms around your thighs and splays his hands over the tops of them locking you in place.
It feels like fire, like molten lava pooling low in your abdomen the harder his tongue presses against you.
You don’t even recognise the sounds coming out of you, it’s as if every movement pulls a new one from you.
His thumb replaces his tongue and he rubs the bump in small circles until you can barely breathe. “Sound so pretty,” he murmurs just as your back arches and you moan loudly into the night air.
He is still speaking but you can’t hear anything he is saying, it’s all blurring together the way your vision is blurring. His thumb slides from your clit down until it’s pushing its way inside you. Your hips jerk away but his other hand is quick to hold you in place.
“No running.” Simon growls.
You cry out when his tongue comes back to torture you, lapping at you like he’s never had a drink and you're fresh water. Soon enough the rhythm he’s built has your hips rolling forward seeking more of whatever he has to give you.
Your hand reaches for his arm and squeezes hard the exact moment your vision turns white and your body shakes, dissolving into pleasure. It's like lightning pulsing through you. He works your through your orgasm, wringing every last wave of pleasure from you before he moves to your lips, kissing you.
“Did so good Sunshine. I’ve got you.” His arms wrap around you, your nipples grazing against the hair on his chest, that alone has you whimpering.
"Need more, want you inside me Simon. Please." You look into his eyes, your shyness gone with your orgasm.
"Okay Sunshine." Simon chuckles, the sound vibrating against you.
He pulls back and gets off the bed before he starts to unbuckle his belt. He pushes his black slacks down along with his underwear, his large, and he was so fucking big, cock already hard.
"Always wondered what you'd be like in bed," He tilts his head with a smirk, "If you'd like being in control. Or if you'd prefer me to lead," He knelt on the bed again, and oh my god Simon Riley, your best friend of thirty years and the love of your life was crawling up the bed towards you until his cock was flush with your entrance. "If you'd be needy and beg. Or if you'd bark orders at me." He slapped the head of his cock against your clit. "If you'd be loud or quiet."
"If you'd let me do whatever I wanted to you," his head titled back, eyes shut, "Fuck Sunshine, the things I've imagined doing to you," He looks down at you with the most intense gaze, pining you there on the bed, "Would you let me lovie? Do whatever I want to you?" He asks, pearly whites peaking out to sink into his bottom lip.
"Like what?" Your breath is so unsteady, so hitched and uneven you feel your cheeks heat even more than they have done at his words.
He grins, "Like what?" He chuckles pushing the head of his cock against your entrance, not in, but resting against it, "Wanna fuck you so hard you can't walk. Make love to you slow and so deep you'll feel me everywhere. Bend you over every surface in this house and make you cry on my cock-"
"Simon!" You gasp.
"Can I Sunshine?" He groans pushing in a little more and your eyes sting with tears at the stretch.
"Yes! Please yes!" He pushes in slowly. One of his hands coming next to you on the bed and the other gripping your hip. He keeps sliding in further, so slowly until its sheathed inside you.
Simon does not move. You can see the restraint within the way his teeth are gritted, his brows furrowed, sweat forming on his forehead.
“Fuck you feel amazing wrapped around me, so tight.” He groans.
You don’t have any words and even if you did, you doubt you would be able to say them. You have never felt so…full. So filled to the brim and unable to get a reprieve from it.
“M’gonna move, gotta move Sunshine,” Simon growls and the fullness disappears for a second before he’s pushing himself back in.
“Fuck you feel so good Si.” You shudder and stars appear in your vision when he moves forward and takes your legs with him folding you in half.
Simon Riley has you in fucking mating press and didn't even break the slow rhythm he's building. He continues this push and pull movement until it begins to flow, each movement begins where the other ends. The pattern making you sob, “Don’t stop!”
You can't function and its only now that you understand the phrase 'being fucked dumb', rocking your hips, trying desperately to keep up with each thrust, back arched so beautifully.
Simon lets his hand slip and curve around your jaw without thinking about it, "Taking me so well Sunshine." The feral look in his eyes sends a shiver up your spine.
"Too big." You sobbed, your hands grabbing at his large biceps as he thrusts harder. He could feel every ridge and curve of your sopping cunt.
"You can take it." He encouraged you, biting at your neck leaving marks in his wake and looking so damn happy whilst doing it.
You continued to moan and whimper, tears of pleasure falling down your face while Simon's huge body hovered over you. Protecting you from the outside world, in here, it was just you and him.
"Si..oh!" you cried out feeling him hit that rough spot inside your weeping, swollen cunt.
"There it is." He didn't mean to grin like a obsessed man in such an intimate moment but he couldn't help himself. He never can with you. Each thrust hits the one place no man ever seems to be able to find but Simon seemingly found with ease. A spot that makes a tightening begin like a coil, being wound with every drive of his hips.
Your sinful noises morph into higher pitched breathy little screams.
"I know lovie, I know." He cooed, holding you closer. His sweat glazed skin meeting yours as his large veiny hand slips under your head, his other arm curling around your waist.
You move your hips and he groans vulgar into the air, his hand gripping your hair and pulling your head back, a little to the side before he attacks your neck all messy. Smearing his lips across your throat, you don’t even recognise the sound that leaves your mouth.
He pulls away, his dark eyes flit to your squelching pussy, the noise attracting his attention pupils dilating, honing in on the way your cunt sucks his cock back in. He couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to and fuck he doesn’t, he wants nothing more than to stay in your pretty pussy forever.
“Simonfuckyespleaserighttheredontstop!” All the words and moans blend together until your mumbling nonsense trying your hardest to keep conscious, it’s difficult with the way he’s fucking into you so deliciously it’s making you delirious in the best way.
His big body towering over yours, big hands gripping you almost bruisingly. His thick muscular hairy thighs press against your skin compellingly, the sight before you, it's irresistible. All you have to do is look down to see his massive cock sliding in and out of you, a ring of white collecting at the base.
It's too much seeing him like this, feeling the sweet pleasure burn through you and yet Simon moves one of his hands off your head and presses a thumb to your swollen, aching clit.
You're done for.
You sob, so fucking loud you swear everyone in the world can hear it, hot tears flow down your cheeks staining them.
"That's it." The words wash over you with your orgasm, it swirls around you, clings to you, and pushes you down down down the rabbit hole of pleasure. Oversensitivity sets in making you whine at his touch, but you can't stop yourself from wanting more.
Your hips buck into his touch eliciting a dirty chuckle from him.
As Simon picks up his thrusts, he comes to the conclusion that he loves you like this, wants to see it everyday. You're so drunk, so delirious and he loves it. Loves the far away look in your eyes right before they roll back into your skull.
He shoves his face into your neck groaning, "Gonna cum Sunshine, need to. Where?" his thrusts pick up again, as if that were even possible.
"Cum inside me Simon, fill me up." You cry out.
Simon must have been right there as he cums the second you finish your sentence. Hot thick robes of cum pushing deep inside you. He rubs your clit faster and another smaller orgasm zips through you leaving you whimpering.
He stays in you, holding you until he goes soft. He moves your legs so they don't cramp. "Did so well for me Sunshine. I love you so much." He looks into your eyes as more tears spill down your cheeks.
"I love you Simon." you bring your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer to kiss you. The contrast between the way he just destroyed your guts and is now kissing you so softly, is astounding.
He is careful when he picks you up and walks into the ensuite bathroom to the right, flicking the light on and placing you on the toilet. "Gotta pee sunshine, don't want you getting you a uti." He says and you're so tired you don't even have the energy to be embarrassed.
Your eyes as still closed as you pee. Your hand moves to find the toilet paper but a warm flannel is being pressed against you, Simon's other hand on your knee to keep them open. You whine and push his hand away, "Simon that's icky." You frown at him opening your eyes to see him looking at you with a frown of his own.
"Nothing about you is icky Sunshine. I'm clearing up my mess, now move your hand." You do as told and it occurs to you, through your tired haze, while Simon gently wipes you clean that he must be used to clearing up mess with the job he does.
"All done. Want a shower or straight to sleep?" He asks.
"Sleep." You yawn making him smile at you.
He carries you back to the bed, lifting the duvet and settling you both underneath it.
The particular quality of afterwards settles in the room.
The warmth of it, the specific silence, the way the world outside the window continues to exist and you become aware of it again in layers. The sound of the garden. The distant sound of a car somewhere. The sound of him breathing.
You were lying with your head on his chest. His arm around you, heavy and warm. His heartbeat under your ear, steady and unhurried, the same heart that had been beating beside you in one form or another for thirty years.
His hand moved. Slowly, idly, up and down your back.
You watched the lamplight glow on the beside table. You thought about the lavender. You thought about the train station in 2001, and the birthday cards, and the bottom stair with the cream envelope, and Margaret Howarth saying you always did belong together with the satisfied certainty of someone who had known it before either of you did.
"Simon," you said.
"Yeah."
"You planted lavender for three years."
"You mentioned that already."
"I'm still processing it."
A low sound in his chest that was the rumble of a laugh contained. "Take your time Sunshine."
You propped yourself up and looked at him. His face in the lamplight — older, marked, those brown eyes that had been watching you since you were four years old, now watching you from a pillow in the house he'd bought you.
His expression was open in the way it had been open on the porch and at the restaurant table and in the dance hall, the way it had been open perhaps three times in thirty years before tonight and was now, apparently, simply his face when he looked at you.
You loved him so much.
You had loved him in different quantities and different registers for most of your life and now you loved him in this one too, this new one, and it was the same love and completely different and you thought you would be discovering its dimensions for a considerable amount of time.
"You should have told me," you said. "Years ago. Before the train."
"Yeah," he said. No argument.
"I would have said it back then too."
Something moved in his face. "I know," he said. And then, quieter, "I wasn't ready then. Wasn't enough yet."
"Simon—"
"I know what you're going to say."
"You were always—"
"I know," he said. "I believe you. Now." His hand came up to your face, tucking a strand of hair back, his thumb at your cheekbone. "Took me a while to get there. But I'm here."
"You're here," you agreed smiling.
"And you're here." his hand tangled itself in your hair.
"I'm here." you giggled.
He looked at you for a long moment. Then, "Stay with me."
Not a question, not quite — more like a hope said aloud. The rarest thing from him. He had carried so much silently for so long, and this one small thing cost him something, and you could see it, and you loved him for it.
"It's my house," you said cheeky and bright.
He blinked. Then that laugh again — the real one, the rare one — and your heart did what it always did when you earned it, that particular, irreplaceable lurch.
"Yeah Sunshine," he said. "It is."
You lay back down against his chest. His arm came around you. His heartbeat under your ear.
Outside, the lavender moved. The Union flag was still on the roof. The porch swing sat in the dark with its yellow cushion, waiting for morning.
"Sunshine," he said. Into your hair.
"Hmm."
"I love you."
You pressed your lips to his chest, above his heart.
"I love you too," you said. "I've loved you since you were that chubby four-year-old who stole my crayons."
A long pause.
"Chubby," he repeated.
"Stocky," you amended, grinning into his chest. "You were very stocky."
"I was four."
"You were a very solid four year old."
His arm tightened around you — not painfully, just firmly, the way of a man making a point through the medium of holding — and you laughed again, helplessly, into the warmth of him.
He made that sound, that low rumbling laugh that lived in his chest, and the lamp burned warm and low and outside the lavender moved in the dark.
Simon Riley.
Who stole your crayons at four and broke your glasses at seven and learned to read because of you and carried your bag through every corridor of secondary school and punched a boy for pushing you over and kissed your cheek in a toilet corridor and sat beside you through every lunch and glared at anyone who called you a nerd and came round to your kitchen table for years and went to war at seventeen and sent you cards from the edges of the world and planted lavender for three years and bought you the house you described at sixteen and came home.
Ink & Needle // Tattoo Artist Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader
A night out in London to celebrate your friend’s upcoming marriage ends with a quick hook-up in a club’s green room. You don’t expect to see your masked man ever again, and you leave it as a one-time thing. Three years later, you’re back in England, and find yourself facing the man you walked away from at that club. He’s running a tattoo parlor just down the street from where you’re staying. Over time, your paths cross and cross again until the two of you are tangled up in a messy web. Will it last? Or will one of you walk away?
pairings: various avatar men x female na'vi reader
(jake sully, miles quaritch, neteyam, lo’ak, & ao’nung)
series notes: neteyam is aged up to 23, lo'ak & ao'nung are aged up to 22, reader is aged up to 25, reader is morally grey and a coy bitch, infidelity from jake and lo'ak, suggestive themes and smut, varang and miles & lo'ak and tsireya exists here intimately. made up clans and practices for the sake of this series, misogyny, men being men, big age gap for jake and reader & miles and reader, change in canon events and facts.
series prompt: there is only one clan that could turn the tides of the war, the zä'raiya clan. whoever they favor, eywa will bless. it just so happens that aid will not be the only thing that these men will beg for but for a woman who’s form of entertainment is stringing along men, mated or not.
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“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”
sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.
——————-
the headache you wake with is devastating.
biblically so.
and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.
and fuck, suffering you are.
you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.
practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.
wait - practically? no. you did.
you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.
“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
fuck sakes.
you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.
and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.
“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.
his dog tags.
you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.
a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.
you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.
spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.
it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?
fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.
and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.
finally, you knock.
it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.
you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.
you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”
he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.
you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.
you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”
his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.
“did i?” he doesn’t move.
you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.
“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”
he still doesn’t take them.
“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”
your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”
he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”
you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.
“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.
“i-“
you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.
simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.
you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”
“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”
and there it is. here it comes.
“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”
“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.
silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.
you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.
when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”
your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.
“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”
“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”
oh god.
“shame?”
“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”
“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“
he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”
“walk me-“
earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”
“you don’t-you don’t have to-“
he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.
“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”
you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.
part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.
“look, simon-“
he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”
you blink, holding your breath.
“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”
fucking hell.
“yes.” you exhale.
“what was it.”
your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.
“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”
“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”
your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.
“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.
and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.
he doesn’t buy it.
“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”
christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.
this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.
“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”
“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”
you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”
“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”
“simon-“
he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”
it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.
clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.
“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”
it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.
“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”
his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.
his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—
“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”
your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.
“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”
your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“
“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”
you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.
“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”
“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”
something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.
“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”
his mouth is barely a breath from yours.
“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”
he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.
“fuckin hell.”
and then he’s kissing you.
no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.
“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.
you blink, dazed. “i-what?”
his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.
“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”
“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“
that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.
“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”
you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.
“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”
you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”
he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.
you fucking moan at the sight.
and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.
he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.
“oh, fuck-“
he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”
his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.
“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”
you’re panting now. shaking.
“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“
“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”
you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.
“tell me.”
“no-n-never like this—”
he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”
your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.
“simon-“ you whinge.
he cuts you off. “look at me.”
you do. barely.
“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”
you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.
it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.
“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”
you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.
“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”
you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.
when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.
“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”
you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.
the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“
he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”
you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.
you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.
“y’remember what else y’said last night?”
you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.
“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”
you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.
“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”
and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.
“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.
“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”
he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.
“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“
“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”
he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.
“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”
“fuck simon-“
“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”
it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.
it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.
he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.
“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”
he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.
you shriek, squirming with no where to go.
“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”
your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.
“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”
“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“
you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.
“mhm. messy little thing.”
he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.
“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”
you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.
“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”
“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“
“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”
you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.
“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”
another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“
“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”
a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—
“fuck—fuck.”
he lets go.
he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.
and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.
he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.
“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”
Task Force 141 x Omega OCs | Main Pairing: Ghost xOC
Content & Warnings: Omegaverse, Multiple OCs, Mention of Violence and Sexual Content
Current Word Count: ~186.6k
A 28-year-old omega ends up on the wrong side of the law, forcing her to make a daunting choice: serve a lengthy prison sentence or become one of four omegas for Task Force 141, an elite alpha pack known for their high-risk missions and no-nonsense attitudes. The omega opts for the latter choice and gets placed against 100 other omegas for a spot as one of four omegas in the elusive task force's all-alpha pack. Now, she dawns the callsign "Boo" and is forced to grow in ways she didn't expect to to in order to win the heart of an alpha. Extremely slow burn with themes of found family, self-improvement, and learning to love.
11.2k words of porn with plot. Going out with a bang for Halloween (pun intended). Everyone’s hands are everywhere and I may or may not have lost track at some point. M’bad.
It was honestly Graves’ fault.
Not that you’d admit that to him, the man’s ego was insufferable enough without adding fuel to the fire. But the chain of events that led to… well, everything that came after, started with him and his inability to keep his goddamn mouth shut.
