I can’t stop thinking about Simon Riley
Simon Riley who has these big hands, hardened by war and calloused from murder.
Simon Riley with a permanent ache in his shoulder from the kickback of a rifle.
Simon Riley who’s lower back hurts every time he crouches into position.
Simon Riley with knees that click everytime he crouches.
Simon Riley with chafed inner thighs from the rough material of tac pants.
Simon Riley with shoulders tensed up to his ears.
Simon Riley who really, really, really needs a massage.
It’s Gaz who gives him your card, clicks his tongue and tells him “Trust me, bird’s got magic hands.”
Simon Riley who stares at it for two weeks, insisting it’s something for girls, nothing that a man like him would ever need.
Two days of fucking agony, stuck on the shitty base couch because he can barely stand long enough to get back to his quarters.
Two days of wishing he’d just been fucking shot, at least then the med bay would give him the good drugs.
He crawls onto your table with a grunt and the words “Firm pressure.”
Like silk, your hands smooth over his muscles, needing every tight spot you can find until the knots come loose under your fingers. 
You take him apart with pressure so firm it’s almost painful, your elbow digging into his tailbone as you work over a particularly stubborn spot.
Simon Riley who’s so fucking vocal the whole time.
He groans, moans, even whimpers into the headrest. Simon who jumps against the table when you start to work on his upper traps.
Simon Riley who cums in his fucking boxers when you make his neck crack.
Like an out of body, third person experience he blows his load just as the tension releases.
It’s unmistakable, his choked noise and the way his entire body goes rigid.
Never mind how he reaches out and grabs your thigh with a grip tight as steel when it happens.
Simon Riley who leaves two hundred dollars in cash and his phone number on the table when he leaves. Along with a little note in his chicken scratch-
