mel. ♡⠀˚

You place down a tin of cookies and slip off the countertop with a huff of effort, straightening out your skirt. “Finish early on weekdays, remember? It's Friday.” You can't help but sigh at your mother's forgetfulness, pouring yourself a glass of milk without looking, before dragging out a chair and sitting by the breakfast nook. The pale green skirt of your waitressing uniform sits above your knees when you bend your legs to rest your feet on the footrest of the bar stool.

Your mother sighs similarly, mentally chastising herself. So much for date night. “Oh right, baby. Well, say hi. This here's Simon,” Paloma subtly urges you, gesturing towards Simon with her head. “You've heard of him,” she adds in an insistent tone.

You lift your head up to look at Simon finally, after much avoidance. Dunking a chocolate chip cookie in the milk, you wait for the cookie to soak up the liquid before graciously taking a bite. “Hello, Simon.”

That knocks the wind out of him, for some reason. He watches you lick whiskers of milk from your upper lip, perched on the chair, your hair cascading down one side of your face.

Simon grumbles your name in greeting, stuffing his hands in his pockets uneasily. “Nice meetin' ya',” he says gruffly, voice muffled behind the face mask.

He notices how you almost pretend he's invisible, half out of mercy after catching them red-handed in the doorway. Considerate. He also notices how much more you look like sisters than mother and daughter. He expected you to be at least five years younger than you were when he first learnt Paloma had a kid. She had you young, merely fifteen at the time, going on sixteen. Sister or daughter, the feelings stirring beneath his ribs were wretched all the same.

“Nice to meet you too,” you muttered under your breath, pushing your hair behind your ear whilst looking down at the island. The image of you atop the kitchen counter is burned into the sulci of his brain—how your skirt flared out behind you, the pink soles of your feet, a peek of your thighs.

Your mother rolls her eyes good-naturedly at your withdrawn temperament, throwing Simon a playful look before she bends to unstrap her heels. The smell of booze threads through the air faintly, concocted with the homely fragrance of scented candles around the house and Paloma's elegant body mist. You watch them both sway in the hallway tipsily, getting their shoes and jackets off. Apparently Simon thinks you can't see where his hands linger dangerously close to your mother's ass just to hold her steady. You do.

Bringing your lips down for another sip, your lipstick stains the glass.

You stare over the rim of the glass begrudgingly, his gaze finding yours out of the corner of his eyes in motion with the disposable mask coming off his face.

Your mother kicked him out before the sun fully rose. 'That's how you do it,' she told you with a wink, giving you a supposedly-valuable lesson that women needn't be the better person all the time. Although you aren't sure you enjoy the implication of the type of night your mother had, you don't entirely mind being let into her world every now and again. You joke around with her a bit—leaning in to whisper that Simon's hot, giggling at the size of his arms. Though she's stricter with you than your grandmother was with her, Paloma strikes a balance with moments like these, rare as it were.

You didn't see Simon again for a while after that, until you did. It was in the grocery store—the couple's favorite spot, apparently. Where it all started.

Pumping a cherry-flavored popsicle into your mouth, you drag your feet through the aisles in search of your mother, following the sound of her voice like your own game of Marco Polo. If only you were young enough for that, you think, reminiscing the good old days when you would yell back 'Polo!' to your then-twenty-year-old mother. Now you were the seeker. You scrunch your nose when you find her talking to someone, and you know she won't move for the next fifteen minutes, as mothers do.

Simon's Manc accent stands out in the area. He looks past Paloma's shoulder at you, tilting his head lazily as you lick a stripe up your frozen treat. You wordlessly twiddle your fingers in a wave, holding onto Paloma's elbow and standing behind her. Your shorts hug your thighs, and Simon can't help but think that the leg warmers you wear is a sorry excuse at staying warm when the rest of your outfit isn't even trying.

After a while of shifting your weight and huffing impatiently for an opening to talk to your mother, you butt in—revealing a small bundle of bubblegum sticks and one extra popsicle in your other hand. “Can I get these?” You have your own hard-earned money, of course, but you like to save up for more important expenses, like your future—or cute clothes.

Before Paloma finishes saying 'yes', Simon rips the items out of your hand and dumps them in his cart. “Any other snacks you want?” he asks brusquely.

Paloma knows you'll say yes, you know you'll say yes. Hiding your giddiness—you can't seem easily impressed by your mother's new boyfriend, you're supposed to make it hard, obviously—you take off to grab yourself some more snacks. Simon watches your hips swinging as you skip away. Hate to see you leave, but love to watch you go.

Your mother invites him for dinner the same day and you all end up going back to your house together. She tuts your name disapprovingly when you unwrap your second ice pop shortly after arriving home, closing your eyes shut haughtily as you tune out her scolding. “You're gonna ruin your appetite having all that sugar before dinner. And I'm making something nice.”

“I don't think I'm not gonna get full off of flavored ice, mom,” you remark skeptically. Albeit, you are guilty of eating at odd times. You prop your elbows on the tabletop, sliding into the chair across from Simon with your frozen treat. You shamelessly wrap your lips around the top of the rocket popsicle, and Paloma scoffs at your audacity before you two laugh.

“You better finish your dinner,” she mutters in defeat. She knows you're too old to pester any further, although she might like to.

“I will!”

Your eyes slide over to Simon, who's silent, the corners of your eyes creasing with a smile as you shrug your shoulders at him bashfully, suddenly apologetic having him caught in the midst of your banter. He feels that familiar stirring again at what you do next, suppressing a groan when you decide to pull him into this little game you have with Paloma. Sucking the popsicle into your mouth whilst locking eyes with him, showing that you're breaking your mother's rules with a grin. You're just being gracious enough to involve him in the conversation, that's all. Still, he feels forsaken.

“Y' enjoyin' that?” he questions with a quirked brow—more just to have something to say than keep staring at you. He doesn't care if you have ice cream before dinner.

“Sure am,” you reply cockily, but the weight of his gaze makes you shift in place. You break the tension with a soft laugh, looking down at your phone on the table and swiping lazily. The popsicle sits between your lips, your cough-drop colored tongue occasionally laving against it like a lazy kitten.

No, calendar kitten. Sex kitten.

Simon is fighting off a raging hard-on by the time dinner rolls around. A grownass man behaving like a perverted frat boy. He'd even tried to help Paloma fix dinner in order to get his mind off your wet mouth—very unlike him—but unsurprisingly, the woman didn't trust having him in the kitchen. Nobody wants a sous chef who learnt how to cook last month, she said. Thus, he finds himself sitting next to you at the dinner table instead.

Politely setting your phone aside, you poke your food around in relative silence, deciding not the interrupt Paloma's conversation as you did in the grocery store. Simon, albeit begrudgingly, shares about his teammates when asked, but nothing about the inner workings of what he does. You don't like the government, so you're not really interested in what you hear.

Simon's breath falters at the feeling of your foot nudging him under the table, fist clenching, before Paloma's voice cuts through— “I told you to stop doing that with your flip-flops. You're kicking me,” she says, like a ruffled older sibling.

His eyes drop under the table cloth, and sure enough, your flip-flop is dangling off your foot precariously as you fidget about. Slightly chagrined that she called you out in front of a guest, you wordlessly slip the sandal back on and resume eating.

Simon almost laughs with self deprecation for getting ahead of himself. Of course you weren't playing footsies with him while your mother sits right across. This isn't a porno.

By the second time you start messing with your sandal, Simon's hand flies to your knee before your mother can catch you—squeezing below the table. Goosebumps prickle your skin, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye unsurely. He isn't looking, nodding along to Paloma's words. He's just keeping you out of trouble, you tell yourself. Nothing more.

You bite your tongue and swallow hard, the air suddenly warm. The conversation is mere white noise. You chew your straw, your eyes roving over the scar that reaches down his jawline, accentuating the outline of his Adam's apple.

The tension in your chest unfurls when the pressure on your bare knee eases, thinking Simon's finally taking his hand away, before the weight of his palm starts sliding up. Your heart slams against your chest, the possibility of calling him names and pushing his hand away spinning weightily in your mind—but you do nothing.

The sound of your shaky exhale next to Simon is like gunfire to him, explosive firepower that sets him ablaze from the inside-out. Paloma pokes the hand he keeps on the table, saying something funny, and you and Simon both hold your breath.

Simon tilts his head to look down at you with a cursory glance as he replies Paloma, his fingers crawling up the inside of your thigh deliberately. You tug on the cuff of his sleeve with your pinky finger, but he doesn't let up—tracing mindless shapes on your bare skin. The rough calluses of his fingers graze your skin all the way up to the apex of your legs, resting below the hem of your shorts, staying there for the rest of dinner.