Though to be fair, he couldn’t have known what he was triggering. He didn’t understand the fundamental truth about Task Force 141, the thing that everyone who worked with them learned eventually:
They were the most competitive bastards in the entire British Armed Forces.
It wasn’t just legendary; it was documented. There were actual incident reports.
Like the time Soap and Gaz had turned a simple training exercise into a competition over who could complete the obstacle course faster, which escalated into them sabotaging each other’s runs, which culminated in both of them dangling from a cargo net they’d somehow set on fire. Price had made them write individual apology letters to the base commander. They’d turned that into a competition too, each trying to write the most eloquent apology. Price had been furious. The base commander had been confused. The letters were still pinned to the bulletin board in the rec room as a warning to others.
Or the time Ghost and Soap had disagreed over the best way to clear a building, and instead of just… discussing it like normal people, they’d run the same scenario seventeen times in a row, each trying to beat the other’s time by mere seconds. They’d only stopped when Price physically removed them from the kill house and threatened to make them do paperwork for a month. Even then, Soap had muttered that he’d been winning.
Even Price wasn’t immune. There was a pool table in the officer’s lounge that no one was allowed to use anymore after Price and a visiting colonel had gotten into an increasingly intense game that lasted six hours and ended with the colonel’s transfer request. Price maintained he’d won fair and square. The indentation in the wall from where the cue ball had been hit with unnecessary force suggested things had gotten heated.
They competed over everything: marksmanship scores, mission completion times, who could do the most push ups, who could hold their breath longest, who could spot the enemy sniper first, who could drink the most without getting drunk (that one had ended poorly for everyone), and once, memorably, who could go longest without speaking. That had been a peaceful week for you, right up until they’d all broken at the same moment and started arguing about who had technically lasted longer.
Ghost had won that one by pointing out he never spoke much anyway, so it hadn’t been a challenge. Soap had thrown a boot at him.
The thing was, it made them excellent soldiers. That competitive drive pushed them to be faster, sharper, better than anyone else. They held records across multiple bases. Their mission success rate was unmatched. When Task Force 141 was assigned to an operation, people breathed easier because they knew it would get done.
But it also made them absolutely insufferable when they decided something was a competition.
And they decided everything was a competition.
Which brings you back to Graves.
The rec room was unusually crowded with Shadow Company temporarily stationed at the base. You’d been dealing with Graves and his people for three days now, and while professionally everything was running smoothly, personally you were ready for them to leave.
Graves had a way of taking up space, his Southern drawl filling every room he entered. He wasn’t a bad guy, exactly. Just… a lot.
You were refilling your coffee when he sauntered over, that trademark smirk firmly in place.
“Well, well. Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, leaning against the counter in a way that was probably supposed to be charming.
“It’s my base, Graves.”
“Phil, sweetheart. We’re past formalities, aren’t we?” His eyes gleamed with something that made you tense. “Especially considering.”
Across the room, you felt the 141 paying attention. Price had looked up from his report. Soap’s conversation with Gaz had died mid sentence. Even Ghost had shifted slightly in his seat.
You should’ve known then. Should’ve recognized the signs. The 141 had a sixth sense for potential competitions, and they were already alert, already watching.
“Considering what?” you asked, keeping your voice level even as warning bells started ringing in your head.
“Oh, come on now. No need to be shy.” Graves’ smile widened. “Though you weren’t particularly shy that weekend in Berlin, as I recall. Great even.”
The room went very, very quiet.
You sighed internally. Of course he was going to do this. Of course he was trying to posture and mark his territory. “That was two years ago, Graves.”
“Phil,” he corrected again, clearly enjoying himself. “And I gotta say, you’re looking even better now than you did then. If you ever get tired of the 141, Shadow Company’s always recruiting. I’d be happy to conduct your… interview process.”
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Oh no.
You saw it happen in real time: Soap’s hand tightening around his mug, Gaz going unnaturally still, the way Price’s report crinkled ominously in his grip, how Ghost’s head tilted in that particular way that usually preceded someone having a very bad day.
“I’m good where I am,” you said firmly, trying to de-escalate. “Thanks.”
“Your loss.” Graves straightened, addressing the room now, playing to his audience. “But between you and me, and well, everyone else here” he stage whispered conspiratorially, “totally worth the operation debrief we had to sit through the next morning half dead from exhaustion, if you know what I mean.”
Oh no.
“Graves-” you started.
“I’m just saying.” Graves straightened, clearly enjoying the attention. “But hey, you know where to find me if you change your mind. I’ll make sure to clear my schedule. Maybe we can recapture some of that Berlin magic.”
He winked- actually winked- and sauntered off to join his team.
The silence he left behind was suffocating.
Finally, Soap broke it. “Berlin?”
You shrugged, returning to doctoring your coffee. “It was a joint task force operation. Two years ago, like I said.”
“And you…” Gaz trailed off, eyebrows raised.
“Yes.”
“With Graves.” Soap’s voice was flat.
“With Commander Graves, yes.” You turned to face them, meeting each of their stares head on. “Is there a problem?”
Price folded his paper with deliberate precision. “Did we say there was a problem?”
“You’re all looking at me like I kicked a puppy.”
“We’re just… processing,” Gaz said diplomatically.
Ghost’s voice cut through, dry as bone: “Didn’t take you for someone with poor judgment.”
You snorted. “It was one weekend. Casual. And for the record, it was perfectly good judgment at the time. Mission was over, we were both consenting adults, and I have no regrets.”
“No regrets,” Soap repeated, something dangerous in his tone. “About Graves.”
“Should I?” You challenged, feeling your own temper stir, offended as they questioned your life choices. “I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to have a past.”
“Course you are,” Price said, but his jaw was tight. “Just didn’t realize your past included…”
“Included what? Men you don’t like?” You crossed your arms. “Grow up.”
“How was it?” The question came from Ghost, and everyone turned to stare at him.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Ghost leaned back in his chair. “How was it? With Graves.”
You could’ve deflected. Probably should have. But you’d never been good at backing down, and something about their collective judgment made you want to defend yourself even if a voice in the back of your head said you were just going to poke the bear.
“It was alright,” you said with a shrug. “Better than most, if I’m being honest. Actually…” you paused, taking a sip of coffee, “probably one of the best I’ve ever had.”
The reaction was immediate and visceral.
Soap’s mug hit the table with a thud. “You’re joking.”
“One of the best?” Gaz’s voice had gone up half an octave.
Price’s knuckles were white where they gripped the report.
Ghost had gone preternaturally still.
You blinked at them, genuinely confused by the intensity of their reactions. “What? You asked.”
“One of the best,” Soap repeated, standing now. “Graves. Commander Philip Graves, who can’t shut his mouth for five seconds and wears those ridiculous sunglasses indoors-”
“I didn’t say he was perfect, I said the sex was good. There’s a difference.”
“Better than-” Gaz cut himself off, glancing around the room. They were still in public, even if most people had cleared out when the tension started rising. “Better than most?”
“Are you actually offended right now?” You stared at them. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” Soap said hotly. “It’s-it’s-”
“It’s Graves,” Price finished, and somehow that explained everything.
You looked between the four of them and suddenly understood. This wasn’t about you having a past. This was about their egos. Their pride. Their absolute inability to accept being second best at anything, especially to someone they considered inferior.
And especially not at this.
“Oh my god,” you said slowly. “You’re jealous.”
“We’re not jealous,” four voices said in unison, which was probably the least convincing denial in military history.
“You are.” A laugh bubbled up despite yourself. “You’re actually jealous of Graves.”
“Not jealous,” Ghost corrected. “Competitive.”
“That’s the same thing!”
“It’s really not,” Gaz muttered.
Soap had started pacing. “One of the best. One of the bloody best. What does that even mean? Top five? Top three?”
“I’m not ranking my sexual encounters like a mission debrief, Johnny.”
“Why not?” he shot back. “Seems like useful information.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Can we not do this here?”
“Do what?” Price was genuinely curious now.
“Have a breakdown because I slept with someone and thought they were good.”
“It’s about-” Gaz gestured vaguely. “Standards. You have standards, right? And if Graves meets those standards, then what does that say about-”
“About you?” You finished. “Nothing. It says nothing about you because you’re not in competition with my past.”
The look they exchanged said otherwise.
“Don’t,” you blurted out preemptively.
“Don’t what?” Soap asked, voice too casual.
“Whatever you’re thinking. Don’t.”
“We’re not thinking anything,” Gaz said, which was absolutely a lie.
You knew that tone. You’d heard that tone before, right before they’d decided to turn a simple reconnaissance mission into a competition over who could get the most actionable intelligence. It had been effective but exhausting.
“It was two years ago,” you said firmly. “It was fine, it’s over. Can we please move on?”
“Fine?” Soap pounced on the word. “You said fine? But Graves was great.”
“It was an exaggeration.”
“Was it though?” This from Ghost, who had actually stood up now. “In my experience, Graves is many things, but he doesn’t usually undersell his own accomplishments.”
You stared at him. “Are you defending Graves right now?”
“I’m establishing accurate parameters.”
“Parameters for what?”
The look they all exchanged was brief but telling. In that single moment of silent communication- the kind they’d perfected over countless missions- you saw them come to some kind of collective decision.
“Nothing,” Price said, but his slight smile suggested otherwise. “Just thinking it’s interesting, that’s all.”
“What’s interesting?”
“That you considers Graves some of the best you’ve ever had,” Gaz said thoughtfully. “Makes a man curious about the standards being applied and if someone can raise them.”
“Oh my god.” You could see where this was going now, clear as day. “No. Absolutely not.”
“No what?” Soap asked innocently. Too innocently.
“Whatever competitive insanity you’re all cooking up right now, the answer is no.”
“We’re not cooking up anything,” Price said. “Are we, lads?”
“Nothing at all, Cap,” Gaz agreed.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Soap added.
Ghost said nothing, but his silence was somehow the most ominous of all.
You pointed at each of them in turn. “I know how you people think. I’ve seen you turn loading supply trucks into a competition. You’re not turning my sex life into another one of your challenges.”
“Your sex life?” Price raised an eyebrow. “No, love. This isn’t about your sex life.”
“Then what’s it about?”
He moved closer, and despite everything, your breath caught. “It’s about performance metrics. Ensuring quality control.”
“Quality control,” you repeated faintly.
“We’re the 141,” Soap said, appearing at your other side. “We don’t do second place. In anything.”
“And if Graves-” Gaz made a dismissive gesture, “-thinks he’s set some kind of benchmark, well…”
“Someone needs to correct that misconception,” Ghost finished.
You looked around at all of them, these competitive, stubborn, absolutely impossible men who apparently couldn’t stand the thought of anyone- especially Graves- being considered the best at something.
Even this.
Especially this.
“You’re all insane,” you managed.
“Probably,” Price agreed easily. “But you’re still here.”
You were. God help you, you were still here, and you weren’t walking away, and they all knew it.
Which is how you would up on Price’s bed with Soap’s head between your legs.
One second you’re in the rec room and the next you’re ushered upstairs, Soap’s mouth on your cunt, and your whole body jerks like someone plugged you in.
It’s wet and hot and pressure. Not a fluttery kiss, he seals over you and pulls, drawing your clit into his mouth and your hips come off the mattress a good inch. His hands slam to your thighs and push, spreading you wider and pinning you at the same time.
“F-fuck- oh god- Johnny.” That’s when your pulse drops, leaves your throat and settles between your legs in a hard, responsive beat. Every time his tongue flicks, it kicks. Every time his mouth sucks, it swells. The nerves there go loud, drowning out everything else.
You can feel your own slick on your inner thighs now, warm and a little messy. When he drags you closer, you slide on it. The sheet under your ass is going to be damp.
He angles his head and finds the exact spot.
You know it because your calves tense and your fingers curl. You try to close your legs around his head, curl around the pleasure, and he just laughs into you, low and smug, and forces your knees apart again. Your hip flexors burn from the stretch. You can feel the tremor start in them.
Above you, the bed dips; someone leans in. A broad, callused palm plants over your lower belly and holds you down. That single extra point of contact changes everything; now you can’t roll, can’t run, can’t arch away. All you can do is feel.
Soap increases his tempo.
Slow at first; long, wet licks from your entrance up to your clit, pausing there, circling. Then tighter, faster, little pulls of suction. Then when you gasp right, he adds tongue and lips and pressure and it becomes this relentless little engine of sensation, over and over, no mercy.
Your stomach knots. Your thighs start to shake properly now, not just twitch. Your nipples rub against the fabric of your bra every time you breathe, and they’re hard, throbbing, needy from the rubbing.
You make a sound.
It’s not pretty. It’s a half choked, wet, needy thing, and it spills out without permission. Someone coos at you for it. A thumb strokes your cheek. Fingers thread through your hair. It all blurs together because the center of you is flooding with heat.
He pushes two fingers inside you and the stretch is immediate; fullness to match the drag of his tongue. A sharp, perfect ache along your inner walls where your body says yes, there. Your cunt clenches around him like it’s trying to pull him in farther. The wet sound is obscene. You hear someone suck in a breath and say “Fuck, look at ‘er.”
Your chest heaves. Your ribs can’t expand enough. You can’t get a full breath because every time you try, Soap does something with his tongue to take it.
You’re right on the edge of that bright drop and your thighs try to close again. He forces them open again.
Your hips try to lift. The hand on your belly forces you down.
Your head tosses side to side, too much, too big, too good. Fingers- whose? Price’s? Gaz’s?- catch your jaw and bring you back to center.
“Look.”
So you do. You blink through the blur and look, and there’s a pair of baby blue eyes watching you come apart, and that alone tips you.
You break.
It’s hot and it’s fast. Your whole pelvis locks, then pulses. Your cunt clamps around his fingers in hard, greedy squeezes. Your clit is burning from the drag of his mouth and you are so wet you can feel your slick slide down toward your ass. Your toes curl, calves cramping, thighs shaking. At the crest, your vision goes white at the edges and your ears rush.
You come hard.
He stays on you.
That’s the killer. He doesn’t back off. He gentles, yeah, but he doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, slow, teasing, gathering everything he pulled out of you, making you feel every last pulse.
Your body shudders in aftershocks. Little heat flares. The muscles in your stomach flutter. You can’t do anything but take it.
Someone’s hand comes up to your chest and rubs, grounding. Another slides under your knee and bends it, easing the strain in your hip. Another strokes the inside of your thigh where his stubble has made it pink.
You sag.
You’re warm everywhere now, skin buzzing, limbs heavy. Your cunt still pulses in little sympathetic squeezes around nothing. If Soap slid his cock in right now, you’d pull him in to the hilt, no resistance.
They move you, fabric drags over your oversensitive nipples and you hiss, arching away, and someone laughs softly and unhooks your bra, slipping it away, soothing your nipples with their thumb. The bed squeaks, wood complaining. A knee slots between your legs and you ride it without meaning to because there’s still ache there, still want.
Another mouth finds your throat. Teeth scrape, gentle. A hand cups you, broad and warm, palm pressing over your still wet clit.
You were still shaking when they decided one orgasm didn’t prove anything.
The bed dipped and shifted around you, weight moving like a tide. You were on your back, knees loose, underwear somewhere halfway down one thigh, trying to remember how to breathe, when a warm hand slid up your stomach and settled just under your ribs. Big palm, callused, heavy enough to say stay right here. Price, then.
“Easy,” he murmured, more in tone than words. You felt it in your skin, not your ears. “You’re alright.”
You were. Your muscles, though, hadn’t caught up. Your thighs had that post release tremble, the one you couldn’t command away. Your belly kept fluttering in little afterpulses. Between your legs you were hot and slick and sensitive, pleasure still fizzing under the surface like it hadn’t decided to leave yet.
And they were all still there.
You were aware of them the way you’re aware of heat behind you. Soap, breathless and smug near your knees. Gaz, closer to your head now, arm along the pillow so you could lean if you needed. Ghost, solid at the side of the bed, one knee on the mattress so he could reach you without crowding.
Four men. Four sets of hands. Four different temperatures of want.
Your body knew it before your brain did: we’re not done.
Price’s hand slid down from your ribs to your hip, then lower, thumb brushing the still damp inside of your thigh. He hummed, quiet, pleased. “Good,” he said like he was noting it for the record. “Soft and wet.”
That should’ve been embarrassing. It wasn’t. Not with the way they were looking at you- like this was data, yes, but also like it was a gift you were like this for them.
Gaz tipped his head, watching your chest rise and fall. “She’s coming back,” he said, the way he might’ve said her vitals are up. “Look.”
You opened your eyes. The room swam into focus- concrete walls, rain on the window, four shadows leaning over you.
Soap grinned down at you, face flushed, mouth a little swollen. “So?” he said. “Better than Graves?”
