Going Through It

You were pinching the bridge of your nose, too tired to deal with this nonsense. Of course, Mike Webster had to come to you with notes, again, in the middle of the practice, and of course, your discussion got heated again. When it started, you felt quite embarrassed in front of other parents, and maybe even a little intimidated.

Mike towered over you, both with his frame and his experience, and you weren’t actually a real soccer coach either; you were just there to make sure a bunch of six-year-olds were having fun and not hurting themselves during the warm-up, and sometimes when they played as well. You were great with kids, and they loved you as much as you loved them, this particular group especially, but the parents… And especially Mike, started to make it hard for you to come to your second job with the enthusiasm you knew the kids needed.

“Off the field, Mike,” you looked him right into his deep blue eyes, his glasses glued to his forehead. “Now!” you shouted, noticing his hesitation, but not before you grabbed that paper with notes off him.

Turning away, you spotted a tiny bundle of equally blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair staring at you.

“Webster junior,” you sighed, “not you too?”

“Nah,” Tommy responded in an adorably serious tone. “But you know he likes you?”

“Oh, no, baby, he really doesn’t,” you couldn’t help but chuckle, resetting his laces. 

“No, no,” his sweet voice interrupted you before you could even offer an explanation, “he talks about you all the time. In a normal voice,” Tommy whispered, nodding the whole time.

You were literally speechless, but sure as hell wouldn’t be explaining to the little lad how much his dad despised you and your practices and your way of teaching, which he made sure to let you know immediately after practice.

“You’re babying him, you’re babying them all! They can lace up their cleats! You are too gentle, too nice!” Mike followed you around the parking lot after handing over Tommy to his mother. Although they had split custody, Mike insisted on attending all practices and all games, so much so that just a sight of him would make your head throb in most unpleasant ways.

“They are kids, Mike. I just warm them up, run a couple of drills, and help with the games. I am not doing any of the strategy, don’t teach them any of the techniques, and yet, you won’t get off my back!” you hoped your little outburst would finally make him see how ridiculous he was being, constantly bothering you but not raising the same hell with other coaches. 

“Because you’re too soft! You need to drill them harder, meaner!” Mike waved his arms around, a red flush creeping up his neck, his stupid baby bangs sweatily glued to his forehead. “Maybe your son needs softness, Mike, ever think of that?!” It was too far and too mean, and you knew it, but it just slipped. Your head was throbbing already, that disgusting pulsating pain spreading towards your eye, and you just wanted to get your meds and get home.

“Don’t you dare tell me what my son does and doesn’t need,” his voice dropped dangerously low, something dark rising in his glance.

“I’m not, Mike! I’m just trying to get you to shut the fuck up!” your voice broke under the exhaustion and the pain, and you could feel the stream of hot tears rolling down your flushed cheeks. “For months now you pick on me, and for what? Train them yourself then, Mike, because I can’t anymore, okay?” you scrambled to open your pillbox, but your hands were trembling too hard, and you couldn’t quite grip it.

Mike didn’t say anything, just stepped closer and calmly opened it for you, swallowing hard. He had no idea of the hurt he had caused you, staring at you, completely dumbfounded. He was just trying to help. Surely you must understand that?

But as he watched you struggle to swallow a couple of sips of water, your whole body a shivering mess, Mike realised he had let his temper get the best of him.

He felt his heart speed up, a terrifying realisation spreading through him: you despised him. You truly, deeply despised him. Mike never dated after a divorce, never even liked someone enough to look their way twice, until he saw you smiling in the field, surrounded by two dozen five-year-olds who were excitedly kicking the ball and trying to pass it to each other. 

And now you were crying in front of him. Because of him. 

“Wait,” he muttered, the sound of you opening your car boot bringing him back to reality. 

“Just leave me alone, Mike!” you cried out, slamming the door and driving away.

Mike had no idea how long he had been standing there, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He couldn’t sleep that night, constantly replaying the events of the evening. 

He wanted you badly, and he managed to colossally fuck it all up. Mike knew, somewhere deep down, that he didn’t really have a chance with you. You were younger, and although perhaps not controversially so, you still had so much more to experience in life instead of being dragged down by a grumpy old man. Still, being the sole cause of your tears was eating away at him.

If he could, Mike would do it differently; he wouldn’t be yelling, and he wouldn’t interrupt your practice. And even if we were, he’d console you afterwards. He’d apologise and hug you, hold you close, tight. 

Right. Apologise. Easy enough thing to do, right?

Well, you didn’t show up for any of the practices that week, other coaches excusing your absences, telling Mike you were sick. He grew restless, anxious.