You make it back to the kitchen on wobbly knees, the stack of plates in your arms clattering noisily. You're wet, you realize—a cool, sticky feeling between your inner thighs. You aren't sure if the knots in your belly are butterflies or shame. Probably both.

Simon steals the plates from your hold and sets them in the sink, along with the heavier tableware he brought in. The two of you are on dishwashing duty since Paloma did the cooking. Now, you regret volunteering.

“I'll be here if you need anything!” You gasp jumpily when Paloma pokes her head through the bead curtains in the entryway, retreating with a half-empty glass of red wine, waving lazily.

Simon is already looking down at you when you push past him towards the sink, shoulders tight as you start scrubbing a plate briskly. You consider calling him a creep, now that you have a chance to confront him. But then again, you let him touch you.

“What the heck are you doing?” you mutter under your breath. The glare on your flushed face is hardly intimidating from his vantage point.

Simon reaches out, languidly brushing his fingers against the exposed strip of your back between your top and the waistband of your shorts. Why not stop him?

“Wha' am I doin'?” His voice is a low rumble, his breath brushing the top of your hair. He almost sounds offended. “Why din't ya stop me?”

You gasp incredulously, sounding scandalized by the implication of his words. He stops you short of making some sharp retort, the touch of his hand against your cheek making you falter as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “You're a pretty girl,” Simon tells you raspily—not to flatter or flirt, he's no ladies man, but to set the record straight. Something about his conviction gives you a heady feeling, making your stomach clench with unbidden desire.

His presence is damn near stifling, body heat surrounding your back, his voice low in your ears. “Know how pretty y'are, luv?” he asks quietly.

“Stop it-” You gasp with a hasty shake of your head, shrinking away. “I'm gonna get in trouble.”

“You're not gonna get in trouble,” Simon rebuts gently, bumping his chest against your back. He snakes his arm around yours and slides his fingers over the back of your soapy hand. “I will.”

“Worth the trouble,” he mouths against your ear. He laces his fingers through yours and flexes his hand, moaning at the slippery sensation that stirs up all the wrong memories.

Your fingers quiver in his hold, breath shaky. Heat climbs up your neck shamefully, desire pooling in your big eyes, dizzying. “Stop it-” The words huff out of you breathlessly while you squeeze your eyes shut. “Stop it- Simon, stop it. I can't.”

Your pleas are hardly convincing—desperate, maybe—but he can't help but notice that your only protests are that you 'can't.' Not that you don't want to.

And, fuck, if the way you gasp his name doesn't make his cock throb. The older man shushes you gently, his broad shoulders bracketing your shorter form. “Ssh, ssh. Easy, luv,” he coaxes you in a low, sedative hum, rubbing your arm with his dry hand. “You're not gonna get in trouble. Just need to stay quiet f'me, yeah?”

You let out a small squeak as he moves his hand from your arm, to your waist, and Simon gives you a look over your shoulder that seems to say 'I just told you to be quiet.' So you shamefully seal your lips shut, looking off to the side with wide eyes. He's drunk on your trembling breaths, looking over your body from above and watching the heavy rise and fall of your chest.

The faucet is left running, drowning the sound of your zipper as he pulls it down. His fingers slip into your shorts and breach the waistband of your panties, the pressure of his hand keeping you from losing your balance. He hasn't even laid a hand on your cunt yet, but you're already weak in the knees.

Simon clicks his tongue at the sticky mess between your legs, his fingers delving through the slick. “You're soaked, pet,” he points out, as if you're not painfully aware of how your body reacts to him, as if your clit isn't pulsing underneath his fingertips with need. “You want this just as bad as I do. Just needed a bit of encouragement, din't ya?”

“Can keep a secret, can't you, luv?”

You find yourself nodding mindlessly, swallowing back a moan as his calloused fingertips circle your clit with purpose.

“I-I can,” you mumble through a pout, though you're certainly not proud of the secret-keeping skills you've honed over the years, thanks to your strict mother. “Promise.”

Your fingers squeeze his wrist, canting your hips toward the heel of his palm. You seek friction, and Simon is more than happy to oblige. His thick fingers curl into your sopping cunt—not pushing all the way in, just perfectly cradling your sweet spot. Your legs strain as he curls and un-curls his fingers inside you, lewd squelches barely overshadowed by the sound of running water hitting the dishes.

His other hand holds your face up, trying to ease the frown between your brows with his thumb. “You ain't a bad girl,” he mumbles in your ear, low and gravelly. “Y'too good for me. Lemme help you relax. Gotta get it all out, luv.”

Grainy music lilts through the air distantly, one of Paloma's beloved vinyls spinning listlessly in the living room. You gasp and blubber in tandem with the thrusts of his fingers helplessly, white hot heat coiling in your abdomen as you scramble to hold onto the edge of the counter. You have half the mind to slap a hand over your mouth before a whimper tears out of your throat.

Simon's long fingers are thick and calloused with work, the ridges of his scars dragging inside your pussy and making your walls contract around him. His one digit probably amounts to two of yours. No wonder it's like nothing you've ever felt before.

“Simon,” you whisper—urgent and whiny—and although his first instinct is to glance down the hall to ensure you aren't overheard, the sound goes straight to his dick. He hums hoarsely in response, pressing his bulge against the plush of your ass whilst pumping his fingers inside you. He considers kissing you to shut you up, but for some reason, robs himself of that one piece of heaven—just for now. If you're the forbidden fruit of the garden, he'll take his time to pick you apart.

Stealing a kiss for himself when he means to take care of your needs seems counterintuitive. And Simon always has been pedantic.

The outline of his bulge catches between the soft underside of your ass, and he presses his hips closer to you—so close, yet so far from what you really want. It's torture for the both of you, but Paloma's only down the hall. “Feel that?” the older man grumbles in your ear, making the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. “Feel what you do to me?”

You muffle a needy whine, bobbing your head 'yes' with your lashes fluttering—a picture-perfect sight of ruddy cheeks and pupils blown wide. If he were a little younger, he might've climaxed untouched at the very sight. He feels precum soaking his briefs just so.

You're not immune to the attention he gives you, wrong as it may be. Perhaps it's exactly the sheer wrongness of it that makes you feel all the more special—that against all odds and all that's right in the world, you still catch his eye. Even for a man whom discipline is second nature, he can't seem to hold himself back from you. Like a moth to a flame.

Simon's hasty ministrations makes your knees buckle, his free arm wrung around your midsection to hold you up. You both know there's only so much time you can spend pretending to get the dishes done, and then the time to actually wash the dishes, before Paloma starts to wonder. So you can't exactly complain about the oversensitivity festering as his rough fingers abuse your sweet spot, static spotting your vision.

“I think- I think I'm close,” you murmur, your chest stuttering as you reach back to twine your fingers through his short hair. Moments ago, you hadn't even dared to hold a proper conversation with Simon. You kept out the way, because he was just your mother's guest, hardly even said his first name aloud out of respect for the 'grown ups'. Now you're pleading in his ear, 'Oh-oh, gosh, 'm coming..! I can't- I can't-'

Your hips twitch, and your release sprays past his fingers, trickling down the insides of your legs, toes scrunching into your sandals. Simon's big hand clamps over your smaller one on your mouth as you try to stifle your cries, thighs pressing together. You feel half-delirious as the older man cages in your writhing body with his arms, scissoring his fingers to hold your folds open, the both of you watching tiny droplets of your release hit the floor through the legs of your cotton shorts.

Your shorts and your panties are ruined. Embarrassment colors your cheeks, lips hanging ajar. The absolute catharsis of your release is unlike anything you've ever felt before, and you know for certain you've never been able to do that to yourself in the past. Simon pulls his dripping fingers from your panties with a soft groan, pecking your neck softly, the kitchen light catching on the evidence of your release. He squeezes the underside of your jaw, holding your gaze as he sucks your essence off his fingers.

Simon watches you stumble out of his grasp, panting as well, an aching throb in his cock while you haphazardly straighten out your clothes. Your knees rub together sensitively, your cheeks and neck flushed with heat. You let out a shaky breath, raking your fingers through your hair in an attempt to look presentable. “Oh my gosh,” you exhale, each word drawn-out and wonderfully breathless. An awkward, airy laugh escapes you in spite of yourself, but your shame works just as quickly, stopping you from saying more.

“You should get back out there,” you mutter tepidly, tugging on the hem of your soiled shorts with trembling hands—needless to say, because Simon is already cleaning his hands off in haste, trying to get his blood flowing elsewhere with movement.

Your breath falters; you sink against the edge of the kitchen counter. The bead curtains whisper in Simon’s wake, their rattle fading beneath the weight of his retreating steps.

