#xoxunhinged

stop I love you too

“I’m just saying! Really big cocks are intimidating sometimes!”

A niche topic of conversation, admittedly one you probably wouldn’t be having without the courage of a beer, pint glass perspiring under your fingertips. Kyle snorts into his own drink, the hum of the bar around you all noisy enough to make you feel secluded in your shared booth.

“What’s so funny Garrick?!” You tease, while Johnny nudges him in the ribs.

“Nothin! I just didn’t think I’d hear a complaint about giant dicks when you invited me out tonight, darlin.”

Rolling your eyes, you take another sip, the amber liquid making you more than a little giddy as foam coats your upper lip. Restlessly you brush it away, while Johnny leans forward, propping both elbows on the table top and flicking a beer mat. He’s got trouble laced in those mischievous blue orbs and you wait to hear it, a grin of your own curling across the lines of your face.

“Tell us bon, how big would scare ye off?!”

John huffs, his cheeks ruddy, clearly mortified by the turn in the conversation.

“For fucks sake Soap.” He grunts. “I’ll get the next round in.” He makes himself scarce, trudging off to the bar and out of sight.

Johnny waves him away with a palm, gaze still fixed on you and brow quirked evilly. Holding his stare, you roughly measure out seven inches between the palms of your hands. Kyle’s eyebrows rise into his hairline, as he sniggers and casts a glance over at Johnny.

“This is a mountain, anything bigger is just showing off!”

Johnny starts to guffaw along with Kyle, the two of them nudging each other like schoolboys. It’s a joke you’re not in on, but the sight of them starts to make you giggle too.

“What’s so funny?!”

Suddenly you realise that Simon, who was formerly resting easy against the cushions and toying with the rim of his glass, is sitting bolt upright. He’s glowering at the two men opposite him with a ferocity akin to a hibernating bear who’s been poked with a stick.

“Tha’s enough the pair of ya!”

Kyle makes an effort to straighten his face, but Johnny is a lost cause. Simon’s rebuke has sent him into a tailspin of chortles, leaving you utterly baffled. Si stands to his full and considerable height, face glowing above the surgical mask he’s wearing and hands clenched at his sides.

“Going for a smoke, ya better have packed this shit in by the time I get back.”

With that he stomps towards the exit, broad shoulders rounded in his dark jacket, the tips of his ears turning redder still with every step.

“You’ve done it now!” Chortles Kyle. “Gone and upset the big fella.”

It’s no use talking to them, they’re both still struggling to hold it together, Johnny burying his face in his hands. So instead you hop out of your seat and follow Simon into a dark alleyway, through battered wooden doors.

He’s leaning against a wall, collar turned up and smoke curling around his fingers, the amber light of the butt burning brightly in the dimness. Simon doesn’t look up as you approach, shuffling next to him silently and slowly easing the cigarette out of his paw so you can take a drag.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you Si.” The taste of nicotine floods your mouth as you cautiously flick your eyes up to his profile, stern with his mouth set in a grim line. After a pause he sighs, leaning his head into the brickwork, lids closing over his black orbs.

“S’not you. Don’t worry about it yeah.” Simon pulls a second smoke from the crumpled packet in his free hand. You pass him the one you stole to light it off and he grunts with thanks.

You both stand in silence, listening to the sound of bottles being emptied into the recycling bin nearby, cool air whipping around your faces.

“Would it really put you off? Somethin like that?”

He speaks in a rush, like he’s worried about the answer. It catches you entirely off guard, but with startling clarity, you realise the reason behind the boys hysterics and Simon’s sudden moody departure. He looks quickly at you under blonde lashes. You barely catch it in the half light, but the self consciousness there is clear all the same.

“Not if it was someone I liked.” You reply quietly, brushing his fingers lightly. It’s a small gesture, but his face brightens just a little bit as he watches your hand curve against his. “I think most people would say the same!”

He clears his throat uncomfortably. You’re trying to cheer him up, but it isn’t working.

“Loads of women think it’s great Si! Don’t listen to me, I don’t know anything about such blessings!”

“S’not a blessing, it’s a fuckin curse.” He groans roughly, exhaling a grey cloud and looking resolutely at the wall. “Always has been.”

Carefully you stand on tiptoes and direct his face to yours. He yields, but isn’t able to meet your eyes, embarrassment hiding in the vivid amber and curling through his freckled cheeks.

“If you ever want to debate the topic one on one Simon Riley, I’m happy to hear you out.”

Simon stands in the alleyway for a full five minutes after you leave him there with a smile and a peck on the cheek. Heart pounding and mind replaying the inflection in your voice like he can’t have heard it right.

Little flirt. That’s definitely not going to assist in the blooming crush he has on you. Not one bit.

Simon Riley who took awhile to warm up, but once he did snorted his way through endless jokes, completely lost in the way you rolled your eyes and punched him on a thick arm.

Simon Riley who was nervous about grabbing a drink with you, butterflies he thought had escaped through the holes left in his psyche by Roba cresting in his stomach.

Simon Riley who gripped his pint a little too hard as a direct result of his anxiety, shattering it in his broad palm and sending beer all over the place. Drenching your top.

Simon Riley who was utterly mortified and who then made it worse, by suggesting you go back to his place and get dried off. Way too forward, part of him died inside when you blinked several times in surprise at that.

Simon Riley who then cringed at the thought you might think he was a fucking creep.

Simon Riley who has never been more relieved in his life to hear you laugh and suggest he buys you dinner first.

Simon Riley who strips off his jacket for you, he’d give you the shirt off his back if you asked, you assured him it was fine.

