self indulgent writer

He’s everyones first love fr

When he can't see his own skin next to yours. He stays hidden under long sleeves and and pants even when it's just the two of you. Ghost doesn't believe you when you tell him he's beautiful.

"Ugly fuckin' mug, should be a sin jus' to touch you." He whispers into your neck, bodies still sweaty, hidden in the dark. The web of burned tissue over his chest snug against your back.

"I don't know what you see in me." When your hands wander down the length of his arm. Fingertips jumping over neat rows of raised scars, broken by potholes made of shrapnel and bad nights.

"It's fuckin' disgusting, is what it is." When the side of his face brushes your cheek, his lips kissing your jaw. Words never form quite right with all the scar tissue pulling at his mouth.

He would rather tell you ten times over how wrong you are about him than to accept that you love him. You do. You love him. You love every inch of him, the hills and valleys of scars and the warp of ink over the worst of them, the way he laughs like a broken engine, the way he leans to the left side when he's tired.

Masterlist

John drives for a long while.

Silence fills the car. The forest outside dips and thins, becomes thick again and towers over the road. The mountain range an ever-looming entity, a silent, immortal observer. As night descends and the headlights come on, the two men in the front seat turn more and more unrecognizable to your dumb fevered brain.

No one outside this car knows where you are or that you're even alive. Maybe no one ever will.

This mysterious stop you're being driven to has a feeling of finality to it. Simon promised you would see a hospital, but just how good are his promises? All you know about him is his name and that he's incredibly fit. You don't even know what he looks like.

And John. You know even less of him.

While Simon is intimidating for obvious reasons, there's something about John that pokes some ancient animal instinct buried under millennia of societal evolution. It's like staring down a dark hallway with a sightless end, just a pit of void where the mind starts imagining all sorts of sharp-teethed creatures to be staring back.

He's not threatened you, has done nothing to harm you. In fact, you owe him in being the reason as to why you could get away from that cabin to begin with.

But the image of his piercing blue eyes warps in your memory and you can't help but wonder if in doing so you traded one danger for another far worse.

something something simon riley shirtless and working on his bike in the sun.

you, in a folding chair with a canned cocktail in one hand and a ciggie in the other, watching the muscles in his back work as he moves. pale scars catching the sunlight. sweatpants dangerously low on his hips. a slow smile spreading over your face when you notice the crescent moon shaped indents on his shoulders; evidence of how well he fucked you last night.

edna, the 83 year old next door neighbour, sipping tea in her lounge, slightly disappointed her view is obscured by an overgrown shrub.

something she just happens to mention the next time you and her share a cuppa and a gossip.

she's entirely thrilled to see the next time simon's working on his bike, you've trimmed the leaves back.

you catch her eye through the window and wink.

simon sees the exchange in his peripheral vision. the tips of his ears go red.

simon riley hates the way you talk about yourself.

sometimes. only sometimes. most of the time you're teasing him and telling him his punching well above his weight - you're joking, but he happens to actually agree.

but at a certain point in the month, every month, you stand naked in front of the full length mirror in your shared bedroom with tears in your eyes and prod and poke and pick.

this month though? you're focussing on one, very specific, area.

"si, do you think i should get a boob job?" you sniffle, glancing over your shoulder to look at him where he's lounging in his sweatpants on your bed.

he flinches. actually flinches. eyes going wide with confusion.

"love, why th' fuck would you say that?"

you gesture at your chest, "because... look! there's barely anything there!"

he moves before you can blink - one of his hands lands on your hip, the other reaching around you to grip your jaw from behind.

"fuckin' stop it." it comes out harsher than he intends - but you can see from the way his eyes are burning as they meet your reflection that his temper is simmering beneath the surface. not really at you - but he won't let anyone talk about his missus like that, not even her. "nothin' there? fuck off. okay, yer not gonna be on page three any time soon but you don't need a fuckin' boob job. yer perfect as is. fuckin' sexy. beautiful."

your lower lip wobbles. "you have to say that. you love me."

simon's grip tightens - not enough to hurt, but enough to ground you. he turns you around slowly, forcing you to face him instead of the mirror. those dark brown eyes - the ones that have seen every kind of horror imaginable - soften in the way they only ever do for you.

"i don't have to say shite." he mutters, "i say what i mean. always 'ave." his thumb swipes across your quivering lower lip, "you think i'd lie to you about this? about you?"

before you can answer he dips his head to press a slow, open mouthed kiss to the top of one small breast, then the other, the stubble he lets grow out between deployments scraping against your skin as he starts to speak against you.

"these?" another kiss, this one lingering, tongue flicking out to taste your skin. "these are mine. an' they're fuckin' stunnin'. don’t need more. don’t want more." he cups one gently, thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbles under his touch. "look 'ow they fit in my 'and. 'ow sensitive you get when i do this…"

he dips his head even lower, sucking the peak of your nipple into his mouth - hard enough to drag a gasp from you - before immediately soothing it with his tongue. you feel a low groan vibrate through his chest as he switches to the other side; lavishing you with attention until your knees start to tremble.

"si-"

"nah." he says firmly. "don't interrupt. don't argue. just… don't love." there's a pause, a long one, and then his voice drops into something softer. "you know this is - an' don't kill me for sayin' it - yer hormones right love? you know - somewhere in yer brain - that yer fuckin' perfect."

your lower lip wobbles again - but for a completely different reason this time.

he continues, "you never wear a bra so they bounce a bit when you walk - an' it's all i can do not to spend the entire time starin' at 'em. they fit in my 'and like they're meant to be there. johnny saw that picture you sent me the other week of you in that stupid little bikini top an' 'e got a stiffy on the fuckin' transport plane."

your ears go hot.

he straightens suddenly, hands sliding down to grip the backs of your thighs and in one motion he lifts you, your bare back meeting the cool glass of the mirror as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. his chest is burning hot as it presses against yours - solid muscle, scarred skin, the smattering of blonde hair that you can only see up close.

he frees himself with one hand, heavy and hard, and drags the head of his cock across your slit, coating himself in how wet you already are. then he pushes in - slow but determined - stretching you open until he’s buried inside you completely.

a broken moan escapes you, hands gripping his shoulder for purchase as simon drags his cock almost all the way out of you before slamming back in. the mirror behind you rattles with each harsh snap of his hips. his mouth drops back to your chest - sucking, licking, biting; worshipping the very thing you'd been tearing yourself down over.

one of his hands stays under your thighs, the other braces against the mirror beside your head as he fucks you harder. your fingernails bite into his skin and he groans; you clench down around him and he hisses. every thrust pushes you against the glass, every pull of his mouth on your nipples sending heat straight to your core.

"si - fuck - please -"

"go on then. fuckin' come then. with my cock in yer perfect cunt and my mouth on yer perfect tits that you think i don't love."

the heat in your belly peaks without warning; warmth flooding every cell in your body as you clamp down around him, moaning his name into his neck. simon groans again, pace turning erratic, chasing his own release now. he buries his face between your breasts as he comes; hips stuttering, filling you in hot pulses, your name a gasped cry against your sternum from his lips.

"no more talk about changin’ a single thing about you," he says quietly. "not because you think i want you any other way. 'cause i don't. never will."

you nod, breathless, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, letting yourself believe him.