ᅟᅟ

How Simon could face Paloma after that is beyond you. You spend the rest of the evening locked up in your bedroom, cocooned in the white fluff of your bathrobe after a warm shower. The restlessness of a new secret which you can tell no one has you tossing and turning in bed. You're splitting apart at the seams with it, this secrecy.

You don't come down to bid him adieu before he leaves, making an inexplicable sense of worry bubble up inside of him when he walks the path to his parked SUV. The feeling is foreign and doubly insistent. Simon isn't used to worrying. He knows you're a good girl, more than likely having second thoughts about your little tryst. He doesn't like that.

It's sick, in a way. The mere possibility of not getting to touch you again shouldn't gnaw at him this way, but it would be a shame if this was over before it even started.

Simon reruns the thought in his mind enough times until he works himself up into a hard-on and ends up jacking off into a tissue to the thought of getting you alone once more.

There's always too much idling between deployments, a meandering period of time with no orders, no chaos to dictate his days. He never gets fully reintegrated into society before another military op comes to snatch him away at the nick of time. Thus leading to too much free time for a man like Simon Riley.

Paloma, on the other hand, doesn't have any free time. Work keeps her busy—too busy for dating, too busy to call the handyman about the loose step on the porch, and other such things around the house—all of which, quite frankly, has been driving you insane.

So you're more than grateful when your mother informs you that someone will be coming over to sort out the problem later in the day. That is, before she mentions Simon's name in the same sentence, and is already out the door before you can say anything. You watch her car rumbling down the driveway through the windows, the butter-yellow paint job of her car fading into the distance.

Neither of you have mentioned what happened last time. Simon put his hands up in surrender when he first walked in and saw your tense expression, a gruff noise of amusement leaving his throat at your half-hearted eyeroll. You've never heard him laugh, but his wry humor is there nonetheless. He slips past you with his hand brushing the small of your back, toolbox in the other.

There's nothing left to do after all the little odd jobs he had completed around the house, he's just filling the time at this point—but he doesn't tell you that. Instead, he pretends to thoughtfully give your bedframe a little shake and hums at the sound it makes—et voila, it creaks at the faintest touch. Just like that, he's found an excuse to encroach on your private space.

You shied away while Simon mended the porch and the back door that didn't close all the way, but you can't avoid him in your own bedroom. You sit at your desk petulantly, the chair swiveled in his direction. You, rather shamefully, are unable to tear your eyes away from Simon's broad, work-etched hands, twisting the yellow-and-black screwdriver between nimble fingers. The tips of your manicured fingers twist into the hem of your skirt, the interiors of your throat feeling tight as you gulp.

Unsurprisingly, being around a man who finger-fucked you in your kitchen makes you rather self-conscious. Not any man—your mother's boyfriend.

To Simon's credit, he isn't looking at you while he works, even though you're sure he's alone with you for one reason only.

You're beginning to feel like that's wishful thinking, though. In spite of your reservations around the man, you start to feel a little restless. The chair squeaks as you slide down the seat, half your body hanging off the desk chair. Your bare legs stretch out onto the carpet, holding you from falling off the chair entirely.

“Don't break the chair. Or your neck,” Simon grunts, giving a sideways glance at the well-loved ballet flats on your left-and-right twiddling feet. Cotton socks cling close to your calves, the ribbing running along your legs. You blow raspberries in response to the older man when he lifts his eyes to your face, only to hurriedly sit up straight before Simon can make another smart remark.

Simon eyes you warily as you settle into your chair after sticking your tongue at him, blinking and looking away from you—a thinly veiled eye-roll—before he picks up a shiny screw to replace the missing one in the leg of your bed.

“You don't need to pretend to supervise me just because my mom isn't here,” you say smartly, plucking the end of your skirt like he's noticed you do often. You're dressed a little prettier today, unlike the casual lounge wear you wore last time he was here, or your work uniform the time before that. A cloth headband pulling back your hair, a pointelle lace-up top with your skirt.

“Y'know I'm not here to supervise ya',” the older man retorts flatly, before slipping the screwdriver inside the tool belt laid out on the floor. “Far from it.” Simon unfolds his legs from under him and stands up to his full height, the implication of his words becoming apparent under the weight of his stare for just a moment. The dark fabric of his tee shifts as he takes a breath, relaxing his tone. “Your bed's all fixed.”

“Try it out,” he says, stepping aside.

“Try it out?” you mumble belatedly, your confusion written across your features, already getting up to your feet in spite of yourself. Simon's meaty hand closes around your wrist and directs you to the bed lazily.

“Get on the bed.”

Something knots inside your stomach, suddenly imagining those words in a very different context. You obey, albeit tentatively, perching your bum on the foot of the bed, the quilt sinking under your weight. Your gaze darts around the room awkwardly—almost comically—while you shift your weight, bouncing yourself on the mattress; not unlike a bunny-rabbit.

It takes a moment before you register the noiselessness.

“No more noise!” You gasp at the revelation, looking up at Simon with pure amazement. You can't remember a single night in recent years where your bed hadn't groaned and squeaked under your tossing and turning.

You give another experimental bounce of your hips—no creaking again, just the shuffle of your mattress. Simon’s gaze tracks the movement of your hips with rapt attention, clenching his teeth while he watches your nervous expression morph into a blissfully ignorant grin. “No more noise,” he echoes evenly, stepping forward to loom over the foot of your bed with his hands in his pockets. Your easygoing smile falters ever so slightly as his shadow falls over you, rays of sunlight gleaming through the windows behind him.

You clear your throat, suddenly remembering where you are and whom you're with. Before you can say anything to clear the tension, Simon starts to move. The mattress dips under his weight, his knees on either side of you. As he leans over you, you sink into the mattress like a seesaw tipping, his weight guiding your descent.

“We shouldn't—” Your meagre protests are swallowed with a lasting kiss, your wrists in his hand. Simon angles his head, slotting his lips against yours, a breathless groan falling from his mouth at the feeling of your shy tongue against a scar on his lower lip. Simon pulls away only to study your rosy face, his breath heating your skin in the close proximity. His cock stirs to life at the wet sheen of spit on your lips, your tousled hair splayed out on the floral sheets like ribbons.

He presses his thumb against your swollen, rosebud mouth until your lips automatically part under the pressure. You hum incoherently as he slides his thumb over your pink tongue, closing your lips around his knuckle like it's one of your sweet treats. Your idle suckling is interrupted by the explorative movements of Simon's thumb, forcing you to open your mouth wider as he prods around the same places your favorite popsicles have met. He pulls his thumb out when he notices drool collecting at the corners of your mouth, giving you space to swallow the excess spit.

“Simon—”

Your voice is soft and earnest before Simon stops you, smoothing his hands down your sides. “Don't worry about it,” he murmurs. “Your mom won't be home for awhile.” He speaks while tugging the hem of your skirt up, holding it up to peek at your panties with an all-too-casual air. Your back arches as you kick your legs shyly.

“But don't you think it's weird?” you mumble with a hint of petulance, rubbing your smudged lipstick with the back of your hand. “Weird's putting it lightly. I bet you think I'm evil and immoral.”

“I don't think you're evil. It doesn't matter what I think—”

“I'm a bad daughter. Everyone in the world is gonna hate me if they find out. And don't think I don't know you're the worst too, but I don't wanna be in the same boat as you—”

Simon sighs audibly at your tirade, lowering his mouth to your collarbone, kissing a path to your arm. He lets up when you start to squirm under him indignantly, instead lacing his fingers through yours and pinning your arms above your head. He's never been much of a talker, especially in the bedroom, but it's become apparent he's going to get blue balled if he lets you spiral any further.

“No one'll hate you, lass,” he grumbles exasperatedly, brushing his nose against yours. The pout on your lips looks oh, so inviting. “No one will find out.”

“I wish I met you first. Can ya' blame me?”

You're pretty sure you should blame him. And you do, you know it's wrong, but this time you don't try to squirm away when Simon goes to kiss you. You drape your arms around his neck and Simon's strong arms go under your thighs, earning a squeak from you as he hauls you to the center of the bed.

Simon straightens up to kneel between your legs, carefully plucking your satiny ballet flats off your feet and tossing them aside.

The man lets out a strained groan when your feet touch his stomach, playfully climbing your sock-covered feet up his torso. The hem of his T-shirt hikes up slightly as your feet do a coy little dance up his abdomen to his chest.

You let out a small gasp when Simon reaches down to pull his shirt over his head impatiently, ignoring the shame itching at you as you giggle at him, bottom lip caught between your teeth. Your eyes travel down to the defined V-line cutting a path to his jeans, happy trail disappearing underneath the waistband. Something turns over inside you, knowing you’re seeing Simon in ways you’re not supposed to.

The bow at your chest comes undone, laces slipping free under his fingers. His warm, sandpapery hands ease the chill that hits your bare skin without your top and soothe the goosebumps rising there.

