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I just read 'critical hit' and 'sweet like honey', and it felt like it was written about me. I was feeling a bit insecure lately and it made me feel a little better.
A kiss on your forehead as a thank you!đЎ
Thank youuuuuuu baby
Made by me for people like me đđ i live for this kind of feedback, hope this year brings more confidence for all of you đ¤đ¤
older bf!simon riley who has a nasty corruption kink but has to hold himself back around his virgin/inexperienced partner.
He's practically vibrating with need when he steps into your apartment, forcing himself to be gentle with you when he places a kiss on your cheek, not trying to shove his tongue in your throat and lick at your molars.
And now he's lying in your ridiculous bed with you asleep in his big, burly arms, who even needs this many pillows and blankets, are you really that cold? Poor Simon's balls are so tight and heavy from just a little bit of cuddling and kissing, but he'd never wake up his sweet love and ask you for help. No, he has to take it slow with you, let you set the pace and come to him when you want.
Also, he already knows the first time he finally gets his hand on you, it's not gonna last very long, his swollen tip spurting thick ropes of cum inside your warm, wet hole only after sinking in an inch :(
Now Simon has to go to work without cumming after visiting his lovely partner.
His cock is in a permanent semi-chub on base, his balls so fat and heavy with cum that was meant for you. Poor guy is just grunting and growling at everyone, acting like a proper bitch on base, barking out orders and making the rookies run extra laps for even looking at him.
Even poor Soap is walking on eggshells seeing how agitated and cranky Simon is, watching him adjust himself in his jeans.
Simon's gotta take 5 to furiously jerk off in the bathroom, staring at a picture of you he keeps in his wallet :)
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The boys are at a pub celebrating, when a few drunken words have your stomach twisting to knots.
Sweet Like Honey (pt. 2 of critical hit) | ęŤÂ á´á á´ | ἍáĄ
After the boys takes johnny back to base, a few hours later after youâve returned yourself, Ghost talks to you, and shows you how wrongly you think about yourself.
All The Small Things | Ἅᥠ| âž
Two years ago, Simon just needed a roommate. Now, heâs got someone who keeps the place warm, dinner on the stove, a cat on the couch, and a girl who doesnât see how much sheâs loved. She studies, cleans, forgets to eat sometimes. Smiles when he calls her âdove.â And Simon notices everything.
Roommate Simon âGhostâ Riley, struggling roommate reader
summary : Two years ago, Simon just needed a roommate. Now, heâs got someone who keeps the place warm, dinner on the stove, a cat on the couch, and a girl who doesnât see how much sheâs loved. She studies, cleans, forgets to eat sometimes. Smiles when he calls her âdove.â And Simon notices everything.
cw : Loneliness, themes of low self-esteem, body image insecurity, hints of disordered eating, emotional intimacy, soft angst, mentions of isolation and self neglect, smoking, hints of mental health struggles, reader is described as female, some mentions of her being depressed because of her weight.
authors note : wheew whereâd all of you come from?? Iâm sooo happy with all the comments from my posts so far, i love it when i write things for people who relate, even though iâm mostly writing and going to write self indulgent things, (with the exception of requests) i hope you too, find comfort in my fictional world đ¤ p.s. i added the cat part because i have a cat (pics in the end) :)
Two Years Ago
The paper was simple : a white sheet, pinned to the campus board, the ink smudged slightly from rain.
Roommate desperately needed â 500/month. Looking for a clean, reliable roommate to share a two-bedroom flat near campus. I have a cat. Donât mind smoking.
Thatâs what Simon was holding two years ago. A small ad, but it was enough. He needed someone to keep the place while he was gone on long deployments , someone quiet, tidy, and steady. You were a student who needed peace to study, and between the two of you, it just worked.
The Last Two Years
It wasnât easy at first. Awkward silences, mismatched routines, you both circling each other carefully, but eventually, you found a rhythm.
And for Simon, that meant something. As close as someone like him can get, heâs gotten with you.
You work together in an easy, domestic sort of harmony. He doesnât say much, never does, but heâs present in small ways that make your chest feel warm and full.
ââAve you eaten yet?â
âYouâll do jusâ fine on the exam, dove.â
âYâr friends are shitty â Iâll pick ya up tomorrow.â
âHi, luv. Whatâs for dinâ ⌠you cryinâ? Câmere.â
Itâs the kind of care that sneaks up on you, gentle and unspoken, buried under his rough voice and quiet eyes.
You
You never bring anyone home. Never stay out too late. You seem content spending your evenings with the cat, studying, curled up on the couch until sleep wins. But Simon knows better.
Heâs noticed the little things : your closet, for one. Sparse, practical. The same hoodie in three colours, a few sweatpants, sweaters, zip-ups. One pair of jeans heâs never actually seen you wear.
He notices the way your eyes linger on the screen during a romance film, that faint, yearning look you probably donât even realise you have. How you flinch a little when couples hold hands in public, like it stings to watch. How you scroll through videos of soft affection, the kind that looks impossibly far away for someone like you, replaying them in silence.
Sometimes, when you think heâs not looking, your lips move just slightly, a quiet thought crossing your mind: Whenâs it gonna be my turn?
Simon
He remembers the night he picked you up after youâd been drinking with friends. You were rambling, voice thick and sleepy, saying things that shouldnât have hurt as much as they did:
âIâll lose my virginity when I lose weight.â
âcanât havâ a crush, mânot allowed toâ
He didnât say much then, just tightened his hand on the steering wheel and drove you home. But he heard you.
Since then, heâs noticed other things. The skipped breakfasts. The âI ate at schoolâ excuse before you crash on the couch. He never calls you out on it ,just drapes a thick blanket over you and starts cooking something warm. You always look so small like that.
When you cook for him, he always says,
âWhoever ends up with youâs lucky, yâknow.â
You smile at that , small, soft, and sad, the kind of smile that says you donât believe a word of it.
Quiet Evenings
He comes home to a clean flat, dinner simmering on the stove, your voice faintly humming along to music while you study. Heâll ruffle your hair on his way past, a silent hey there, before heading for the shower.
You never pry into what he does. He once muttered âmilitary,â and you didnât ask again. You just nodded, as if to say Iâll wait till youâre back.
The Study Sessions
Sometimes he helps you revise. Flashcards spread across the table, you chewing your pen cap, brows furrowed.
When you get something right, his eyes soften, just slightly and he says,
âThaâs right, kid. Good job.â
He likes seeing your eyes light up at that. You donât get praise often; he can tell. Maybe thatâs why he keeps giving it.
The Birthday
Simon finds out itâs your birthday by accident, a notification on your phone while it buzzes on the counter.
You hadnât told him. You hadnât told anyone. When he asks, you laugh it off.
âNot really a birthday person.â
âNo one to celebrate with anyway.â
That night, he comes home with a small box , a cupcake from the bakery down the street, a single candle poked in crooked.
He doesnât sing, doesnât say much, just sets it down in front of you with a quiet,
âMake a wish, dove.â
You stare at it too long. When you finally blow the candle out, you donât make one.
He does.
The Mirror
He catches you once, standing in front of the bathroom mirror before a night out.
Youâre frowning, tugging at your shirt, turning sideways, your eyes glassy but determined.
Heâs about to leave, but you see him in the reflection, and the air goes still.
âDo I look alright?â you ask.
He should say you look beautiful. But the word sticks in his throat, too fragile for his mouth.
Instead he mutters,
âYou look fine, luv.â
You nod, give a small, nervous smile, and slip past him.
He stays a second longer, watching the door, wishing heâd said what he meant.
The Exam Results
When you fail one of your exams, you donât say anything at first.
He finds the paper later, folded in half on the kitchen counter.
Youâre in your room, pretending to study again.
He knocks softly.
ââS alright to mess up, yâknow.â
You shrug, not meeting his eyes.
âJust tired of trying so hard for nothing.â
He hesitates, not good with comfort, not good with words, but then he says, quietly:
âTryinâs never nothinâ, dove. Itâs what keeps yâ goinâ.â
You nod, but he can tell you donât believe him.
He leaves, but later that night, thereâs your favourite chocolate bar sitting on your desk, wrapper folded neatly, no note attached.
The Photograph
One evening, he finds an old photo tucked inside one of your textbooks.
Itâs from the first month you moved in. Youâre standing in the kitchen, laughing, holding the cat. Heâs in the background, out of focus, looking at you.
He slips it in his pocket, in the vest he wears to work.
The Old Phone Notes
He borrows your old phone once, and when he plugs it in, the screen lights up with your Notes app open.
He doesnât mean to read it, but the words are right there, bare and small:
I wish I was easy to love.
I wish someone looked at me like I mattered.
He closes it quickly, something twisting in his chest.
That night, he tells you your hair looks nice, that the tea you made was perfect.
You smile, confused by the sudden kindness, and thank him softly.
He doesnât sleep well after that.
The Weight
He notices the pattern before you do.
Smaller portions, tighter sleeves, the way your hoodie hangs a little looser each week.
You brush it off when he mentions food.
âNot hungry.â
âIâll eat later.â
He doesnât argue. He just cooks anyway.
Leaves your favourite dish on the counter, covered with foil, pretending not to notice when itâs gone by morning.
Sometimes, he wonders if you think he doesnât see.
He does. He just doesnât know how to tell you that you donât need to disappear to be worth keeping.
The Photo Album
You pull out an old album one night while the rain hits the windows.
He sits beside you, the cat on his knee, watching as you flip through it.
You point at a younger version of yourself, smiling wide, hair messy.
âThat was before I started hiding from cameras,â you joke.
He glances at you, but youâre already looking away, pretending not to mean it.
The Way She Listens
He talks sometimes when he comes back from long days, about things that weigh on him, things he doesnât tell anyone else.
You listen quietly, nodding, eyes soft. You never interrupt, never press for more.
He likes that about you. The stillness. The way you make him feel grounded.
But when you think heâs not looking, your expression changes, a flicker of something lonely, like youâre wondering who listens to you.
He never knows how to ask.
So he just sits closer, his arm resting on the back of your chair, letting the silence speak for him.
The Polaroid
He buys a cheap camera for you during one of his trips.
âSo yâ can start takinâ photos again,â he says.
You smile, touched, and take a few of the cat, of him cooking, of the morning light in the kitchen.
But never of yourself.
He notices the pattern. Every pictureâs warm, full of life, but youâre never in any of them.
When he points it out, you shrug.
âI like being behind the camera.â
He nods, but later he finds a photo tucked under your notebook : a blurry one you mustâve taken in the mirror.
Your face is half cut off, your expression unsure.
The word Delete? written underneath in pencil.
The Night on the Balcony
Itâs late. Youâre sitting outside in one of his old sweatshirts, watching the city lights fade into the fog, smoking one of his cigarettes. He doesnât lecture you, he knows you need it.
He joins you quietly, sets a cup of tea in front of you.
âCold out.â
âYeah.â
You sit like that for a long time, saying nothing.
Then, softly, almost to yourself,
âDo you ever feel like everyoneâs moving on, and youâre just⌠stuck?â
He looks at you, really looks.
You donât meet his eyes. Youâre staring at the skyline like it might answer for him.
He doesnât have an answer. He just rests his hand over yours.
You squeeze it once, eyes glistening in the city light.
á°.áThe little things they do for you that just make you fold.
His hands are always in the back pocket of your jeans when you're out in public, subtly squeezes when he notices you're zoned out or not paying attention to him.
Always has a extra hairtie on his wrist for you whenever you need one.
Has a ritual of kissing your nose, lips, cheek and then temple in that exact order everytime he leaves or wakes up in the morning next to you.
