The apartment had gone unbearably quiet after he yelled.
Not the comfortable kind of silence either. Not the kind Simon liked after long missions where the world finally stopped demanding things from him.
This silence was wrong.
You stood by the stove with your back turned, shoulders tense, blinking rapidly like if you just tried hard enough the tears would disappear before he saw them.
Too late.
Simon stared at you like heâd just watched himself pull a trigger he couldnât take back. His chest rose once. Heavy.
â...Fuck.â
The word came out under his breath, barely audible.
You wiped quickly at your face. âItâs okay.â, you whispered , hurt and embarrassment blooming in your chest.
It wasnât okay.
And Simon knew it immediately because your voice did that tiny shaky thing it only did when you were trying very hard not to cry.
He felt sick.
The kind where the person you love looks hurt because of you.
Simon took one cautious step forward. Then another.
âLove.â
You shook your head without turning around.
That hurt more than the tears.
Usually when he came home, you gravitated toward him automatically. Hands on his chest, arms around his waist. Soft little smiles like he was something worth waiting for.
Now you were standing as far away from him as the kitchen allowed.
Because he yelled.
Because he came home carrying all his anger and dropped it right at your feet.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
âDonât do that,â he said quietly.
âDo what?â, you mumbled, trying to smoothen your voice.
âStand there acting like you deserve that.â
You finally turned a little at that, eyes glossy. âSimon-â
âNo.â He scrubbed a hand down his face harshly. âNo, donât excuse it.â
You went silent. He looked wrecked now. More wrecked than when he first walked in.
Rainwater still clung to his jacket. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but guilt sat on him even heavier.
âI came home to you,â he said, voice rough. âWarm flat, food on the stove, you waiting for me.â He laughed once bitterly at himself. âAnd first thing I do is bark at you like some miserable prick.â
Your lips parted slightly.
Simon looked away, jaw flexing.
âSpent two bloody weeks thinking about getting back to you.â His voice got quieter. âThen I walk through that door and make you cry inside five minutes.â
The tears you were trying to stop spilled over again.
The second he saw them, he looked genuinely devastated.
Not angry. Not frustrated.
Devastated.
âOh, sweetheartâŚâ
He crossed the room immediately then stopped himself halfway, hesitating.
Simon Riley, who would walk through gunfire without blinking, suddenly looking uncertain about whether he was allowed to touch his own wife.
âYou donât have to comfort me,â you whispered.
That nearly broke him, his eyes shut briefly.
âChrist.â
He finally stepped closer carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. His hands settled lightly on your arms, almost tentative.
âIâm sorry love,â he said again. âI shouldnât have spoken to you like that. Ever.â
You looked down, vision blurring, âI know youâre tired.â
âThatâs not an excuse.â
âI wasnât trying to annoy you-â,you huffed ,choking slightly on the tears.
âI know.â His voice cracked slightly then steadied. âI know you werenât.â
The guilt in his expression got worse somehow.
âYou were taking care of me,â he murmured. âThatâs all you were doing.â
You tried to look away again but Simon gently caught your chin before you could.
âLook at me.â
You did. Big mistake.
The second he saw how hard youâd been trying not to cry, his entire face softened into something painfully guilty.
âDidnât mean to scare you.â, he murmured ,gently cupping your face.
âYou never yell at me.â, you sniffled.
That one hit directly to the ribs.
Simon actually flinched.
His thumb brushed carefully under your eye, wiping away a tear with absurd gentleness for a man built like a concrete wall with emotional constipation.
âI swear to you,â he said quietly, âthe second it came outta my mouth, I wanted to take it back.â
You could hear how honest it was.
Simon wasnât good at pretty apologies. He wasnât poetic, wasnât smooth. But guilt made him painfully sincere.
âI hate that you looked at me like that,â he admitted softly.
âLike what?â
âLike you were trying to figure out if I was angry with you.â
His voice nearly disappeared on the last part. Because that was the thing eating him alive now. The fact that for even one second, youâd looked at him uncertainly instead of safely.
Simon pulled you against him suddenly, firm and desperate, burying his face into your h.air.
âIâm sorry,â he repeated quietly against your temple. âIâm so fucking sorry.â
You felt the way he held you tighter after every apology, like he was trying to physically make up for it.
âI missed you,â he admitted in a low murmur. âMissed you so bad it felt wrong sleeping without you there.â His arms tightened. âThen I come home and act like that.â
Your hands slowly curled into his shirt. Simon exhaled shakily at the feeling.