So when he lingered in the parking lot after practice one time to take a call and saw you, all smiles and in a good mood, not fucking sick at all, he knew. 

It wasn’t that you were laughing at a probably lame joke said by that other coach, a fucking moron, and it wasn’t even how you stopped dead in your tracks when you saw Mike staring at you. No, it was the realisation you were avoiding him, and avoiding him made you feel happy.

“What do you want?” you dragged yourself to him, watching as Mike’s eyes went wide, that famous flush creeping up his neck again. 

Except he looked so defeated, leaning against his car, his hands behind his back.

“I thought you were sick,” he mumbled, avoiding looking at you. He knew he wouldn’t be able to take it, that newly disconnected, bored gaze you were sporting. 

Sick of you, you thought, but bit your tongue.

“Mhm,” you muttered instead, your eyes burning a metaphorical hole in his forehead. 

Mike was aware that this was his last chance, but his mind was blank. He watched you roll your eyes and let out an annoyed groan before turning away from him.

“Please come back,” he blurted out, like a schoolboy with his first crush.

You turned around, shocked. You opened your mouth, then promptly closed it again.

“For my son,” Mike added in a panic. “He keeps asking about you all the time. Look,” he reached for something in the car, rummaging through his glove compartment. He quickly pushed a piece of paper into your hand, a handmade “get better soon” card, with a drawing of you and Tommy holding hands; Mike was drawn with angry eyebrows in the background, holding a ball.

You nodded, drowning a sniffle.

—

“Miss Coach, Miss Coach,” Tommy’s excited voice carried all the way to you just as the practice was ending, “can you please come to my birthday party this Saturday?” He gave you a tiny invite card adorned with a bunch of footballs, smiling ear to ear.

“Dad says it’s okay! Mum too! My little sister will be there as well!”

You looked at Mike, who curtly nodded, then continued to stare at his phone.

“I’d love to come, honey,” you smiled back at Tommy, watching him beam as he hugged you.

Saturday couldn’t come fast enough for Mike. He changed his shirt three times and control-freaked around even after kids and their parents arrived. He wanted Tommy to have the best time, but he also wanted to impress you, despite you not really confirming you’d come. Surely, you wouldn’t think he used Tommy as a ploy? It wasn’t even his idea; he only said yes after Tommy already convinced his ex-wife to agree as well.

And then he saw you, in a lovely pastel yellow sundress, already standing in his garden, sipping some pink lemonade. You smiled at him, a polite smile but a smile nonetheless, and Mike felt that hot flush creeping up his neck again.

He stared for a beat too long, taking in your figure, mesmerised. 

You stayed after, helped him tidy up a bit. Although the birthday party was held at his house, he didn’t have Tommy for the weekend, who went home with his adorable little sister, carrying her little plush llama around when she’d drop it.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” Mike mumbled, pouring you another glass of Sauvignon Blanc; you refused the red because it was giving you migraines. 

“It’s no bother,” you replied, flashing another faint smile, leaning on the kitchen island opposite him. He looked nice, you thought, in dark slacks and a tight, unbuttoned polo. It was nice seeing him in something other than football kits and exercise clothes, and you had to bite your lips to remind yourself not to ogle.

Mike had no idea how to act, feeling guilty that you were treating him so nicely. He wanted to kiss you so badly, splay his hands around your waist, and pull you close, play with your hair and bury his face in the crook of your neck. So instead, he swallowed and looked away again.

“Do you want to watch something?” he finally asked, feeling the tips of his ears burning.

He felt stupid the moment he said it, wondering what you were thinking of his clumsiness.

“I’d love to, but it’s already quite late,” you replied somewhat disappointedly.

Mike perked up.

“You can stay the night, it’s not an issue,” he blurted out again, suddenly realising how it sounded.

“Oh, is that how it’s gonna be?” you teased back, chuckling, sipping some more wine.

“No, no, no, I just meant,” Mike swallowed hard again, clenching his jaw, “that, that if you want to watch something, we could, and obviously, I have a guest room and a guest bathroom too, completely virginal as well…” he trailed off, staring off into nothing, his whole face a shade of a strawberry. He took a deep breath, glancing at your amused face, ignoring your continued chuckle.

“What I meant, is that I have a guest room that has never been used before, and that you’re welcome to it. Yeah.”

“How much did you have to drink, exactly?” you couldn’t help but tease him some more.

“I wish I could use that excuse,” Mike forced a laugh, “but this is only my second glass.”

“No worries Mike, I was just pulling your leg. You’re being awfully nice, but I know how you really feel about me. Thanks for trying, though,” you flashed that smile again, bigger than before, and Mike could swear he felt lightheaded.