You meant to snap at him. You really did. But the second your mouth opened, a thumb- Ghost’s, gloved and warm- smoothed over your cheek, and whatever retort you’d had melted.
“Don’t make her talk through it,” Ghost said, voice low. “She’s floatin’.”
You were. Your head felt light, your limbs felt heavy, and under all of it, your cunt still pulsed, slow and needy, because that first orgasm had taken the edge off but not the want. If anything, the want had gotten worse; looser, lazier, more give me more of that.
They saw it.
Price shifted, sitting on the edge of the bed so your back could rest against his thigh. The fabric of his pants was rough against your bare skin, but his palm was warm, moving in soothing circles over your belly. You let your head fall back against him without thinking.
“There we are,” he said voice like gravel. “Let’s get you comfortable.”
Comfortable was relative. Comfortable meant supported while we do more to you.
Soap crawled up again, this time on your left, bracing a hand beside your shoulder, his body radiating heat. Gaz mirrored him on the right, thigh pressed to your hip. Ghost stayed at your feet, big hands sliding up your calves, over your knees, pushing your legs apart again with maddening patience.
Your thighs quivered under his hands. He didn’t let them close.
“Look at that,” Soap said, and there was honest admiration in it. “Still shiverin’.”
“Sensitive,” Gaz agreed, eyes crinkling. “Makes it a fair fight.”
A fair fight. You almost laughed. Nothing about this was fair. It was four world class overachievers deciding one loud American didn’t get to be the gold standard in your head.
Ghost’s hands were firmer now, thumbs pressing into the tender spot where thigh met hip, easing you open inch by inch. You felt the cool air on you again. Felt your own wet, slick and warm against the inside of your thighs. Felt the ache start to build again, low and heavy, because even being held open like that sent a pulse of want through you.
He didn’t touch you right away. That was almost worse. He just kept you open and looked, head bent, breath brushing your inner thigh through the mask. His gaze flicked up to yours, unreadable.
“Still want more?” he asked.
You swallowed. Your throat felt dry. “Yes.”
Price’s hand on your belly stilled for a beat, then resumed, slower. You could practically hear the satisfaction in his silence.
“Good,” Ghost said. “Because we’re not lettin’ Graves win on a technicality.”
Then he touched you.
He dragged two knuckles through your slick and the sensation was so sharp after what Soap had just done to you that your hips tried to jerk away. Price’s arm across your middle kept you exactly where you were.
“Easy,” Price murmured, mouth close to your ear. “Breathe for me.”
You did. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Your body settled, but only in the loosest way. Every nerve from your navel down was on.
Ghost circled you first. Slow, deliberate, dragging wet over the most sensitive part of you in lazy, cruel little loops. It made everything there swell, throb, wake up. It made the ache bloom again, hotter, until you were whimpering into the air, panting from the heat of it.
Then, when you were looking at him, when he had your eyes, he slid two fingers into you.
You gasped. Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t hold it back.
It felt deep immediately. You were still soft and open from the orgasm and your body took him to the knuckle. You could feel your walls flutter around him, a helpless, greedy squeezing. You could feel just how wet you were, how easily he moved, how the motion made obscene, slick sounds between your thighs.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap breathed. “Listen to her.”
You heard it too. The wet. The way you caught on his fingers on the way out, then sucked him right back in. Your cheeks burned. Your body didn’t care. Your body wanted more.
Ghost set a rhythm- deep press in, slow pull out, lazy twist at the top that nudged right where you were still sensitive. Every stroke made your hips roll, made your breath catch, made moans spill out past your lips, made that warm, liquid feeling in your belly spread.
Price’s hand slid up to your breasts, fingers curling over the weight of them, thumb brushing your nipples. They were already sensitive and the touch made them tingle more. You arched into his palms without thinking and he made a pleased sound low in his chest.
“Responsive,” he said, mostly to himself. “Like that, do you?”
You managed a nod. Your voice was somewhere under the bed and you could only answer him with moans.
Gaz leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth. “You look wrecked already,” he murmured, smile against your skin. “That’s good. That’s how we like you.”
Ghost crooked his fingers inside you.
The pleasure changed. Went from warm and spreading to sharp and right fucking there. It sent sparks up your spine. Your thighs tried to close again and Gaz and Soap clamped their hands on the fat of your thighs, held you wide and open, while Ghost worked that spot over and over.
Your breathing went ragged. Your hips started to chase. Your toes curled in nothing. Your hand flew up, searching for something to hold, and landed on Soap’s forearm. You clamped down hard. He just laughed, turned his arm so you could get a better grip.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he said, eyes hungry on your face. “Hold on.”
You could feel yourself climbing again. Already. So soon. Your body didn’t care. It liked his fingers, liked the way they filled and dragged, liked the way Price’s thumbs kept circling your nipples in lazy counterpoint, liked the way Gaz’s mouth kept brushing your jaw, your cheek, grounding you.
“Still with us?” Price asked quietly.
“Yes,” you got out. Barely.
“Good girl.”
Your cunt clenched around Ghost’s fingers at that. Hard. Instinctive. You felt the heat in your face flare.
He felt it too. “Oh, you like that,” he said, tone gone velvet dark. “That what he said to you?” A pointed reference- Graves? Did he say it like that? It should’ve annoyed you but it didn’t. It just sent another pulse of want through you.
“Doesn’t matter,” Gaz said, amused, kissing your temple. “She’s gonna hear it better from us.”
You were too close to answer with a retort. The pressure was right there, sitting low, throbbing. Your thighs were fully trembling now, little uncontrollable shakes. Your belly was tight. Your breath came in hot pants. You knew if he just-
He did.
He added his thumb.
The extra point of pressure on your clit lit you up. It was too much and exactly enough. Your head tipped back on Price’s shoulder. A sound tore out of you, high and helpless.
“Let it happen,” Price said into your hair. “Let it.”
You did.
It rolled over you harder than the first, because your body was already primed, because you were being held this time- one hand at your throat, another at your breast, hips braced, legs kept open. You didn’t have to hold yourself up. You didn’t have to be quiet. You didn’t have to pretend you weren’t falling apart for them.
Your climax ripped through you in tight, fast pulses. Your walls clutched around Ghost’s fingers like you were trying to keep him. Slick flooded out around him, hot and embarrassing and perfect. Your thighs shook, heels digging into the mattress. You might’ve said someone’s name; you weren’t sure which.
They talked but it washed over you. What stuck was touch: Price’s hand on your sternum, grounding; Gaz’s thumb catching a tear you didn’t realize had slipped; Soap’s palm tightening on your knee like there you go, that’s our girl; Ghost’s fingers slowly, carefully easing out of you when the aftershocks got too sharp.
You sagged back, boneless.
Your cunt still fluttered, slow little squeezes in the afterglow. Your thighs glistened. Your skin hummed. You were warm all over, skin prickling, heart finally starting to settle.
Somewhere near your ear, Price chuckled. “That’s two,” he said, smug. “He give you two?”
You huffed a breath that was half laugh, half groan. “Oh my god.”
“She’s not arguing,” Soap crowed.
Gaz leaned his forehead to yours. “That’s because we’re winning,” he said, delighted.
Ghost wiped his fingers on the sheet, then rested his big hand over the inside of your thigh, thumb stroking once, slow. “We’re not done,” he said, and the promise in it made your already overworked nerves spark again.
You believed him. Every part of you, flushed, wet, and trembling, believed him.
Price shifted behind you.
“Alright,” he says, voice low, that command layer threaded through it. “My turn.”
You feel him move, feel the bed dip differently, feel his thighs open so there’s room for you. A hand slides under your knee and guides your leg over his until suddenly you’re straddling one of his legs, back against his chest, his arm a wide band across your front, holding you steady.
He’s warm everywhere you touch him. Solid. Bigger than you in all the places that matter for this. You can smell him, too, smoke, wool, the faint metallic smell of weapons oil. Familiar. Comforting. Infuriatingly hot right now.
You’re still soft from coming. Still wet. When he palms your hip and pulls you backward over him, you feel just how wet; you slide on yourself, on the inside of your thigh, on the sheet. You make a small, uncontrolled sound at your own slickness.
“Yeah,” he murmurs against the side of your face. “That’s what I thought.”
There’s movement below you: a belt unbuckling, the soft metal jingle, zipper down. You don’t have to look to know what he’s doing. Your body knows; your muscles get ready. Your hips go loose and expectant. Your cunt gives a slow, hungry little pulse like yes, now.
He fits his hand between your legs first, checking like he didn’t just watch Ghost make you flood. His fingers drag through you, gather you, stroke you. The touch is gentler than Ghost’s was, not searching for a spot, just confirming you’re ready for weight.
You are. God, you are.
“Still open,” he says, and you can hear the approval. “That’s good, sweetheart. Gonna make this easy.”
You don’t even realize you’ve tipped your head to his shoulder until his beard scrapes your temple. His mouth is right there, breath warm, words for you, just you. That alone makes your chest go hot.
“Hands on me,” he says. “Hold on.”
You do. One arm goes back around his neck, dragging his collar down so you’ve got something to grip. The other braces on his thigh. You can feel the muscle there, hard even relaxed.
The others have gone quiet.
They’re still close. You can feel Soap at the edge of the bed, practically vibrating. You can feel Gaz leaning in to see. You can feel Ghost standing sentry, watchful, but there’s a charged waiting in all of them now; the kind you get right before breaching.
Price angles his hips.
You feel his cock thick, hot, and heavy pressing against you from below. It’s blunt at first, just a nudge at your entrance, sliding in your wet. Your breath stops. Every muscle lower than your ribs goes tight, held in that exquisite almost there.
He hears it. “Breathe,” he reminds you softly. “Don’t lock up on me.”
You force air into your lungs. It shudders on the way out.
Then he pulls your hips down.
It’s a slow, controlled push. He’s too big and you’re too sensitive for him to just drive in, so he eases you over him, inch by steady inch. The stretch is immediate and deep. You feel it all the way up your spine. Your body parts around him because you’re open and slick and primed, but it still burns for a second and tells you you’re getting full.
“There’s it is,” Soap said somewhere off to the side, almost reverent. “Look at how she’s takin’ him.”
You felt it even with your eyes closed: three men leaning in, watching the way your body gave for Price. You were too busy feeling it to be shy.
Because once he got past that first thick resistance, your body just… went. The muscle ring eased, the wet did its job, and you sank. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the heat of him. You could feel the difference between the blunt, stretching first half and the deeper, thicker second half. You could feel your own slick being pushed up around his cock.
Your breath came out on a shaky, “Oh-”
“Good girl,” Price said in your ear, voice gone rough. His arm tightened around your middle to keep you from scrambling away from the intensity. “Knew you’d take me.”
That praise lit you up. Your cunt clenched around him hard. He groaned low in his throat, vibrating against your back where you felt it more than heard it.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz muttered, delighted. “She’s squeezin’ him already.”
“Course she is,” Soap said. “She’s still warm from before.”
Ghost didn’t say anything, but you heard the small, sharp inhale he always did when something impressed him.
Price held you there for a beat, fully seated, your ass on his thighs, your back to his chest, his cock buried in you to the hilt. It was a lot. Full, hot, so deep it nudged at places Ghost’s fingers hadn’t reached. It made your stomach feel heavy and your chest feel light. Your body wanted to move, to rock, to chase, but he didn’t let you. Not yet.
“Feel that?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, too breathless to speak.
“Tell me.”
“S’full,” you slurred, cheeks hot. It felt silly to say, but it was the truth. “You’re- full.”
“That’s right.” He sounded indecently pleased. “That’s the bit he couldn’t give you.”
Your back arched when he pulled almost all the way out.
The drag was obscene, long and slow, your walls gripping, reluctant to let him go. You could feel the way you narrowed again around the thickest part of him, the way your wet clung, glistening on his cock. At the top of the stroke he stayed right at your entrance, head just inside, letting you feel the emptiness he’d leave if he pulled out.
Your whole pelvis tipped, chasing him back.
Price laughed, low. “Oh, you liked that.”
Then he pushed back in, a little faster.
It rocked your whole body every thrust translated through his thighs and into your spine. Your breasts jostled; his forearm across your chest pushed them up. Your head fell back on his shoulder, mouth open.
He found his pace quickly, not jackhammering- he wasn’t showing off for the lads. He was demonstrating. Deep, confident strokes, bottoming out every time, giving you the full length so you couldn’t accuse him of holding back.
Every thrust pressed you down onto the mattress and up into his chest at the same time. Every thrust made your clit drag against the heel of his hand where it was braced on your hip. It stacked sensation- deep stretch inside, blunt friction outside- and your nerves lit right back up.
Your thighs tried to close and his big hand slid down and caught the inside of your knee, pushing it back open, letting the others see him inside you.
“She’s made for it,” Gaz said, softer. “Look at her.”
You were half gone already. Your breathing had gone high, breathy, those quick little pants that always came out of you when you were being taken instead of doing the taking. Your hands had locked on him, your cunt fluttering around him every time he bottomed out, that desperate, helpless squeezing.
He felt it. “There she goes,” he murmured. “She’s climbing again.”
You were. Faster than before. It hadn’t even been five minutes since Ghost worked you over and already your body was stringing itself tight again because now you were full, now you had weight, now you had rhythm. Your clit, still tender, zinged every time he drove you down. Your belly tightened. Your toes curled.
Price angled his hips a fraction and suddenly he was hitting a spot that made your vision blur.
You made a sound- high, keening, moaning.
“There?” he asked, voice tight.
“Yes- yes- don’t stop- please-”
He hit it again. Again. Held you down this time so you couldn’t wiggle off it. Your mouth dropped open. Heat flooded your face, your chest, your whole pelvis. Your legs shook against his hand.
“That’s the one,” Gaz said, almost delighted. “Right there.”
“Keep her there,” Ghost said. “Make it clear.”
He did.
You couldn’t run. You couldn’t even think of running. His arm was a bar across your chest; his hand was a clamp on your thigh; his thighs were solid under you. He just kept driving up, slow and merciless, right into that spot, each stroke punching a breathless sound out of you.
Your first and second orgasms had been waves. This one built like pressure. Tight, hard, insistent. Your cunt started to clamp in short, frantic squeezes. Your nails dug into his shoulder. Your head tipped back, baring your throat.
He bent and bit you there making you gasp.
That did it.
You broke around him, muscles locking and then spasming. Your walls gripped him so hard it dragged a groan out of his chest. Heat rushed down through you, out along your thighs, up through your spine. Your whole body shook. You might’ve said “Cap’in,” you weren’t sure.
He didn’t stop. He rode you through it, pace steady, letting your spasms milk him, letting you feel every inch of him inside you while you were at your most sensitive as he groaned and spilled deep into your cunt with a groan.
“That’s three,” Ghost said, satisfied. “He do three?”
You couldn’t answer. Your brain was white noise. All you could do was gasp and babble and hold on and feel.
Price finally slowed, then stilled, cock still deep, arm still locked around you. You were limp against him, boneless, chest heaving. Sweat was cooling on your stomach. Your thighs were a mess between wet and shaking and being forced open.
He kissed the side of your head. “Good,” he said, praise thick. “That’s my girl.”
Around you, the others moved.
You felt Soap climb onto the bed properly now, not just hovering. Felt Gaz shift closer to your knees. Felt Ghost come around the foot, big and quiet, watching you with that evaluating look.
“You want a turn?” Price asked, still inside you, not even pretending he’d pull out yet.
“Oh, absolutely,” Soap said, hungry. “She’s soft as fuck now.”
Gaz laughed. “You just want to see if you can top that.”
“Mate, I know I can top that.”
Ghost’s eyes flicked over you, taking in the flushed face, the trembling legs, the way you were still clenching around Price even as you came down. “She can take more,” he said.
You made a weak, protesting sound that wasn’t really a protest.
Price chuckled into your hair. “Hear that?” he said. “She wants it.”
Price kept you on him for a moment longer, big arm banded across your front, chest to your back, thighs snug under your ass. You were still pulsing around him in little, involuntary squeezes, and every one of them made his breath hitch warm against your ear.
“Well?” he asked the room, smug. “That feel like Berlin to you?”
Ghost shifted at the foot of the bed, mask tipped like he was taking notes. “So far,” he said, dry as bone, “that’s us: 3. Graves: fuck all.”
You managed a laugh, weak and breathy. “You’re all… ridiculous.”
“Competitive,” all four of them said at once.
Price finally eased you off him. You felt every inch of it; felt the drag, the last thick stretch, the way your body tried to hold him and then had to let go. You gasped softly at the loss, hips twitching. He steadied you with both hands, murmuring, “Easy, love,” as he guided you forward.
The second you were clear, Soap was there.