Brushes the back of his hand over your cheek when youâre zoning out.
âEarth to you, pretty girl.â
Charges your electronics, that ipad you always leave around, the smartwatch that you set down but never charge but always wonder how it's on full battery.
Will geniunely get confused when you don't let him carry things or just do things yourself, he will tilt his head to the side and furrow his brows "do you not need me anymore?"
Puts away some of his shirts in your side of the wardrobe so you can wear them whenever, only choosing the one's he heard you call 'comfy' or you wore more around the house.
Likes to 'assert dominance' by pulling up to your work/uni with a bouquet of flowers and little gifts to show your friends and coworkers who treats you so well.
Warms up the bed or the shower for you before you get in because he knows you hate the cold.
Has a album in his phone of all the pictures he took of you while you were sleeping, he swears you look adorable in all of them but you just don't see it.
Always grounding you in crowded and overstimulating environments with a hand on your knees under the table and rubs small circles with his thumb.
"I'm right here angel, focus on me".
was this a tad bit self indulgent? Yes. low quality but i wanted to get out of a slump.
CW: angst, break-up, hurt/comfort, smut (the definition of missionary so we can keep arguing), dubcon, little fluff, lots of fire imagery I fucking apologize
wc: 10k
Masterlist đŚ
When you first met Simon, the first thing you felt was anger.Â
It wasnât entirely new. Long before that day, anger had been a constant companion, shadowing the sadness that gnawed at your stomach. Together, they thrived, stripping your bones bare beneath the skin, leaving raw, sizzling flesh exposed to the world.
Even though, rationally, his only crime had been to approach you, the moment he spoke and shattered your quiet, the fire inside you grew. It flared, ready to consume him where he stood.
What you hadnât anticipated, however, was to find a fire even fiercer than your own. One that seemed to blaze within him, reckless and consuming, almost engulfing him whole. You saw it reflected in his eyes, traced in the tension of his ragged features.
Anger leaves its mark, always: the wrinkles stemming from his nose, the scythe between his brows. Unmistakable even as he forced his face into neutrality.
They matched yours.
Fire burns. Fire destroys. Fire, also, welds. Strengthens. Builds. Warms.
And ever since he touched your hand, that same fire has turned into something else entirelyâa saving grace. A light in the darkness, a hearth in the frost. The heat for a meal, the alcove of a home.
Untilâ
âYou leavinâ?â
Breath lodges in your throat. A hand still hovering in the air, on its way to grab your last belongings. Honestly, Simonâs question does not need an answer, if the two suitcases standing by the door are anything to go by.Â
It hadnât been a last-minute thing. It hadnât been an idea youâd concocted overnight. No, God no. You wish it were that simple. Breakups are never a walk in the park, but sometimes they just happenâpeople fall out of love, and itâs no oneâs fault, really. Itâs just life rolling by.
You wish this were the case. You wish you didnât love him anymore.
It wouldnât hurt like a stab wound, wouldnât force you to clench your fist around a heart thatâs breaking apart, as if the bruises he left on it werenât already enough.
But there are so many things you canât digest. So many pieces of this puzzle donât fit into place anymore, and the pictureâs left incomplete.
You look over your shoulder and meet him at the doorway. Heâs turned himself into impenetrable stone, arms straight down his sides. Shoulders of steel, ice-cold eyes. There it is. That lookâno, that wall. A towering fortress of pure titanium that secludes him so that he canât be touched, not even a scratch.
In turn, it isolates you, too.Â
Cautiously, you turn on your heels to face his way.
âWasnât just gonna leave,â you reply. âJust getting my things. I wouldâve waited for you to come home first. So, uhâso we could talk.â
Your shoulders tighten; a hug you wish you could give yourself, but youâre not ready to show that much vulnerability yet. Especially when he doesnât say anything back, when he doesnât add his thoughts to your statementâjust stares at you, lips pursed in a tight line. Disappointment perhaps, or heartacheâyou know he feels it too, though unable to show it.
Does it make you a bad person to wish to see him cry? To wish for him to show his anger, his fear, his pain?Â
Does it make you evil, or does it make you human?
His arms curl in front of his chest, legs in a wide stance. Heâs blocking the doorway, but you know heâll move the moment you snap your fingers to say so. Always obedient, your Simon. Always loyal to a fault.Â
Would he cry if you ordered him so? Would he scream, yell, beg? Is that the only way to know heâs hurting, the only way to know heâs afraid? Should you have ordered him to love you more plainly, to show it to you daily instead of droplets scattered throughout a lifetime?
Should you have been his handler instead of his partner?
âMâhome now.â He nods at you with his jaw. âGo on then. Talk.â
You have to assert yourself. You have to look bigger, find the strength in your hands to scoop out the feelings in your chest and offer them to him. Make him see the rot he caused, sucking the life out of you like a parasite would.
You dry your palms on your shirt.
âDo you think this works? Do youââ You clear your throat. âDo you still love me?â
His face changes. Something twitching on his brow, a curl of his lip downward. Realization, maybe. Surprise, more likely. You might have hallucinated it, or perhaps itâs a trick of light created by the shafts of sunset slicing through the curtains, some shadows at play.Â
âWhere does that come from, now.â
You shrug one shoulder. âJust answer will you?â
ââCourse I do.â He flats out. âShow ya every day, donât I?â
No. No, thatâs a lie. A cleverly veiled one, but a lie, nonetheless. He says it. Murmurs it right before closing his eyes in bed, an afterthought to one of his many long days. And then it stays like that, hangs in the air like itâs a chore and not a feeling. Snores away his fatigue without even listening to whether youâre saying it back.
He cooks dinner and holds you at night with the same heaviness in his limbs. Answers his phone calls and tells you he loves you with the same weary tongue. Part of his to-do list, part of his routine.
You sigh. Your muscles uncoil, but not in relief: youâre so tired already, and the talk hasnât even begun yet. You can only imagine how dreadful itâll be by the end of it, how unbelievably drained itâll leave you.
âI donât know, do you?â
âI tell you.â He corrects himself.
You thumb the space between your brows to soothe the tension building there.Â
âYeah, you do,â you sigh.
âThen what.â
Cold. Sharp. Lieutenant Riley at his finest, not your Simon anymore. You wonder when youâll see him again, if you ever saw him at all, or if it all was just a ruse: a mask to hide behind, not so different from the hard skull he wears at work. Something to separate him from the violence he sows, and something to separate him from the love you giveâboth sharp to the touch from his perspective.
âI donât feel it,â you reply plainly.
Simon rolls his jaw. You can see him fighting to let you in, forcing his tongue to shape the words trapped inside. Thatâs how Simon works, how heâs built: thereâs a strength within him thatâs always at war. You have to give him that, although rarely, he does try to fight it, like he is now.Â
But itâs a battle he never wins. The words never make it past the threshold of his heart. Itâs the same struggle that brought him here, on the verge of losing you, too.
âIââ he hesitates. âI ainât good at this, whatever this is we haveââ
You recoil.
âWhatever this is?â You blink. âWell, what do you think this is, then?â
His eyes flicker. He took a wrong step, and he knows it. âThat ainât what I meaââ
âAre we in a relationship?â You interject, anger bubbling fiercely in your stomach. âNo, please answer meâIâd like to know if Iâve been fucking delusional for the past few years.â
âYes we are in a relationship,â he growls. The finality in his voice is so thick it pours down your ears like cement, settling the statement there.
His chest stutters with the same fire ravaging your guts, the only thing you two ever matched. Heâs the dark side of your moon, yet you share a comparable rage born from different lives. Just as furious, just as hungry to devour, to flatten the earth and turn it to ashes in a fair trade for what itâs done to you.Â
Itâs what united you that first night, finding an akin spirit. What brought you together, and together you snuffed each otherâs flame, bringing peace.Â
Tonight, you can feel it burn alight again. Thrilling. Terrifying.
âAn' I didnât mean that,â he adds curtly. âYou know I didnât.â
His voice is thunder. It crackles in the room and leaves it quiet, tense, like a storm about to rage.
âI told you I was a lot to deal with,â he breaks the silence first. âI warned you.â
âAnd I tried. For years, I tried.â You grit your teeth. âHave you?â
Has he?
You know heâs repeating your question in his head. You know he has the truth on the tip of his tongue, easy to spill and to give you your reluctant triumphâthat no, he hasnât tried. That no, he hasnât even considered it. That he thought youâd take him as is without an ounce of effort on his part.
And you did, for a while.
You took his swinging moods and his absence; you took his distance and his frigidity. You took it all like a good girl and gave tenfold of the opposite. You gave warmth and understanding, you gave such an abundance of love that in the end you were left with none of it for yourself.
He spares you a lie. An act of kindness.Â
Simon moves to the side, leaning his back against the doorframe. He doesnât look as imposing as before: his shoulders have hunched over, arms now loosely folded in front of his chest. His eyes are still cold, but heâs not looking at you anymore. He fixes on a spot in the hallway, one you canât see from where you are.
He nods his head to the side.
âGo.â
You blink. Swallow.
Thatâs it, then. He gave you the green light to just⌠leave. You should be grateful that heâs not putting up a fight; instead, youâre even more heartbroken. How many years have you wasted on this? How much of yourself have you lost on something so precious, only to be discarded like you meant nothing?
You own a house with him. Itâs littered with life and turned into a home. You have shared plans. You have the groceries to do, the dishwasher to start, the laundry to fix. You have that collection of DVDs under the telly, a movie still paused on the streaming service. Short-term and long-term plans.Â
You have, have, have nothing. And you had all of it. Had.Â
Heâs letting it goâletting you go. He isnât fighting for it; he isnât fighting for anything. Heâll face the consequences in the same unhealthy ways he always does, surrendering control and letting life happen to him, not because of him.
It makes you rage.
âNo.â You breathe.Â
Simon stiffens.
âNo, you donât get to do that.â Your voice wavers, crackles with anger. âTo-to get away with it so easily. You answer me nowâhave you ever tried?â
His head lolls back and rests against the doorframe, eyes to the ceiling. Perhaps youâll see it today, something other than indifference. A frown instead of impassive eyes, a tear instead of a cold gaze. Perhaps.
âNever had to try to love ya,â he says. âCame easy as anything.â
Thatâs not what you meant, and he knows it.Â
You donât push him. He knows your words as much as he knows your silences, so you give him those.Â
You let his words linger in the air, you let them sit on the bed you made a last time, touch the floors youâll never walk again with the same purpose. You let him listen to the heaviness this stillness bringsâa house without you in it, what it would mean, what it would feel like to come home and find the lights off, coldness seeping through the walls.
The clock ticks on his nightstand. A car rushes past the windows of your flat. Your breath echoes softly, yet itâs the loudest sound in the room.
âYou want me to apologise?â He asks, finally.
âNo.â
âThen what is it.â
âI want you to answer me.â
âI did. Told ya I never had to tryââ
You take a step forward. Your fingers bite into your palms. âDonât act like Iâm stupid and answer me.â
His neck tenses. Muscles coil tight, kinks and knots that build from his shoulder down to his spine. Stiffly his head turns your way.
âMânot a good partner.â
âAnswer me for fuckâs sake!â
His eyes flash red.Â
âNo.â He barks.Â
He pushes himself off the doorframe and marches your way. The floor is carpeted, but his boots still thud loudly against it, as if breaking the sound barrier. A drop of water could wreck it as of now, tension so thick yet so brittleâbuilt over the years and now finally ready to collapse.Â
âNo I havenât tried.â His face is tilted down to look straight at yours. A fire in his eyes you only saw once, when the two of you still werenât tied. âThat what you want to hear?â
âThe fucking truth for once! Was it that bloody hard?!â
âThink yer easy? You think youâre a fucking walk in the park?â
The gall of him makes your hackles rise.