âThere she is,â he whispered, relief and guilt tangled together. âThought I fucked this up properly for a second.â he mumbled ,inhaling the scent of your hair.
âYou didnât.â
âNearly did.â
And judging by the way he kept pressing little apologetic kisses into your hair like a man trying to repent for his crimes against domestic peace, he was going to spend the rest of the night making absolutely sure you knew he regretted it.
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Simon Rileyâs never thought that beforeâuntil theyâre barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.Â
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They wonât hurt you, of course, but you donât know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked manâ
Laughter stops him in his tracks.Â
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddlerâs giggling so hard sheâs nearly tippinâ out of her seat as she yanks on Macâs ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.Â
And youâyouâre bent over, one hand holding Capâs paw, the other scratching behind Kiloâs ears.Â
âCute pups,â you say.Â
Cute...what?Â
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.Â
âYou military?âÂ
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. Youâre not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.Â
âMy husband was, too.â Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. âHe did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.â
You donât have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find somethingâanythingâto say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.Â
And thenâit hits him in the chest like a bullet.Â
Youâre all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.Â
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong itâs almost staggering.
âWell,â you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. âHave a good one.â Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. âLieutenant.â
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the âcute pupsâ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.Â
Simon had a habit of manhandling you, to put it simply.
You'd be practicing your shooting when suddenly you'd feel large hands on your hips, shifting you into a better position. A low "Even out your weight." murmured into your ear.
Sometimes you'd go to Price's office only to be stopped just before you open the door, an arm around your waist pulling you back. "He's busy with Johnny, Love."
Countless occasions like this had your mind almost ditzy. The low tone in your ear sending shivers down your spine. The touching making your breath hitch. And you knew the large bastard got off on it.
Eventually it came to a head when Simon pulled you to his barracks one night. The two of you tugging at each other's clothing.
It shouldn't have surprised you when Simon grabbed your hips and pushed you to lie on your stomach, tugging your ass up so you were presenting yourself to him.
"Fuck" Simon drawls out as he takes in the sight of you. A deep chuckle rumbling in his chest as you wiggle your hips impatiently.
Finally Simon grabbed your hips and practically speared you onto his cock. Causing you to moan uncontrollably. Grabbing the sheets as he thrust into you.
"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck Simon!" You whine loudly. Simon groaning as you clamp around him. Cunt fluttering over and over.
You gasp as Simon grabs your waist, letting him flip you onto your back and push your legs up until your thighs were almost against your chest. Eyes rolling back as he presses even deeper into you.
"So fucking tight f'me." Simon huffs, nearly hammering into you now; reaching down to your clit and rubbing tight circles.
Your body attempts to squirm, but you were locked under Simons weight. It strangely aroused you, not being able to move because of how large Simon was.
Your breath then hitches as you suddenly reach your orgasm. The pleasure sparking up your spine as Simons hands squeeze the flesh of your ass, a sound you didn't know you were capable of ripping free from your vocal chords.
"That's it. Fuck fuck!" Simon moans, thrusting again and again before filling you with his cum. His hips moving slowly as he rides out his own orgasm. His head burying into your neck. His hot breaths fanning against your skin as he calmed down.
âyâwanna know what stupid looks like?â he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. âyou, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.â
repost from my old deleted account tobeholyistobeempty - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
ââââ-
itâs honestly not even your fault.
youâll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - heâs the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now youâre blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simonâs arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because heâs the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, heâs used to this by now. used to the way youâve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesnât say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesnât complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if heâs a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
heâs tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
âjesussiâyouâre big.â itâs slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. âlike, industrial grade. military-issued big.â
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober youâd see the smirk heâs biting back.
âtha right?â
âmmm. like a fuckin tank,â you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. itâs involuntary - just like itâs involuntary when he twitches. âor an armoured vehicle. yâshould come with airbags.â
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe heâs not as used to this as he thought - because this isnât just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
âyouâre drunk,â he breathes.
you grin. âsoâre you.â
ânot even half as much as you.â
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. itâs quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like heâs checking to make sure you havenât stripped mid-hallway. itâs just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
âmânot that drunk,â you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. âi meanâi am, but not likeâŚmemory loss drunk. iâm still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.â
itâs only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
â..and how insanely big your hands are,â you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. âlikeâbiblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell yâthat?â
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth youâre beginning to feed.
