#boxer!simon

the cook told you weeks after you first saw him stumbling into the diner. simon.

he only showed up after midnight, sometimes even later, blood on his knuckles, sweat drying on the back of his neck, an old and beat duffel bag swung over his shoulder, and more often than not with a split lip or a black eye adoring his pale skin.

you’d bring him extra napkins when his lip was split, and he’d nod a thanks, a quiet understanding.

he always ordered the same thing: black coffee, eggs, hash browns, sausages, and no tomatoes. he’d pay in crumbled bills and often tip enough for you to feel guilty about taking them, but then again, you’d never had the chance to argue about it as he’d always leave the money on the table and disappear into the night.

he never talked much, just sat in the corner booth of the crappy, fluorescent-lit diner you’d started working at for some extra money, watching the rain smear the windows as he ate alone.

you told yourself it was none of your business, the busted-up knuckles, bruised jaw, the way he sometimes limped, none of that was yours to pry into. it didn’t take you long to connect the dots: it was a sketchy neighbourhood, and you’d heard enough about the illegal gambling and fights going on in the back alleys to understand he must’ve been one of the fighters.

still, you’d find yourself watching the door every time you’d work the night shift, waiting for him, until one night, simon didn’t show.

at first you pretended not to care.

you wiped down his usual booth four times, refilling all the sugar jars of the diner hoping they’d keep you busy as the clock behind you kept ticking.

the cook, a welsh man who wasn’t too keen on personal hygiene, would spend the dead hours smoking outside, leaving you alone, elbows propped up on the counter as you’d stare at the door, hoping the next time the bell over the door jingled, it’d be him, hood up and eyes dark instead of a strong gust of wind.

but it was never him.

you’d told yourself maybe he got tired of the place, or that he’d gotten hurt too bad. you tried not to dwell on the second option too long.

the next night, simon still didn’t show.

three nights later, just after two am, he finally stumbled in, blood dripping down the side of his face and holding onto his side.

the diner was empty, and you almost dropped the sugar jar you were refilling behind the counter.

“jesus, simon-!” it was the first time you’d said his name out loud.

he blinked just once, like he hadn’t expected you to know it. he was swaying slightly, favouring his left leg. “do ya mind-?”

“i’ll grab the kit.” you rushed into the storage room, coming back with a small red and white box.

“s’not as bad as it looks…” he tried saying as you guided him to sit down in a booth.

“you’re bleeding.” you pointed out more sharply than you meant to.

simon didn’t argue again.

in silence, he let you patch the cut on his eyebrow. it was messy but shallow, didn’t need stitches, so you gently placed a bandaid on his brow ridge.

his ribs were worse, and simon winced when you tried pressing some ice to his side. “gimme tha’-” he snatched the ice from you, lifting the hem of his hoodie, careful to hide the old scars that reminded him that his violence wasn’t something for a pretty thing like you.

his hand kept the ice under the hoodie to try swell down the purpling bruise blooming across his side, his eyes never leaving you as you moved to grab some tissues.

“told ya ‘s not too bad.” he grunted.

“and i told you to sit still twice already, haven’t i?” you lifted an eyebrow at him, cleaning the blood off his face.

he coughed out a laugh, looking away.

“why didn’t you come in this week?” you murmured after a couple of minutes of comfortable silence. “i thought you’d finally gotten tired of finding richie’s hair in your plate.”

he grinned.

“got jumped after the last match, tuesday night. wasn’t exactly in walkin’ shape for a coupla days.” he then answered.

you grimaced, and simon felt the need to reassure you.

“s’alright.” simon shrugged. “still standin’.”

“barely.”

a few moments passed before he cleared his throat, tilting his head to look at you. “didn’t think you’d notice.”

“i noticed. also- you’re the only regular at this time, it’d be hard not to.”

silence stretched between you again, and you almost grew impatient, craving to hear his tired voice once more.

“m’not used to tha’.”

“i figured.” you replied gently.

“this place’s the only part of my night that doesn’t feel like hell.” he admitted then, as quiet as a prayer. “where’d ya know my name?”

“heard the cook once. picked it up.” you shrugged.

“ah, richie and that big mouth a’his.” simon snorted, wincing at the piercing pain in his ribs. you looked at his hand, resting on the table, bruised and with dried blood under his nails.

“you’re quiet. never asked me anythin’ ‘bout the cuts ‘n the bruises. thought ya didn’t pay attention.”

“i always pay attention.”

the silence stretched on as you two sat one in front of the other with steaming cups of bad coffee between you.

“won’t miss another night.”

He had always kinda been there, lingering in the depths of your mind. You only vaguely remember when the first time was when you saw him mask hiding his face as he took long, intimidating strides into the gym. Everything about him screamed for attention, even if he very apparently tried to hide it. He spots you, asks you where he could meet John Price. You shot him a polite smile, eagerly taking him to your boss. You don’t see him for a week after, until he does come back, looking a lot different when he steps into the ring. No hoodies hiding away his body, no slumped down shoulders in an attempt to blend in. He was swift, powerful. His movement, smooth and calculated, his eyes narrowed in cold concentration. Looks like Price found himself a new star, a face you’d regularly see from now on.

You don’t talk to him all that much. He wasn’t the talkative type either, only nodding you hello and goodbye before and after every session, six times a week, giving you a little ‘thanks, luv’ when you gave him a water bottle. You don’t know why you kept your distance though; you were perfectly fine with Kyle and Johnny, liked to joke around with them, even spent time with them outside of work and boxing. Maybe he seemed too dangerous, his gaze too piercing. Maybe it was the way you had no idea what was going through his head when stares at you between his rounds, how even during matches, in the arena of cheering people his glance found their way to track you between all the people. Looking, observing, judging if he was doing well enough for you. You think you were worried you’d fall into the depth of these endless eyes, because who knows what the cryptic mind of Simon Riley held. Most likely not the same thoughts you’d get every time his body, heaving in a layer of sweat, blonde hair sticking to his forehead, moved, when his muscles moved along his every motion, stretching, flexing with the elegance of a swan.