âNow itâs on me? Are you fucking serious?â
âNo matter what I do sânever enoughââ
âAnd what have you done, uh?!â
âââS always more, anâ more, anâ more. âM never enoughââ
âAre you serious, Siââ
ââYer never fuckinâ happy.â
âYouâre never fucking home!â
He goes still.Â
Fucking bullseye.
His absence, his distanceâwhen he canât manage to draw the line emotionally, he draws it physically. Takes off for deployments longer than needed, cuts off communications, disappearsâthe Ghost.Â
One call a week if youâre lucky, one text a month at worst times. You know about his well-being because John gives you a heads up, and when you ask to talk to Simon, he says heâs gotta go dark, sweetheart. Heâll be back soon, cross my heart.
But you know heâs just covering for his subordinateâs mishaps, wouldnât dare lose the grip on the leash he has on his dog. Treats him right, respects his wishes in exchange for unclouded loyalty.
Simon's jaw jumps, teeth tight. You see the corner of his lips sink under a biteâgo on, Si. Donât chew on it. Say it.
But he deflates. A sigh escapes his nostrils, a tug on his lips in the semblance of a frown. But instead of turning just as mellow, you harden. Your rage grows and flowers bright red. And so, as he bottles it in, you spill it all out.
âYou are never fucking home.âÂ
âJob keeps me out, yâknowââ
âNah, donât even. Johnnyâs got kids, Kyleâs partnerâs on fucking cloud nine, even John manages to handle a bloody marriageâbut youâve got the job in the way?â You scoff. âSpare me. I know you take on more than fucking necessary.â
Simonâs eyes harbour a murkiness, thickly bubbling at the surface like lava underwater: miry and coagulated. Heartache, sadness, regret, surrender.
Heâs ready to lose you like he lost everything else, and how you desperately wish he'd fight for it this time, tear the world asunder, instead of hiding in his fortress.
âYou know what the truth is,â you coax him, but he doesnât give you the satisfaction of saying what you want him to say.
âAnd wha' would that be,â he answers instead, voice steady and just above a breath.
If this has to end, let it end with the truth clinging to his bones.
âThat you live with the constant fear of me stabbing your back. Fuckingâfucking walking on eggshells for some bloody reason.â
He doesnât react. Barely blinks. Itâs just you and your words, and the cologne he wore that morning mixed with the sweat of a sweltering day spent in HQ. His smell is overpowering and familiar and yet so distant, like something you can only enjoy when it lingers on the bedsheets and ever so rarely when it clings to him.Â
âAnd that itâs so much easier to be out there, wherever the fuck youâre deployed, because you donât need to trust those that end up on the other side of your rifle.â
Itâll hurt. Itâll hurt him more than itâs hurting you, probably. Simonâs not a man who gives himself easily, and youâre almost sure you were the last chance he gave life.Â
âBut hereââ You gesture around the bedroom. âHere you gotta trust meâand youâve never done that fully. Sâwhy you leave. You always leave.â
His throat bobs.Â
You exhale, cheeks hot and eyes red. âGuess itâs my turn now.â
If only to hide tears, you turn on your heels and march to the dresser where you snatch your phone and pocket it.
Suddenly, the room is only his. There is nothing of you in it anymore: no pictures or clothes. No makeup by the mirror, no jewellery on the dresser. Maybe a hair tie or two lost under the bed, your hair furled around the bristles of a brush in the bathroom cabinet. Nothing else, nothing more.
Itâs Simonâs house now, and youâre a host whoâs overstayed her welcome.
You march to your suitcase and grab it by the handle, your duffel from the floor now thrown over one shoulder. Simon doesnât help.
Eyes ahead, you walk past him into the hallway. Your eyes fall on the same spot he was staring at before andâÂ
You forgot to grab that.
A picture of you holding flowers. Simonâs not in it; heâs on the other side of the camera, holding his phone your way. Thereâs a neon sign behind you, red and blue with small white dots blinking in the middle.
That place is a dive: the beer is subpar, and the patrons are sleazy. Beady eyes and grabby hands. Surrounded by alleys that smell of piss and might as well be a health hazard. Itâs disgusting, and you have no clue how it is still standing.Â
And yet, itâs so cherished.
Where you met him, at your lowest, burning with the darkest of sadness and the brightest of fury. He challenged your wit with his own, bought you a drink, and you took him home. He fucked you that night, fucked you so good you forgot your sorrows, and only knew his name.
He left his number scribbled on a napkin in your kitchen under a cup of (by the time you woke up) lukewarm coffee. Kissed you feverishly when you met again, and you remembered that life could taste of surprise and excitement and of someone elseâs toothpaste.Â
Until that toothpaste found place on your bathroom sink. His mug in the same cupboard as yours. Two forks and two knives, two glasses and two pillows, and two, two, two, until loneliness felt like a distant memory, anger like a fire sizzling out under the splash of clear water.
And then it came back, full force, like a punch to the gut given with spite.
You were unsure when it happened, when he started pulling away and hiding from you; you have ideas about it, perhaps when you moved in, or maybe when the years started to roll on by and people around you were having children and putting rings on their spouseâs finger.Â
Likely, it started when love turned constant, safe and healthy. Thatâs when Simon pulled away because he felt like wearing a tight fit.
But still, in that picture, you were happy.
You remember it like it happened yesterday: the drizzle of rain in your hair, glossy drops on each petal clutched in your hands. Smile of a thousand suns as the flash from the camera made you squint. Simon grinning behind the phone, his kiss on your forehead right afterwards.Â
You stand frozen stock still in front of it, as a younger version of you stares back. Your eyes intensely regard her, too. They burn and spill over, tears tracking down your cheeks unbidden.
Polar opposites, true, and yet sheâs still you.
âI saw it, yâknow.â
His voice travels in a rumble from one end of the hallway to you. Raucously soft, just like the wind that night.Â
Gingerly, you turn your head, looking right above your shoulder. Simon is standing in front of the doorway of the bedroom, seemingly unfazed. Same strict posture, same straight back, and those thick arms folded neatly in front of him.Â
A soldier, not your Simon. Or maybe just apparently, because thereâs a whisper to his voice, a quiet breeze thatâs gone unused for a long time and has been suddenly awakened.
âSaw how you changed. How I changed ya.â He gulps. âAnâ when I noticed, you were already drifting awayâdidnât have a clue how to keep ya.â
He rubs his nose. Sniffs. âKnew youâd leave. Just thought Iâd hang on while I could.â
Of course.
Palm to your cheek, you rub away the dampness collected there and turn to face him.Â
âWe couldâve talked.â You tell him. "Dealt with it. It's what people do, you know?"
âWe couldâve.â
âWe didnât.â
âNo,â he breathes. âWe didnât.â
You swallow thickly. It hurts like barbed wire is clawing at your throat.
âWe can do it now,â he says, taking a step forward. âWe are doinâ it now.â
âItâs late.â You step backwards, hitting the wall. You flatten against it, dropping the duffel bag on the floor.Â
âS'not.â He moves closer, boots softened. A soldierâs stanceâmeasured, silent, like approaching something skittish. âNo' if we say so.â
Instinctively, your head tilts to meet his eye.
A clink. Glass and wood knocking together against harder cement. Itâs that photo, sliding against the wall as you pull back.
âItâs late.â You reiterate quietly.
Simon grabs your jaw to hold you still. Itâs not a forceful grasp; you could easily shake your head away. You donât.Â
Heâs captivating like that, fiercely pinning you in place with his eyes. He looks tired, doesnât he? You look tired too, you reckon. At least you feel it, deep inside your bones, dripping liquor thick in your stomach.Â
âOr maybe weâre right on time,â he murmurs.
Slowly, Simon leans in to kiss your lips, and itâs mere muscle memory guiding you to meet him halfway.
His hand trembles faintly when it lands on your hip, but the squeeze he gives there is as covetous as his eyesâlids fallen heavy, his pupils blown wide already, and thereâs that tinge of pink on his cheeks that makes him more endearing even in his subtle desperation.Â
Itâs the most youâve seen from him, probably the greatest show of emotion heâs displayed in a while. Feelings that shouldâve bubbled at the surface in an even spread of time, but Simon works oppositely to whatâs convenient, and heâs vomiting it all out in one instance only.
His fingers dimple your cheek, keeping your face in place as his kiss turns hungry and open, still slow. His tongue breaches the threshold of your lips, but thankfully thereâs still some common sense left in your head, which prompts you to pull away just enough to break apart from him.
Simonâs breath is heavy, close. You can feel it catch in your lungs, his pulse climbing inside your own ribcage.
Though still panting, you nod with your chin his way. âYou think weâre just in time? Talk, then.â
His throat bobs, but he never breaks his focus. His gaze dances between your eyes, lashes fluttering in a veiled show of nervousness. The hand around your jaw relents softly, palm dampened by your tears and his anxiety, and slides down your throat to settle on your chest.
âTalk, Simon, since you think weâre fucking alright.â
His jaw jumps when your voice hardens.Â
You feel anger bubble again, rising up your throat like bile: if he wonât fight for you, then youâll fight for yourself. For the person in the photo right behind your head.
âYou thought you could fuck it out of me? That it?â You yell. âThought you could soften me up like that and my bags would magically unpack?â
You push against his chest, and he barely flinches. A small concession on his part, to show you that heâs willing to take the brunt of your violence if you feel like punching the nose off his face. Heâs telling you with his eyes, an invitation to release your anger on his body instead of his heart.Â
He can patch flesh wounds easily, doesnât know how to mend deeper ones.Â
âTalk.â
But still, he keeps quiet. His shoulders unroll and straighten: heâs taller, broader, bigger than you, and yet ever so fragile. You use that, use it to your advantage, and push him again.
âFucking say something!â
Palms flat to his chest, you shove him back. He stumbles but ultimately returns to his spot, eyes unreadable as he regards you down the crooked slope of his nose.Â
âFucking speak!â
Hauntingly, his silence stretches and reaches inside you, cracking the shell made of patient kindness and strenuous understanding. A dome viciously protecting months of heartbreak and pure, unadulterated rageâone that youâd been harbouring for longer than humanly bearable.
You break, finally, because he doesnât. And to build up something again, you must start from rubbles.
âI hate this!â Your bellows rattle the quiet hallway. âI hate what you did to me!â
And as your hands land flat against him, wrapped in gauzes of guilt and rage unleashed, you barely notice the mist in your eyes growing thicker, the croak in your voice turning fierce.
Simon takes each shove like he was meant to, brickhouse that he is, and if you werenât so lost in your own breakdown, you wouldâve seen his own too. So unrestrained, etched in the wrinkles of his face, how they deepen for each blow he takes.Â
And he takes them all, the tears and the yells and the I hate yous and the merciless hands. Until he canât anymore, until your relentless shoves become too weak to shroud the searing pain festering inside him.
He lunges forward and grabs your wrists. One hand is all he needs to secure them both in place, pinning your arms to your chest.
âYou said weâre just in time, and still youâre not fucking talking,â you seethe. âProving once again that Iâm alone in this! Proving that youâll never fucking fight, that youâll let life happen to you instead of doing something about itâabout us!âÂ
Words rush out of your mouth unbidden, a force that he canât stop by simply pinning your hands. Youâre a wildfire, and water, if he wants to be it, is powerless against its magnitude.Â
âYou said you noticed, and still you did nothing to change it! Nothing!â
Unexpectedly, his voice crackles in the darknessâa flame coming to life.Â
âWanâ me to fight?â
Fire against fire can only sow destruction. Perhaps thatâs what you two were meant to bring from the very beginning, when that same twisted rage united you at first.