“C’mere, then,” he said, hands already on your waist, warm and eager. “My turn.”
Soap pulled you onto your hands and knees near the middle of the bed, the mattress complaining. You were loose limbed and shaky, so he did half the work himself, tucking your knees under you, keeping a palm between your shoulder blades so you didn’t fold.
“Oh, look at you,” he said, a low whistle in his voice when he got a full view. “Messy wee thing.”
You flushed hot. You were messy: your slick on your thighs, Price’s cum dripping out of your on the blanket, thighs still trembling. You would’ve dropped your head in your arms if Gaz hadn’t reached in and tipped your chin up.
“Don’t hide,” he cooed. “We wanna see you.”
Ghost made a little approving sound. “That’s the point.”
Soap looked over your shoulder. “So?” he challenged. “Cap do good?”
Price, still catching his own breath, wiped a hand over his beard. “She came,” he said, a little too pleased.
“Then I’ll make it four,” Soap said. “An’ then we can tell Graves to get fucked.”
“You did tell him that,” Gaz reminded him.
“Aye, but now I can tell him why.”
You felt Soap line up behind you, heat against the back of your thighs, chest to your back for a second as he reached down to guide his cock towards your entrance. His left hand stayed right in the small of your back, keeping you in position.
Soap pushed in.
He wasn’t as patient as Price- he was eager, and you felt that in the way he rolled his hips, in the way his hand tightened on you when he felt how easily you took him. You were wet enough, and already open; your body gave. You gasped- couldn’t not, after being so full already. Your arms shook. Gaz immediately slid closer on the bed and let you grip his wrist.
“Price did the hard work,” Gaz said, but he was grinning, cupping your cheek with his free hand so you’d look at him. “How’s he feel, love?”
“S’ good,” you got out, words breaking on a breath. “He’s-”
“Better?” Soap said, smug, starting to move for real now.
You couldn’t answer right away because Soap fucked differently than Price. Price was heavy and deep and sure. Soap was energized. He rolled through his hips like he fought, like he danced, like he couldn’t keep still if you paid him. Every stroke had a little snap at the end, a little lift of your hips, a little grind that dragged over every sensitive place Price had already woken up.
Your arms almost gave. Your elbows dipped. Gaz caught you around the shoulders and pulled you up, settling you half against his chest so you weren’t bearing your whole weight. It changed the angle, your back curving, your hips tipping, and Soap groaned when he felt it.
“Oh, that’s better,” he said. “Fuck, that’s better.”
Price moved in behind him, one hand landing on Soap’s shoulder like, pace. “Don’t blow your load in five seconds, Sergeant.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain,” Soap said, but he slowed just enough to keep you from being overwhelmed.
Your body, though, was already there. Every thrust pressed slick heat up where you were still tender. Every time he bottomed, you felt that deep, aching fullness, your walls clinging to his cock. You could hear yourself wet, obscene, a steady rhythm under the creak of the bed. Your thighs started to shake again, traitorous.
“She’s goin’ again,” Soap said, awed, angling his hips, his dick pressing deeper and making you whine against Gaz’s throat.
“She’s not gonna last long with you showboatin’,” Price said.
“She doesn’t have to,” Gaz said, mouth at your ear. “That’s the point.”
Ghost had moved closer, right at the foot now, one knee on the mattress, watching you from the best angle. You could feel his eyes on where you were joined. You could feel the heat of him even not touching you.
“Look at that,” he said, voice gone low, almost hungry. “That’s four. She’s taken two cocks and she’s still asking for it.”
You were. Your hips were pushing back to meet Soap’s, small desperate motions. Your hand on Gaz’s wrist had gone from holding to clutching. Your breath came in high, sweet bursts.
Soap slid his hand around your front, over your belly, down.
“Johnny,” Price warned.
“Relax,” Soap said. “I’m helpin’ her.”
His fingers found your clit, already swollen and slick and went straight to steady, tight circles, timed with his thrusts. Your whole body jolted.
You made a noise that wasn’t words.
“There she is,” Gaz murmured, holding you upright. “There we go. Let it happen, pretty girl.”
Soap laughed, ragged. “Aye, let it- fuck- listen to her.”
You couldn’t hold it back. Your body was too ready, too worked, too wet. The combination- full inside, rubbed right there, held and watched and praised- ripped another climax out of you. This one was messy and loud, your muscles going tight-tight-loose, thighs shaking so hard Soap had to clamp his arm around your middle to keep you from dropping as he buried deep and came, flooding your sensitive cunt with his release.
“That’s four,” Ghost said immediately. “Graves: still nowhere.”
You dropped your forehead to Gaz’s shoulder, breath tearing in and out of you. He cupped the back of your head, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “Good girl,” he said. “So good. You with us?”
“Yeah,” you panted, tears sliding. “Yeah.”
“Need a minute?” Price asked, voice back to that command soft.
You thought about it. Your body was thrumming, muscles liquid, thighs sore in a good way, your cunt still fluttering around Soap where he’d slowed to a lazy grind to keep you from getting shocked. You could have taken a minute.
You didn’t want to.
“No,” you said, surprising yourself with how sure it came out. “Don’t… stop.”
You felt all of them react to that.
“Fuck, I love her,” Soap said, groaning, pulling out slow, another long, obscene drag that made your eyes roll. “Right. Trade.”
Gaz laughed, delighted. “My go.”
He was smoother about it.
While Soap eased out, Gaz was already shifting you, rolling you gently onto your back again, then tugging your hips toward him. His hands were warm, steady, different from the other two: less force, more coaxing. He bent, kissed you once, slow and deep, like a palate cleanser.
“How we doing?” he asked against your mouth.
“Fuzzy,” you murmured. “Good. Fuzzy.”
“Fuzzy’s good,” he said. “Means we’re doing it right.”
He pushed your knees up, opening you again, and glanced back at the others. “You lads want to see?” he asked, shameless. “Come round. She’s gorgeous like this.”
They did.
Price came to your left, hand braced by your head, beard shadowed, eyes heavy. Soap flopped to your right, still flushed, watching like he wanted to dive back in the second he got the nod. Ghost stayed at the foot of the bed, looming, mask down, eyes dark.
Gaz stroked you first, just fingers, slow up your slit, spreading your slick and Price’s and Soap’s cum along your cunt. “Still so wet,” he said, low. “God, you’re perfect.”
Then he pushed into you.
He was between Price’s deep and Soap’s eager. He sank in steady, watching your face, slowing when you gasped, pushing when you relaxed. Your body welcomed him, open and dripping and aching for it. Even so, the stretch made your breath stutter and your hands grab for whoever was closest.
Price gave you his, lacing his fingers in with yours. “Here,” he said, and you held on.
Gaz bottomed out and stayed. You could feel him everywhere, thick inside, pressing low, your walls hugging him after so much use. Your belly fluttered again.
“Fuck,” Soap whispered. “She’s still clenchin’.”
“Means we’re not done,” Gaz said, beginning to move.
His pace was cruel in its own way. Not the driving authority of Price or the showy roll of Soap, this was measured. Just fast enough to keep you on the high, just deep enough to hit where you were tender. He knew he didn’t have to prove he could make you come, Price and Soap had already done the heavy lifting. He wanted to prove he could keep you there.
He did. Within a minute you were right back on the ledge, breath short and hiccuping, thighs trembling, slick loud between you, hands switching from Price’s wrist to Soap’s forearm, back to Price’s shirt, sobbing and sniffling with each thrust. Your clit was throbbing, begging for touch.
Gaz gave it, of course. Thumb down, gentle circles, perfectly in time.
“Yeah,” he murmured when your mouth dropped open and your back bowed and lewd desperate sound fell past swollen lips. “There she is. Gimme another.”
“Another?” you gasped, half pleading, half hysterical laughing.
“You said Graves was ‘one of the best,’” he said, smiling through the words. “We’ve got to bury that score, love.”
You couldn’t even argue because you could feel it right there again, that tight, spiraling tension building from the inside out; because the others were watching you like they were cataloguing every twitch; because Price was murmuring, “C’mon, love,” and Soap was chanting, “There ya go, there ya go,” and Ghost was saying nothing but looked satisfied.
You shattered again.
It rolled over you like a breaking wave, less sharp than the last, but wide, everywhere, making your toes curl and your back arch and your fingers dig into whatever you were holding. Your cunt spasmed around Gaz in hot little pulses. He groaned, hands tightening on your thighs, but kept moving slow to draw it out until you were scrambling and wiggling and sobbing from the sheer pleasure of it.
It was the wild look in your eyes, the near frantic pleasure at being overstimulated, blubbering into the air as Gaz kept thrusting, prolonging your orgasm into too much, that broke him, pushing in deep and stilling with a groan as he added his cum to Price’s and Soap’s.
You whimpered, overstimulated now, hips trying to twist away. Gaz caught it immediately and slowed, then stopped, still inside you but not moving. “Okay,” he said softly. “There we are. Breathe.”
You did, trembling all over now, thighs, stomach, even your arms. Sweat dripped on your neck. Your hair stuck to your cheek. You were aware of everything: the wet between your legs, the steady heat of a cock still buried in you, the weight of hands on your knees, your chest, your cheek.
Then there was Ghost.
“Shift,” he said quietly.
No one argued. Gaz eased out carefully making you whine- God, you felt that- and ghosted back. Price and Soap moved enough to give him room. You were boneless, pliant. You watched him take off his gloves, one finger at a time, setting them on the nightstand.
He came to the foot of the bed and took your ankles in his bare hands. His palms were hot, big enough to wrap nearly around. He slid you down toward him, closer to the edge. Your ass met the edge of the mattress, thighs spread over his forearms, knees kicked up, your back arched because there was nowhere else to go.
You were already wrecked.
Everything from your navel down felt wet, hot, loose. Skin clammy from sweat. Inner thighs slick where your own arousal had dried and then been replaced and then smeared again. Your muscles had that aftershock tremor- little twitches in your quads, belly fluttering, shoulders quaking when you tried to push up on your elbows.
He took one look at you and huffed behind the mask, low and satisfied. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s more like it.”
He wasn’t rushed, but he wasn’t delicate either. He hooked your right leg up over his shoulder; high, opening you farther than the others had and the stretch at the back of your thigh burned.
“Easy,” Price murmured from somewhere by your head, palming your shoulder. “He’s got you.”
Ghost caught your other knee and shoved it out with his hips, there was nowhere to put him. He took up the whole end of the bed, arms, shoulders, chest, all of it. You were small against him now, laid out, thighs spread over a frame that could pin three people if he wanted.
You felt his size before you felt him.
His shadow blocked the ceiling. His thigh brushed the mattress and the whole thing groaned. His hands spanned your hips like they were handles. When he bent a little, bracing one palm beside your ribs, the bed dipped like someone had dropped a sandbag.
“Want more?” he asked.
You nodded, breath already short.
“Good.”
He dragged his cock through you once and that alone nearly short circuited you.
Because you were soaked now, used and soft, and he was thick. Thicker than Price. Different shape than Soap. Longer than Gaz. He slid through your mess in a long, slow stroke, head bumping your clit, smearing heat everywhere. Your hips jumped like you’d been shocked.
“Oh-”
“Christ,” Gaz breathed, watching from beside your knee. “She’s still that wet?”
“Yeah,” Soap said, all wonder. “We did that.”
Ghost lined up.
You saw it only in a flash- cock big, flushed, heavy in his fist and then it was gone, pressed to your swollen cunt, right where you were open. You felt the blunt head nudge and everything in you locked, not from fear but from pure instinct: big, big, big.
“Breathe,” he said, like he’d been waiting for it. “Or it’ll hurt.”
You pulled air. Chest rising, shaking. Price’s hand slid up to your throat thumb under your chin to tip your face up so he could see your eyes.
“Right here,” he said. “With us.”
Ghost pushed.
There was zero give for the first second. You were open, but you were also swollen and sensitive, and he was a lot. The pressure was deep, powerful, like someone slowly forcing a fist into clay. Your mouth fell open in a silent oh, eyes going wide.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap said again, because apparently that was his phrase tonight. “Look at her-”
“Johnny,” Price warned, but his voice was tight too.
Ghost didn’t slam. He didn’t have to. He just leaned his weight in, inch by relentless inch, and let your own wet do the rest. Your body had to yield. And that was the moment your brain just… flickered.
Because it was too much.
Stretch, deep in your pelvis. Burn, not sharp but huge. Fullness that pushed on places the others hadn’t. Your back arched hard, heels digging into his shoulders, trying to find leverage that didn’t exist.
“Si-” you gasped, name torn out of you.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, pleased. “Say it.”
He was halfway in and you already felt full. Crowded. Your cunt squeezed around him in shocked little spasms, trying to pull him in and push him out at the same time.
“Fuck,” Gaz said, softer. “She’s clamping down on him.”
“’Course she is,” Price said, hand still at your throat, thumb rubbing your jaw. “He’s wreckin’ her.”
He was. He absolutely was.
Ghost gave you maybe two seconds to adjust, then he pushed the rest of the way.
It knocked sound out of you. A strangled, punched out cry that wasn’t even a word. Your vision went hot white at the edges. Your hands flew out, grabbing for anything- blanket, shirt, wrist. Soap shoved his forearm under your palm on reflex so you had something solid to claw at.
“Got you,” he said, eyes wide. “S’okay, s’okay.”
Your body took Ghost’s cock, because it had no choice, because you were so wet he could’ve slid forever, because the three men before him had already made you pliant. But where Price and Soap and Gaz had felt like they fit, Ghost felt like he filled. Like there was nowhere he wasn’t.
He bottomed out and held.
You could feel him in your belly- cock heavy, hot pressure low and deep. You could feel him nudging at your cervix, you could feel your own slick squeezed around him, you could feel your pulse beating against the underside of him.
Your brain went white.
Not “I can’t think of a comeback.” Not “wow, this is good.” Actual blank space. Everything narrowed to he’s inside me, he’s so big, I can’t- I can’t- oh god-
You stared up at the ceiling, mouth open, chest stuttering. Sound was distant- men talking, praising, swearing- but it was like it was happening down the hall. The only thing close was his weight and the bed and the way your body was struggling to remember how to relax around him.
“Breathe,” Price said again, firmer. “C’mon, love. In. Out.”
You dragged air. It trembled.
Ghost’s big hand slid down your thigh, over your knee, to the underside of it. He hitched your leg higher over his shoulder, angle changing, hips dipping so he wasn’t ramming your cervix, just pressing deep.
“Good girl,” he said then, and you felt the words more than heard them. “Took me. Look at you.”
You couldn’t. Your eyes rolled a little. Your fingers dug into Soap’s arm; he hissed and let you.
“Look at her,” Soap said, voice gone soft with awe. “She’s floatin’.”
Gaz laughed under his breath, gentle. “She’s gone.”
Ghost started to move, a slow, dragging pull, to the point where you could feel every ridge of him, your own walls clinging desperately, and then a steady, heavy drive back in that rocked your whole body. The mattress creaked. Your breasts bounced. Your mouth kept making these little punched out sounds you couldn’t control.
The best and worst part was the weight. Every time he came down, his hips met the backs of your thighs with a solid, meaty thock, and because he had your legs hooked over his shoulders, it pinned your pelvis to where he wanted you. You couldn’t lift to meet him. You couldn’t squirm away. You could only take that deep, filling stroke.
Your eyes unfocused.
Your mouth went wet and open.
Your thoughts- what was left of them- ran in circles: big, deep, can’t, yes, yes, yes-
“Yeah,” Soap murmured, almost proud. “That’s the one, Ghost. That’s the one that’s gonna wipe Graves right out of her head.”
Ghost’s eyes flicked up at him, dark and amused. “That the brief?”
“Absolutely the brief,” Gaz said. “Mission critical.”
“Then hold her,” Ghost said. “She’s slippin’.”
Price’s arm came under your shoulders and lifted you partway so you weren’t flat, so you had him to lean on. Your head flopped to the side against his chest, lips parted. He cupped your jaw, thumb on your cheek, steady.
“Come back,” he said quietly. “Want you to feel him.”
“I-” you managed, voice thin. “I feel him.”
“Oh, I know you do.”
Ghost changed the angle again, just a small shift of his knee, a deeper drive of his hips and that was it. That was the key. Suddenly he was stroking over that spot inside you the others had found, but from lower, heavier, fuller, and your whole body spasmed.
“Oh- oh, fuck-“
“There she is,” Gaz breathed. “There it is.”
Your climax came up like a sucker punch.
No build. No slow climb. Just here. Your cunt clenched around him so hard it wrung a low, filthy sound out of Ghost. Your back bowed against Price’s arm. Your legs tried to close around his shoulders and couldn’t, he was too broad, he kept you open, made you take every pulse of it.