The next to go is your skirt. The outline of his bulge strains against the front of his denim jeans at the sight of you, spread out like a magazine centerfold in nothing but your socks and intimates, the headband perched quaintly in your hair. You find your gaze wavering as he reaches around your ribs to unclasp your bralette, a comfy pair you wear at home, lifting your spine off the bed to give him wiggle-room.

Simon sucks the soft flesh at the top of your chest into his mouth, a choked moan at the tip of your tongue. Careful not to leave any evidence, his lips move from place to place before your skin can bruise. Your fingers thread through his hair, almost cradling his head against your chest as he ruts his hips against your bare stomach.

The languorous pace doesn't last long before turning more urgent, Simon wants—no, needs—to make the most of your stolen time. Your panties hang limp around one ankle while Simon settles snug between your knees, teasingly hooking his finger into the hem of your sock and snapping it against your flesh to earn a squeak from you at the sting. Simons jeans drift tantalizing low around his hips as he wraps his hand around his girthy shaft of his cock, squeezing himself into your tight cunt with a groan.

It's wrong, so wrong—but he's too far gone. He knows he can't hide behind excuses for this, can't pretend it's a mistake. This is his choice, no doubt about it. A bad, bad choice.

Your slippery walls wrap around his cock like a vice, drawing him balls-deep. He watches your face crumple as his cock sinks into you over and over with the sultry wet sounds of your soaked pussy, his muscled arms braced and tense near either side of your head.

“Bloody hell,” the man groans above you with a roll of his hips. “Been waiting to do this.”

His words make your face burn up, but your mind struggles to keep up, being fucked full of his cock. You'll think about what he's saying later. He fucks broken squeals and soft whimpers out of you alike, your heels digging into the back of his strong thighs. The pleasure runs through you like a live wire, disorienting and scorching hot.

The guttural sounds leaving his throat, laden with unbridled arousal, fill your ears, unafraid to show and make you feel every inch of his throbbing desire. There's a certain intensity to him that seems to belong to a fugitive on borrowed hours, his mouth latching onto yours with harsh huffs of breath.

His virile scent sparks your olfactory system like catnip, and your body responds instinctively, thighs tightening around his hips. Simon responds in kind, his pelvis slapping against your thighs with a sharp sting as he pumps inside of you fervently. The smell of sweat and aftershave presses around you like a blanket, heady enough to have you slurring his name dumbly, your lips moving against his.

Simon's hands hold your knees open as your walls clamp around his dick tightly, sending you rocking on the sheets with his thrusts. You all but whine with his fat cock stretching you taut, your essence wetting the trimmed hairs along his pelvis, coating his inches with pearly slick. Your glassy eyes fixate on the way his built abdominal muscles flex each time he fucks into you with shameful fascination, your jaw opening and closing. It does occur to you that it's unladylike to stare, but that's probably the least of your worries.

You can tell something feels different when Simon's movements fall out of rhythm for a heartbeat before his arms slip under your body, pulling you up to meet his wanton thrusts. A hoarse laugh wells from his chest at the sound of your whining, peering down at you breathlessly, his gaze falling heavy-lidded and languorous. His hips stutter before pushing the head of his cock snug inside you, making his rounds in your wet cunt.

You feel his cock throb inside you, twitching with each pass, and now you’re second guessing. A gasp tears from your throat when he slams inside, knitting your brows together. “Si—Simon,” you blurt out, your hands planted against his broad, sweaty chest. “I'm not on the pill or anything, so you, y'know—”

“I'll pull out,” he cuts in, breathy grunts pushing from his lungs. A tendon in his jaw twitches at your rambling. “No accidents,” Simon assures in a mumble against your lips. You start to nod, trying to will away your anxieties with a soft laugh before he slams right into you and you keen. He feels your legs trembling against him, pussy pulsing and hot with your imminent release. 'Bloody hell.'

He pats your cheek with the flat of his fingers, urging you out of your fucked out state to make you pay attention. “Ya' with me, luv?” he rumbles, leering down at your nude body and the way your socks cling to your legs. He mirrors the nod of your head condescendingly, before humming in approval, his brows lifted slightly.

His hand moves up between your bodies to squeeze your jaw as he speaks, your cheeks burning with embarrassment, “Atta girl. Want you looking at me when I make you cum. Show you how a real man does it. Think your lil' classmates can give this to ya'?”

You shake your head quickly, only for Simon to dig his fingers into your cheeks harder.

“Use your words.”

For a moment, you consider communicating that you're in no state to speak. Your knees are buckling on either side of his hips, chest rising and falling raggedly as heat coils in your lower belly.

“N-no!” you correct yourself hastily, lower lip jutting out. Simon exacerbates matters by sawing in-and-out of you steadily, syllables turning to mush in your brain. “Don't want 'em. Only want you to gimme it.”

Simon rewards your efforts by making sure you no longer have to use your pretty little mouth at all, splaying his fingers over your lips and driving his dick into you roughly, covering your body with his own. You squeal behind his palm feebly, holding onto either his shoulders or his arms. Simon is a moving mass of muscle on top of you, all but crushing your body beneath his—and somehow the helplessness of it pushes you over the edge with everything in you.

You swear your stomach cramps with how deep in your guts he is, but your pussy keeps him there, squeezing him through the waves of your orgasm. He pulls out of you while you're still whimpering and preening, nowhere near minding the mess you've made on his cock.

Simon pumps his beefy hand around his cock with single-minded fervency, hissing through his teeth and bucking his hips into his fist with wet shlicks, lubricated by your shared bodily fluids. The man groans low in his throat, abs clenching as rope after rope of his spend spills all over your belly and his own fingers.

He kneels over you with sharp gasps passing his parted lips, a thin sheen of sweat across his naked torso. The cool breeze floating through the curtains doesn't seem to effect your heated bodies at all. Simon cusses under his breath and collapses next to you in bed heavily. The impact of his large body hitting the bed makes your body bounce a bit on the mattress. Your eyes unwittingly track his movements as he tucks himself back into his jeans whilst lying on his back—the sight oddly hypnotic—your heart starting to race again, this time for different reasons while you watch him dress himself with all the haste of a soldier on a covert operation. He pulls his tee back on just in time to hear Paloma's car revving into the driveway.

݁˖ click to join my taglist!

⑅ ۫𓈒 ♡ 🩹 ⸺ reminder that likes & reblogs are a big help to authors! your support would mean the world.

† . note, RUSHED ENDING I KNOW IM SORRY ITS SHIT it's 3 am so excuse me. ive been writing this for 8 days and im tired of it i want it far away from me.

xtra, paloma is 15-16y older than reader & simon is 5y younger than paloma, which means simon is 10y older than reader. but i'm not gonna specify current ages. also in case u wonder where reader's sweet obsession comes from, i was having a popsicle while writing this and also i (at my grownass age) have been banned from having lollipops until next week bc i've been having too many lollipops. anyway i feel like there isn't much dirty talking in my simon fics but simon is noot much of a talker idk what to tell you sorry...!! besides i didn't want much talking in the sex scene because yknow desperation ... secrecy ...

© LACKADAISIES ‘25. | all rights reserved. ask for direct permission before you take inspiration from my posts; copying, translation, or ai training not authorized.

its a lonely night. these past few months have been nothing but work for you. writing new songs, studio hours, staying on top of gym sessions with your hard-ass personal trainer, and preparing for another tour. you had to decompress, standing stern on your choice of pausing everything to take a mental health break for at least two months. you wanted to be left alone, spend time with your family and friends even . . feel normal. it sounded mediocre to say you hated being famous and missed your boring, regular life. but it was true. the money would always be nice, but nothing came close to feeling like just a human being rather than a robot.

it’s past midnight and you were unable to sleep. eating a good meal that consisted of garlic steak bites and broccolini alongside a healthy, filing smoothie before you took an everything shower. shaving, exfoliating, even painting your toes to now doing your skincare, face glowing in milk toner and snail mucin under the soft light of your lamp illuminating the room. 

your home was your safe space, always quiet, a place you couldn’t wait to come back to so you had the privilege of going completely non-verbal and straight faced without anyone questioning what was wrong or urging you to speak. it’s a big place, tucked into the top floor of a converted 1920s textile factory, it’s the perfect industrial loft, something you’ve dreamt of. it’s a cozy house you purchased and made a home from all your hard work. with its high ceilings, exposed brick walls, and oversized windows that gave anyone the opportunity to openly watch — it was serenely special. 