âIâll fight.â
You glower, red-eyed and furious. In turn, Simon crashes his lips to yours.
The kiss from before was a way to quell your fears; it was gentle and slow, a kiss meant to placate the torment written in your eyesâa kiss made to give.
Now, there is no build-up to hunger: heâs already there, devouring you whole, biting your mouth to open it for him, sliding his tongue inside to taste you and your tears.
A kiss made to take.Â
And you, this time, wonât relent: you wonât give back. You twist and pull, push him away, and knock back your head. The photo hanging on the wall behind you rattles and unlatches from its nail, falling down.Â
Abruptly, Simon reaches forward with his free hand, catching it on his palmâincredible reflexes, ones you almost forgot he had.
He breaks the kiss only to carefully hang the picture back in place. His cheeks are a furious red, and his mouth is glossy of spit, parted as he heaves. Still, he caresses the glass mounted on the frame gently, tracing your smile printed on paper.
Itâs tender for a second, air tense and unmoving, but youâre feeling jittery and restless, so you try to free your wrist from the shackle of his hand.
Swiftly, his eyes return to you, and still thereâs nothing you can clearly read in themâthereâs sadness in his crowâs feet, frustration in the wrinkle of his mouth, wistfulness in his eyes.Â
Like he misses you, but youâre right there, unchanged: heâs the one whoâs turned himself inside out, a man you donât recognize.
Before you can speak, however, he returns on you.
Simonâs kiss is ravenous, this time using his hand to grab the back of your neck and lock you in place. His thigh lodges between your legs, and youâre powerless against the strength of such a man. However, he mustâve underestimated your stubbornness, so you drown every moan threatening to escape behind a tight set of teeth.
âNever brought it up either, have ya?â He growls.Â
You can feel the warmth of his palm envelop your breast before tightening in a grip that drips with lust and furyâa passion you rarely saw from him, if ever. He doesnât bother teasing your nipple or circling it with his thumb; he just squeezes the fat in his hand, making a statementâyouâre not leaving, not now.
Youâre mine.
âItâs not about me,â you bark back.
He dips down your neck, alternating bites and a soothing tongue.
âIt is,â he rumbles. âItâs the two of us, yeah?â
You close your eyes shut, because perhaps if you deprive yourself of one of your senses, the goosebumps will abate. Though the opposite happens, because your body decides that it needs to be aware, and so it focuses on his smell, on his touch, on his stupid tongue, taking away the sting from each bite.
Hands to his chest, you curl your fists around the fabric of his shirt and try to push him away, but itâs fruitless. His fingers tangle in the hair at the base of your neck and pull back, until your head once again knocks against the frame behind you.
âWhy donât you start, sweeâheart?â He growls. Youâre ashamed and frustrated to admit that it goes straight to your cunt. âTalk.â
âFuck off, Simon.â
His mouth parts in a grin against your neck. His teeth are smooth to your skin, gliding up and down your pulse. He must feel it rise against his tongue, against the enamel of his canines: youâre sure that he could draw blood if he wanted to, if he could.
To your dismay, the thought only excites you.
âNah,â he tuts. âThat ainât constructive.â
There, he unrolls his shoulders until heâs standing straight again. Briefly, his eyes land on the markings left on the side of your neck, slick with spit and dented by his teeth. Glorious pride flashes in his eyes, twinkles like a promiseâa promise to do so much more.
Youâve seen so much of him tonightâraw, burning passion. The thrill of fighting for something. Fighting to win.
How much more could you have witnessed through the years, if only heâd allowed it? You'd have worn the burns of his fire proudly.
It makes you angrier. And apparently, thatâs what fuels him.
He unlatches his hand from your breast and goes downward, steadily unbuttoning your jeans like itâs second nature. You donât stop him, instead focusing on holding his eyes out of spite.Â
âTalk,â he orders.
Your mouth curls. âYouâre never home.â
âUh uh,â he hums.Â
His fingers donât bother with pleasantries and find their way inside your knickers, as the band snaps against his knuckles.
He finds you dry and seems upset by it. Still, he traces the pad of his middle finger around your clit, dragging the skin of your folds to make it sting a littleâsubtle ways to deliver his idea of a punishment. However, itâs not there that he lingers. He journeys downwards, lining your slit until he reaches your hole.Â
He tilts his head. âI got a job.â
And you tighten your brows angrily. âI already told you alreadyâitâs not that."Â
Mercilessly, he plunges. Almost in second nature, your mouth parts. It burns, for you werenât necessarily prepared for itâbut those sparks are sometimes pleasurable, and with the trust youâve always placed in him, youâve only ever associated it with good times.Â
Thus itâs hard to school your body to respond any differently, after years of having taught it that Simon equals good, that Simon equals orgasm.
He mimics you, opening his mouth like you do with yoursâperhaps a bit mocking in nature, or maybe heâs enamoured and is experiencing his own sense of bliss.
Still, youâre undeterred, even as you feel wetness collect at your entrance and coating his finger.Â
âYouâre never home because you donât want to be. The job doesnât cut it.â
âKnow it doesnât,â he rumbles.
His finger prods around, looking for a patch of flesh that feels coarser and thicker. Easily, he finds itâyears of practice. When your breath hitches just right, Simon starts moving.Â
Your jaw jumps, teeth ground to dust.Â
âWhy, then?â You seethe.
But he clicks his tongue. âYou talk now. Iâll talk after.â
âItâs not how it woâfuck.â
Knowing youâd talk back, contest his rules, he leaves your hole empty and returns upward, where your clitâs engorged and welcomes his touch more pliantly than before.
His movements are slow and steady, wet with your arousal and drawing perfect circles that steal your breath and your reason.
âTalk,â he thunders. âWhat else.â
As if to ground yourself, your hand flies to his forearm and your nails dig deep, finding corded muscles flexing each time he moves his finger.Â
âIâm an afterthought to your day,â you say through gritted teeth. âYou take me for granted. Even when youâre here itâs like you arenât.â
Simon tongues his cheek. Narrows his eyes, though that malice you saw before itâs shrouded by a certain gravity, like heâs truly taking in your words and not just coaxing an orgasm out of you. An orgasm that feels impending, just about to breachâbut you stave it off, focus on that furious fire thatâs slowly moulding with the lit-up flame of lust. You try to keep them separate, but itâs obvious, even to you, that theyâll eventually merge.
âI fell in love with a man who used to run back to me after deployments, and nowââ your voice cracks, âânow youâd rather be fucking anywhere but home.â
Simonâs fingers slide over your clit with purpose, causing the knot of your stomach to tighten uncomfortably. Your chest burns with the lack of air, breaths sharp and shallow. Instinctively, your neck gives out in abandon, but Simonâs not there for it.
His hand fastens around a fistful of hair, and he tugs your head back. The sting is begrudgingly delicious, and you naturally revel in the control he has on you now.
Control he never exerted, always passive and waiting for you to take the lead. This is new and exciting, and how you wish you couldâve basked in it earlier instead of now that everythingâs crumbling.
âWhy the fuck did you ask me to move in, uh?â You yell. Your fist lands on his chest. âYou donât want me here! You donât want to shareââ
His eye twitches.
âFuck, câmere.âÂ
Simonâs hand slips out of your pants way too easily, leaving you with a feeling of unfulfillment and an annoying throb between your legsâone thatâs suddenly forgotten when your feet are lifted off the floor, and your stomach is bent over his shoulder.
âWhat the fâput me down!âÂ
The first instinct is to punch his back, though youâre sure itâs all just a scratch to him.Â
Youâve seen the skin there, thickened by scars whose story he only ever hinted at. They look like they were unimaginably painful once, when they still bled and stung. Whippings, perhaps, or knivesâwhat happened in Mexico never left his lips, but specks of that story sometimes spill out of him when heâs drunk, or asleep.
Now he's determined, walking a straight line back to the bedroom, where youâre unceremoniously tossed on the bed.
Your back bounces on the mattress, and the world turning around before your eyes leaves you disoriented. Before you can prop yourself on your elbows, heâs on you again. Mouth to mouth, and you respond.
Perhaps because it feels good and you want to be selfish after years of selflessness. Perhaps because this rage has to go somewhere, and since thrashing the house or screaming your throat raw arenât viable options, a good fuck might be it.Â
Whatever the reason, your hands fly to the back of his head, pulling him in. Fingers grab his hair and tug, hoping itâd pass as a punishment. Simonâs groan says otherwise.
Your pants come off, his shirt soon after, until youâre both naked and warm, skin moulding into one.
Simonâs hand reaches between your bodies to grab his cock. Gives it a few quick pumps to coat it with precum and make it more bearable for the two of you. Then, you feel it prod at your entrance, as he angles his hips to find a comfortable position.
âSaid you hate me.â He pants in your mouth.
Youâre holding onto him like a lifelineâfrom your arms curling around his shoulders, to your legs spread open at his waist.Â
âYou made me.â You grunt through your teeth. âYou fucking did this, I tried my best every tiââ
He starts entering you, and while youâre wet, itâs not enough to accommodate the size of him. No, not the sizeâthe girth. Simon isnât long as much as heâs thick, which has led to a lot of money being splurged on lubes and a lot of time spent riding his fingers.
Heâs a few inches in, and all you can feel is your hamstrings collapsing under his weight and a burning stretch that ripples up your spine. Uncomfortable pleasure, ripping you open at his whim.
His head drops to your clavicle, lips to your chest, leaving slow kisses wherever they manage to land.
âDonât stop on my account.â
âFuck you,â you croak. âYou didnât prep me.â
âWell,â he huffs into your neck. âYou didnât look thrilled about me eating ya out.â
âYeah, âcause we didnât have to fuck, Simon.â
He pushes in deeper, and your teeth clamp down on his shoulder, tightening with every slide. His groans meet your biteâtaut, pained, and edged with lust.
Itâs with heavy guilt that you realize how cathartic it is to know youâre hurting him.Â
When he finally bottoms out, you can barely breathe because of how stuffed you feel. Pressure grows in your stomach as he fills it, and on your chest as he collapses onto it. The coarse hairs on his pelvis are flush to your clit, and he knows all it takes is the roll of his hips and youâll unravel under him.
Itâs why he doesnât do it. Keeps you dithering, toeing the line between pleasure and pain, and makes the scale tip towards the latter.
You feel like youâre going insane.
âNo, we had ta,â he replies, breath uneven. ââCause you donât hold back when we do. Go on, then. Ou' with it.â
Itâs different from the previous times youâve had sex, in which you were lax and wet and open. In which love overflowed and drowned you both. Simon now seems to have as his personal goal to punch the words out of you.
Every thrust is deliberately harsh. Your nails drag down his back, red lines threading the contours of his spine, until they find purchase where his muscles fold and harden.
His mouth draws the line of your jaw. Sucks your skin between his teeth on the slope of your neck. Tingles follow the burn, rippling in waves of goosebumps down your arms.
Simon sucks in a breath. His hips falter, trembling in the cradle of your thighs. Swiftly, he pistons into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. Itâs so jarring and sudden that, for a moment, you donât know how to breathe.
He falls still, panting right into your mouth.