âdonât.â he says, and itâs torn. ânot now.â
heâs all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesnât break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
âyâever choke a girl out with them?â you press, unfettered. ânot like, unconscious, but like. in bed?â
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
âjesus. stop talkinâ.â
âwhy?â you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone whoâs very much not being innocent. âam i makinâ you nervouuus?â
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
âno,â he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. âyouâre makinâ me hard.â
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply wonât let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
âfuckinâ finally.â you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. âthought iâd have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit thatââ
he doesnât let you finish that thought.
âfuckâs sake, yâlittle minx.â heâs dragging you now, as if heâs realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point heâs half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. âyâneed to stop talkin.â
âyou like it,â you slur between unsteady steps. âyâlike me like this cause youâre a freakkkââ
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
âiâd like you more if yâwere unconscious.â he huffs, hard. âor duct-taped.â
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
âwas that supposed tâbe a threat?â you ask, lips glistening. âcause if so, itâs workingggg.â
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. âbloody hell.â
by the time you make it to your door, heâs breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize youâve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
âfuck, simon.â you canât stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. âiâve been into you for ages, yâknow.â
he pauses. boot in hand.
ââŚwhat?â
he says it low. like a warning - like a donât you fuckin start. but youâre too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while youâre flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
âjus sayin- since, like. youâre in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.â you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. âthought yâshould know.â
he looks at you like youâve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. âused to think about itâyouâwhen i couldnât sleep.â
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip heâs got on your ankle could shatter bone.
ââŚ.you tellin me yâthink bout me when yâtouch yourself?â he asks.
âgod yes.â you donât even realize youâve said it. âyou. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behaveââ
ââfuck.â it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesnât blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, itâs like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. âdâyou think about it?â
he doesnât answer. not at first. thenâ
âonly when i breathe.â
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. âyou mean that?â
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. âi mean, if you donât stop talkin, mâgonna fuckinâ fold.â
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
âtell me.â you murmur. âyou think about fucking me? what iâd sound like moaning yourââ
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places â and he sees it.
âenough.â itâs barely a whisper. âchrist. fuck. youâre gonna make me do somethinâ stupid.â
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
âyâwanna know what stupid looks like?â he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. âyou, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.â
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. âplease.â
his eyes snap shut.
âyâdont know what youâre askin for, sweetâeart,â he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. âainât gonna wake up with you hatin me.â
even drunk you realize heâs a man of morals.
âyou think iâd regret it?â you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesnât respond. âsimon. i just told you iâve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if itâd hurtââ
his palm tightens over your lips again.
âone more fuckinâ word and iâll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldnât touch you right now.â he spits. âif yâeven remember this tomorrow, yâcome say it to me sober. promise on every grave iâve ever stood over iâll bend yâover on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.â
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
âguess iâll see you tomorrow.â
âmhm.â he hums, take a step or two toward the door. âfuckin hope you will.â
neighbor!simon riley and the mundane tasks he does to make things easier for you
when you first moved in, you were wary of the big, brute of a man that lived next door. you'd seen him, for the first time, taking his trash to the end of his driveway for the garbage truck to pick up while movers lugged boxes and furniture inside your house. he spared a single glance, offering a nod at your small wave before retreating into his house.
you thought that was that.
for weeks, you lived without any interaction. settling into your new home, coming back and forth between the hardware store and your house for new projects. taking out your trash before you go to work. you'd seen him take out his own trash once, but you watched from your window, so he never noticed.
you felt weird doing it. watching the thick muscles of his biceps flex against his filled out sleeve, dusting his veiny hands on his jeans before adjusting his balaclava. you wondered why he wore it, but you moved on. you'd likely never interact.
until a couple weeks later, you had arrived home with new groceries. a lot of them. it would take multiple trips that would make your arms ache.
you barely opened your trunk when a dark mass appaeared at your side. you gasp in surprise, head craning. damn, he was taller than you thought.
without a word, he reached in and grabbed at least ten grocery bags with ease. it didn't even seen to bother him as he carried it into your garage and to the door. he didn't struggle to open the door, inviting himself in and leaving you dumbfounded.
what the hell?
the next time his weird behavior manifested was when you were at work. you got a notification from your doorbell camera about some movement, expecting a salesperson or jehovah's witness. instead it was your neighborâthe one who's name you still don't have.
he carried a tackle box, and you were about to speak to ask what he was doing when something compelled you to just watch. he seemed to take apart something on your porch, taking and replacing a piece of the light before screwing it back. he left without a word.
when you got home, your porch lights shined brighter than beforeâthey were dim and on the verge of burning out. why would he do that?
you wanted to confront him, but you appreciated these small things. he still appeared out of thing air to take your groceries in, leaving before you could thank him.