It was the kind of orgasm that blanks a mind.
Sound dropped out. Vision whited at the edges. Your ears filled with rushing. Your body just contracted around him over and over, pulsing, milking, trying to drag him even deeper. Hot slick spilled around him, down over your ass, onto the sheet.
“Fuckin’ look at that,” Soap said, half-laugh, half-disbelieving. “She’s squeezin’ the life outta him.”
Ghost’s jaw flexed. He held your hips down, taking it. “That,” he said, voice gone rough, “is better than Graves.”
Price laughed, low and triumphant, hand stroking your cheek as you rode it out. “There we are,” he said. “That’s the record.”
You could only whimper, body shaking, cunt still fluttering around the thick length still buried in you. You weren’t thinking about Berlin. You weren’t thinking about Graves. You weren’t even thinking words. You were just full, and held, and done.
Everything cut to soft static; weightless, cotton wrapped nowhere. Sound went muffled, like you’d ducked under warm water. Your body was still humming on some deep, molten frequency, but your mind had…let go. Like someone had hit the breaker.
You felt big hands moving you, but from far away.
Your leg was lifted- careful, careful, don’t cramp her- then lowered. Cool air on your thighs for a second, then something warm pressing in. You twitched, a tiny reflex, and a palm smoothed down your hip right away.
“Shhh. S’alright.”
You heard it as vibration, not words.
Your body knew them, though. Knew the cadence of their voices, the way each one sat in your bones. Even floaty as you were, they were still buzzing in your nervous system. Nobody else could’ve touched you right then.
You were rolled, whining because you were sore, onto something broad and warm. A chest. Hair rough under your cheek. Beard bristle against your temple. Arms closing around you, not tight, just there. A heartbeat under your ear, deep and steady. You made a small noise, half sigh, half childlike hum, and melted.
“There we are,” Price murmured, and even though you barely heard it, your neck relaxed. “That’s it. Got you.”
Everything else turned into hands and heat.
Someone at your legs, wiping between your thighs in slow, respectful strokes. He paused every time you flinched and whimpered, waited, then kept going. Someone else tugging the sheet away and swapping it for a cleaner blanket. Someone tucked the blanket under you so you stayed warm. Someone lifting your limp hand and putting a bottle in it, then guiding it to your mouth.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” Ghost said, low and uncompromising. “Need water.”
The rim tapped your lip; you didn’t open.
A thumb stroked your jaw, firmer now. “Open.”
Your mouth parted on reflex. Cool water slid in, shocking compared to all the heat. You swallowed slow, almost lazily. It dribbled from the corner of your mouth; someone thumbed it away.
“She’s barely there,” Gaz said, voice soft with that pleased note medics get when a patient is post op and not distressed. “Look at her eyes.”
“She’s lookin’ right through you,” Soap said, proud. “We sent her to fuckin’ space.”
You weren’t following the words, but you were following the touch. Every time you slipped a bit deeper- down, down- someone reeled you back just enough. A hand over your sternum. Fingers in your hair. A palm cupping the back of your neck. You didn’t have to do anything. They were moving you like a sleepy doll.
Your arms wouldn’t work. Your legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Your whole pelvis was one slow, warm ache, like the echo of being filled was still there even though you felt…empty? Clean? You couldn’t tell. Everything was soft.
“…never seen her this quiet…”
“…you almost did break her…”
“…well she asked for it…”
“…Graves couldn’t do that…”
You drifted lower, your nervous system had finally decided, oh, we don’t have to do anything now. We can just exist. Your breathing slowed. Your mouth stayed parted. Your eyes blinked slow and out of sync.
“Christ, look at her eyelashes,” Soap repeated, grinning. “She’s fuckin’ gone.”
Price huffed a laugh, hand big and slow on your back. “Yeah. She’s ours now.”
Ghost was the only one still a touch clinical. “She’s pale?”
“Flushed,” Gaz said, checking your cheek with his knuckles. “Warm. She’s good.”
“Heart?”
“Steady. Bit fast.”
“Yeah, well.” Soap’s grin turned sharp. “We were spectacular.”
That actually tugged a weak breath of a laugh out of you, more an exhale with a shape. Four heads turned toward you instantly, like you were a radio that had just crackled.
“There she is,” Price said, pleased. “Back with us?”
You were and you weren’t.
You could hear them better, now that you’d taken water and your brain had floated a smidge closer to shore. But your body was still out in the warm sea, rocking. Every sound was filtered through cotton. Every touch was in slow motion. You had no urge to move. No urge to talk.
You were aware mostly of warmth. Warm arm under your shoulders. Warm thigh under your hip. Warm palm at your nape. Warm blanket over your legs. Warm, satisfied men around you like a wall.
“Alright,” Soap said, mischief back, because of course he would ruin the soft moment. “Moment of truth, then.”
“Johnny,” Gaz said in warning.
“What? We have to know.”
“We already know,” Ghost said, perfectly calm. “Look at her. She can’t remember her own name.”
“Yeah but I want t’hear it.”
“Ask her later,” Price said. “She’s milk-brained.”
Milk-brained. That made you want to laugh again. It came out a tiny smile against his shirt.
Soap saw it and crowed. “See? She’s not dead.”
“Fine,” Price sighed, indulgent, rubbing your shoulder. “One question. Then you let her sleep.”
“Deal.” Soap leaned over you, upside down in your vision, eyes bright, hair a mess. “Hey. Sweetheart.”
Your eyes slitted open. Barely.
“You with us?”
A slow blink. “Mhm.”
“Gonna ask you a very important thing, yeah?”
Another blink. You were so tired. But his tone was playful and your body trusted him, so you let the sound out: “Mm?”
“How,” Soap said, sounding like he could burst from smugness, “do we compare to Graves?”
The name hit your fogged brain like a stone dropped in deep water- plop… sink… gone.
Your brows knitted faintly. Your mouth worked. You genuinely searched and came up empty. Not a coy empty. Not a “I’ll say this to boost your ego” empty. A real, floaty, no file found empty.
“Who…?” you mumbled, voice slurry, eyes already sliding closed again.
The room erupted.
“Fuckin’ yes,” Soap yelled, triumphant.
“Told you,” Ghost said, not loud but so satisfied it rang.
“God, that’s beautiful,” Gaz said, laughing, head tipped back.
Price’s chest shook under your cheek. “That,” he said, pressing a kiss to your hair, “is what I wanted.”
You were already gone again, body boneless in their hands, drifting on their voices like sleep:
johnny loved to game. when he gamed, you were there, sat on his lap with his cock inside of you.
he'd already fucked you to exhaustion. you were laying against him, eyes closed with your head on his shoulder. you were both perfectly content.
for once, johnny was gaming quietly. when he did get a little frustrated and loud, you grumbled against him. he quietened down and kissed your head gently.
simon couldn't find either of you. admittedly, he hadn't tried very hard, enjoying the peace and quiet that, for once, permeated your apartment.
but then he tried to find the both of you.
it was rather obvious where you were, looking back. not the kitchen, bedroom or living room, you were bound to be in johnny's gaming room.
light flooded into the room. you groaned and covered your eyes, but johnny shushed you gently and kissed your head.
"sweet'eart," simon mumbled as he approached the two of you.
finally, you looked up at him. "hi, simon," you whispered and kissed his hand.
"johnny."
johnny didn't tear his eyes away from the screen. "lt," he said, hips bucking up in celebration when he completed the level.
you released a moan.
"christ, fuckin' horny mutt," simon mumbled when he took in the look on your face. "he fillin' you up, princess?" he asked and you nodded pathetically. "want me to take you to bed and fuck you good?" he asked and you nodded pathetically again.
simon kissed johnnys head before he pulled you away from him and carried you back to the bedroom.
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Simon's got a bit of a crush on 141's new secretary, and it's making him do crazy things. He can't help but get infuriated when he learns you're seeing a doctor on base. He knows it's wrong, but you know what they say...drastic times call for drastic measures.
Contains: simon POV, American!reader, moderate stalking, obsessive!simon, pining and yearning, drinking, unprotected piv sex, oral sex, (f receiving), very brief breeding kink, simon is a lovesick puppy with an emphasis on the sick part
Word Count: 10.4k
Masterlist
Simon wasn't sure how much more he could take.
As much as he loved the sound of your laugh, hearing you laugh because of something another man said was driving him insane.
Ever since you'd replaced Meredith, 141's previous secretary, he'd been plagued with...less than appropriate thoughts of you.
You were a sweet young thing, much too beautiful to be flitting around a big military base like this one. Though you had no military experience, you had filled Meredith's shoes and then some. You were always on top of their paperwork, were a great liaison between the gruff and sometimes grumpy 141 and other departments, and you never forgot their coffee or tea preferences.
At first, he had tried to simply ignore how his gut tingled when you smiled up at him, prompting him to ignore you in an attempt to get over this annoying little crush he seemed to have developed. He knew deep down it was different than how Gaz and Soap felt, both men shameless in the way they flirted with you. Always feeding you cheesy pickup lines that made you roll your eyes and laugh.
He tried to convince himself he was just a man, and staring at your bottom in the skirts you wore around the base was merely instinct. How was he supposed help himself from noticing the color of your bra through one peephole where the buttons in your blouse strained against your breasts? But as time went on, he couldn't ignore how his hands got a little clammy when you'd draw a smiley face on the paper cup you left at his seat, tea made just the way he likes it.
What's worse was Simon knew that he wasn't getting any type of special treatment from you, that you were sweet and even little flirtatious with plenty of other people on the base. Which is what started to drive him mad in the first place. He chastised himself for wanting something as silly as to be the only one getting your little notes and small smiles in the hallways.
He also knew that you were fucking one of the base doctors, Dr. John Carter.
Well, technically he didn't know, it's not like either of you told anyone. But he wasn't stupid.
The guy made up any excuse possible to come all the way up from the med bay to personally drop off paperwork at your desk, always lingering and chatting your ear off until he was paged back. At first, Simon figured he could handle some scrawny, pretty boy doctor lusting after you. Hard to blame him really. But what made it worse is soon you were doing the same thing. You jumped on any reason to go down to the med bay.
Which is where he was now, in the med bay, sitting with Soap as a nurse inspected the bruising welt on the man's arm, which Simon had given him on purpose because he knew you had volunteered to oversee the med student evals.
He watched, silently seething, as you helped him fill out a trainee evaluation from where you were perched delicately on the edge of his desk. Everything he said made you laugh, and Simon had to hold himself back when he watched Carter's eyes trail down to your ass as you walked out of the med bay, papers in hand.
Soap, always down to help his Lt., was giving empty answers to the annoyed nurse who was trying to help him with something he didn't really need help with. As soon as you were out of the room, Soap shooed the nurse away as politely as possible, standing with Simon as they followed out after you. Carter called out a friendly farewell to them and they both simply raised a hand in acknowledgement.
"What's yer plan?" Soap said lowly once the door clicked shut behind them.
"Dunno." Simon mused, "Have'ta think about it."
Soap offered a few options, none of which seemed fitting. Sure he wanted you all for himself, but they couldn't just kill the base's attending.
But truthfully? He had a plan in mind, just not one he ever thought he'd have to put into action.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
He laid in wait for a few days, scoping your apartment out to see what kind of alarm system you had. To his surprise (and dismay) you didn't have one. He tutted to himself, shaking his head as he picked the lock on your back door.
You were trusting a few easy locks and a deadbolt with your life. Eventually, when he moved you in to his house, you'd be perfectly safe.
Once inside, he tried his hardest to remain focused, but he couldn't help himself. He looked all around your things, figuring out your favorite foods, the products you used, the medicine in your bathroom.
He pressed his lips together as he read the label on your antidepressants, concerned about how much of your bubbly personality was a mask. He hummed in satisfaction when his eyes fell on your birth control, at least you were being safe. There were a few other things that caught his eye, your multivitamins and allergy medicine. There was so much he had to learn about you.
Gently closing the medicine cabinet, Simon reached in his pocket for what he came here to do. He slinked around your apartment, not making a sound even on your creaky wood floor, placing a few bugs around a couple rooms. He placed one in your living room, your kitchen, and upstairs in your bedroom. Once he was satisfied, he slipped out the back door, locking it as if he had never even been there. In a parking lot across the street, he was sitting low in the drivers seat of his truck, accessing the mics from the bulky old laptop he refused to get rid of.
He didn't have to wait long, as your car came rolling down the street about 30 minutes later. He couldn't see your apartment from his viewpoint, so the mic in the living room picked up you unlocking your door, he rolled his eyes at the first voice he heard.
"I just can't believe that." Carter said, making you laugh lightly.
"Come on John, you weren't exactly easy on him either." you mused.
The two of you talked about the medical evals from earlier that week, before you put on an American sports game. The sound from the TV muffled your conversation slightly, but Simon had accounted for that in his placement.
What he couldn't account for was when he felt that all too familiar twinge in his chest as he listened to you and Carter chat so casually. You and him were both American, and you were even from the same city. Which Simon had figured was a big reason you gravitated towards Carter in the first place, he reminded you of home. It was probably the only thing Simon was willing to concede that Carter bested him at.
But Simon was going to learn every little detail about you so that you thought of him as home.
He listened as the two of you were engaged in the sports game, cheering and groaning together as your team got the lead, lost it, and then got in back just in time to win the game.
Maybe he should learn more about basketball...
Unfortunately, Simon also had to listen to you and Carter having sex. He had placed the mic right at your headboard, so he heard every gasp, every moan, every squelch of your pussy around Carter's cock.
Selfishly, Simon had hoped you wouldn't sound like you were having a good time. Of course he wanted you to enjoy yourself, but with him not with Carter. But the doctor seemed to be putting his knowledge of anatomy to good use, with the way you were keening for him, whining out his name amongst a slew of curse words and pleas. Simon was mentally filtering out Carter's own words and sounds, only really wanting to hear you. He pondered replacing the mic with a camera, so he could learn what you liked and what you didn't like. But he would prefer for the first time he saw your bare figure to be in person.
As much as you sounded like you were enjoying it, Simon realized you kept having to repeat what you wanted. Where you wanted Carter to touch you, put his mouth on you, how fast you wanted him to go. You were begging him to keep pace, so close to your own finishing line, and Simon chuckled to himself when he heard Carter slowing down and making you groan.
Simon knew he could please you, without you having to think about anything but how he felt inside you.
He chuckled again when he heard the buzz of a vibrator, Carter whining out as he came, and your strangled orgasm came through the headphones.
Soon, you would't have to worry about that anymore. Not in his bed.
He begrudgingly listened to your light pillow talk, before Carter got his things together and left. You cleaned off in the bathroom, and he turned the volume up as you drifted off to sleep, your breath evening out as you dreamt.
Only then did he drive off, back to his own flat, grumbling to himself as he stepped under the hot water in his shower. As he leaned on the cool tile, he wrapped a fist around his cock, which had been screaming for attention since he heard you moaning in bed. Though he was alone, his cheeks still burned with a light tinge of shame as he cast his spend on the wall of his shower, your name falling off his lips.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
It had been two weeks, and Simon was growing tired of his routine. Not of you, he could never tire of you.
But the more he listened to you and Carter, he was growing restless. Not only was he sick of being unknowingly cuckholded, Carter wasn't even consistent in bed with you. Since the first time he listened to the two of you having sex, he learned that you didn't always finish. Simon could tell when you were faking it without even seeing your face. Carter never seemed to know, or maybe he just didn't care enough. Your pleasure was a happy byproduct and not his priority. If Simon had to listen to you turn that vibrator on after Carter was through the door one more time he was going to lose it.
The thing that was keeping him sane was that you never asked Carter to stay the night, even when he offered.
Simon hadn't needed to return past the threshold of your house, but his audible snooping provided him with so much information. So if you went out for a night, sometimes he'd slip inside and poke around. In his defense, most of his poking was innocent things, just to get to know you. Through your CD collection he learned your music tastes, ranging from country when you missed your mother, classic rock when you missed your father, and a mix of pop and hip hop in between. Through your bookshelf he learned your favorite books, a surprising mix of horror, romance, and celebrity memoirs. Through your TV stand he learned that you had a penchant for buying a physical version of movies instead of just renting it.
Simon was also learning your little habits. You hummed and sang while you cooked and cleaned, never doing anything without music to back you up. You cleaned on Sundays, always washed your face even when you came home drunk, and you had broken down and called your ex boyfriend about a week ago. He listened to you talk on the phone with your friends back home, telling them that despite being very happy here in England you still missed them.
Today he was happily lifting weights in the gym, absolutely buzzing. Even his team had commented on his good mood, one they so rarely saw from him at this point.