âGo on,â he croaks.Â
âYou took, and took, and took it all,â you groan. âAnd gave fucking nothing!â
He pushes himself flush to you. Words die on your tongue; only a raucous moan remains strangled in your throat. His hips roll, finally stimulating your clit again. Stars are all you see as your eyes fall shut.Â
It feels like youâre breathing in a plastic bag: air short and unbearably hot, condensation building inside your lungs.
âYouâYou made me feel soââ A breath, ragged and closing down your windpipe. ââso fucking lonely.â
When you open your eyes, his brows are pinched, focused. You donât know what he finds on your face that has him so rattledâmust be heartbreaking though, because his forehead wrinkles, the corners of his eyes soften.
âLonely?â He echoes, tasting the word like one he knows best already.Â
Your mouth wobbles, pulled by anger and sadness alike.
âSo fucking lonely,â you pant.Â
Simon kisses your cheek in a private, quiet reverence. Regret drawn in the lines of his face.
âIâm sorry,â he mouths to your skin.
You clench your jaw. Your nose stings, eyes full, and you sniffle. âIt doesnât cut it.â
âI know,â he croaks, looking back at your face. âThink yâ deserve to hear it anyway.â
His mouth wrinkles, the scar that crosses it tightens with bitterness. You almost want to touch it, and your hand regrettably acts before your mind can even conceive the thought itself. The pads of your fingers trace his lips, journeying to the stretch of thicker flesh that runs pale across them.
âSay it,â he breathes.
You blink your focus back to his eyes, hand frozen to his mouth.
He starts again with a slow pace. Tears trickle down your temples into your hair.
You bite your cheek, iron floods your tongue.
âI hate you.â
He bottoms out.Â
âI hate you.â
Pulls back. Your pussy clenches around his tip, wants him back, so you hook your heels at his tailbone and force him to plunge inside you again.
âIÂ hate you.â
âI love you,â he whispers.Â
He holds your eyes. Theyâre blurry, glossy with bottomless sadness, with remorse, with dark, glutinous shame.Â
âI hate you,â you croak instead.
âI love you.â
Simonâs hand travels down the valley of your breasts, brushing fingertips clinging to the sweat beading your skin.
Your chest heaves, your lungs tighten. You cry, wail so loud it breaks you like fine porcelain. His arm snakes beneath the curve of your spine, holding you close to himself, as he props his weight on his elbow by your head.
âI love you,â he murmurs. âFuckâI love you so muchââ
Every single thrust is deep, as if heâs trying to fill you completely to remind you of easier times, when this wasnât a way to say goodbye.
You donât think itâs a habit anymore when you wrap your arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder. You think itâs survival, your raft in this restless tide.
Simon kisses your shoulder fervently, each touch long and wet. âMy perfect girlâmy girlââ
You protest, but your hatred dies down your throat and translates into another cry.
The creases in his tone hint at his distress, how hard heâs trying to tell you whatâs inside his head, even though itâs against this code heâs got for himself. How hard heâs trying to keep a clear mind, even though heâs got you wrapped around him tight and soft, like youâre made of silk.
He slams his hips flush to yours. His lungs fill with shallow breaths.
You feel your fire dim. You feel it reach out. Touch his, mingle. Bloom.
âEasiest thing,â he rumbles, rolling his hips until your sobs turn moans. âTo fuckinâ love ya.â
Two angry fires can only sow destruction once they merge. Perhaps thatâs what you two were meant to bring from the very beginning.
Alas, ashes fertilize the earth, and maybe life can grow back if one takes care of it. Quietly, two hearts instead of one can deal with the consequences of the devastation they brought. Patiently, four hands instead of two can carefully work the soil to see it prosper.
Simon fucks you softly, now. Collects your tears on his fingers, never leaves your mouth unattended, kissing each sob you yield, drinking it in. Then, his arm reaches between your bodies, and he finds the knot of your clit.Â
You feel your orgasm rear its head again. Still unwanted, still out of place. You try to stave it off as it wraps around you like vines, constricting your throat.
âYou canâfuckâyou can go if thaâs what you wantââÂ
The knot in your stomach coils, stiffens.Â
âBut fuckâoh, fuck sweeâheartâ"
Your legs tremble around his waist, locked knees digging into his hips, and cramps stinging your calves.
âStay. Please.â
You come around him, squeezing him with everything you have. You hold him to you, grit your teeth through an orgasm that doesnât have the catharsis you hoped it would bring.Â
You feel full and empty, unfathomably sad and drenched in ecstasy. It feels wrong and right, impossible and real, happening to you against your will, and still, you welcome it wholly.Â
âThatâs it,â he rumbles to your mouth, licking the tears that stream on your tongue. âFuckinâ hellâtake it, petââ
He fills you up, slams his hips, and spills inside. You feel it hot and wet, running in your belly and around his shaft. Flooding you entirely, clogging your throat with moans that blend with your sobs.Â
Simon holds you there. You donât move, dropping your legs wide open in pure exhaustion. The silence breaks with your breaths, cracks with haunting cries and the clicks of his kisses down your throatâhelpless attempts to soothe your heart.
His chest stutters, perhaps in a goodbye, perhaps in a plea. Whatever it is, it stains you wet down your neck.Â
Did you have to scream to make him cry? Did you have to break his heart, be cruel, turn into the person youâve been trying to suppress?
All that rage, youâd managed to chain it in your chest. Youâd found a balance, both of you. Youâd found a way to turn it into your prisoner, so it would let you live peacefully. Did you have to unleash that beast for him to show you the heart he so viciously protects?
When your breathing evens out, Simon lifts himself off of you enough to look into your eyes. His cheeks are ferociously red, his pupils glossy.
Youâve never seen him cry. You wish you had.
Does it make you a bad person, or does it make you human?
âWere you happy?â He asks.
You sniffle. âI was.â
âAre you happy?â
A beat.
âNo.â
Something inside him crumbles. It flashes rapid and bright, a meteorite wrecking the earth, and then vanishes. But he doesnât restore himself. He makes no move to carve his face back into the cold mask you knewâthe one he wore when he came home before.
He stays broken like that, before you, and doesnât plead.Â
âI want to be,â you add. âBut Iâm so tired.â
His mouth curls. His forehead to yours, diving down. He holds you there, cups your jaw firmly so you couldnât stray away even if you wanted to.Â
âSâalright,â he murmurs. âSâalright.â
A deep breath. He sucks it from you, taking it with a kiss.
âJusâ stay for tonight?â
Too exhausted to fight it, you fall asleep swaddled in his arms. Naked, skin to skin, wrapped in a comfortable duvet and in the smell of himâone you havenât had touch you in so long.Â
Briefly, you think how nice it is to bury your nose in his chest instead of cold bedsheets.
When you wake up, the sun is not even in the sky. The light peeking through the curtains is pale, that of a moon just shy of falling asleep herself.
Your eyes are puffy, but you manage to focus on his shape as he sleeps peacefully on his back.
He looks vulnerably soft, mouth parted to breathe because his nose was broken more than a couple of times and was set back all wrong. Only scars on his face: a thick curve on his cheekbone, one crossing his brow, a jagged line down his lips. No wrinkles, skin blessed with rest.Â
Anger leaves its mark, always. But for now, it seems absent. You catch yourself wondering if you look the same, too.
But heâs still Simon Riley, and he must feel the weight of your eyes on him. Without even opening his own, he sighs blissfully and shifts in bed, using the arm he had underneath your neck to pull you in closer.Â
You find yourselves face to face, sharing the same pillow. Usually, heâd kiss you and turn the other way, pretending to sleep until heâd hear your breathing even out. Now his knuckles brush the raw skin of your cheek. The flesh is still tender from tears and slumber, wrinkled in places by the folds of the pillowcase.
You close your eyes.
âAlrighâ?â He asks
Quietly you hum, because youâre much too tired to string a sentence that would explain the turmoil inside.
You just want this piece of normality to last a second longerâeven a minute or two, because you deserve to be greedy. And Simon seems to agree, because his chest rumbles, pleased, and your skin becomes his playground.
Nails draw gently down your back, cheeky fingers pinch the fat of your hips, stealing a sleepy smile from your mouth.
You sink into that bubble, a gentle space that carries the faint taste of those early days togetherâwhen everything was clumsy, uncertain, and yet inexplicably comfortable.
Time stretches with your head in his arms. All that rage withers, dissipates, and itâs replaced by a silence that holds its breath. You both know itâs time. Simon keeps his promise, and breaks it first.
âYâknow me,â he starts. âWasnât made for this. Didnât know what love was till you. Still didnât get it, not really. Was a bit lost, eh?âÂ
The bubble around you pops. He sighs. âKnew deep down Iâd be bad at this. Us. Never trusted myself to commit properly. Not like you deserve. But fuck, I wanted to try.â
You open your eyes. Blink your focus back to him.
âAn' I did. Tried everythinâ till I found my footinâ. I learned from ya,â he breathes. âSaid what you said. Did what you did. You smiled, so I thoughtâyeah. Thatâll do.âÂ
His breath is staggered for a moment; that fight against his tongue that wants to stay tied. Gulping, he uncoils the knot, softens its tightness, and goes on.
âDidnât think for myself. You looked happy anâ thaâ was enough, eh? Woulda done anything not to lose ya. But it was never âbout trustâtrusted you from day one. Still do.â
He sighs. âDonât ever think I donât.â
âWere you happy?â You ask him back.
Simonâs brows tighten questioningly, as if you just asked something completely irrelevant to the argument heâs making.
âYou were,â he replies simply, like itâs obvious. âSo I was.â
The question rolls off your tongue easily, prompted by his words.Â
âAre you happy?âÂ
His answer is smooth and delivered rapidly, as if ready to be uttered finally.Â
âNot if you go.â
Tears track down your cheeks. You feel disoriented, nauseous like youâre being tossed around at sea.
âDo you love me, Si?â You croak. âOr do you love me just because I love you?â
Smart man, him. Brilliant, you correct yourself. Still this concept seems foreign to him, and your question leaves him stumped. And as he frowns in thought, he takes note of the deeper wrinkles creasing your brow, the crowâs feet clawing out of your eyes, the saddened curve of your mouth.
His hand comes to cup your jaw again, failing in the intent to mitigate the soft hiccups youâre drowning behind tight lips.Â
âNot a poet, love,â he breathes a self-deprecating laugh. âI dunno how to make it better, not with all these doubts youâve got. Iâve been rubbish at thisâreally have.â
He takes in a deep breath. Steadies himself.
His eyes fall to your mouth, tracing the line of your noseâheâs not studying you, not trying to pluck thoughts and feelings from your tells. Heâs finding comfort in what he knows, what he cherishes. You give him strength, always have: from the picture he keeps in his wallet, to the ring hanging from the chain around his neck, beating against his heart for each step he takes.Â
Whether heâs stroking his thumb over it or burning your image behind his eyelids, Simon feels his resolve harden into steelâunbreakable, polished, resilient.
He does that now: finds strength in the shape of you. Strength to speak his mind, his heartâshed the lieutenantâs robe and leave the man beneath it naked and vulnerable.
âRan off when I saw I wasnât enough,â he says low. âDidnât have it in me to make it betterâdidnât know how. Took jobs instead.â
His voice steadies. Quiets. Itâs like a breeze, brushing on your mouth for every word he speaks.
âThought if I made myself scarce, youâd miss me and thatâd do it.â
âNot how it works,â you croak.