he even started pulling out your bin for you, sitting it at the end of the driveway and dragging it back to the garage when the truck came by.
it perplexed you. why was he doing this for you? did he do it for his other neighbors? he had to, you couldn't be that special.
so you continued living life, welcoming the small actions as they made everything easier. besides, you enjoyed the company, even if he never said a word to you or looked in your direction.
the first time you approached him was on the drive home when a light appeared on your car's dashboard. you had no clue what it meant, though you probably should've. when you arrived home, you debated taking it straight to the autoshop, but instead you tried your luck with your neighbor. he likes to help, so you're guessing he wouldn't mind.
with a soft knock to his front door, you stood waiting patiently, and wait you did. a few minutes later, you contemplated turning back because he wasn't answering the door despite being home (his car was in the driveway).
just as you turned, the front door creaked open, revealing your neighbor clad in nothing but a white towel around his waist, balaclava shoved on haphazardly. his chest glistened with water as it glifed down his skin. oh fuck.
you could barely keep your eyes off his toned chest, abs flexing under your gaze before they snapped back to meet his dark ones. he lifted his brow in question.
"uh, hi." you said awkwardly, rocking on your feet. you hadn't even properly introduced yourself to the man, mostly because he disappeared so quick that you didn't have the chance. "a light came on in my car, and I was wonderingâ"
the door shut mid-sentence. it left you dumbfounded, mouth hanging open in shock as you stare at the door like it may open again. maybe his generous actions ended at bringing the groceries in. maybe he didn't want to get dirty after just showering. you couldn't expect the man to be ready to help any time you needed it.
after a minute of contemplation, you turned to walk back down the path. you'd have to get it to the mechanics and figured out how much it'd cost you.
when you reached the last step, the door opened again. still shirtless but now looping a belt around his jeans, he walked out, bare feet padding on the concrete. he nodded to your house, signaling you to lead.
you lead him back, hand him your keys and let him do his thing because now you get a free show. his muscles flex as he works under the hood, dirtying himself in a way that's sinful. after a while working in the hot sun, you go inside and bring back a drink, which he gratefully acceptsâstill without saying anything.
he's a bit weird, refusing to talk to you, but he's fixing your car so you can't complain.
"is this your official uniform to fix all your single neighbor's cars?" the words slip out before you can stop them. mortification warms your face, but it forces a deep chuckle from your neighbor, whose eyes crinkle under his mask.
he glances up at you, dirt smearing his skin. "only the pret'y ones."
your heart flutters. his voice was deep, gruff, like he smoked cigarettes, but it was satisfying to hear.
"so you do talk." you tease whilst biting back a smile. you'd finally gotten words out of him. a small victory. "what's your name?"
"simon."
"really? you look like a greg."
he shakes his head with a smile and continues working, leaving the two of you in silence. what you don't know is that simon's heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. it's beating so hard, he's worried he'll break a rib.
simon has been working up the courage to say anything to you every time he helps you, nervous as hell to talk to his pretty neighbor who he likes to help. hell go home and think about that interaction for daysâor until you ask for his help again.
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tag: donât bring Simon to the gynecologist with you.
Youâd woken up late, hair a mess, throat scratchy, body sore in that way that only meant one thing; Simon had been entirely too much the night before⌠like usual. Your phone buzzed that morning and Simon, already half-dressed and standing by your dresser, looked at the screen and raised a brow.
"Doc visit?" he questioned, voice deep, lazy.
You blinked at your phone and realization hit you. "âŚshit." You did have a scheduled appointment for today which you entirely forgot about.
He shrugged. "Iâll drive."
And like an idiot, sleep-addled and still sore from the night before, you let him come.
Now here you are, spread on the exam table like a goddamn starfish, feet in the stirrups, paper gown bunched up around your waist, fluorescent lighting making everything feel ten times worse⌠and Simon is in the corner, his legs spread, elbows on his thighs, and scrolling on his phone like heâs in a dentistâs waiting room.
Not one once of shame. You shoot him a look. He doesnât even reciprocate it but just mutters, "Told you tâ put it on the calendar."
Before you can hiss back at him, the door opens.
Your gynecologist steps in, a nice, polite, middle-aged woman, all business and just stops dead.
Her eyes flick from you and your very exposed situation, then to Simon. The six-foot-something wall of tattoos and muscle, who by the way is generally not in the room. Then back to you.
âOh!â the doctor says, pleasantly startled. âI⌠wasnât expecting a guest today.â
Simon finally looks up. Nods once. âMaâam.â
Just maâam. Like heâs greeting a cashier.