Last night he had listened in as you had a few friends over for a movie night, and they were asking how your job was going, all normal things. He rolled his eyes at how you talked about Carter, and how your friends swooned when you showed them a picture. But none of that mattered, it was what you said about him that had him on a high.
You had told them about all of 141, making him chuckle with your descriptions of his teammates. According to you, Price was handsome but strict in a fatherly way that sometimes made you feel like you were being babysat. Soap and Gaz were both hot and though they laid it on thick you were under the impression that it was all just teasing and they didn't really see you that way. Simon knew those two well enough that if you gave them the chance they'd fuck you right there on base. Hell, even Price would probably sink his teeth into you if offered the chance.
But when you brought him up that's when he sat up and really tuned in.
"He's so...big." you said, making them all giggle, "And he always wears this skull mask. I've never actually seen what he looks like."
"He wears one all the time?!" one of your friends asked, an annoying but familiar question. You took it in stride.
"Yeah, around base its usually just a black balaclava or one with a skull face printed on it. But the one he wears on deployment is like..a big skull plate right on the front. I've never asked but, I dunno, I think it's kinda sexy." you said, the last few words muffled as he pictured you raising your hands to your face in embarrassment.
His chest almost burst. Sexy.
"Not seeing his face is sexy??" a different one asked.
"Listen, like I said he's huge. Super tall, built like a truck. His arms are massive. With tattoos." your voice sounded so much sweeter when he was the topic on your tongue.
"And you have a super cute doctor who's basically in love with you." your other friend said. Before he got too angry at your friends for swaying you in the wrong direction, Simon had to remind himself that they only had your best interests in mind. As soon as you were his they'd know the best thing for you was Simon.
"And maybe if he was staying here then I'd be more open to putting a label on us." you said, making Simon's brow furrow. It was the first time he had caught any wind of Carter potentially leaving the base.
"Plus Simon has been so nice to me lately." you said, smile evident in your voice.
"Nice how?" a friend giggled.
"He's kind of got a reputation on base as a grump." you giggled, making him chuckle, "Like the new recruits are terrified of him. But he's so sweet to me. And he must be paying attention to my desk because he always brings me a hazelnut croissant from Tratoria."
Simon was happy you'd noticed his extra efforts toward you. You were right, he had studied your desk to know what your order from the coffee shop was. He started bringing you your favorite sweet treats, sitting next to you in meetings, making jokes under his breath for only you to hear. You were responding in kind, no more smiley faces on his notes, they'd all been replaced with hearts. Checking in with him while he was in his office, lingering at your desk long enough to walk out with him.
For the rest of the night, you and your friends talked about your love lives, but as your friends droned on he sat there grinning. You had noticed his soft spot for you, and it wasn't going unreciprocated.
While he grinned under his mask and put the weight plates away in the base gym, he recalled that you had mentioned never having a 'real' conversation with him, so he was going to fix that.
Hours later Simon's good mood was being tested by Price, who had thrown him a proverbial mountain of paperwork that would likely take him the rest of the damn day. However, when he heard a soft knock and looked up, the grin was back under the cotton of his mask as you leaned around the doorframe with a little crease in your brow. He waved you in and kept his eyes trained on your face as your heels clicked across the tile.
"How ya doin' in here? I heard Captain Price gave you a bunch of files, and I haven't seen you in hours." you said empathetically, your concern for him making his heart thump in his chest.
"M'fine, sweetheart." he sighed, leaning back in his desk chair with his arms clasped behind his head. He pretended not to notice the way your eyes darted to his chest, then further down to where his shirt was tucked into his cargo pants.
The weight of your stare made gave Simon an idea, "Actually, walk with me?" he asked, making your eyebrows rise in surprise.
"Sure. Where to?" you said with a grin and he matched it, regardless of whether you could see it from under the mask. He stood up and rounded his desk, gesturing to the door.
"Just around the yard. Need some air." he suggested, and you eagerly fell in step next to him.
The two of you walked for 30 minutes around the yard, chatting casually, and it was the happiest Simon had been in years. He bit the bullet and asked if you had heard anything about Carter leaving.
"Oh, yeah," you nodded, "He's headed back to the states to work at hospital in Chicago."
You didn't sound happy about it, but you shrugged as if it was no big deal. After confirming that it was his last month on the base, Simon moved on and changed the subject.
One month, and then you would be untangled, unless of course one were to count your minor entanglement with Simon.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Over the next month, the two of you took almost daily walks, peppering each other with questions. One day you had come in a little late to the office, worrying not only him but everyone else on the team. That morning you had waved them off with an apology, but on your walk with Simon you confided in him that your neighbor had cornered you, pressuring you to go on a date with him now that he had noticed Carter wasn't coming around on the regular. It had shaken you, and infuriated Simon. He should have been there, but truthfully he had been listening in less and less now that he talked to you so much during the work day.
He offered to be your ride to and from work, and to his slight surprise, you agreed. You had been quieter that day, and he could tell you were still keeping something back about what happened with your neighbor. He had given you his phone number, and told you that if you ever needed him for anything, to call him.
Though you hadn't called him for any emergencies, the two of you texted as much as Simon could handle, as truthfully he wasn't the best texter. And after Carter was gone, you had started leaning on him more, and he was more than happy to be there for you. He'd gotten Soap and Kyle to invite you out to the pub after a quick mission, and you'd started to join them more and more after that.
It was almost amusing to watch men's behavior when you were out at the bar. You seemed oblivious to it but plenty of them paused to watch you walk in, lots had their eyes on you, and you couldn't head to the bar without someone chatting you up, something that seemed to annoy you when Soap teased you about it. You always rolled your eyes, laughing and waving him off as you settled on to the barstool on Simon's right. That's always where you stuck yourself, between him and the wall. Safe.
On the nights he knew you were joining them at the pub, he always drove, and never got drunk, that way he could have an excuse to drive you home. Tonight, you were supposed to be meeting them at their normal pub after you were out with your friends, so he had been nursing a pint for a while now.
"Oh Lt., you are in trouble." Soap laughed, nodding his head towards the door. Simon turned around and his eyes widened as they fell on you.
You had a big grin plastered on your face, hair a little messy from the breeze outside. The tight mini skirt that clung to your hips was a far cry from what you wore around the office, and Simon could feel the fabric of his boxers strain against his hardening cock as his eyes fell on the bottom hem that was dangerously close to your bottom. You scanned the busy room, eyes lighting up as they fell on Simon as you made your way through the crowd.
He had to let go of the pint glass in his hand before he crushed it, watching several men crane their necks for a better view of your ass as you walked past them. He was trying to remind himself he was trying to get you to love him and not be scared of him. No reason to crush anyone's skulls because they were admiring your beauty.
Yet.
Soap let out a whistle when you made it over, making you laugh.
"Why don't you wear this at work, aye?" he slurred, and you smiled, leaning on Simon's shoulder.
"Because I would get fired." you mused, sliding across his back as you tucked yourself into his side as always.
"You want a drink?" he asked you, surprised when you shook your head.
"I think I've had plenty for one night," you groaned with a light laugh, "I need to sober up."
He patted your knee, standing up anyway to get you a glass of water and some crisps. When he got back, you gave him another dopey smile and a soft 'thank you'. He felt his heart tug at the way you trusted him with your safety, something he did not intend to take lightly.
You all chatted and laughed for another hour or so, and you seemed to be sobering up and getting tired so he offered to take you home. You smiled and nodded, bidding the other guys goodbye.
Your arms were wrapped around his bicep on the short walk through the parking lot, a walk that he purposely made slower to drag it out as much as possible. If you had said anything he would have told you that he was walking slower to make sure your heels didn't trip you up. But he just wanted to extend any time you had on his arm. For the first time you had kept your grip on his hand as he drove back to your place, fiddling with his fingers while his hand rested in your lap. The casual nature of the touch making it impossible for Simon not to smile to himself under the mask.
He did as he normally would and walked you up to your door, watching your back as you unlocked it. But this time instead of giving him a hug or a kiss on the cheek before saying goodnight, you hesitated.
"You alright?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. His eyes fell to your lips where you were chewing on your lower lip in nervousness. You blinked a few times before deciding with a shake of your head.
"Yeah, no I'm - it's fine." you said, tripping over your words as you looked down at your feet but staying planted where you were. He didn't respond, put held his eyes on you. When you looked back up at him you reached out to hug him around his neck. His palms splayed across your back as you sighed into his neck. This hug was longer than the others he had gotten from you, and this time when you pulled back you held his face close.
"I really wanna kiss you."
It was barely a whisper, but it made his brain stop short. Your big doe eyes were staring up at him with a look of genuine of affection that Simon was not accustomed to being on the receiving end of. He didn't say anything, opting instead to lift the bottom hem of his balaclava up to his nose. His hand moved up from the small of your back to gently grip behind your neck, pulling you up towards him as he bent down a bit to press your lips to his.
Simon wasn't too proud to admit that he had been thinking about this very moment for months. He'd probably been thinking about it the entire year you'd worked for them. And now that he was in it, feeling the plush skin of your lips press on his it felt like nothing he had ever felt in a kiss before. Sometimes he'd wonder about that 'spark' that some people talked about feeling when they kissed someone, unsure if he had just missed it in previous kisses.
But here in this moment with you it all made sense. The feeling of your lips moving against his, the sound of the sigh you let out as you pressed yourself against his chest, it was all perfect. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you in place as you craned your neck to kiss him deeper. He smiled into your mouth as your fingertips tugged at the small amount of hair that was now sticking out of the bottom of the balaclava.
You had to be the one to break the kiss, because Simon would have suffocated to death if it meant he never had to detach from your lips. So when you pulled back and took a breath in and giggled at him, his brows furrowed.
"What?" he asked, unable to help the smile on his lips as you grinned. Your hand moved around to the side of his face, your thumb swiping along his bottom lip.
"I got my lip gloss on you," you giggled, making him roll his eyes.
"That's fine," he said, pulling you back up to him so he could kiss you again, "I'll get it at home." he said into your lips. The way you laughed into his mouth went directly to his groin, and this time he was the one to break the kiss as he tried to control himself. Though you were responding in kind to him, you were still drunk and in no shape for any type of sex. This time when you pulled back you just stared up at him.
"You have such a nice smile." you said, voice reverent and fingers still exploring his jaw, "You sure you don't wanna stay?" you added coyly, batting your eyelashes and tilting your head to the side. He almost groaned at your tone, clearly wanting him to come inside and fuck you.
You weren't making this easy.
But he was a man of morals, and he was not John Carter.
"Course I do." he said, his thumb rubbing at the skin above the top of your skirt, "But you're still drunk, my darling." he laughed at the way your bottom lip poked out in protest.
"Oookaaay," you sighed sweetly, drawing the vowels out, "You're missin' out though."
He cocked an eyebrow at you, though he knew you couldn't see it, "Oh?"
"Mmmhmm," you nodded, one of your hands sliding along his arm as he still held you in place, "I've been told I'm a lot of fun when I drink tequila."
"That's good to know," he said, leaning down to speak lowly in your ear, "But the first time I fuck you, you will have your head on straight. Okay?"
He smirked to himself when he heard your little breath, coming out in a huffed laugh. When he stood back up to full height, your pupils were dilated as you nodded up at him.
"Okay." you said, the obedience in your tone and demeanor making his mind go a little fuzzy.
He planted one more kiss on your lips, before the two of you said goodnight and he started to leave. He turned to make sure you were getting inside, both of your heads snapped up to an argument happening a few yards down the road. From what he could see, a man was in the street arguing with someone in an apartment, throwing things up at the windows and kicking bins around in the street. He looked at you and you were already looking at him, all flirtation gone from your eyes.
"Are you sure you can't stay? At least for a little?" you asked, your voice laced with fear. Once Simon heard the waver in your voice he already had his answer. There was no way he could leave while some drunk asshole was causing a problem on your street. You looked relieved as he didn't hesitate to walk back up to your door, gently pushing you inside as he followed you in.
"You don't have to stay long I-" you started, but he waved you off as he locked your door, frowning a bit when he slid the flimsy chain lock that added almost nothing to the actual lock on the door.
"M'not leaving now." he said, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger as he placed a quick kiss on your lips. He took a brief moment to savor the casual nature of the peck, satisfied that the two of you had finally crossed that particular line and he could take all the kisses he pleased from now on.
You nodded at him and asked him if he did intend staying the whole night, which he pondered for a moment. It was already pretty late, and neither of you had to be on base tomorrow. So there was really no reason why he would have to leave, nor was there any way he would be able to leave without knowing that you were completely safe. But if you kept telling him how much fun you were on tequila he was in for a difficult night.
"As long as you, young lady, remember that-" he started, and you rolled your eyes and groaned before interrupting him.
"Okay, okay," you said, waving your hand before heading through the living room and into the kitchenette, "I'll stop trying to fuck you. Fine."
As he watched you kick your heels off and pad to the fridge, he wasn't sure he'd ever heard you curse before. He followed you, his boots suddenly sounding heavy on the linoleum.
"You don't gotta stop," he said as you grabbed the water pitcher from the fridge and poured two glasses of water.
"No, no, no. You lost your chance Lieutenant Riley." you teased, and he sucked his teeth as he heard his rank fall from your pretty lips.
"Lieutenant Riley?" he questioned, caging you in against the counter as you turned back to him. You hummed in satisfaction as he pressed his lips on yours again, smiling into the kiss. When he pulled back, you handed him the cool glass in your hands, silently urging him to drink it.
"Unsure where you're gonna sleep though," you pondered, "I don't have a guest room, and that couch is way too small for you, but if you can't control yourself..." you trailed off, making him chuckle.
"I can control myself. Dunno if I can say the same for you, though." he laughed as your face scrunched up at him.
"Hmmm," you hummed, eyes looking him up and down before responding, "Maybe. I don't even know what you really look like. Maybe I don't want you to sleep in my bed."
This earned another laugh from him, but he knew that this day was coming sooner rather than later. So as he felt your eyes on him, he lifted his free hand up and gripped the top of the balaclava. He pulled it off, the skin on his face relishing in the cool air of your flat. He blinked down at you, your eyes wide. He didn't say anything, just cocking his head to the side to prompt a response from you.
"I want you to sleep in my bed." you said, your hands coming up to clasp the sides of his face as you pulled him into another kiss. He smiled against you and reminded you about control, making you groan, "You're so mean. It better be worth the wait."
"Oh it'll be worth the wait. I can promise you that." he chuckled.
After the two of your finished your water, you led him up the stairs to the second floor and showed him your bedroom, and he was mindful to act as if he had never seen it before. You left him alone as you went to wash your face, and as the door to the bathroom closed he peeked around your bed frame at the bug he had placed forever ago. He had listened to so many of your most intimate moments through this tiny piece of technology, and soon enough it would send the sounds of your first time with Simon to the recording device he had in his truck. Something he intended to come back to when he was away on missions, a reminder of his pretty dove back home.
He sat on the side of your bed, untying his boots and slipping them off. As he undressed down to his undershirt and pants, he chuckled softly to himself at how he was really here in this moment. Months of waiting, months of work, and the first time he'd in bed with you Simon was white knuckle-ing past your attempts at sex. He had sat back down you came back in the room, bare faced and absolutely beautiful. You smiled warmly at him before turning to your dresser, fishing some pajamas out of the bottom drawer.
"You want me to change out there?" you smirked, nodding to the hallway.
"Your house, love." Simon replied, feeling the way his eyes darkened as he eyed you. You shrugged and placed the pajamas on the top of the dresser. It felt like the world was moving in slow motion as he watched you peel the tight mini skirt off your hips, exposing the lacy blue thong that barely covered your ass crack. Your arms crossed as you lifted your top off, and Simon couldn't see the smirk on your face but he knew you were sporting one as you reached back to unclasp your bra.
"Y'could at least turn around." he heard himself say lowly, his words met with a giggle from you. You opted to pull your panties down unbelievably slow, bending at the waist so Simon had no choice but to watch the way the gusset peeled off of your pussy. By the time your hands were at your ankles, your rear was spread open just enough for him to admire both holes. They were practically screaming for Simon to reach out and touch, for him to sink his tongue into them.
When you straightened up, you continued his torture, turning around and giving him his first look at your naked frame. You let him drink in the sight of you, his eyes traveling over the swell of your breasts, your hips, thighs, everything he had never been able to see in your smart work clothes. Simon's cock leapt to attention when his eyes focused on the hard peaks of your nipples, each decorated by a silver bar pierced through them. There was a glittery piercing hanging from your bellybutton as well. When he met your eyes again you were still smirking, but this time you had an eyebrow cocked.
"What?" you asked innocently, making him try and swallow his saliva to lubricate his throat.