against one exposed wall, your dream minimalist kitchen gleams with dark concrete countertops, matte black cabinetry, and open shelving lined with copper pots, ceramic mugs, and wine bottles. heading down the tall staircase that lead straight into the living room with the kitchen directly underneath your bedroom — you go to grab a small snack and something to drink. you’re opening the vintage smeg fridge in cream to search for water and your favorite granny smith apples with caramel dip. you’d have to brush your teeth again before heading to sleep. 

in the corner of your eye, as you rip open the small packet of fruit, you swear you spot a shadowed figure in the crevice of your bookshelf and guest bathroom. gripping the bottle of water in your hand, you go to squint your eyes to double check and make sure you were just seeing things. you’d been up since five in the morning, running a few errands for the home like getting groceries for meal preps or cat litter for your fur baby snuggled in her corner currently by the glowing fish tank. you were tired, so you had to be seeing shit.

you turn for a moment, opening the bottle of water to take a sip, studying the area to clear your sudden fatigue. 

the man is there. 

watching intently, his eyes narrow as he sees you turn towards the shadowy area of the room where he stood. he’s been careful not to show himself yet, but he knows you suspect something is amiss. he feels his heart rate pick up slightly, watching as your eyes scan the room for any signs of movement. he’s torn between wanting to reveal himself and wanting to stay hidden in the shadows, observing you in your natural state. he can sense that you're feeling the creeping sensation of being watched, but he remains quiet and stationary in his spot by the entryway.

shaking it off, you go to head back up to your room to finish your movie and finally get comfy in bed. he waits until you are a few steps above the bottom floor before he starts to move swiftly. slowly and quietly, he pads across the living room, following you silently. he can already smell the sweet scent of your perfume and body wash, his senses heightened in the quiet of the night. the way your body moves in the soft light of your dim loft, flesh moving beneath the fabric of your clothing, or lack thereof. the slight bounce of your hips and ass as you ascend the stairs to leave him at the bottom. the man could feel his body reacting to your presence, needing to remain focused and following you up into your room.

he makes sure to stay far enough behind you so you don’t hear or see him. he doesn't have to worry much about making any noise, as the thick area rug covering the floor is plush under his feet and muffles his movements. he can hear the sound of the movie playing through the open door of your bedroom, and his gaze is stuck on the back of your body, the way you move and the shape of your daunting curves. 

he takes a deep breath, trying to control his growing desire to grab you, to feel the softness of your skin against his own. he has to remind himself to take it slow, to play the long game. he’s waited a long time for this moment, he can’t fuck it up. he can't ruin it now by acting too soon. he’s never felt this kind of intensity before, usually good on controlling his emotions. but you were like no other. an obsession.

he hears the rustling of fabric as you make yourself comfortable in bed, adjusting the covers and getting ready to watch another movie as the credits to this one rolled. the man leans against the wall outside your room, listening to the faint sound of the movie and the occasional shifting of the bed as you move. he can feel his body getting more and more tense, the desire to touch you becoming almost unbearable.

there you lay on your side, now streaming ‘the notebook’ with one leg thrown over the top of your comforter while the rest of you is tucked under, a sanrio plushie snuggled close in your arms by your head. soundly wrapped up and unaware of the predator lurking in your home. you are precious, he ponders. roaming over your figure, he takes in the way your shirt fits snugly across your chest, panties hugging your thick hips and supple ass poking out for attention. his fists clench involuntarily. a fucking delicacy you are. the blood is rushing to his dick aggressively now, mind racing with thoughts of what to do with you. 

he’s gotta do it, he has to hold you. 

he couldn’t take it any longer. so, he crosses the small space between the doorway and the bed in three long strides, towering over you as you lay mindlessly in bed, nearly drifting off to sleep. you look even more beautiful up close. features calm and innocent. his breath catches in his throat subtly; he couldn’t believe how close he was to you. to breathe you in, to envelop your beauty and pheromones. 

he doesn’t want to scare you. trying to ease his way into getting your attention. should he touch you first? would that scare you? or maybe he should make himself known. an introduction would only worsen the problem. he knows you, that’s all that mattered. you didn’t need to know him. 

the man speaks up, voice low and gruff as he utters, “turn around, sweetheart.” 

the scream that erupts from you is deadly. it’s puncturing his ear drums when you jump in your spot from the baritone of the voice in your room. in your state of panic, you’d face the intruder in your home, rolling over to the opposite side of the mattress before keeping your legs crouched on the floor. he notices how you begin to shake, not attempting to force you still in your act of horror. he wanted to be careful with you as you were too delicate to hurt. for now.

the blown pupils you have as your body trembles in full fear, eyeing the stranger in your vicinity, questioning whom he could be and how he was able to get into your secured home without you noticing. scattering around your bedside table, you quickly find a switchblade with tears in your eyes, stumbling backwards over a rocking chair before you’re hiding against the tall, sheer curtained windows, pointing your weapon in his oddly calm direction. 

“look at you,” he growls, and it’s nearly animalistic, like he’s been starved of speaking to you — needing you. footsteps slowly stalking closer as he wraps around the bed. “sweet little thing like you g’na hurt me with that, eh?” 

“no! s-stay away from me!” it’s loud the way you shout at him, tone shaky and body weakening to your dismay. 

the urgency to escape was fighting with you, but with the way this man was built, you’d have no chance to get far. he’s tall and brooding. a skull-patterned balaclava covered his face, eyes revealed to show dark brown irises, eyelids smeared with black eyeshadow to completely hide who he was. he wore a cotton obsidian hoodie with the hood thrown over his head, a camo harness adorned on his chest. thick padded cameo army pants and heavy black boots. fingers hidden by gloves. he looked terrifying, shoulders wide and muscles grown, practically busting out the seams of his attire. when he spoke to you, his voice carried a deep, chiseled british accent that urged goosebumps to spike up on your skin. 

the man watches you press back against the window, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps. the moonlight catches the tears on your cheeks, making them glisten as they fall. he tilts his head slightly, studying you—how delicate you look right now, how beautifully undone.

“your shaking,” he murmurs, voice lower now—softer. not kind, never kind—but measured. controlled. “i don’t want to frighten you . . but i needed to be closer.”

your mind races as you try to make sense of his words. “w-who are you?” you manage to stammer, trying to keep your voice steady. “why are you here?” 

“that’s not important right now.” 

you’re too stunned to speak, eyes blown and heart pounding. you’re acutely aware of his sudden touch on your chin, the rough texture of his gloved fingers against your skin. you try to pull away, but his grip is too strong, and he only allows you room to squirm slightly.

the man lets out a soft chuckle, his grip on your chin tightening just a fraction. “don’t even think about trying to crawl away from me, sweetheart. i've got you right where i want you.”

your eyes frantically dart around the room, searching for any possible escape route, but — he's holding you, and that combined with the fact that he's positioned himself squarely in front of you, leaves you feeling utterly trapped and powerless. the anxiety you feel is tangible, but there's something else stirring in your belly as well — a strange, unwelcoming heat that spreads from the sound of his hoarse, commanding voice. 

he leans in close enough for you to feel his breath on your face, gasping when he goes to grab your wrist to pry the switchblade from your shaky fingers, the metal clatters to the floor as he tosses it aside carelessly. “don’t try it, ꒰ ♥︎ ꒱.” 

a gloved thumb swipes roughly across your tear-stained cheek, the crude gesture sends a shudder through your entire body, equal parts revulsion and perverse excitement. you hate yourself for it, wanting to deny the heat pooling low in your belly. defenses begin to crumble. brain scattered with wants of protest while your body betrayed you. what the fuck was happening to you? none of this should be arousing. it’s like a dark novel come true. this man could harm you, and you were turned on. 

ghost leans in even closer, the heat of his body hard against you, struggling to breathe. eyes search yours, studying your reaction as he tightens his grip on your wrist ever so slightly. “i could hurt you," he murmurs. "but i won’t . . unless you make me."

the man's words send a shiver down your spine, both terrifying and thrilling. nipples harden beneath the thin shirt you wore as your core throbs with unwanted desire. you try to pry him away, but it's like trying to move a mountain — utterly futile.

"no . . ”  you whimper, even as your treacherous body arches slightly into his touch. "please, i have a boyfriend. he loves me. he’ll come for me."

“hm,” ghost snickers condescendingly. “doesn’t sound much like a threat to me. from what i saw, seems like he does a piss poor job of bein’ a man. can’t even fuck you good.” 

how would he know that? the question dissipates after his free hand moves up to your neck, circling the delicate column, a thumb pressing against the pulse point, the wild thrum of your heartbeat strong. "petal," he murmurs, tone low and rough. "you're terrified of me . . and yet, i can feel how much you want me."

something circuits in your brain that makes you moan the instant he pushes the outline of his dick on your stomach, cheeks flaring up with heat from the thickness of him. 