âI know,â he offers. âSaw my plan fuckinâ crumble each time I saw ya cry. But I was helpless, love. Didnât know where to start.â
Gently, he inches closer. Heâs cautious, like heâs lost the right to kiss you. His nose tips to yours, and he sways his head, skin kissing skin.Â
âBut sâyou,â he whispers, thumb tracing the line of your lip. âThem little things you do when you think I ainât lookinâ. Thaâs when I feel it most.â
He swallows thick, lips soft. âIâd love ya even if you hated me. Know I do now. Wasnât takinâ the piss when I said I never had to try.â
Heâs so close he could kiss you, and you wouldnât even bat an eye if he did. Youâd kiss him back, most likely. Truthfully, youâd probably end up fucking again. But Simon doesnât; he just touches your cheek, breathes your air, skims his nose to yours.Â
âDonât got the right to ask,â he whispers. âBut gimme ânother chance to make it right.â
âSimââ
âJusâ another chance to see ya like thaâ night.â
The argument dies on your tongue. Questioningly, you frown.
âThaâ picture,â he replies quietly. âSâmy favourite. Glad you forgot to grab it.â
Your brows flutter to your forehead, mouth softened in muted smile.
âFancy goinâ to thaâ pub tonight?â
You shake your head softly, sighing from your nose. âItâs in fucking Leeds.â
âIâll drive.â
The corner of his mouth hooks up. His eyes find yours, soft but failing to hide the anticipationâa look youâve rarely seen, if ever.
Itâs hard to tell at this point whether this is him or if itâs just another mask. Itâs hard to say if youâre falling into another trap, or if heâs trying. Finally, finally fighting for the life he wants, not the one he has.
You bite the corner of your lip. Itâs a crossroads, really. Thereâs no middle ground: you either leave or you give him another chance. Not one of those roads seems easy; none of them seems to come without pain.
Reasonably, you should leave. Leave, and start anew. Maybe far away from him, where his influence cannot be felt. Cut off communications and mend your heart intimately, your hands alone. Reasonably, that is the right thing to do.Â
But you know reason has no claim hereânot a single, bleeding say.
Your stomach uncoils. Your eyes soften, lips curling and wrinkling your cheeks.
You snort, trying to hide the sniffle your tears bring. âIâd never get in a car if youâre at the wheelâChristââ
And at that, Simon blooms.
His smile is wide, lovely, and unprecedented, cracking his face in two asymmetrical halves.
One cheek wears a dimple, the other only scars; his eyes wrinkle, but only one folds more tightly. His teeth are uneven, the angle of his left incisor chipped. Heâs imperfect and ragged. Imprecise and beautiful.
He laughs openly and boisterous, bit too loud considering the criminally early hours of the morning.
You shush him, as your lips surrender to his infectious laughter, and crack a chuckle too.
You palm his face, covering his mouth. There you feel it, each vibration of his happiness, each breath he takes, tinged with hope and subtle relief, as it tiptoes on your fingersâtreading lightly, like heâs still cautious about it but God, oh God, is it hard not to hope big.Â
You understand. Itâs hard for you, too.
So, you give in when he kisses your palm. You soften, against better judgment, and slide your hand off his face.
âIâll drive,â you say.
He huffs, smirking. âMh. You drive. Alrighâ.â
His hand lands on your cheek, and then Simon kisses you.
Intimate and quiet, like itâs the first time heâs ever done it, but with unmatched confidence. Inhales, breathes you in, and lets go.
His forehead rests on yours. You sigh.
Itâs useless to build this on hope exclusively. On dreams of a rose-tinted future, on mutual, unbreakable trust.
Truth is, trust has been broken already, dreams are evanescent things, and feelings are overwhelmingly complicated. The best thing you both can do is be truthful, transparent.Â
âIâm not sure how much will change,â you whisper. âI canât promise itâll go smoothly, okay?â
You see him swallow. Tongue his cheek. But his nod is confident, precise.
âI know,â he says. âWouldnât expect it tâbe easy, eh?â
You hear the sizzling embers of a fire thatâs scorched you both. The rising sun twinkles on the cinders littering the floors, ashes falling like snow. Itâs warm, itâs burnt.
Itâll take strength, patience, and the willingness to build everything from scratch side by side, to repair whatâs been lost.
Brick by brick, layered one on top of the other.Â
âCâmere,â he says.
You shuffle around until your back hits his chest. Simon drapes his arm over you, and your fingers intertwine loosely, natural instinct to bind once more.
A muted thud. The red and golden crackle of sparks flying off the burnt soil. Smoke billows from underneath.
The first brick hits the ground. Four hands hold it firmly and push it down, dig it in, stabilize it. Fingers brush in thankfulness, smear each otherâs skin with soot and ashes.
Simon âGhostâ Riley x afab, petite, chubby reader.ďżź
summary : After the boys take johnny back to base, a few hours later after youâve returned yourself, Ghost talks to you, and shows you how wrongly you think about yourself.
cw : insecure reader, short reader, mentions of insecurities of female genitalia, virgin reader, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), fluff, slight angst. detailed smut.
authors note : Hi, first of all, thank youđ¤I didnât know part 1 would get much love, but iâm kicking my feet and giggling with at the comments. I honestly started writing because i didnât wanna bother other authors with my numerous requests anymore đ enjoy! (Itâs sooo long, sorry)
The moment you leave, simon stares daggers to johnny, price rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers
âChrist Johnny, canât talk like that with a woman here, whereâs your manners son?â
âWhaâ d she mean, scared fâ sex?â johnnyâs words hint at his drunkenness
Simon sighs âYâ daft moron, watch yâr tongue once in a while aye?â
Johnny snorted, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin.
âAye, relax, mate. I was only askinâ. Didnât think sheâd take it that way.â
Price gave him a hard look. âThatâs the problem, Sergeant. You donât think.â
Johnnyâs grin faltered, eyes dropping to his glass. âJust havinâ a wee bit oâ a laugh, sir.â
Gaz leaned forward, voice low. âA laughâs one thing, Johnny. Makinâ her uncomfortableâs another. You saw her face?â
Johnny muttered, âAye, I did. Felt bad after, right? Didnât mean it like that.â
Price exhaled, shaking his head.
Johnny nodded, reading the room and rubbing his jaw. âGot it, Captain. Iâll keep it zipped.â
Simon leaned back again, eyeing him. âSee that you do.â
There was a beat of silence before Johnny gave a crooked smile. âStill, sheâs somethinâ, eh?â
Price groaned. âJohnny.â
Johnny raised his hands. âAlright, alright. Iâll shut it.â
Youâre half-asleep when the knock comes, dull, steady, not frantic but enough to pull you out of the haze. You look up at the digital clock on your nightstand.
Two in the morning.
For a second you think you imagined it, but then it comes again.
You drag yourself up, pad to the door in your oversized shirt, rubbing at your eyes. When you open it, Simonâs there. Hoodie up, eyes tired but steady. He smells faintly of rain and smoke.
âDidnât wake you, did I?â he asks, voice low.
You know heâs lying, you look painfully sleepy.
âYou know you did,â you mumble, leaning on the frame. âSâ Johnny okay? He was really drunk.â
He gives a small nod, glancing around like heâs checking the hallway before speaking again. âJohnny was out of line.â
You shrug, still groggy. âItâs fine. Wasnât personal.â
His brow furrows at that. âDoesnât make it fine.â He hesitates, then adds quietly, âDidnât sit right with me, the way he said it. Thought Iâd check in.â
You move aside, wordlessly inviting him in. He steps over the threshold, careful not to track dirt on the floor. The air shifts, heavier now, quieter.
âYou shouldnât be apologizing for him,â you say, closing the door.
âNot apologizinâ,â he replies, turning to face you. âJust⌠makinâ sure you know not everyoneâs like that.â
He studies you for a moment, his tone softening. âYou look knackered. Go on, back to bed.â
You give a faint smile. âYou came all this way to tell me that?â
Simon shrugs, eyes crinkling just slightly. âCouldnât sleep. Guess I needed to know you could.â
He lingers by the door for a moment, the kind of stillness that makes the air hum. You can tell heâs not sure whether to stay or leave. His hand comes up, rubbing at the back of his neck under the hood.
âYou want tea or something? My sleepâs ruined too now.â you ask, just to break the quiet.
He huffs out a faint laugh. âTea. At two in the bloody morning.â
âYouâre the one who knocked.â
That earns you a proper look, tired eyes but warmer now, a small trace of a smile behind the mask. âFair point.â
You move to the small kitchen, fill the kettle. The room feels softer with him in it, even though he barely moves, just stands there watching. When the water starts to boil, he finally speaks again.
âJohnnyâs got no filter when heâs had a few. Doesnât mean he meant any harm.â
You nod, eyes on the mug in your hands. âI know.â
A beat. Then i continue, filling in the silence.
âItâs not that iâm prudish or anythingâŚm justâŚâ
Heâs quiet for a beat, then says, âJust..?â
You hand him a mug, and his gloved fingers brush yours as he takes it. His shoulders relax a little.
After a moment or two of not saying anything, you sigh.
âIâm the complete opposite of whatever johnny was describingâ you scoff and get some honey, before stopping and turning to simon.
âwant some?â you ask him. showing the honey.
He shakes his head for no.
âGuessed soâ you smile and put some in your own cup.
âwha? i donât seem like the honey type?â he smirks, while looking down at the tea.
You snort âI think we both know the answer to thatâ
i look up at him, sleepy and confused.
He swallows, inhales a sharp breath then looks away
weird.
âYâ can talk to me, âf you wantâ he says it casually, but i can tell heâs not used to this small talk.
The honey pot clinked against ceramic, a sound too loud in the quiet. Simon watched you stir, his gaze tracking the lazy spiral of steam rising from your mug. He hadn't touched his tea yet, too hot probably. Too early to drink. Like this whole damn conversation.
"You didn't answer," he repeated, voice low, scraping gravel. Not pushing. Just... stating a fact. Like noting an enemy position.
You blinked, the sleep-fog still thick. "Answer what?"
His jaw tightened beneath the mask. A flicker of somethingâŚimpatience? Frustration?âŚgone before you could pin it down. "Back at the pub. You said you were..." He paused, searching your face. "Scared."
"Oh." The memory sharpened: Johnny's drunken leer, the crude jokes, the way your stomach had dropped. You wrapped your hands tighter around the warm mug. "It was just..."
Simon shifted his weight, a subtle movement that brought him half a step closer. The kitchen felt suddenly smaller.
You shrugged, staring into the amber swirl of honey in your tea. "Always been scaredâŚof intimacy." The words felt clumsy. Vulnerable. You hated it.
Simon made a sound deep in his throatâa low, displeased rumble. "Whyâs that love?" He took a deliberate sip of his tea, grimaced slightly at the bitterness, then pinned you with those tired, unnervingly steady eyes.
Silence stretched. Thick. Awkward. You fiddled with the spoon. He watched you do it.
"You know y'r beautiful right?" The question landed like a dropped brick. Blunt. Unadorned. Utterly Simon.
Heat flooded your cheeks. Not embarrassment, exactly. More like shock. "Simonâ"
"Not fishing," he cut in, gruff. "Not bein' nice. Stating another fact." He looked away, suddenly fascinated by the chipped laminate countertop. "Saw it the first time you patched up Gaz after that close call. Saw it when you told Price his strategy was bollocks. Saw it..." He hesitated, the pause charged. "...when you opened this door tonight, lookin' like you'd wrestled a badger for the sheets."
A startled laugh escaped you. "A badger?"
"Point is," he continued, ignoring the laugh, voice dropping lower, "it's got nothin' to do with Johnny's drunken shite. Or curves. Or... whatever nonsense yâr brain was spoutin'. It's you. Sharp. Kind. Annoyingly persistent." He finally met your eyes again. "Beautiful. Fact."