"You have your nipples pierced." he croaked out, making you giggle again.
"You know," you mused, stepping towards him and making his heart jump, "I'm not just some boring secretary who wears ugly skirts all the time." you crooned, settling between his spread legs and carding a hand through his hair. Simon's eyes fluttered shut at the touch, but he didn't dare let them close fully when your breasts were being presented inches from his face.
"I didn't think that." he said, voice coming out as nothing bit a whisper as he looked up at your smiling face.
"Better not have." you responded lightly, bending to kiss him briefly before standing back up and gently gripping his jaw in your hand, "And if you tell Johnny that I have my nipples pierced, you will never fuck me."
Now that made him laugh. You giggled along with him, turning and going back to the dresser and slipping the pajama set on and ending his show.
"He'd be drooling into a pool on the floor." he said as you made your way back to him.
"He would have fucked me." you teased, making him roll his eyes.
"True. But he's no gentleman." Simon retorted, not meaning for the words to come out as stony as they did. You hummed, pressing his chest back slightly as you climbed into his lap, making him lay back as you straddled his hips.
"That's probably true." you mused, and Simon relished in the feeling of your hands exploring his chest. He watched your eyes as you traced your fingertips lightly over the scars on his chest. After a few silent moments you gazed at his face and giggled again.
"What now?" Simon asked.
"Nothing," you said, leaning down so your face was above his, "There's just something sweet about big bad Simon Riley lounging on my pink sheets."
He rolled his eyes at that, but the sentiment did warm something in his chest. Now that he was here in your bed, no mask on, guard down for you, Simon realized that he had never been this way in his life, not romantically at least. The rest of 141 had seen his face on occasion, and he had a few little flings in the past, but nothing like this. No one like you.
So instead of saying anything, he reached up to cup your face with both his hands, pulling your face down to his so you were laying down on top of him while he kissed you. For a while he just held you there, and you seemed to have no intention of doing anything but be held. Eventually he moved you both onto your sides, wrapping his arms around you without breaking the kiss.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he murmured into your lips, greedily drinking in the sigh you let out as your fingers tightened where they were perched on his biceps.
"Don't say things like that to me," you groaned as he pulled back and frowned at you.
"Why not?" he questioned, his serious tone lost on you as you looked up at him longingly.
"Because I really want you to fuck me." you whined, the sentiment going straight to his already aching cock.
"I will baby," he crooned, "Just not tonight. I have morals."
"So you'll never fuck me drunk?" you asked, and he smiled at your little pout.
"Not for our first time." he said, shifting his body so he was perched above your flat frame on the mattress, "Like I said, the first time I fuck you, you will have your head on straight."
He kissed your pouted lips, moving to get up and out of the bed. You whined again, asking him where he was going, and as he told you he was taking a shower he couldn't help but smile to himself.
Simon had gone over this almost a thousand times in his head, this moment where he finally crossed the line from your friend to your lover. He had thought through every scenario his mind could conjure up, thinking of ways he could get you to depend on him, to need him. As he'd already proven there wasn't much Simon wasn't willing to do to ensure he steered you in the right direction, whether you knew it or not. He'd been prepared to tap your phone, follow your every step, go through your mail, or hack your laptop. Hell, when there was discussion of John Carter staying on base he was prepared to kill the man.
Nothing was going to stop him from having you.
But he hadn't expected it to be so simple. There was no convincing you, no need for added external pressure, none of it. And yet here you were, mewling for him like a pathetic kitten desperate for his affection. He'd been in countless upturned regions, been tortured for information, been through things and made decisions that would keep most people up at night. But turning away from you, lounged out and gazing at him from those pink sheets, was the single hardest thing he'd ever had to do.
You mumbled a direction, sleepily telling him where the bathroom was, not that he needed it. Simon hopped in the shower to douse himself in cold water, trying anything to quell the ache of his throbbing cock. Once he had calmed down, he dried off and put his clothes back on.
Back in the room, you had tucked yourself into your side of the bed, and had left the blankets open on the other side in invitation. Simon shut the light on your bedside table off before he climbed in behind you, wrapping his arm around your midsection to pull you close to his chest. You hummed sleepily, adjusting yourself a bit so you were peeking over your shoulder at him in the darkness.
"I don't think I've ever done this," you said, laughing softly, "Sleeping with someone before, y'know, sleeping with them."
Simon smiled, pressing a light kiss to your forehead before giving you a squeeze and wishing you goodnight. You turned back over, settling into your spot and bringing his hand up to your chest. You laced your fingers with his and it didn't take long for him to recognize your breathing pattern to know you had fallen asleep.
Sleep wasn't typically easy for Simon, but as your breath danced on his knuckles and his nostrils filled with the sweet scent of the perfume in your hair, he felt it creep up on him sooner than expected.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
When Simon awoke, he swore he was still dreaming. He wasn't the best sleeper, between nightmares and muscle aches he usually woke up a few times every night. But with you by his side apparently you were the perfect cure, as he had slept deeper than he could ever remember.
Cracking his eyes open was when he was convinced he was dreaming. The sun rays were shining through your cracked blinds and washing over the both of you, still tangled together amongst the soft sheets. You were still sleeping flush with him, but you were turned to face him now, cheek smushed against his bicep as the light danced across your face.
Simon had never laid his eyes on anything more beautiful.
So he laid there until you stirred. He drank in every second that passed, every shallow breath you took, focused so hard like he was memorizing the particles of dust in the air. With a deeper breath, you finally stretched as you woke up, not opening your eyes quite yet. You hummed to yourself when you reached out and your hands discovered his chest, finally opening your eyes to look at him. Before he could say anything, he watched a shy smile creep up on your features before you quickly looked away from him, making him lift an eyebrow at you. A small part of him was a bit concerned that you had sobered up and regretted the things you had said and done last night.
"Morning," he said, his voice still thick with sleep. You echoed him with a shy 'good morning' before sitting up and rubbing your eyes.
He quietly watched you, trying to study your body language before he asked what was on your mind. When you turned back around, he caught your eye and tilted his head a bit.
"What?" you asked, brows furrowing in worry.
"Why ya acting shy?" he asked, trying his best to sound playful, hoping he wasn't coming off accusatory. You laughed lightly, laying back down beside him before sighing and looking up at his eyes.
"Honestly?" you started, chewing on your lower lip before continuing, "I'm a little embarrassed."
"About what, love?" he said gently, clasping a gentle hand around your wrist and pressing his thumb on your pulse point.
"I kinda...threw myself at you, huh?" you laughed sheepishly, peeking at him as if to gauge his reaction. He offered you a soft laugh, pulling your body closer to press a kiss on the side of your head.
"You don't need to be embarrassed." he said softly, "Do you remember what I said to you last night?"
"Some of it." you said, brows furrowing in concentration.
"I told you that you have no idea how long I've wanted this," he said, moving his head so he was looking at you at you eye level, "And I meant it." he affirmed, satisfied when the crease in your brow softened a bit.
"So you don't think it was, like, completely pathetic?" you asked, and he smiled.
It was a little pathetic.
"No." he lied, pressing a gentle kiss on your lips as you giggled.
"Just don't tell anyone how desperate I was," you groaned, smiling up at him.
"Never." he nodded earnestly.
"Thank you." you sighed, "I would have to quit if Johnny and Kyle had that ammo on me."
Simon chuckled at that, aware that if he did share details of your behavior (and physique) with his team you would never hear the end of it. Price wouldn't tease you about those details he was sure, and Gaz would give up eventually, but Soap would be relentless. But if Simon had it his way, no man would ever know the beauty of your naked form ever again, even if it was just through his own word of mouth.
"They won't." he assured you, greedily taking yet another kiss from you. This time you held him there, and as you shifted your weight to tuck yourself as close to him as possible, something in Simon snapped. The feeling of you underneath him, kissing him so very needy, it was enough for him to move his own weight around so he was on top of you.
"I'm sober now. Scouts honor." you said softly, clearly not wanting him to pull away like he did last night. He laughed into your mouth and opted to bite your lower lip gently.
"Oh I know." he said, the desire rumbling in his chest obvious in the way his tone dropped. You whined at him as his mouth traveled from your lips down the column of you neck, smirking into you when he found a spot that made your hips buck up into him a bit. He bit you gently there, licking the skin to soothe the pain as your hands gripped his shoulders as if he was going to get up off of you and leave.
Simon moved his knee and brought your leg up with it, opening you up so he could settle his hips between your thighs. You opened up so beautifully for him, your obedience once again making his cock twitch. You were finally settled beneath him fully, hands cradling his face as your legs were wrapped around his hips to anchor him in place. Though he wanted so badly to rip your pajamas off you and devour you for breakfast, he stayed put, mesmerized when you moved his face back up to yours to kiss him.
The two of you stayed there for a while, lost in a deep kiss that had been brewing for months. It wasn't until you shifted your hips and rubbed against his crotch that he broke. His hands left your hair and moved your sleep shirt up and off of you, quickly followed by your shorts. Simon did not climb back over you like you thought he would, he was frozen in place by the sight of your glistening pussy, spread open and so fucking pretty. Lowering himself onto you, he heard your breath catch as you watched him descend on your sex, painting a long stripe with his tongue flat to catch as much of your flavor as possible.
The second your arousal hit his taste buds, he knew nothing would ever compare. No drink, no food, nothing would ever be this good. He ate you as if he was on death row being served his last meal, hungry and desperate for more. The sounds coming from you were music to his ears, spurring him on as he teased your clit with his flicking tongue, sucking it in and teething it every so slightly. The feeling of your soft, wet flesh in his mouth felt like forbidden fruit and he suddenly understood why Eve bit the apple.
Pulling back only to take another look at you, he watched your hole clench around nothing, so he obliged, inserting his middle finger and exploring your walls as he sucked your clit back into his mouth. You gasped, your hands somehow finding purchase in his buzzcut, hips bucking up into his mouth. He cursed under his breath at how tight you were, massaging every inch inside of you to gain the reward of more juices leaking from you for him to lap up. Another finger and you were moaning his name this time, and Simon could feel his cock wetting the front of his boxers at the sound of it.
He worked you open, pumping his thick fingers in and out of you, stretching you as much as he could before he even thought about notching his tip inside you. Simon's other hand came up to spread your lips open, allowing him better access to the red bundle of nerves that was making your thighs twitch when Simon so much as breathed on it. The way you were clamping down on him, your back arched and your hair messy, he knew you were close.
With his eyes trained forward on you, he watched your orgasm seize you, all your muscles going tense before you lost control of your body. Your tits were bouncing with how much you were squirming on him, and the way his name was coming from your mouth made him hum into you to cruelly overstimulate you through your peak. By the time he let you pull him off, you were panting, sweaty, and your eyes were glazed over as you watched him stand up.
He licked his lips, and sucked his fingers clean as he stood at the foot of the bed before you. He wished he could take a picture of you in this moment, and you were probably still in such a blissful high you might even let him. He finally took off his shirt and underwear, feeling a bit smug as he watched your eyes widen at the sight of his cock. Your lips parted ever so slightly as you watched it swing heavily between his legs as he climbed back on top of you.
"You're so big," you said hoarsely.
"I'll go easy on you." he assured you, planting a kiss on your lips as he lined himself at your entrance. All it took was the tip and your brows furrowed at the stretch. He planted his forehead on yours to watch your face as close as possible as he pushed in, you pretty features scrunching so cutely as he split you open. He fucked you with a few inches at first, adding more and more as he worked you open gently.
It wasn't easy, going slow. Simon wasn't used to slow. He was used to fucking, hard and fast and dirty. But this wasn't fucking, this was making love. And he intended to make love to you to prove that he was worthy of your affection, worthy of your time, worthy of your pussy.
You seemed to think he was worthy, clawing at him and begging for more as he slid in once again. "Fuck, please, Simon! I can take it I promise!"
Who was he to deny his woman?
So he sank into you fully, both of you relishing at the feeling. Your walls were pulsing a hypnotizing rhythm around his shaft, enticing him to plant his seed directly where he was sat at the door of your womb. Your face went blank for a moment, eyes closed in bliss as he let you adjust to his full length. When you opened your eyes and looked back up at him all Simon could hear were wedding bells. You were looking at him like he had hung the fucking moon, like he wasn't just a cold blooded killer, like he was a man.
So he fucked you like a man should. Deep and slow and passionate, one of his arms around the small of your back to hold your soft breasts flush with his chest and the other arm cradling your head so he could hear every hiccup and moan that left your sweet lips. Your hands were back around his neck, hips rocking with his as he sent his cock straight into your center. He'd listened to you so many times, but these sounds were new somehow, and it pleased him that he was making you feel like you'd never felt before. One long, drawn out whine in particular almost sent him over the edge.
"Y'like that baby?" he grunted in your ear, your head nodding immediately.
"God yes! Fuck, m'so full, Simon,"
"Takin' me so well, you were made for me."
Simon was sure of that. The way he was sliding in and out of your wet pussy so easily, you were practically sucking him back in. And fuck it felt good. Better than he could have ever fantasized about. You were wet and warm and fucking heavenly. Shifting slightly to angle deeper, your walls clenched down on him in desperation, another orgasm tantalizingly close. He didn't speed up, didn't switch positions, he just kept up the pace that had you whimpering like a bitch under him, begging him to keep going because you were so so close!
He only moved right as it crashed over you, shifting back so he could watch your face up close this time. You were such a vision, orgasmic pleasure suited your features so well. He'd give you 100 if you could handle it, just to see your lips fall open in that cute little 'o' right before you threw your head back and moaned his name. The pulse in your cunt had picked up, urging him to release his spend inside of you.
"G'na fill this pretty pussy up." he grunted, finally speeding up his rhythm to chase his own high. The want, the need to cum deep inside you was making him feral. You held on to him and talked him right to the edge, your pretty voice begging him to use you and fill you. He felt your eyes on him as he felt the rubber band inside him break, his balls flexing as they sent his cum through his shaft and out into your welcoming walls.
You whined out at the feeling, and he dropped to his elbows to cage you in as he fucked you through his release. Your fingernails were absolutely leaving marks as you clawed at his back, and the thought of being marked by you elicited a groan deep from the back of Simon's throat. Once his cum finally stopped flowing, he pressed himself down on top of you and lazily fucked into you as he gradually softened inside you.
He felt you sigh under him, followed by a soft laugh. "You were right." you said, voice slightly muffled by the muscle on his shoulder.
"About what?" Simon asked, lifting himself up to look down at you.
"It was worth the wait." you said softly, pulling his face down to yours and planting a soft kiss on his lips. The softness felt like it was eating Simon alive. He wasn't used to this, and his head was swimming with the knowledge that this wasn't the only taste he was ever going to get.
After a few nice moments of the two of you catching your breath, still tangled together, you groaned and tried to shove him off of you. You dangled the prospect of breakfast in front of him, laughing when he jumped on the opportunity and finally released you. Simon made a point to toss you his shirt, just because he wanted to see you cooking in it.
If you caught wind of his reasoning, you stayed quiet, slipping the garment over your head and smiling as you dug in your drawer for a pair of underwear. After slipping his boxers back on, he followed you down the stairs like a puppy.
You shooed him away once you were both in the kitchen, and knowing he'd be no help to you anyway Simon took a seat on one of the stools by the kitchen island. He let his mind wander, chuckling to himself over you pleading to not disclose your rendezvous with the other team members. They'd know he fucked you, that's for sure, but now that the topic was on his mind he wondered how much ribbing he was going to get. He could hear that stupid Scot's voice in his head, singing your name along side Simon's and an obnoxious
K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
"How do you like your eggs?" you asked, snapping him from his thoughts.
"Runny." he said, smiling at you like a fool. You nodded and made your way back to the stove, putting a new pan on the element to heat up some oil.
You finished making breakfast, offering him a tea in the middle of cooking his eggs. As Simon leaned on the counter and watched you, his eyes zeroed in on your nipples poking through the soft fabric of his shirt. Seeing you cooking after listening to it for so long had his chest buzzing at the domesticity of it all. You were humming a song he didn't recognize, and as you were putting food on two plates he was suddenly hit with an unexpected and vivid image of you tutting around his kitchen pregnant. His balls twitched in his boxers at the thought of you swollen with his child, breasts heavy and full.
Simon had never considered children, not with this work and his upbringing. But he had also never found anyone that triggered a thought like that in his mind. But clearly his feelings for you were stronger than even he understood, because the thought of filling you up so much that it takes was so clear in his mind. He could almost hear you shuffling around, whining about your back and begging him to help you put your shoes on. Completely reliant on him.
The sound of you setting the plates on the table snapped him from his albeit perverted daydream. You grinned at him knowingly, rubbing his shoulder.