“feel that?” he grinds forward. “that’s what you fuckin’ do t’me. what you’ve done to me for years.” 

as if you weren’t scared before, nothing prepared you to hear that come from him. “y-years?” your mind reels trying to comprehend that. it’s haunting. 

“years,” he repeats to finalize. 

whimpers ensue as you writhe against him, overwhelmed by his jarring confession. tears continue to leak from the corners of your eyes as conflicting emotions war within you — fear, disgust, and shameful arousal. 

"please," you beg, voice breaking in a sob. "don’t do this. i don't want this." even as the words leave your mouth, you can feel your body responding differently to his touch, nipples pebbling and pussy clenching with need.

“liar," he hisses, grinding his hips harder against your midsection. "what’s this then, huh?” 

then, without even giving you a moment to think, he’s sliding his fingers into your panties to touch the stickiness of arousal brewing and seeping into cotton fabric. calloused fingers brushing over your puffy clit, hips jerking and almost collapsing into his touch. 

“listen to my girl,” he grits his teeth, swiping rough fingers delicately over your bud, gliding between fat lips to reach the heated opening he plunges into with gloved digits. “been a while since i heard her this wet.” 

a while? no, he couldn’t have. 

“it’s exactly what your thinkin’.” 

fuck, who knows what else he’s seen. given his knowledge, probably everything.

he groans deeply as his fingers slip through your slick folds, coating his glove in your essence. "mhm, good ‘nuf for me to slip right in,” he taunts, thrusting knuckle-deep inside tight walls. "tight ‘lil girl you got, yeah?” 

unable to stop the moan that spills from your lips, your hips buck greedily against his invading fingers. it feels wrong, so wrong, but you find yourself craving more of his touch.

"that’s it, petal," he croons, pumping his fingers faster, curling them to hit that sweet spot inside you. "take what i give you. learn how to behave.” 

ghost withdraws his soaked fingers abruptly, bringing them to your lips. "open up," he commands, smearing your juices across your bottom lip. when you hesitate, he pinches your nose shut, forcing you to part your lips on a gasp. he maneuvers his coated fingers past your teeth, deep into your mouth. "clean ‘em off. get a good taste f’me.” 

shuddering at the command, a mix of revulsion and desire warring in your mind. there's something in the way he's looking at you, something in his voice that makes you obey. opening up your mouth, your tongue darts out to taste your own cum off his glove. the taste is heady, a mixture of sweetness from you and leather from the material. that makes your head spin. you want him tasting it too. 

he lets out a deep, guttural groan. "you’ve got a greedy little mouth, don't you doll?" he mutters. "just can't get enough of me, can you?"

with the fog in your head, you don’t even fight it when he’s lifting you off the ground and bringing you back to your mattress, tossing you like you weigh nothing at all. it all happens so quick yet he’s moving like he knows you’re not going anywhere. you wouldn’t fight it, in fact, you couldn’t. big man like him won’t allow you to. he’d have his full weight pinned on you in milliseconds. a trained soldier. there’s no fucking way he’d allow you, not when he’s waited so long for this. 

before you can react, he’s on top of you—knees bracketing your hips, his stern gaze locking onto yours.

"stay still," he murmurs, voice dark with intent. his hands grab your wrists and pull them behind your back. 

the rope he obtains appears from nowhere—thick, soft cord that bites just enough to remind you who’s in control. loop after loop, he ties off a shibari pattern across your chest, and arms, intricate and beautiful . . and inescapable. every tug only tightens the embrace. he’s removed your clothing so you’re nothing but bare. tying intricate knots around your backside and ankles, binding you spread-eagle on the mattress, on your knees and ass up.

a whimper sounds as the tan ropes pull taut, your body stretched apart and helpless. the position leaves you exposed—completely at his mercy. every breath makes your bound chest rise and fall, the restraints only tightening with each small movement.

ghost steps back just enough to admire his work, his dark eyes raking over every inch of you. "perfect," he grunts, voice thick with hunger. "like a fucking offering."

chin resting into the bubblegum pink duvet, you steady your breathing through your nose, fingers stretching out for a sense of control even if you knew you had none. the cold air of your apartment hits your pussy, goosebumps all over your skin from the realization that you’re fully exposed to this man. being bound by tough rope on soft skin made you feel taken. like you no longer owned yourself. you laid here, completely for his sin. there’s no point arguing, you’d given that up moments ago when your body decided to fully submit and be okay with what’s going to happen. what you wanted to happen. 

the stocky man runs his now bare hands down your spine, slow and deliberate, stopping to grip one ass cheek hard before sliding lower—fingers teasing through your slick folds again. “arch deeper, move back like you want it.” 

when you remain stubbornly still, he delivers a sharp smack to your still-reddened asscheek. "now, sweetheart. or i walk away and leave your pussy achy and empty."

a choked sob escapes you as the sting blooms across your skin—sharp and hot. arching instinctively, you push your hips higher into the air, presenting yourself exactly how he wants to lessen punishment, your pussy opening up like the prettiest flower. 

ghost lets out a low, approving growl. "there we gooo," he purrs. “like it when they listen.”

you’re moaning helplessly as you lay spread open for the brooding man behind you in full gear. his eyes are dark, hands are huge and fingers thick as they sprawl over your backside. smoothing the round globes of your ass cheeks before he’s giving your achy pussy one good, full-palmed pat. it’s sluice and ready to be fucked open real good, dick just aching thinking about it. shifting in your spot, you wish you could ease the ache between your legs by squeezing your thighs together, but you can’t. therefore you whine and pout about it, cheek laying flat on the bed, limbs struggling. 

his voice cuts through like a blade. “keep that ass up.” 

ghost crawls onto the bed behind you, muscled stature pushing you firmly into the mattress. you whine and squirm, but his hand comes down hard on the back of your neck, glueing you still. he’s inherently strong — you couldn't break his grip even if you tried to. he’s been watching you for months, and knows exactly what he wants and how he needs you. the games were done. 

he grinds his dick against your sore, exposed ass—fully clothed in those weighted camo pants, the rough fabric scraping over sensitive skin with every roll of his hips. the pressure is intense, maddening even. feeling every ridge of him through the layers between you, and a traitorous moan claws its way out of your throat. heaving with despair, the periwinkle of your toes curl, shoulder blades shifting as you cry out. 

"shhh," he hushes near your ear, voice dark and amused. "i just w’na feel you."

you gasp as he shifts you, his hands firm and unyielding as they reposition your hips back against him. the thick ridge of his cock presses right against your aching, dripping core—still separated by layers of fabric, but so heavy. 

a soft, broken moan escapes you as he grinds slowly—deliberate, torturous—with just enough aggression to make your toes wiggle and your thighs tremble. arching into the contact, you’d die to chase that forbidden friction.

"greedy lil’ thing," he murmurs into your ear, voice rough with need. "feel how hard i am for you? how bad i want to rip these clothes off ‘n bury myself deep?"

he’s molding the flesh of your ass like it’d run away. soft and bouncy, seeping through the gaps of his fingers. your wrists tug on the restraints, mouth agape as you mewl, now urging yourself to move back on it, tired of being teased. while arching your spine lower, you steadily rock the plump of your ass back onto his crotch, twiddling your acrylic nails and puffing out air from how good it felt to have your clit brush on the outline of his fat dick. 

ghost makes a noise of amusement, staying still to watch you use him how you’d like. "that's it, work those hips. get yourself nice and ready for me."

a free hand goes around to rub tight circles over your throbbing bud, mesmerized by how sticky you’re getting. the sound of it audible after each clap back, ghost licking his lips at the moist spot you leave on him, string of cum connecting. “fuck, g’na fill this greedy lil’ hole up real soon, petal.”

keening high in your throat, the dual stimulation pushes you closer to the edge, gently shaking your head as you continue to whine and hit your clit right on the fattest part of him. “o—ooh, my god.” 

the thick seam of his pants drags over your swollen clit in a way that’s maddening—too much and not enough all at once. your hips jerk, chasing friction, but he holds you firm. he continues to ground his hips deeper into you, his thumb coming to trace over your swollen lips you’d bitten red before sinking it into your mouth, letting you suck and drool all over it. 

“good girl,” he growls, rolling his hips harder. “suck it like you want my cock instead.” 

his voice is a low rumble, and he sounds so hungry. like he'd never be able to get enough of you. and you like it—being needed, being wanted. you can't deny the way he makes you feel, all weak and needy. you should be scared. he is dangerous, he's big and gruff, but when he looks at you like that, you just feel safe.

he thrusts harder now, gripping your ass and thwacking it roughly, pretty brown skin hot from his palms that are covered in veins, tattoos, and scars. accent so heavy it makes you wetter with each word he speaks. “just focus on my voice, let me see tha’ pretty face.”

his hand tightens on your hip, fingers digging deep as he watches your face—every flutter of your lashes, every desperate breath. he’s savoring this. savoring you.