The air crackled. Not with tension, but with something else. Something raw and strangely hopeful. You couldn't look away. His gaze held yours, stripped of the usual Ghost mask of indifference. Just... Simon. Tired. Honest. Standing in your kitchen at 2 AM telling you things Johnny or anyone else could never articulate sober.
"IâŚitâs not only what you see with the clothes onâŚthat makes me scared.â you whispered, the word barely there, shaky, even.
Simonâs eyes dart everywhere in your face, eyes, lips, trying to put the pieces together. Then he remembers.
He curses silently and looks down, before looking back at me as if in pain âChrist sâ thaâ why youâve never done anythinâ?â
you can only look away, and then to your mortification, you feel your eyes sting.
Simon swears he can feel one of his heartâs tendons stretching a bit too hard, he sighs, then curses no louder than a whisper, before putting his cup down, next thing you know, your head is nuzzled to his chest, and heâs holding you as if heâs holding you together, and maybe, he is.
âHow much dâyou bet yâr worrying for nothinâ hm?â his thumb soothes your back.
You shrug, not trusting yourself to talk, but simon understands, he just knows, he guides your chin up and wipes your tears âlook aâ me love, anyone evaâ kissed yâ before?â
You shake your head no, and he scoffs as if itâs a blasphemy, maybe to him it is. âWhaâ a fucking shameâ and swipes his thumb over your bottom lip, before coming closer.
Youâre 100% sure youâve stopped breathing, knees wouldâve buckled if he wasnât holding you up, as he takes off his mask, and comes closer. The intensity of seeing his beautiful face up close for the first time making you light headed.
When heâs no more than a hairbreadth away, he soothes his hand over your waist, and you let out a whine of disapproval.
âShh, sâ alright, can i?â he says softly, if you werenât as close as you are, you would've never heard him.
You can only nod, a small sound of desperation escaping past your lips
He moves slow, deliberate, you expected nothing else from Simon Riley.
When his lips make the first contact, your body burns in waves, starting from the place where the contact was made, up to the top of your head, tips of your toes, your heartbeat so loud youâre sure he can actually hear it.
After the first contact, he kisses you like he wants to eat you, slowly, tasting your mouth like heâs eating the pulp out of a ripe fruit.
You yelp as he picks you up with minimal effort, your eyes widening, holding on to his biceps for support, but when you realise what has happened, youâre sure your cunt just turned to Niagara falls.
He makes room for himself between your thighs, his hands find their way back to your spine, one fisting your hair ever so gently in the back of your neck, heâs pushing you away and holding you close at the same time, all while youâre panting and kissing him sloppily back, itâs obvious you donât know what youâre doing, simon grins against your lips.
âRelax dove, iâll do all the work yeah?â
You blush in embarrassment, he doesnât let you like that for long before heâs back to kissing you, his hand finds its way under your shirt, touching the side of your stomach rolls, immediately as if on auto pilot, you whine and suck in your stomach, pushing his hand away
At first, he thinks you panicked, so he backs away slightly, but after he realises what actually happened, he scoffs, and he uses an amount of force to pull you close again that tells you one thing : he wasnât even trying earlier.
His lips find your neck, while his hands are under your shirt, one of them is kneading your midsection flesh, the other slowly makes its way to your bra strap
He stops for a second to look at you in the eyes âYâ good so far? Wanâ me to stop?â
I hesitate a bit, and that has him gentling his touch
âNo- waitâŚi justâŚâ you swallow âi donât want you to be disappointed.â your voice is small.
For someone who has felt big all their life even at 5â2, youâre feeling incredibly small at this moment.
He scoffs âMâ right where i wanna be love, trust me.â
He picks you up and walks to your bed âLast chance tâ tell me to stopâ
But you know heâd stop in a heartbeat.
After some silence on your side, he carefully lays you down, leaves the lights off, however much he wants to keep them on, he thinks this will help you if anything.
He takes off your pants first, your legs clamped shut, he soothes his hands down your thigh âYâr okay babygirl.â
The nickname has your chest warming up. Like a furnace that hasnât been lit up in years.
He canât help but feel up your thighs, groaning quietly âFuck..â
He takes off his shirt then plays with the hem of yours, as if giving you a chance to back off.
Drunk on faux confidence, you help him take it off.
You look at simon for any hint of disgust so far, you find none as he looks at the pudgy stomach, the meaty thighs, heâs eyeing you up like he wants to eat you, no, devour you.
He kisses you again, slow, gentle, almost distracting you as he deftly unhooks your bra, in a last minute panic, you hold the cups against your chest, shaking a bit.
He pets your arm gently, waiting for you to be okay to continue.
âSâ jusâ me anâ you doll, can stop whenever yâ want yeah?â he says quietly.
You shake your head for no and slowly take off the cups, now unsupported by the bra, your heavy tits hang lower than before, nipples down instead of high and proud on your chest, areola big instead of neat and tiny, like the girl johnny was bragging about.
Simon groans louder than before âGâna kill whoever made yâ feel bad about these.â
He kisses you again, as he cups them, spilling from his hands.
âSo fuckinâ warm, smell so goodâ he mutters, as if heâs talking to himself, before he moves down your neck, then your collarbone, then looks at your reaction as he blows air on your nipple, making it stand on the attention.
He swipes his thumb against the left one as he licks the right one without holding back on the eye contact, you swear you make a noise that youâve never made before. Whole body on fire, every single nerve wakes up after 23 years of no attention.
âChristâ he says before he keeps giving them attention, he bites licks and sucks, until my thighs are rubbing together, he takes it as a sign to kiss lower, down your sternum, slow deliberate kisses down your belly button, biting the flesh of your stomach slightly, with a grin on his face, before kissing your hipbone. And thatâs when the warmth goes away.
Suddenly anxiety overtakes you, you forgot about this part, your insecurity since you were a pre teen, your breathing quickens as you realise whatâs happening.
His hands are on your cheeks before you can even process anything else âNo baby, no, eyes on me, yâr doin so goodâ he peppers kisses all over your face.
It takes a while and a lot of gentle coaxing before he actually slides down the hem of your underwear, your forearm is over your eyes, his thumb going back and forth on your hip bone.
With your underwear off, your heart clenches in anxiety as you feel the cold air of the room to the one place you canât stand.
âBleedinâ jesus doveâŚâ
He carefully takes off your arm and kisses your forehead
âThaâ what you were worried of?â he says with a smirk, as if he didnât just wipe away 10+ years of insecurities.
He actually moans as he spreads you open, you turn red, and try to shut your legs, to no avail, his strength not letting you, your fleshy asymmetry now seeming like nothing infront of his eyes as he makes eye contact before licking a long stripe from perineum to clit.
Your body shudders hard, you swear your gasps can be heard all the way to priceâs office
âSweeter thaâ fuckinâ honey babyâ he mutters between wet open mouthed kisses all over your cunt.
He sucks and hollows his cheeks, moaning at your clit, his ring finger teasing your entrance. You tighten up on reflex, before another hand rests on your lower stomach âShh, let me in, yâr okayâ
You try to relax, whatever you do it ends up working, because you can feel something entering and thrusting in and out, going deeper each time. At the second finger, you hiss. âSimonâŚâ
âI know baby, i know.â he coos.
After some moments of lavishing your cunt, the tip of the second one fits inside, and he starts thrusting while scissoring slowly, starting up a rhythm with tongue and hand.
The noises youâre making are obscene. Simon keeps saying something in the lines of âSinginâ jusâ like a birdâ and âThatâs it, show me you like it.â
But you canât even think or hear, blood rushing, ears ringing, fisting the sheets below.
âListen to âerâ your juices and his spit mixing together as he sucks your clit, the hand on your lower stomach making you feel every move of his fingers, his moans working like a vibrator.
It only takes a few thrusts to the spongy little spot before youâre gasping and whimpering as if youâre about to cry, simon just shushes you and keeps telling you to be good and make a mess.
You clench his fingers so hard you swear they might break, he still works you out until the final drop.
Youâre both panting by the end, he licks his fingers clean before gathering you into his arms, whispering sweet words, as you tear up in relief, the emotional release making you cry yourself to sleep.
And when you wake up with clean clothes smelling like simon, and your favourite breakfast dish in the making, you find relief in your chest for what feels like forever, because you knew this was your happy ending, the one you never thought you were good enough to get.
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summary : The boys are at a pub celebrating, when a few drunken words have your stomach twisting to knots.
cw : mentions of insecurities regarding female genitalia, short reader, petite reader, talk of low self esteem, eventual smut, virgin reader, bit angsty but fluffy in the other part (pt 2 in the making)
authors note : very self indulgent btw. (this is my first fic in a while, be nice)
Thereâs only one word that could describe the state youâre in:
buzzed.
Incredibly fucking buzzed.
So buzzed that youâre already nursing your fourth beer, head propped against the wall, trying to make out some words from the conversation everyoneâs having⌠though mostly, youâre tuning out.
I mean, itâs just guy talk, after all.
After another very successful mission, the boys and you, are getting drunk. The drunkest of all, as always, is Johnny.
He seemed to have had a one-night stand a couple days ago, and heâs drunk enough to amuse everyone with the story.
Long black hair, somewhat curvy, with a tiny waist and perky tits. Your nose wrinkles in disgust as he keeps talking about his out-of-body experience with the girl, almost eight years younger than him. You roll your eyes sometimes, annoyed, yes, but also secretly happy heâs happy.
âI cannae get over it! The lass had a wee waist, she did! Could wrap both me hands round it anâ still feel like Iâve got room tae spare.â
He keeps babbling, hands in the air for comparison, as if heâs actually holding it while he speaks. You roll your eyes for what feels like the tenth time. The guys just keep laughing and shaking their heads, not really taking him seriously.
Then⌠the description gets a little more lewd.
ââEr figure was somethinâ else. Daftly perky nâ proud tits, all natural, pretty lilâ cunnie⌠Christ, I cudnât look away.â
Now, itâs different when itâs only the guys, but with you listening⌠the tension shifts. Priceâs eyes flick from you to Soap to his beer. Everyone else sighs, rubs at their temples. You try to act like youâre not listening, scrolling on your phone, staring somewhere else but more than his lewd words, your stomach drops for a different reason.
Ever since you can remember, youâve felt insecure. Height, body, hair⌠everything. It felt like you were âgirlingâ wrong your entire life, growing up chubby, still trying to get in your ideal shape. You fought to become a soldier, despite everyone saying you were too short or incompetent. It was hard, but you were trying to prove something.
Now, at 23, still a virgin because of your insecurities, you hardly ever feel bad about it. Between work and exhaustion, thereâs little space in your mind for anything else. But there are rare moments like this, where someoneâs words make you question if youâll ever end up with someone at all.
Because, however annoyed the guys sound, Johnnyâs description is clearly doing something. Price loosens his collar every so often. Simon swallows. Hard. Even inside his mask, Gaz is listening carefully, looking a bit spaced out. And youâve never seen Johnnyâs eyes spark like this before. And it kills you.
Not only are you still somewhat chubby, your heavy tits slightly sagged, your outie visible, asymmetrical. You can barely look at yourself, let alone let anyone else see. Words like Johnnyâs are exactly why you canât.
The thought of sex makes you melt, smile, dimples showing. Someone looking into your eyes as they fill you up. Kisses everywhere, their body warm against yours, sweet words whispered in your ear⌠All the things you crave but would never reach.
Johnny, as drunk as he is, turns to you.