And then you closed the distance, pressing a quick peck to his cheek.

“Goodnight, Mike. See you Monday.”

He walked you to the door, just nodding along. Your lip gloss left a little of a sticky residue on his skin, and Mike wanted to taste it, to taste you.

“You should open the door now,” you laughed out after a couple of moments of you and Mike just standing there.

“No,” Mike said slowly.

“No?”

“No, you don’t know how I really feel about you.”

“Okay? So you hate me more than I thought?” you tried to play it off, but your face noticeably dropped. You hoped that your coming here would help straighten your relationship out, not to something friendly, but at least tolerable, and Mike telling you off so seriously made you feel so sad. More sad than you would ever admit to anyone but yourself.

“I don’t hate you.” You rolled your eyes now, irritated to the bone. You had a crush on Mike once, or Tommy’s handsome father, as you called him, which went away as quickly as the first time he yelled at you. Sure, he was hot when he yelled, and you were entertained for the first two or three times, but when it continued, you pushed that attraction somewhere deep and locked it away. 

Mike closed the distance this time, gently stepping into you, his lips finding yours with a striker’s precision.

He slid his hands around your waist, pulling you into him, tasting the cherry of your lip gloss. The kiss was exploratory, gauging, so when Mike pulled back a little, you followed that little string of spit between you two, leaning in, he finally exhaled the breath he was holding in for the whole day.

The second kiss was much more passionate, Mike’s hand finding your neck, his long fingers gently coiling around it as he pressed his lips harder, nudging you to open your mouth, his tongue slowly exploring around yours. 

You could feel butterflies in your stomach spreading through your whole body, your hands finding their way to Mike’s buffed chest, sliding upwards to his neck and further, tangling in his hair. His kiss was deliciously sloppy, and you pressed yourself against Mike, feeling how hard he was already.

It drove him wild in an instant, his head dropping to your neck to press a hot, wet kiss there, sending heat directly to your pussy. Mike had to control himself not to start fucking moaning, tasting your skin, his fingers playing with the bow of your shoulder strap, the other hand sliding to the curve of your ass. 

A tiny moan escaped your lips, and Mike grabbed your ass with both hands, picking you up with ease; you wrapped your legs around his waist, a new wave of heat and want spreading through you.

“Fuck me,” he murmured, carrying you towards the couch.

“That’s the general idea,” you kept kissing him, licking his neck, pulling off his shirt when he finally sat down, you perched on top of his lap.

Mike didn’t respond, completely lost in you and your kisses and your scent; he untied both of your straps, pulling your dress down, burying his head between your tits, his huge hands playing with them, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucked on the other one, drawing another long moan out of you.

You rolled your hips, feeling his hard cock through the fabric, watching as his whole body tensed up in anticipation. You were so wet and so horny, unzipping his pants and pushing your hand inside, feeling his fat cockhead under your thumb, leaking and red. Mike unzipped your dress, clumsily pulling it over your head, immediately regretting the loss of your touch, even if it was only for a couple of seconds. 

You got up to help him get the rest of his clothes off, but Mike knelt in front of you, slowly pulling down your panties. He kissed you just above your clit, and then licked a long strip between your folds.

“Fuck, Mike,” you moaned, trying to hold steady by tangling your hands in his hair, pulling a bit hard.

Mike continued, licking and sucking, introducing a teasing finger that only rubbed at your opening as he sucked at your clit, his tongue flicking across it, sending more jolts of pleasure through you. You couldn’t stop your moans anymore, your hips rolling at his mouth, Mike’s fingers slowly pushing their way into your wet, aroused pussy.

You pulled harder on his hair, and Mike chuckled against your skin, his hot breath sending more pleasure through you. You were close, desperately so, to come on Mike’s tongue and fuck him already, feel his big cock spread you as you fuck yourself onto it.

The thought was enough to unravel you, your body shaking as Mike held you steady, still lapping at your clit. He looked up when you released his hair, licking at his lips and wiping his chin, greedily licking his fingers too. He sat back, guiding you to sit on top of him, lining up his cock, stroking it just a little.

Your mouth salivated at the sight of it, and you eagerly tried to take it all in in one move, but it was impossible, the stretch too big, too painful.

“Shhh, slow down baby,” Mike cooed, his hand on your waist, the other tangled in your hair just above your neck. He watched as your pussy impatiently took half of him, squeezing him, trying to drain him already, and kept sinking, trying to swallow his whole cock. “Breathe, baby,” he instructed just as you leaned your hands on his chest, arching your back in pleasure.