“stay right there,” ghost grits, grounding the imprint of his dick onto your sluice clit at just the perfect angle.

"don’t move," he growls, voice strained. "not unless i say."

“i w’na cum so bad,” you whine with tear stained cheeks and nearly a snotty nose, feet kicking and body aching from the angle you’re positioned in. 

"you want to what, doll?" he asks, almost mocking. his thumb hooks further into your mouth, the imprint of it showing in your cheek. you’re slobbering over it, sucking up your saliva and moaning loud. he wants you to say it. “use your words. say that name.” 

“i w’na cum so bad, sir!”

a satisfied hum rumbles from his chest at the word. the submission, the desperation in your voice. he could lose it, hands digging harder into soft flesh. 

"yeah," he breathes, lips curling into a dark smile. "cum all over m’fuckin’ clothes f’me.” 

he’s rough and demanding, but you love it. he’s everything you should be terrified of—but it just makes you want him more. you need it. you crave it. you’re desperate to please him now, to be good in his eyes. you want to show him you’re worthy of being fucked by him. shivering as he whispers the words, a sudden pang of heat shoots through you from the depravity of his request. he's so obviously in charge right now, and you'd do anything to be worthy of praise.

"please," you whisper, voice pleading. "please, sir. i—i want you. i need you. i’m good. i’m . .  i’m —"

"you’re what, sweetheart?" he asks, voice low. he’s still got you pinned, but his touch is soft as he reaches up to brush back a plethora of hair covering your dolled features. his expression looks almost tender. "talk to me. you got it.” 

"i’m your good girl," you breathe, the words rushing out of you. "yours to use."

your cheeks flush with heat as he studies you, head cocked to the side in awe. and it’s as if your own words make you cum, stomach coiling as you breathlessly moan and rock back on him — so silent but visibly loud. ghost takes your waist and helps you keep your pace up. “nngh, baby. right. there.”

ghost hums, low and satisfied as he runs a hand up your spine after removing his thumb from your mouth. he begins to unzip his pants, unlatching his palm from the back of your neck and relieving his hefty dick out to rest on your pussy, precum just oozing out of the burly head. he takes the base — stout with a thick vein leading up to coarse hairs matted on his groin — to push out some precum leaking at the tip.

he’s got hair on his husky stomach, mostly on the middle area leading up to his chest. he’s heavily built, it was clear with clothing on. now that he’s pulled off the hood on his head, stepped out of his cargo’s — he’s got the hoodie hiked up to his midsection, smelling like bourbon and cigars on a saturday night mixed with cedar. all of him is shown in the mirror directly facing your bed, pussy clenching from the view you’d gotten. he looked rugged, completely out-sizing you by a ton. a dirty, older man aching to be inside you. you wished you could see his face. get the whole experience. 

“you want it, doll? want me to take what's mine?"

scalding, beefy hands find their way back to your ass, slamming down both palms repeatedly and pushing only the tip inside you to hear you gasp. every smack leaves you creamy, sobbing and grinding back as much as you could. gripping and yanking at your skin, swatting and repeating — he’s enthralled . “fuckin’ sweet ass you got, yeah?” 

he could’ve sworn he saw you smirk amidst the brutality of his strikes. pussy full on soppy and dripping between plush thighs. it deserved a good taste, thinking about it for a while now. you clench from the sudden emptiness you feel when he leaves you, ghost standing up by the side of the bed to unravel the ropes from your ankles, deciding to pull your arms below the backs of your thighs and wrapping them together with your feet. he always takes his time with it, being delicate as you breathe in the silence, keening from a few touches he’d leave close to your pussy. 

now your knees are to your chest, arms bound tightly behind yourself with rope harsh on your skin. thighs pressed together now easing the pressure on your clit. you plant your palms flat on the backs of your thighs, nails scraping your own skin out of sudden shock when you feel his hot mouth swallowing your pussy wetly. lifted up his mask to get his face buried in it, arched over you with a fat tongue thrumming on your achy nub while his lips sloppily encase you. saliva drips from his mouth down to your arms, stuttering out a mewl mixed with heady gasps, eyes slicking white. 

“g-god, daddy — fuck!” crying out, you unintentionally move your hips which has you nearly rolling off the side of the bed, ghost catching you with a grunt before he’s repositioning you aggressively, his head spinning off the tart taste of you on his palate. you try to move away, the pleasure too intense.

“unh uh, don’t you fuckin’ run now. gimme those hips,” he grumbled, starved as he spanks you hard and yanks your hips back, holding them tight on either side with his dick jumping against your stomach as he sucks you up and all your giving him. 

at this point you’re drooling, eyes descending to the back of your skull as you take every full-tongued lick, stomach twisting as you listen to how greedy he eats it, slurps it, beats it with fingers now to keep you open enough to take him — deep, ragged growls and hot swats on your ass. you cum, right then and there, and it knocks the air from your throat. 

“c'mon doll, cum for me. let go."

“unngh, m’god — mmmnh!.” 

you’re groaning out your noises, the intensity of it making your entire body tremble, humming and gyrating your hips out of frenzy. it’s too much, but it feels so good. 

“yess, fuckin’ good girl. cum harder lil’ girl. want you full on creamy.” 

fingers continue to shake and plunge inside you, your stomach folding inwards from his relentless hunger, eyes still turned out and mouth faltered with drool dribbling. “s-simonnn!” the wall of fantasy breaks and you can’t fucking think anymore, going into subspace and full on sobbing now, endorphins high and brain mushy. hiccuped screams bellowing out the quicker he finger fucks you. cum coating up to his knuckles before pulling them out and rubbing at your bud with all four fingers. 

“i know pretty girl, i know, i know. doin’ so good.”

the sudden emptiness makes you clench for him to come back, the stimulation on your juicy clit causes you to sputter out little drops of liquid. it’s so pretty as he stares, watching in awe while you struggle to move, dampening the sheets. 

then, his voice cuts through the haze, low and sharp. “look at me, ꒰ ♥︎ ꒱.”

doe eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused. his face is hard in the dim light—jaw tight, pupils blown wide with lust. "did you cum too hard?" he checks in, your eyes drooped and face pouty like there’s nothing in your head. "hm, baby? answer. what’s your name?"

“꒰ ♥︎ ꒱,” you smile weakly. “and you’re simon.” 

“yeah, i am,” he chuckles, caressing your cheek with a curled finger. “pretty thing, petal. pussy jus’ as sweet as you.” 

“can you fuck my pussy, daddy?” you moan, batting lashes and biting swollen lips, still needing him. what he does to you can never be explained. “wan’ it.”

simon’s eyes say it all even if you couldn’t see his face. eyes darkening and remaining silent as he moves you around the bed, dick still standing hard. 

he’d gotten a bit nicer to you by untying the ropes from your ankles so you’d have the ability to fully stretch and move your lower body. you sigh thankfully, doing side by side twists to crack your achy parts. simon holds on to you with fondness, this moment feeling intimate as he massages your waist and back. 

“if you can’t take it anymore, you tell me, okay?”  simon makes sure he’s stern on that as he aligns his dick with your opening, grabbing your ass and bringing you down on his dick from where he now lays underneath you. 

“mhm,” nodding drunkenly, you melt into his touch as he holds you up by your shoulders, gasping as you split yourself open down on his dick ever so slowly, taking your time. it’s immediate when you moan together, simon’s eyes daunting under dark makeup, bushy brows furrowed and sharp hips rising up to meet you halfway with a weighty dick kissing you open. 

“fuckin’ hell — yeah,” simon hisses, seeing the outline of his mouth fall open beneath his mask. you go to reach for it, pulling it up just enough to attach your lips for a kiss, missing it.  

he chose to stay in character for you, even if you were the one to break first. darting out your tongue, you glide yours along his passionately slow, simon swatting your ass with a quick hand release before raising his hips to fuck up into you. your nails dig into your palms, arms still bound as you hold your mouth open on his to breathe and focus on how good he felt stretching you and fucking all the neediness away. you try your best to fuck him, too. wanting to give back to him as much as he’s given you. 

“uh-huh, take it all in, swallow it up with your cunt,” simon exhales raggedly, your ass clapping down on his thighs faintly, though it’s not enough. 

blurry eyes and shaky thighs not an excuse to him. giving him small rise and falls didn’t cut it. 

“c’mon, c’mon. i don’t give a fuck,” simon grunts when you halt your bouncing, cracking a hand on your ass again. you’d surely have a welt tomorrow morning. 

“ooo, baby, i’m g’na cum again!” you weep, tits bouncing in his face he goes to latch his mouth on to, sucking and pulling with hunger. you take every greedy, rough pound he gives to coax you into a proper fuck. 