ââAve yâ ever had sex, lass?â
You swallow, caught off guard. Shake your head. Take another sip of beer before putting it down and fiddling with your hands.
Johnny groans in disappointment.
âWhy the hell no? Yeâre a bonnie lass, anâ it feels bleedinâ amazinâ.â
You sigh.
âJusâ havenât had the time,â
You mutter. You know it doesnât sound convincing.
It doesnât.
Johnny snorts. âAhâm no buyinâ that. Câmon, tell us.â
âMactavish,â Simonâs voice rumbles almost immediately, silencing him.
Johnny communicates with Simon with just his eyes, it doesnât take much skill. Right now, heâs saying two things: drop it.
Johnny nods and takes another sip, while you sit red and embarrassed in your seat.
You stay red in your seat, skinning your fingers alive and trying to make yourself small. The laughter and chatter around you continue, but it all blurs together. You feel the weight of everyoneâs eyes, or maybe itâs just the way Johnnyâs words linger in your head.
You take a slow sip of your beer, trying to focus on the cold liquid rather than the heat climbing your neck. You hear Johnny muttering something else, but you canât catch it. You donât want to.
Finally, you clear your throat, summoning as much composure as you can. âWell⌠itâs shit like the ones you were just saying that gets me scared,â you mutter, your voice quieter than youâd like, but firm enough. You put the empty cup down, standing before anyone can reply.
Johnny frowns, blinking at you through his drunken haze. âScared? Whaââ
You cut him off with a small shake of your head. âIâm⌠Iâm gonna head back to base,â you say, trying to keep your voice steady. You pull your jacket closer around you and step away from the group, feeling the heat of embarrassment and a sting of frustration all at once.
The others start to murmur behind you, but you donât wait for explanations or apologies. You just walk, boots clicking on the floor, trying not to cry or yell at yourself for feeling weak.
By the time you reach your room, the door shuts behind you with a solid click, and the noise of the world fades to nothing. You slump onto the bed, pulling the covers over yourself. The anger, the embarrassment, the longingâŚitâs all tangled together.
You stare at the ceiling, letting your thoughts drift. Johnny was drunk. Thatâs all. Itâs nothing personal. But even so, the words he said⌠the way everyone reacted⌠it gnaws at you. You try to push it away, tell yourself itâs just another night of drinking and talking, but your heart keeps racing, reminding you how alone and unseen you feel sometimes.
You sink into the pillows, hugging yourself tight, wishing for comfort that isnât there. Tomorrow, itâll be work, routines, trainingâŚbut tonight, itâs just you, the embarrassment, and the quiet ache of wanting something youâre not sure you can have.
omg roommate simon riley who finds your laptop to do something because his is broken (idk maybe to search up something) and in the search history thereâs âreal couple sexâ or âhandholding p0rnâ đŤand he remembers youâre a virgin or something, inexperienced, idk, leave it if you donât like it, love u đŤ
smut, fingering, vaginal sex, fem!reader
Itâs not the fact that thereâs porn in your search history that surprises Simon. You donât have a boyfriend, never one for one-night stands, and a girl's gotta get off. What surprises him is the contentâ âhandholding porn,â âreal couple sex,â âintimate sex.â
He canât even hold his snort, he chuckles at the bright screen. That piques your interest from the other side of the room, tilting your head at him as your brows furrow.
âWhat?â
âThink ye forgot to clear yer search history.â
âHhm?â You approach him, oblivious to the tab heâs currently staring at. âWhat is it?â
Your face drops when he turns the laptop around with a shit-eating smirk. You slam the laptop shut with a shriek of embarrassment, heat rising up the back of your neck to your ears.
âHand holding?â Simon mocks, voice taking a teasing tone.
âShut up!â you yell, scrambling for your laptop and hugging it to your chest like it might protect the content inside.
You stumble backwards to your room, tripping over the shoes he left in the hallway to slam your door.
âOi, I still need to use it.â
You shout from behind your door, âWell ask someone else!â
The two of you donât bring it up again, for a few days at least. When heâs lying across the room from you, Simon thinks about it, wondering if youâve worked up the courage to open the laptop yet. If youâve watched the same videos since, fingers in your panties, biting your lip so he doesnât hear your breathy moans.
Youâre rather inexperienced, he knows that much, not from word of mouth, of course. He sees it in the way you fidget anxiously when you go to the pub with him, ducking away from any of the sexual remarks Johnny throws your way.
Heâs surprised you accepted his application as a roommate when heâs got several inches on you, scars carved into his skin like badges, and a permanent scowl. Though he supposes being gone for months at a time sweetens the deal, even if he returns with new wounds you eye wearily.
Heâs sure no boyfriend of yours would approve of him as a roommate. When heâs got no regard for other men when it comes to a pretty bird.
Maybe the months away are when you bring home one-night stands. He doubts it; he always returns unexpectedly, finds you with hairy legs, pimple patches, and oversized pajama tops. Like heâs the only one who ever sees those parts of you.
And you greet him with a big smile, like youâve been waiting for him.
Maybe secretly he doesnât like the image of someone else pleasing you that way and thatâs why it doesnât leave his thoughts. Simon isnât a man most people wait for and maybe the way you tell him you missed him deserves more than just a grunt.
It rings in his mind while the two of you are drinking in the kitchen, your back facing him as you pour yourself a new drink. Maybe itâs the alcohol in his veins or the image of the tab in the back of his mind, but he crowds you against the counter, broad frame boxing you against the porcelain.
You gasp. âSimon?â
Heâs not one for this, quite the antithesis of anything soft and tender. But he sure knows how to make a woman feel good, and the least he could do for his sweet, touch-starved roommate who whispers she missed him is make her cum.
âThaâ all you want?â His voice is low.
âWhat?â Your voice shakes, seeps with anxiety.
His arms are on either side of the counter, âSome hand holding?â
âDonât even start.â Your fingers curl around the edge, knuckles tense.
His lips are pressed to your ear, deep timbre sending chills up your neck. âToo touch-deprived is thaâ it?â
âIâm not having this conversation.â You say it quietly, like the topic might disappear if you donât address it.
âCome on, bird.â His fingers trace from your shoulder down your arm. âNo oneâs ever touched you like they meant it?â
You donât say anything more, a muffled sound squeaking from your lips when he drags his nose along your jaw and down the curve of your neck.
âYou wanâ me to, bird?â The words are spoken against your throat, warm on your flesh.
âSimon, I donât know what youâre talking about.â You stammer through your words nervously.
He sighs, like heâs annoyed that youâre feigning innocence. âWanâ me tâfuck you like I mean it?â
He feels your gulp before he hears it, and still, you donât answer. Not even when he curls his hand under your shirt and holds your bare hip, fingers dipping into the seams of your shorts. He presses forward, until your hips knock into the countertops and his into your ass, falling flat on your palms in shock when you feel his bulge.
You donât pull away when his lips land on your neck. Theyâre teasing at first, soft stamps along your skin that bloom goosebumps. By the time thereâs tender marks decorating your neck and shoulders, you find enough confidence to grind back against his hips.
You donât even protest when he hoists your legs around his hips. Canât really protest when heâs plastered his lips on yours, kisses maybe a little too abrasive for the soft sex you had been seeking. You take it the best you can, lips trailing behind his, smaller fingers grasping his shirt.
Itâs a journey to your bedroom, both of you bouncing on the mattress. Heâs so big above you and between your thighs that the heavy stretch burns your muscles. Your fingers shake at his shoulders as he undresses you, hooking your panties over your ankles and to the floor.
Youâre not exactly sure how this will work, heâs not even inside you, and youâre already struggling to accommodate him between your thighs. You writhe under him, anxiety crawling up your spine, and wrapping around your throat.
âSimon, I donât do this.â It comes out as wheeze, struggling through your collapsing lungs.
Trust him, bird, he knows. And who better than him to take care of you?
âDonât need ya tâworry âbout that. Iâll take care of you.â
His fingers toy with your seams, a huff of a laugh on his lips at the obscene amount of slick heâs greeted with. It burns you alive, scalding heat from toe to fingertips, a meek sound filling the space between the two of you. And yet, it tugs at your core, coiled in a tight grip on you.
His kisses are soft, despite the way his lips are chapped, despite the scar that gives him a cleft lip, so you feel a little teeth. He presses one to the ridge of your jaw, the round of your shoulder, the jut of your collarbone, the divot between your breasts, right above your naval. Littering specks of tenderness all while he collects the slick gathering at your entrance.
He sucks the fat of your hip between his lips, licks at the flesh when his soaked digit pulls the hood of your clit back, swollen bead perked. You squirm, hand flying to cover your gaped mouth when he circles it, biting your palm to muffle the sounds when he dips just a little lower.
He lies on his stomach, hooking your knee over his shoulder, and sinks his index finger into the knuckle. It takes three, four, five pumps before he slides a second alongside the first. Heâs slow about it, isnât trying to do much, but stretch you out.
Your hand leaves your mouth the more he works you open, opting to fist the sheets below you. He smirks against the inside of your thigh when you do, pleased he doesnât have to tell you to let him hear your pretty voice. He doesnât even have to tell you to look at him, you lift your head on your own accord with a cute tinge to your brow.
âLike thaâ?â He holds your gaze while he asks. âThaâ what you like, baby?â
Your head bobs, digging your heel into his spine when he finds that spot, warm and gummy. A slow pace turned deliberate when your body responds like you do like it, knocking against the same spot that makes your walls clench helplessly around him.
Itâs not long before heâs replacing his fingers with the rounded bulb of his cock, gliding your slick on his fingers along his length. He plants his elbows on either side of your head when he slips forward just a smidge, cages you in so all you see is him, his scarred face, his crooked nose, his broad shoulders that block any view.
He rests his forehead on yours, breathes intermingling as you stare up at him, irises dilated with desire. Apprehension settled somewhere deep because youâre not sure how youâre going to take all of him when you already feel so full.
He sees it, shushes the feeling away, âJusâ a little stretch.â
You garble over your breath, wrapping around his shoulders when he guides himself deeper, head curling into his throat.
He presses his lips to your temples, âFeel sâgood, you know thaâ? Fuckinâ drenched, easy fit.â
He bottoms out with a groan deep from his gut, feels you clench your teeth against his neck. His arm snakes around your back, cradles you close to his chest. Bare skin to bare skin before rocking his hips.
The rhythm is slow, calculated, and doesnât build his pace until your seams finally split in two for him. Thatâs when he pulls back further with each thrust, grinding back in to the hilt. You shake in his grasp, panting into his skin as you dig your nails into his shoulders.
Every stroke is languid, no rush, just a slow, delicious ache, crawling up the mountain to reach your peak. Itâs tender, the way he keeps you tucked close, lips always brushing your skin, whispering words softer than anything heâs said before. It pets at your core, close tighter and tighter around you as you wrap your legs around his hips.
And thatâs when his palm presses against yours, interlocking your fingers so tightly his knuckles turn white. You have to flutter your eyes at the sight, choking on something painful.
âSweets, look at me.â
You find his eyes.
âWanted tâtake care of you.â He tightens his hand. âI mean it-this.â
That sends you over the edge, clamping your thighs as you roll your head backwards. The coil around your core snaps, releasing the tension that had been slowly building. You croak his name, walls gushing around him, smearing the tufts of hair at the base of his cock sticky.
Still, he doesnât stop, hand pushing your knee back for a deeper angle. One that drives his hips deeper, fully seated inside your walls again, and again, and again, until he canât pull back much further because he starts to feel it in his balls. He fills you in one hard thrust, hands still tangled, collapsing into your chest.
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