You wish the earth would open and swallow you whole.
The doctor put on her gloves with that clinical snap that somehow made this even worse.
You stare at the ceiling like it owes you something.
Simon goes right back to scrolling.
The paper under you crinkles as you shift, cheeks hot. The doctor sits on her stool, rolling close between your legs.
âJust going to take a look,â she says. âAny pain lately? Discomfort? Irregular bleeding?â
You open your mouth to say 'no, everythingâs fine' but then she hums.
A concerned hum.
You freeze.
âNot alarming,â she assures, too quickly, âJust⌠some residual bruising on the cervix.â
Your soul leaves your body. âBruising?â you croak.
Simonâs thumb stops mid-scroll.
The doctor nods. âYes. Fair amount of tenderness and discoloration.â She pauses, then looks at you knowingly. The doctor hums again, then says the absolute worst possible thing.
"Itâs nothing dangerous, but Iâd recommend you avoid prolonged, intense activity for a day or two. Especially with somethingâŚ"
She paused. Looked directly at Simon. "âŚthat big."
She does not say big casually. She emphasizes it. Bold. Italic. Underline. Triple-sized font.
BIG.
The room goes silent and the air stops moving for a moment. Even the HVAC system seems to hesitate.
Simon slowly sits back in his chair, like someone just handed him an award.
A slow smirk creeps onto his face, subtle but smug as hell. He doesnât even pretend humility. Doesnât cough. Doesnât deflect. He just stays, quiet and cocky.
You want to die.
The doctor keeps talking, clinically unbothered. âIf your partner has a⌠larger anatomy, you need to take breaks, communicate, maybe use positions with less depth. Going too long can cause bruising or strain.â
The doctor continues, completely unaware of the war happening between you two.
âIâd recommend abstaining for a few daysââ
Simon snorts.
You whip your head toward him. âDo you mind ?!â You are going to punch him.
Right here. Feet in the stirrups. Gown open and youâre going to assault this man.
Awhile after, the doctor gently removes her gloves. âAll done. You can get dressed.â
As she stands, she looks at Simon again, still uncertain why heâs here at all.
âYouâre welcome to wait in the lobby next time,â she offers kindly.
But Simon just stands, stretches, and says âNah. âm her support.â
Support.
Support.
As if he didnât break open your insides twelve hours ago.
You slide off the table, teeth clenched, grabbing your clothes.
The doctor exits politely.
You round on Simon the moment the door shuts. âNext time youâre keeping your ass homeâ
He shrugs casually, taking your purse for you like the smug bastard he is. âNot my fault the doc praised my dick.â
âShe did not praise your dickââ
âShe said big.â He leans down, voice low in your ear âEmphasized it too.â
Simonâs eyebrows lift. âLarger anatomy,â he repeats under his breath like heâs tasting the words.
You point a murderous stare at him.
You shove his chest. He catches your wrist. Presses a kiss to your temple.
âCâmon,â he murmurs. âGet dressed. Iâll take yâ home. You can be mad in the car.â
You mutter, âGod I hate you so much right now .â
It was a joke. A letter to a criminalâUK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because itâs not like heâd ever get out, right?
â 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .á | AO3 . MLIST
18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]
Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?
 Itâs almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. Itâs a massive store, but youâve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customersâ overwhelming stupidity.Â
You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. Itâd be laughable if it wasnât so damn frustrating. You canât even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but itâs there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isnât any prettier, but itâs a kind of mindless ritual thatâs grown familiar over timeâ20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But youâre too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things youâve had to swallow throughout the day.
The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but itâs long enough for your legs to remind you that youâve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.Â
After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. Itâs tucked just outside Bromley, and itâs small, not much at all, but itâs enough. Itâs the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.Â
This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought youâd left behind when you took the leap and moved out.
After college, you made it a point to leave your parentsâ house. You couldnât stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didnât need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didnât get it.Â
Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape youâd craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.
In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. Youâd write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, youâd get a letter back. The responses were always the sameâsurprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.
But now, when youâre standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.Â
Youâre having a⌠Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you canât pronounce. Theyâre thriving, but youâre stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like itâs paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.
You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like theyâre beyond you in all shapes and forms.
Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesnât mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.
Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but youâd rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You donât need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug âI told you soâ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep youâre sinking, youâll claw your way up alone. Itâs not pride, itâs survival. Youâve always done it yourself, itâs just easier that way.Â
And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? Youâre a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasnât humiliating enough, youâre also trailing behind in the one thing thatâs supposed to have happened already.