Mike couldn’t resist, sucking at your nipple again, mindful of the gush of wetness his tongue caused your pussy, and you finally sank down the whole way, feeling how hard his cock was, throbbing inside you.

Impatiently, you started rolling your hips, finally drawing loud, unrestrained moans out of Mike, whose hands immediately braced your hips, helping you fuck him. But it wasn’t enough, just sliding your pussy that way, no, you decided you really wanted to bounce on it, to feel the fatness and the length of it. 

“I can’t do this for long,” you moaned out, listening to the joint squelches and skin slaps your bodies produced, “but I don’t want it to stop.”

Tears of pleasure formed in the corners of your eyes as you clawed at Mike’s chest. 

Music to his ears, your words and your moans, and Mike gripped harder at your hips, meeting your movements, thrusting harder into your now still body, fucking your pussy in a way he had been imagining for the past year. 

“Please, Mike, don’t stop,” you spurred him on with those pretty words and even prettier moans, your head falling back.

“I can’t do this for long either,” Mike managed between his moans, already trying not to come for the past couple of minutes. He was gripping your hips with a bruising intensity, but you didn’t complain, and he really didn’t want to let go.

“Don’t,” you moaned, “just fill me up. Fill me up and then fuck me again, Mike. Please.”

Mike didn’t manage more than one more thrust before he did just that, spilt his hot cum deep inside your fluttering pussy, with a lot of groans and fucks spilling from his lips as well.

“Fuck you’re perfect,” he finally muttered, trying to catch his breath. “Fuck, baby.”

You laughed, giving him a long kiss, still tasting yourself on him. 

“So, about that movie…” you teased, drawing an honest laugh out of Mike, who playfully slapped your ass.

“I have a TV in my room, so…"

If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`♡´-

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you feel sorry for being gross to a stranger doing his job.

but that's ok. simon learned enough about you in the few minutes you spent with your hot mouth pressed by his ear. your friends calling you by name; a mention of a hotel; you're here for another four days. it's enough for a man like him.

it's cute that you thought you were being so dirty. he'll teach you loads more by the time he's had you for a solid 24 hours. have you on your back, on all fours, taking his cock so deep you don't have any words left at all. no teasing left in your sweet voice; just the most pitiful sobs and whimpers for him instead.

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”

He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.

“What?”

Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”

The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.

Not mine.

They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.

So you just stare at him.

At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.

His gloves, first.

They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.

Your gaze flicks lower.

His shirt, too.

Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.

He cleaned up.

The thought comes through the haze in pieces.

Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.

You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”

Simon watches your mouth form the words.

Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.

His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.

“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”

A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.

You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.

“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”

Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.

His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.

Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.

“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”

Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.

For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.

But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.

“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”

Your nails bite into his shoulder.

“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“

His hips move before you can say anything else.

A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.

“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”

Your stomach twists.

You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.

He pulls out just to thrust in again.

Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.

Simon feels it.

“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”

Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.

There is blood on him.

Someone else’s blood.

Graves’s blood.

The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.

You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.

Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.

Simon watches the realization move across your face.

“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”

Your voice is barely a whisper.

His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”

The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.

You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.

He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.

Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”

For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.

His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.

“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.

Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”

Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.

It doesn’t.

It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.

But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.

It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.

Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.

Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.

Simon feels it. Of course he does.

He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.

Your face burns.

“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.

His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”

The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.

Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”

“There she is.”

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.

Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.

“You liked that.” He croons.

You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.

“N-no.”

His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.

“Liar.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.

And now he has caught you reacting to it.

Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.

Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.

“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.

His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.

“You should be callin’ me reckless.”

Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.

His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.

It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.

“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.

You swallow. “You can’t—”

He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.

Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.

Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.

“I can’t what?” He murmurs.

You try.

You really do.

You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.

“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”

“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”

You can’t.

Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.

Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.

“Too far gone to scold me now?”

You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.

And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.

“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.

“So am I.”

“Simon—”

“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”

Your breath leaves you in a gasp.

He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.

“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”

Your face burns hotter.

You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.

But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.

He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”

“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”

His eyes flash. “There she is.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.

“Try that again.”

You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.

“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”

“Probably.”

“Price is going to—”

“Already did.”

You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”

His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.

“Read me the riot act.”

Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”

“Yes.”

Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”

Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”

God. You think he’s lost his mind.

“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“

He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.

“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”

His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.

“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”

The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”

You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”

“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”

You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.

He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”

You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.

“And if he talks about you like that again?”

You barely manage the whisper. “What?”

Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”

For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.

One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.

“Leave it.”

Your breath trembles. “Why?”

His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”

And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.

Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.