“not yet, you hold it till i get there. cummin’ all night, petal. gotta give some pussy to me, yeah? got s’much nut to give you.” 

“i want your nut,” the sentence is slurred, simon holding your upper halve still so you wouldn’t fall while he applies a bit of force to drop you harder on his dick. “i want it, daddy.” 

“want it where?” he grits, your ass now slamming down on his muscular thighs, wetness coating his groin, scooting your pussy on him to feel it hit that spot in you mixed with his pubic hairs brushing along your clit. “oh, fuck baby.” 

“i w’na taste it,” whining, you lose yourself in grinding as you slouch lower, getting his dick in just the right angle to make you both feel good. simon chokes, holding his breath with a grunt, scooting your hips faster back and forth, back and forth. 

“get it to the back of that needy throat?” 

“yess, want it so bad, pleasepleaseplease.” 

neither of you could control it. he’s growling like a feral animal while you whine and whimper like a broken toy. every push and pull drags you both out of mind. 

“cum on it,” the baritone of his voice gets louder, wrapping a large forearm over your waist before slightly sitting up, spanking you and gripping your ass to lift up so he’s got enough room to sink deeper. his chest rises and falls, hitting his dick up to catch your rhythm. “ugh, fuck, fuck. cum onnit. fuckin’ cum on this big dick, baby.” 

simon’s wheezing, the snag of your pussy knocking the fucking wind out of him, finding it difficult to catch a breath in this mask. he holds it just for you, so he can cum down your throat just like you want. he’s always g’na give you what you want. simon’s body is stiff as he keeps his composure, kissing you sloppy as you gush on his dick and fall weak, screaming into his neck where your face falls and you can’t stop from crying and swiveling your waist. 

he doesn’t even bother telling you, lifting you up and laying you on the bed where your head hangs off the edge, simon’s bulky thighs on either side of your dizzy head as he fists his dick to shove it down your throat, bursting in a load of cum with the loudest, filthiest growl you’d ever heard. like a goddamn animal. his palm clutches your throat, thrusting deliberately slow to feel himself inside it. 

“drink it, baby,” he hums, eyes rolled back and hips unable to stop moving. “fuck yes, all of it.” 

and you do, every last drop. lips tight and cheeks sucked in as you clean him up well, simon patting your cheek as a reminder that you did a good job after he shifts back, dick taking it’s time going limp over your face as he calms himself.

“c’mere, doll.” 

simon lifts you up in strong arms, yanking the balaclava off of his face showing disheveled brunette strands stuck to his forehead, kissing yours and taking you to the bathroom. he runs a nice, hot bath for you with bubbles and candles. makes sure he rubs you down good with shea butter so you wouldn’t scar anywhere, especially in areas where he found the rope to be too tight on your flesh. apologizing for it.

putting on sweats and a regular black tee, he’s grabbing his keys after you got comfy in bed, running out to get breakfast for you both while you rested off what you endured, dawn peaking through the curtains without both of your realization. he’d rest with you when he got back. 

You were unsure of how life came to be this way for you. You were sure your poor decisions slipped your conscious, ducking between the cracks of late rent and unsupportive family, but if you could have stopped yourself before it got this bad, you would've. You would have grabbed the old you by the shoulders and shook her.

You would have smacked the stolen bracelets and rings right out of her hands. When you were starting small, testing the waters, you would have stopped her. You would have told her that it wasn't worth it, that there were other ways. 

You didn't ever get the chance to stop yourself, though, so you only got worse. Less cautious. You felt the risk and reward of criminal life wash over you. Where you were just barely scraping by, you now had more than enough, and outside of even that, you had offers from real, powerful villains. Just teetering on the edge of something bigger for yourself, even if it was not the most noble path. 

Unfortunately for you, taking one of those offers was the worst decision you made in your short, crime ridden career. 

A villain had enlisted you for a heist of sorts. A sketchy man, but weren't they all? What business did you have judging him? His idea was not too far out of your wheelhouse, but it would be the first time you would had work on such a large scale. You were set to sneak into a jewel store at night. The plan seemed rather straight forward. Almost too easy. That should have tipped you off, but it didn't. 

Disaster struck, and fast. You had barely escaped the store with a small satchel of gems and jewels in your possession when a terrifyingly iconic figure stood only a few feet away. 

"Little thief in the night, huh?" Gamma Jack crossed his arms over his chest, back resting against the brick wall in the alley. "Cute. Very cute."

"We've got a couple choices here," he said, hand firmly pressing you against the wall by your throat. His other hand wandered slightly. Not suggestively, but with a quiet dominance. "You don't seem like a fighter, so I don't assume you're gonna try that. I could bring you down to the authorities, don't think you'll fight them either."

You were prepared for the consequences from the moment you saw him. You may have been a criminal, but you weren't blessed with any powers to fight against him. Hell, for all purposes, you were just a woman. A woman with criminal intent, sure, but still. You hadn't the skill nor the energy to resist arrest. You were willing to let him take you into custody, you'd deal with the rest from a jail cell, you supposed. 

That wasn't what Jack wanted, though. 

"Or, we could work out a deal."

You eyed him suspiciously. Handsome as he was, his face reeked of hidden motive. Nothing about a deal with him seemed safe, but you were in no position to turn him down. 

You spoke up finally, mouth dry. "What sort of deal?" 

He ran his free hand over your hair, smoothing it out with eerily gentle movements. It felt like he was coaxing something out of you. Luring you into a false sense of comfort—it was working, to an extent. His touch did feel quite nice.

"You just sit there and look pretty, doll. You won't have to move a finger for this, I might forget all of this," he tilted his head over to the spilled pile of gems in the corner of the alley, "if you shut those lips and let it happen."

You fell for his trap perfectly. Like a sacrificial lamb, too stupid to see the blade in its shepard's hand, too blinded. That's what you were. Blinded. Completely blind to the thin, porcelain mask of charisma Jack wore. 

You thought that his touch would remain soft, that this would be easy. That it would be worth it to just give in and be free. You would have rather served jail time than this, you were sure of it.

"If you weren't so pretty," he said hiking your leg up, pushing it against your abdomen to help deepen his thrusts, "I probably wouldn't be so gentle with you. You're a lucky thing, aren't you?"

Gentle wasn't the word you would have used to describe his actions. His hands were calloused and rough as they dragged over your body. You felt used to completion, yet he still took more from you. 

You had been pushed against the wall for uncomfortably long. The texture of the brick had started to imprint into your bare back. It scratched your flesh each time Jack fucked into you, but that wasn't nearly as bad as the crescent shaped divots his nails left over your tits and hips. They burned a soft pink hue, catching too deeply on your delicate skin.

What was worse than all of that, though, worse than every stinging touch and bloodying thrust, his words stuck you like needles. Thinly veiled insults wrapped as compliments were spat into your face. 

"With a pussy like this, you'd be better off a working girl. Could make some real money sellin' this thing." He forced his mouth against yours again, not minding how your teeth clashed with his. There was no passion nor tenderness. Just rough, pure desire. "I'd be your best customer, baby. Good thing I'm getting it for free now."

It hurt. He could just laugh off his little jokes, his mean spirited, sexual jabs. You would have let your self sniffle and sob if you didn't think it would get him off even further.

"You know what I like about dames like you? You're all so desperate. Look at you—startin' a life of crime and for what, baby? Must be on your last leg here."

With his tongue back down your throat again, you nearly gagged. You couldn't seem to escaped being penetrated by him. Not even your mouth was safe, and it was beyond humiliating. What was more embarrassing  was tight feeling in your stomach that started to grow. You really didn't want to cum, he didn't deserve the satisfaction of it, but it would likely be the only win you would get out of the whole thing. 

It was a degrading feeling—having you cunt betray you to clench over your momentary enemy like a vice. Gushing over his cock, painting it with sweet release. You shuddered at how his eyes dipped down between the two of you. They bored into the dimly lit scene, watching how your slick coated him so perfectly. 

If he were in the right headspace, he would have shoved his cock back in you when he came, but he lost control as soon as you finished. His dick twitched, the tip just barely kissing your ruined entrance, and he shot load just on the outside of your cunt. 

Surprisingly, he let you move your leg back down and out of his grasp. You tried to steady yourself, but you felt so weak. 

You bit your cheek, trying to hide how out of breath you were. "A deal's a deal, Jack," you said, avoiding eye contact with him. 

He let out a soft chuckle. "You can't really think I'd keep good on that, can you?"

"You—!"

He pressed his hand over your mouth to shut you up. "See, I was just going to kill you once we were done here, but we're not done. I think you'll be useful to me alive."

Your eyes blew wide. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, this wasn't what you agreed to!