Youâve had chancesâplenty of chancesâbut every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.
Not that youâre a prude. Youâve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guyâs screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point youâd imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and âalmosts,â it was something. Proof you werenât completely out of your depth.
Not that it really mattered.
You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm thatâs come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.
You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at youâan automated bill reminder, a news alert youâll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. Thatâs it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.
With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No oneâs waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it wonât add much to your day, but itâll at least fill the space with noise.
The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you donât have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.
A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchorâs voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.
Itâs the kind of name youâd expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.
And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TVâtowering, masked,âhits you in a way you hadnât anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you canât fight the way he unsettles you.
Heâs been arrested. The news anchorâs voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghostâa ghost no longerâis now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast Londonâs most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.
You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. Thereâs a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if heâs in the very room youâre sitting in. The news anchorâs voice drones on, but youâre already lost in thought.
You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other peopleâpetty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didnât have to be war heroes.Â
As long as they didnât kill anyoneâor anything.Â
So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.
You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.Â
You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screenâbroad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure
His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman qualityâlike a wraith lurking in the dark.Â
Heâs swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sightâan omen in the periphery, waiting.
Itâs strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.Â
His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. Youâre not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you canât look away. Something about himâhis sheer presence, even through a screenâsnags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God youâre so lonely.
Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.
Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed thatâs what made him a terrorist-level threat.
Then you stumble upon another factâand you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isnât even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.
That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disruptedâa ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isnât just last nightâs leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.
For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letterâ
âNo. What the fuck? Thatâs insane. Heâs killed people, and you want to send him a letter?Â
âŚ
You decide to send him a letter.Â
Itâs not like youâre his number one fanâor a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, heâs probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.
Itâs just a letter. Youâre not looking for anything in return. Youâll write to him, then move on, because why not? Itâs not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, itâs just... kindness.Â
Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you donât care to nameâexcitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.
Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.
You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackleâthin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.
You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.Â
For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?Â
You reason with yourself that if heâs unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesnât matter. You donât expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun youâve had in years.
You press the pen to the paper.Â
âDear Big Bad Ghost,âÂ
A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know youâre doing something absolutely stupid. But really, whatâs the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.
Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. Andâbecause thereâs no point in pretending otherwiseâyou admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, becauseâletâs be honestâyou wouldnât be doing something this rash if he wasnât (you make sure to write that, too).
You just keep going. You tell him youâre 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. Youâre sure youâve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he wonât care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.
You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, theyâd have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast heâd get whiplashâbut lucky for him, heâs dealing with the UKâs legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.
Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a âgood timeâ. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though youâre quick to add that, realistically, youâre sure heâll be locked up for life.
Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe heâll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.
You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. Itâs ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.
But stillâŚ
 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.
Next thing you know, youâre sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.
You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.
And then you let it go. Itâs chilling how easy it is.Â
The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. Youâve long since moved on from the letter. Youâve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesnât give you much room to dwell on dumb things like thatânot when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.
Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like youâd been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.
Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within armâs reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.
By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. Thereâs no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, itâs not the same takeout from two weeks ago.Â
You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporterâs voice cuts in, crisp and professional.
At first, youâre barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But thenâ
BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH â GHOST AT LARGE
The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.
The news anchor doesnât miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:
âAuthorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmatesâincluding âGhostâ, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.â
Your stomach tightens.
Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.
For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you havenât been stabbed or kidnapped yet.Â
After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds youâre sure heâs gotten. Youâre not special. Youâre not even remotely relevant in this situation.
Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogameâthick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.
Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter toâthat more closely resembled a dating profileâ has vanished into thin air.
You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, youâre sure your life couldnât get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.
The studio audience laughs on cue.
You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.Â
It doesnât.Â
When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.Â
By the time youâve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself itâs fine. Youâre fine. Itâs just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.
You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.
You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.
After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadnât even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.
Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.
You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.Â
Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.
You donât bother wrapping the towel around yourself. Thereâs no point. Itâs just you hereâalways, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasnât the case, thereâs no reason to pretend otherwise.
Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.
You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.Â
Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its jobâbut the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.
The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.
You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.
You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.
But as you straighten, the air feels different.
Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.Â
Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.
Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.
And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so youâre forced to swallow.
Youâre still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the showerâs heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.
But youâre not looking at yourself anymore.
Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.
Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.
Youâre frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.Â
Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. Thatâs what you felt earlierâthe sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didnât feel it moments ago is beyond you.
Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.
You canât help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like itâs time for Sunday dinner. But itâs impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.