"Whatcha thinkin' about?" you mused.
"Fucking you." he said plainly, relishing in the way your expression dropped into a shocked open mouth one before he walked to the table and sat down.
"You're insane." you said, shaking your head as you followed his lead and sat across from him. He smiled at you, popping a piece of sausage in his mouth. With the amount that he knew you preferred to cook vs order takeout it shouldn't have been a surprise that you were such a good chef. He complimented your skills anyway.
"It's just eggs and sausage." you said and he shrugged
"I'da burnt the fucker." he lamented, making you laugh loudly.
"I'll teach you, don't worry." you said, reaching out to pat his forearm.
After a while you spoke up again, softer this time, more serious.
"Thank you for staying."
"Course, sweetheart." he said, noting the way you smiled at the pet name.
"I mean it. You didn't have to," you said before smiling cheekily, "You didn't even know your reward was gonna be so good."
"No I didn't," he laughed, "But between that drunk cunt down the street and your neighbor I wasn't leaving. Especially with that piss poor lock y'got."
"Hey! Listen I rent," you giggled, "I can't just install a huge deadbolt because my - you don't like my chain lock." Simon didn't miss the way you stuttered over the possessive, but he decided to let it sit for a while. He let you eat for a while, lulling you into a false sense of security before he sprung something on you.
"You should be my girlfriend." he said, once again very plainly. You coughed into your orange juice, and looked at him wildly.
"Huh?!" you asked, making him smirk.
Simon repeated the sentiment, rewording it just a bit, "I want you to be my girlfriend."
You blinked at him, brows furrowed in confusion. He desperately wished he could read your mind to know what was going on in that pretty little head.
"I didn't know you did things like that." you said finally, eyes flickering from his face down to your plate.
"Did things like what? Date?" he asked.
"Girlfriends and stuff." you shrugged, pushing a piece of egg around with your fork, "I thought you just wanted...y'know."
"To fuck?" he offered, to which you nodded. He paused a moment, opting to just give you the flat out truth.
"I've never had an actual partner, to be fair. So you're not wrong." he mused, "But how I feel about you is different. It's more."
This seemed to settle you a bit, "Okay. I mean I really like you. Like a lot. So if you're sure that's what you want I'd really like to be your girlfriend, Simon. But I wanna make sure you really want that... don't want you do it just for me."
He smiled at your flustered expression, clearly a bit embarrassed at how you were rambling on. It was almost funny, how little you knew about his feelings for you. Those drastic measures still unnoticed.
Sure, Simon had absolutely no idea what he was getting the two of you into, but in his gut he knew it was right. He had a lot of learning to do, and a few HR conversations to have that were sure to make Price grumble.
But for now, he had you, a full stomach, and the morning light.
Taking your hand and bringing it up to his face, he brushed his lips across your knuckles.
Simon sees you as a blackberry. Sweet, tart, and a little complicated. There’s something about getting a blackberry seed nestled in the bed of your molars and grinding down until you taste the bitter oil alongside all that sweetness.
Price sees you as a pomegranate. His to crack open, spread out, stain his fingers. To pluck carefully. A pomegranate isn’t a fruit for the impatient— it’s for those who have time, patience, and aren’t afraid to get a little messy.
You’re Soap’s peach, of course. Ripe, summery, fuzz in all the right places, and sure to have juice dripping down his fingers and chin. Not to mention that seam— the perfect place to drag the tip of his tongue.
Gaz thinks of you as an apple. There are so many types of apples, all with different looks and different tastes, but when you find the one you like? It always makes you so happy to see it. Sweet, dependable, and makes such a perfect pairing with so many things. But they’re not delicate— an apple can come on adventures, too. He’d keep you like a honey crisp in his jacket pocket if he could.
You’re Nikolai’s pear. Regarded as troublesome by some and rarely praised— too soft, too easy to bruise and mar, not fit for travel. But Nikolai loves the flavor, the texture, the way that plump bottom sits in the curve of his palm… He happens to think it’s worth a bit of trouble— that a fruit which shows fingerprints is the only kind worth eating.
Bonus:
König sees you as his strawberry. He could just about have you on anything— the same way there’s strawberry cake, yogurt, ice cream, candy, syrup, cereal, trail mix. You could be in every little morsel of his life and he’d be delighted every time.
read this blurb from @softaestluv however many days or weeks ago and i finally drew it bc i couldnt stop thinking about it ( if you couldnt already tell from literally seeing me reblog the post like 2 posts before this one LOL)..... I lowkey feel like i shouldve made him look a little more ugly looking but OH WELL.
venom!sevika × fem!reader, smut, nipple play, cunnilingus (r!receiving), tentacles/tendrils, slight bondage, tendrilcock/strap (she feels it), vaginal penetration (r!receiving), slight overstimulation, mention of aftercare, venom being an annoying little shit, wc: 2.7k
venom!sevika who is really fucking scared of hurting you with this weird thing she has to deal with now. Her new brainmate is not typically known for being gentle or careful. Constantly throwing things around and just being messy doesn't earn the symbiote any trust from her either.
venom!sevika who eventually caves and tells you, it's not like she could hide her new secret from you for long anyway. And she'd rather have you find out in a somewhat calm situation (given that she has been constantly grumpy due to venom just not shutting the fuck up inside her brain, especially not when you are around), than you finding out by some shitty news report talking about sightings of her. And the suspicions and rumors no doubt soon to be stirred up by the trail of headless bodies she leaves whenever her little friend gets hungry would reach your ears sooner or later anyway. Best to tell you herself.
venom!sevika who is definitely surprised when you don't react with disgust or fear, but with clear interest and very poorly concealed arousal. It's simple to you; your ultra sexy girlfriend now has the ability to turn into an even bigger and more muscular version of herself, plus she has slimy tendrils and can essentially grow extra limbs at will — that's the hottest surprise she could have presented to you. Admittedly, venom has its own will and a matching attitude, but at least it seems to be intrigued by its host's girlfriend's fantasies. Enough to be willing to help the both of you out — enthusiastically, that's for sure.
✧˖*°࿐
You caught her mumbling to herself angrily, or at least, that's what it looked like to you. In reality, she'd been arguing with her symbiote about what was okay for it to do, and what activities would be off-limits, strictly. She quickly found out that threatening someone, or something, that she shares her body with might not work if said entity can just choose to gleefully munch on her organs at will.
venom!sevika who, with enough sweet words and even sweeter kisses, agrees to try some of the things you suggested. as long as the two (or rather three) of you start slow, no diving in without knowing whats next. It starts with her just letting you feel her in her new form. it would be way more peaceful if venom would keep its comments to itself, but feeling your hands run over her new physique still feels like she's about to light on fire any moment. the excited glimmer in your eyes and the way you all but press yourself against her dont make it any easier to focus on taking it slow.
venom!sevika who can feel her restraint slipping when you start slowly sliding one of your fingertips over venom's sharp teeth. She can feel it, in a weird, unfamiliar way. You're fascinated with her new form, that much is obvious from the way you're already squirming in her lap. Her hand finds your waist — she's so much bigger like this, her hand dwarfs your midsection easily, more so than it usually does anyway — and slips under the fabric of your shirt to steady you.
"Easy, baby," she leans down to your ear, and you can feel sparks of electricity shoot up your spine at the proximity. "Getting exited already?" She doesn't need an answer, can easily feel how soaked you are though your panties where they stick to her muscled thigh.
venom!sevika who licks along your jaw with her new tongue. The movement is a little clumsy, the long muscle feels a little out of her control in her new form's mouth. Still, you whine, hand gripping at the slightly slimy muscle of her biceps. Your girlfriend just chuckles, big hand sliding up your spine under your shirt.
"Wanna get these off, baby? You've been so good, so patient. Think you deserve your reward, no?" You nod enthusiastically, arms already lifting over your head before sevika even finishes her sentence.
venom!sevika who just stares once she gets your clothes off. Stares at how you look with her hands all over your skin. Cups your tits in her big palms, squeezes and pinches until you whine for her to actually do something. She doesn't mean to tease you like this, really. She just can't help herself when you look so delicious covered in the black slimy substance that venom is.
It doesn't take long until venom itself speaks up again. The comments never really stopped, not for sevika, at least. The symbiote had been whispering in her brain the whole time. About how gorgeous you'd be wriggling on its tendrils, grinding on its tongue. Sevika would be lying if she said the pictures her mind had painted to those words didn't mess with her patience.
Now, venom addresses you directly. And oh, how you blush at the downright filthy words the raspy voice whispers. It's not sevikas voice, that much is clear. It's deeper, a little more feral and venoms sharp-toothed maw curls into a sly smirk when it sees the effect its words have on you.
venom!sevika who traces every inch of your skin with her tonge as she makes her way down to your core. It's wet and messy, but she's getting the hang of how to control the long wriggling muscle now. Your hands are already searching for something to hold onto when she gets to your bellybutton and places a slimy kiss there.
Her grin is so smug you almost blush just from the way the rows of long sharp teeth glint at you in the dim light of your shared bedroom.
venom!sevika whose new symbiotic form is so huge your legs have to spread wide to make room for her when she ducks down between your thighs. She throws one of your legs over her shoulder, and a slick, black tendrils immediately wraps around your thigh to keep it in place.
She grazes her razor-sharp teeth over the inside of your thigh so softly it feels like a breath of air and watches you shiver, your thigh twitching against the tendril's hold on your soft flesh. Your eyes close, head lolling back on the pillow with a whine, because Gods, you're getting frustrated here. You're soaked, can feel the damp fabric of your panties clinging to your cunt like a second skin, and you know your girlfriend can see it too.
You're just about to protest — lips already parted and a complaint sitting on the tip of your tongue — when you can feel her tongue press against the gusset of your panties. Her hands hold your hips in place as they buck against her open maw — you're not even sure if you're trying to get closer or flee from her touch. The sensation is new and unfamiliar, her tongue is so much bigger like this, longer too. It feels like it's the first time she's eating you out all over again.
venom!sevika who can feel not only her but also venom's hunger thrumming within her. They mingle together, intertwine until she can barely tell them apart. It's making her head dizzy with desire; to cherish this moment, let it melt on the tip of her tongue until you do, too. And then there's the hunger; all-consuming as it makes her skull buzz with the need to devour you whole, ravish you until there's nothing left for her to take.
She slips your panties off your hips, meaty hands shaking with restraint. The sight of your bare cunt still makes her feel like she's about to faint, anticipation running like lava in her veins. But when she looks up from between your thighs, she can see the trust you put in her shining through the need in your glossy eyes.
Gods, you're so beautiful like this. Vulnerable and open for her, and so eager to get a good feel of what this new form of hers can do.
venom!sevika who starts slow, pressing the flat of her tongue to your hole and lets it rest there for a moment to feel the faint pulse that betrays your need for her. She can practically smell it on you, how bad you want this; want her.
You've already begun to moan softly when her teeth graze over the twitching pearl of your clit. There's so much noise in her head; your sweet sounds and the way she swears she can hear your pussy calling for her, begging for her tongue, her fingers — anything. But then there's venom again. Just won't shut up and let her have this moment with her girlfriend.
She shoves its insistent voice aside as best as she can and instead answers your cunt. It's just the tip of her tongue at first, flicking against your weeping hole before it pushes in. Your reaction is immediate — a squeaky moan and a shiver that runs up your spine like electricity, making your back arch off the mattress as if you're trying to flee from it.
Your girlfriend takes this as a confirmation to go deeper, wet muscle wriggling an pushing into you until she can nudge the tip against that sweet spot hidden in your gummy walls. And Oh, your reaction is priceless — whimpery moans keep spilling from your lips, hips bucking against her maw to chase the high she's giving you.
And then you start begging for more, sevika, please, need more and something inside her snaps.
venom!sevika who pushes her tongue in as far as your glossy cunt allows and then some more. The tip of it is pressed snugly to your cervix, wriggling there just to hear your scream for her, your hands scrambling to grab her hands, her arms, anything you can reach in your pleasure-drunken haze. She can feel every little squeeze your pussy gives around her wet muscle, taste your juices right from their source — and she loves every second of it.
Her hands grip your hips so tight they might bruise, but she couldn't be moved to care as she pulls you closer to her face, desperate to devour you. Your hips twitch in her hold, clit aching to be given just the tiniest bit of attention, but it seems like your girlfriend has other plans. The noises coming from between your thighs are downright pornographic; wet squelching and nasty slurping that only seems to grow louder the longer sevika spends buried in your cunt.
venom!sevika who only pulls away from your swollen pussy when your hands start pushing at her head, whines bubbling from your lips. It's too much and not enough at the same time, clit twitching for attention above your sobbing hole. Her tongue leaves your pussy with a slick pop that makes heat rise to your cheeks.
"Impatient again?" A tendril shoots from her shoulder and wraps around both of your wrists, pinning them to your abdomen. They're surprisingly strong as you try to pull your wrists
free, and the amused chuckle coming from between your legs has your pussy clenching around nothing.
✧˖*°࿐
venom!sevika who is on top of you now, towering over you where you're sprawled out on the mattress. Her tendrils are wrapped around each of your legs, keeping them wide open for her and giving her the prettiest view of your glossy cunt. There's a thick, tendril-like thing growing from her crotch. It looks almost like her favore strap, just that it's so much bigger — like everything about her is, in this form.
She still has that sharp-toothed grin on her face and it only seems to grow more smug when she sees the look of needy anticipation on your face. One of her hands plants itself next to your head on the mattress, steadying her muscular frame as she leans down, her long tongue darting our to lick along your jaw while she lines her makeshift cock up with your entrance.
venom!sevika who can feel everything when she pushes inside. It has her cursing under her breath, jaw clenching as your pussy wraps around her like a vice. She can't decide where she wants to look — You've got this beautiful look on your face, features twisting with pleasure. Your cunt looks just as gorgeous — slick hole stretching wide to make room for her, almost like you're trying to pull her in deeper.
"Easy, easy. Open up for me, baby." One of her tendrils presses against your clit, wriggling there to rub the swollen bud. It earns her a high-pitched squeak from you that quickly turns into a string of needy moans as your hips try to buck up into hers.
venom!sevika who starts with slow, shallow thrusts — doesn't want to overwhelm you too soon. She can feel her tip kissing your cervix each time she bottoms out. You're singing now, the string of moans and whiny pleas never ending as the sweetest sounds spill from your spit-slicked lips.
She wants to take it slow, she really does, but the way you clench each time her cock hits that sweet spot tucked deep inside your gummy walls has her head spinning and control slipping away. Her hips grind into yours, sharp gaze locked on your face to not miss any moment of your pleasure written on your features.
Two of her tendrils crawl up your sides until they reach your tits, playing with your nipples and flicking against them so see your back arch into her touch. Her thrusts are faster now, hips slapping against the back of your thighs with wet plap, plap, plap 's.
venom!sevika who thinks she might die like this, wrapped so snuggly in your warm cunt. She can tell you're getting close, each of her thrusts has your pussy clenching tighter around her cock, and your moans have turned into needy whimpers. "You wanna cum, baby?" Her tendril on your clit presses down harder, drawing quick circles on the sensitive pearl while another tendril wriggles its way into your stuffed hole.
It's a tight fit, and it has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, head bobbing in uncoordinated nods. She grunts, angling her hips to bully her cock into your sweet spot with every snap of her hips.
It barely takes ten seconds until your hips are bucking up wildly, a drawn-out moan ripping from your lips as white-hot pleasure shoots up your spine like bolts of lightning, painting stars over the canvas of your blurry vision.
venom!sevika who keeps fucking you through your orgasm, barely slowing down to let you regain your breath. You feel heavenly on her cock, extra sensitive and so tight now that your pussy is pulsing around her with every beat of your racing heart. Her own orgasm hits her like a truck, her hips pressing into you as deep as your fucked-out pussy allows. She's breathing heavily on top of you as her tendrils withdraw from your body slowly, disappearing into her again.
venom!sevika who only collapses onto you once she's fully back to her usual form, all traces of venom gone save for the whispered comments in her brain. She buries her face in your neck, kissing up the side of it until she can whisper into your ear, her hand massaging the nape of your neck gently. "I wasn't too rough, was I?" She sounds worried, now that the pleasure and the thrill of the moment have subsided. You just shake your head with a hum to let your girlfriend know you're fine, brain too mushy to bring yourself to answer properly.
The two of you stay like this for a moment until sevika pushes herself up on one elbow, looking down at you with soft eyes. You blink one of your eyes open, looking up at her as she begins to pepper kisses down your chest and over your stomach, the soft press of her lips only interrupted by mumbled words of praise.
venom!sevika who falls asleep with her face pressed into your abdomen, arms wrapped tight around your waist to keep you close.
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