He makes it in a shockingly fast pace. Once you noticed him, he was everywhere you looked – the ladder of success seemed to be a mere little game for him; he had climbed it before you even knew he attempted to. ‘Ghost’ was making his rounds in the boxing scene and you didn’t know how to feel, didn’t know how you stood with him. Little ‘thank you’s turn into him ruffling your hair, a soft smile on his lips. Short greetings become small talk. And when you were cleaning up after a day’s worth of work, he sometimes would sit there, fresh out the shower, waiting for you to finish up. His name sure was well-picked with how ghastly he was, vaporizing into nothingness, coming out of nowhere when you least expect it. He confuses you, impresses you, makes you cower in need when you lie in bed, torn between sleep and staying up because even in your dreams he haunted you.

You find yourself closer than ever. You weren’t quite sure what your mission was, something along the lines of Price asking you to check on Simon, you think. There he was, his hot breath fanned over your face – thick and damp; it’s almost like it sticks to you, keeps your mind hazy as you stay frozen against the wall. His scent is intoxicating – blooming flowers by the sea, salty, blue turned amber as a malty, dry whiskey takes over. Intense enough to make you feel all gooey, your tummy achy in need. Monumental, mesmerizing, so distant like a dream. But here he was, half-lidded eyes scanning over your body, taking in your soft skin, drooling at the thought of how malleable your soft thighs would be wrapped around his thick waist, how you’d bend under his touch, how fucked out you’d look at him. Doe-eyed little angel, always getting too close to what would burn you. Too bad Simon Riley had a thing for branding what was his.

“W-what are we doing…?”

A cocktail of nerve-wrecking excitement and the slightest hue of fear – more instinctive than actual with how close and imposing he was – deliciously rushed through your spin, finding its end right between your legs.

“Last time I checked I was getting’ ready for my fight, luv. ‘n you popped outta nowhere.”

You gulp, eyes trailing down his chiselled body. That was true, more or less. Only missing the part where he had pushed you against some surface, body pressed against yours.

“Y-you better get ready then.”

“Hmm…sure, luv.”

You don’t know if it’s relief or pity that washes over you when you were about to turn and leave, interrupted by a calloused hand against your bare neck. Gentle, not triggering any sense of danger. His thin lips meet yours.

“’m gon be lookin’ out for ya, luv. So root for me, hm?”

You don’t know how he could look even prettier than he does all damp and pumped after training, but the precision he had in his every jab during competition was breath-taking. His strong back, toned torso, the provocative glint in his eye that looked at you with devotion whenever he found a spare split second, silently screaming that this was for you, his way of showing off. Knock out after three rounds; you believe he dragged this one out for you. Even after the arena stilled, your adrenaline seemed to keep on pumping for different reasons, the inevitable continuation of what happened before.

“That’s fuckin’ right, ‘s my pussy, yeah?”

Another stroke of his thick cock, nestled into your tight walls. A gargled moan is all you answer, fingers digging into his forearms.

“Been wanting to do this every time you came over with your flushed cheeks, mumbling something about Price or any bullshit I couldn’t give a fuck about.”

“Y-you did?”

“Sure did, luv.”

The obscene squelch followed his statement, the burning stretch moulding over to molten pleasure, held together by his strong arms, carefully holding you.

“Never knew they had a cute thing like you around. Would’ve signed up earlier to see ya squirm around like this.”

His hands trail around, palm scorching hot against your tits, coming down to your soft tummy, tenderly clutching your plush skin.

“’s right, y’like it when I tell you about how much I want you? Thought about if ya’d be the naughty, dirty type or the sweet, innocent one. If you want bites or kisses. If you wanted me to fuck you raw and sore or take my time stretching your puffy cunt before I’d sink my fat cock into you.”

His lips meet yours, suffocating your pleading whimpers.

It’s all sticky juices and trembly legs as his thumb swipes against your clit a few times, your mewls sounding like a sweet harmony. You don’t know the manieth time it was that your rubbery walls gripped down onto his thick length, little creamy droplets dripping onto his balls, painting his angry red tip with a glossy finish. He lets you, waits for a little before continuing his soft rutting. Forehead against forehead, almost as if trying to become one, desperation behind every attempt to keep him locked against you; you don’t know if the knot in your belly is yet another orgasm or you falling in love with the bulky man above you.

also Fuji 400 Pro film was discontinued, but not here....not in my world. not in the world i'm living in

The flash of your camera is bright, much too bright for an amateur fight in a basement that smells like beer and sweat. You hiss through your teeth, letting the camera dangle against your chest after you hear the film turn. 

The strangers next to you glare, and you shrug. 

“They need better lighting here,” you try to joke, but they're locked back in on the main event. You sign, holding the camera body gently. In your defense, it was never stated that flash photography wasn’t allowed, and the shot was too good to pass up. 

Ghost vs the King. A sorta local legend against some out-of-town asshole. Or at least so you heard. You’ve never seen Ghost out of the ring, except maybe on a ratty poster or two. He’s not from here, but just popped up overnight one day.

Have you seen the Ghost?

He can throw some real haymakers. 

I heard he's on the run after killing someone.

He’s kinda hot, I hope he doesn’t go pro…

that just played in the radio. don't know what that is, but love it. not the song, but the name of it.