Your eyes flick back to him.
He hasnât moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with hisâan accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.
You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterfliesâyouâre sureâbut they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.
He doesnât blink. Doesnât even breathe.
Just silenâ
âShouldnâtâve given a dog a bone, Girl.â
Oh.
Oh.
Shit.
You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like itâs too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just thatâitâs as though itâs been wrung dry like youâve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.
Could be fight, could be flightâor could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You donât know where it comes from, only that itâs there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirrorâs reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.Â
You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.
He fills the roomâdominates itâfar more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.
Heâs dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.
It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.
A sick part of you wishes he didnât.
Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark inkâtwisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava youâve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.
His eyesâdark brown, nearly blackâburn as they lock onto you. Thereâs an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. Heâs memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.
Which, right now, is essentially all of it.
Itâs suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like youâre drowning, and heâs the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.
And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before heâs not sitting anymore.
Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesnât rush. No, thereâs no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.
All that âcourageâ drained. You never thought youâd be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didnât hear him come in.
Youâre backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you canât look away. You donât even know if you want to. Thereâs a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.Â
Itâs addicting.
Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain thatâs turned on by this.
âQuiet little thing.â His voice is low, gravelly like itâs been rubbed raw, but thereâs a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. âGlad youâre not a screamer.â
He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesnât miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though itâs hard to tell.
âIâm not gonna bite, Girl,â he tuts, âunless yâwant me to.â
The way he says itâso carnivorouslyâsends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.Â
âYâsent me a letter,â he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like heâs checking out a new appliance.
 âTellinâ me all about your boring little life,â He steps even closer, âAnd that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me tâmake it mine.â
You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like heâs enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.
âYâwant me tâmake it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a âBig Badâ man your address?â
You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but itâs futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonelyâthat desperate?
âCan yâimagine how hard I came,â he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, âHow I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?â
Yeah. You were that desperate.Â
You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. âIâ I didnât think youâdââ
He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words âWhat? Didnât think Iâd show?â he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if heâs savoring the mockery in them. âYou invited me here. Itâd be rude to reject such a generous offer.â
You bite back a scoff. As if heâs so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while youâre naked. Talk about audacity.
âGo fuck yourself.âÂ
âI have,â he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. âWonât be as good as her.â
Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a momentâs notice.
You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.Â
He smells like soap and something musky and everything youâd expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didnât know you were addicted to. You canât help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.
âYâfeel that, sweetheart?â he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. âEver felt a cock that big before?â
âPlease,â you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. âJust... don't.â
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. âDon't what, sweetheart?â he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. âDon't touch you? Don't remind you of what yâare?â
He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. âIâŚâ you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.Â
âVirgin,â he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, âYâterrified. It's written all over your face, babyâ He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, âCurious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.â
You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. âNo,â you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.
He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like youâre testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as theyâll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.Â
âDonât fuckinâ lie to me, sweetheart,â You donât know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until youâre leaning against the mirror, until thereâs nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
âI can smell your cunt.â He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, âSheâs droolinâ fâme, ainât she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?â
Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you canât help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but youâve never been this wet before. âI... I don't know,â you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.
âDon't know? Please,â he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. âAwh. Look at that,â he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. âShe's leakinâ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.Â
He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.
Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.
âWhininâ already?â he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. âLike a bitch in heat.â Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, pleaseâs from you.Â
âBeg for it,â he commands, âBeg to come on mâtongue, baby.âÂ
âYes,â you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. âPlease,â you beg, your voice thick with need. âPlease, Iâ âmââ
He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. âTell me,â he hisses. âTell me yâwant to come for me.â
âI... I want to,â you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. âI wanna come for you, Ghostâ Pleaseâ.â
âGood fuckinâ whore,â he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. âCome, let me taste this slutty fuckinâ pussy.â
A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans. Â
He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. âFuck,â he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. âLove you virgins. Come so easily.â
Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeksâa traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didnât think it would affect you like this, didnât think youâd feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.
Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. âStop staring,â you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weakâlike a plea rather than a command.
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. âStop what? Admiring my handiwork?â He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. âDon't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Couldâve ruined this pretty fuckinâ mouth instead.â
You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what youâve been wanting, what youâve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. âJust... fuck me, PleaseâŚ?â you hum, unsure..
He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. âEager, are we?â He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. âDon't worry. Got more in store for you.â
He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.
He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you canât even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.Â
Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.Â
"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. Itâs rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.
No underwear. A Right dog, he is.Â
Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick heâd be willing to let you swallow.
âWhatâd yâwant?â
You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.
How could he even fit inside of you?
You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.
He tuts, âNoddinâ ainât enough, sweets,â he growled. âYouâre a big girl, ainât you?
âIâŚâ you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. âI wantâŚâ
âSay it,â he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. âSay yâwant this cock.â
âI... I want your cock,â you whisper, the words barely audible. Youâre too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.
âLouder,â he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. âCan't hear you.â
âI want your cock,â you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.
âLouder, yâfuckinâ slagââ
âI want your fucking cock!â you shout, the words echoing through the room.
He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. âGeez, all yâhad to do was ask.âÂ
You could slap him.Â
He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.
âSo fuckinâ sensitive,â he groans, âSo wet fâme, too, Christ.â
He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.
âGonna split this cunny in half, girl,â he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and youâre reeling, choking on your own gasps, âgonna feel me in yâfuckinâ throat.â
He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.
âJesus baby, so tight,â he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. âSo fucking tight.â
You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. âFuck me,â you rasp, âPlease, Ghost, fuck me.â Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.Â
He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. âCock-drunk already, are we?â he taunts, âFuckinâ whore,â He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldnât even reach with your own fingers.
He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.
âFuck me harder, I need youâ pleaseââ You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.
 âGhost,â you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you couldâve possibly missed out on this for so long.Â
He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. âStop fuckinâ callinâ me that,â he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. Youâre too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.
âCall me Simon when I fuck you,â he rasps against your lips,
âSay it.â
âSâSimâon,â you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. âSâsimon, pâpleâaseâŚâ
âPlease what?â he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, âPlease fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?â
âYes, yes, yes,â you wail, your body writhing beneath him. âPlease, Simonâ Fuck!â
âAtta fuckinâ girl,â he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.
âSqueezinâ me so tight,â he rasps, âSo fucking tight.â he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. âFeel me? Feel how deep I am inside oâ you?â
You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, âYes,â you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. âToo much... it's so much, Siââ
Youâre on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all heâs worth. His hips stutter and he knows heâs done for. âFuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,â
At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isnât much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.Â
Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.Â
The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to âCream this fuckinâ cock,â as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.Â
A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.
 âOh-,â he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. âFuck! Fuckâ Shit, just like that, girl.â His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.
Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.Â
âBroken little bird arenât you?â he drawls..Â
You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you donât think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.Â
Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.Â
He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. âDon't look so glum, sweetheart,â he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. âYou did well,â
âfor a first-timer.â
A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. âShut up,â you mutter, your voice hoarse.
He lets out a low, husky chuckle. âOh, usinâ fightinâ words now, are we?â His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. âFunny, didnât see you puttinâ up much of a fight five minutes agââ
You donât let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.
âOh, weâre throwinâ shit now?â He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. âLittle minxââ
The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.
His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. âYou expectinâ anyone?â
You shake your head. âNo.â
His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. Heâs a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.
âIâll get it,â you hum, already moving.
He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but thereâs no time to fix it.
You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.
Two cops.
Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. âEvening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but weâre making the rounds,â one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. âYou seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?â
Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.
âNo, nothing,â you say, keeping your voice light, casual. âWhy?â
The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. â Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.â His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. âFigured weâd check in, see if anyoneâs seen him.â
You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. âHavenât seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.â
They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.
âAll right. Just be careful, maâam. Lock your doors.â
âWill do,â you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.
You shut the door.
Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.
âSimonââ you call, nudging the door open.
The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of himâsex, sweat, something else thatâs so distinctly him.
after having your first baby, he simply felt like he lived in a dream ; simon never thought that he'd be capable of being a father, a truly loving father. he quickly adjusted to the dad's life, trying to let you rest as much as possible.
you on the other hand, was completely living a nightmare. of course you couldnât be happier to have you and simon's first child, but you couldnât help but feel disgusted by your own body. the love handles, the cellulite and even the acne, without talking of your never ending appetite.
however your vision changed when you noticed your husband's attitude, he was completely at your mercy. he couldnât help but lightly smack your ass as you walked past him, or even grasping your thighs as you were watching a movie on the couch.
he was absolutely starving.
his big hands would keep your thighs tightly open as he would bite your skin, his tongue licking vividly your folds. he would get so horny at the sight of your skin trapped under his harsh hold, but also by the way your breasts would roughly jiggle as he slammed his cock in your cunt. he didnât like the way you'd hide your face, seemingly embarrassed, he wanted you to see how you were making him feel, how hot you were.
simon couldn't help but snicker when you showed him a positive pregnancy test a few months later.