Simon Riley who was sure he hadn’t scored a second date. Who was furious with himself for spoiling it, especially because it took about a month of build up for him to get his tongue around asking you out in the first place.

Simon Riley who is internally doing cartwheels of happiness, when he drops you off at home and you ask him if he fancies brunch at the weekend.

Simon Riley who immediately messages Johnny and Kyle to tell them he didn’t fuck it up.

They come back to find you ruined, mascara stained under your eyes and running along your pretty cheeks. You’re sniffling with your lacy sleep shorts damp with cum, twisted around one ankle. Sandwiched between Kyle and Johnny, both of whom are snoring without a care in the world, big palms barely covering the hickeys they’ve left in their wake.

Price is absolutely apoplectic, they’ve both played too rough with you and obviously can’t be left alone with nice toys. While he rounds on them, a furious bear swatting each lad around the back of the head until they wake with a start, Simon scoops you up in his arms.

“S’alright love, mean ain’t they.”

You let out another sad noise and let him run you a bath, warm water and salts to soothe you, while he sits on the edge and washes your hair. Simon spends hours cooing, fussing, rubbing arnica over your love bites and doing your skincare as you pout. There’s nothing he adores more than to look after you, try and pay you back in kind for the love you lavish on them.

By the time Johnny and Kyle skulk into the living room, you’re watching tv on Simon’s chest, fingers curled into his collar. He raises his eyebrows at the pair of them.

“Sorry baby.” Murmurs Kyle, sitting down next to you and squeezing your thigh.

“Dinnae intend ta get carried away bon.” Whines Johnny, baby blues downturned with anxiety.

You blink at them, then smile. No harm, no foul, they did give you two orgasms a-piece after all.

“Fuck off outta the way of the tv.” Snaps Simon, cuddling you closer jealously.

Any opportunity to have you all to himself. 🙃

Is the upside-down smiley a thing? I think it’s a thing.

@cutiecusp @murder-hobo @misshugs @pxssygxblin

One heavy hand pressing on the nape of your neck, driving his hips home at a pace that leaves you drooling on his starched white sheets. Wrings more than one orgasm out of you before he finishes, probably the best pussy feasting (he doesn’t just eat) you’ve ever experienced.

Dark chest hair damp with sweat, a gold crucifix nestled between his pecs. He doesn’t talk much, but you’d bet he made a deal with the devil because that tongue used in other contexts is nothing short of sinful.

Before you leave, he insists on breakfast. The teapot gets topped up several times as you try and sidle out - but it feels impolite to leave him with a brew on the go.

Then you’re shown the shelving unit he built, the neatly repaired trellis in the garden that props up bloody, crimson roses. It’s almost as if he’s flexing on you, like the performance of a lifetime he gave you last night was just the warm up.

Next you’re given a tour of the broad beans in fat, green pods, right beside the berry bushes he tells you will be sweet enough for jam.

When, finally, you’re almost at the door, he checks his Rolex and tells you it’s almost dinner time. You may as well stay, he has homegrown potatoes for supper.

Shocked when the deadbolt is put on the door? Don’t be. He’s a man with many enemies. Besides, you can’t make the journey home on an empty stomach.

He’s such a baby. And he can’t text.

Simon isn’t really big on texts. The occasional love heart sent your way between clashes while he’s deployed. When he’s home, a funny video or two. Perhaps a cheeky sext when you’re working late.

You always message him though. Thoughtfully thinking of little ways to brighten his day, a photo of a pansy with little patterned black and white leaves turning to the sun, or a picture of your coffee shared with the hope he’ll be home soon.

Does Simon relish the thought of your virtual offerings? Probably not. But still, you miss him. Even a picture of you in your nicest bra and panties might only get a cursory “I’ll take em off with my teeth later…” if he’s feeling frisky.

It’s fine. Really it is. Until the inside of your lip is chewed and anxiety starts to gather in the seams of your mind. One of your friends tells you it’s odd he has no social media, that it’s a red flag his digital footprint is bathed in shadows and secrets. No school reunion photos, or any evidence he exists at all.

But you suffer in silence. Until one day, you don’t text him good morning, or goodnight. The day spans silently between you both, quietly confirming that nagging doubt that he really isn’t interested in the cat that sometimes visits the entryway of your apartment.

Strange how that lack of something can be so loud. It echos, rings in all the corners of your psyche that wanted to be reassured. Only when you’re deep within the cave of isolation, do you realise how honestly you miss the light of the sun.

Two days pass. A full bloody moon rises and begins to blink across your living room, before you hear the slam of the front door. It makes you jump, twitching in your skin as though you’re suddenly uncomfortable in it. A heavy bag is deposited somewhere on the floor, while the metal on it twinkles innocently in the low light.

One heavy boot step, then another.

“Hi!” You smile at him softly.

Simon just glares at you, dark brown eyes seething pits. Two thick arms get crossed over his chest, the greyscale, faded ink under his skin bristling. His hair is tousled, the usual buzz cut a little grown out. Shadows wedged beneath hollowed sockets reminiscent of things that weigh heavily, more than one lifetimes worth of grief to bear.

“I didn’t expect you this early…” Trying again seems logical, even though the sternness in his face should raise alarm. Simon lets out a short chuffing nose, rolling his shoulders along with those ash framed, whiskey coloured irises.

Blinking at him, you wait.

“There’s dinner in the—”

“Is it over?” He rasps, quietly before you can finish. You notice then that he’s paler than usual, his freckles dotted against milky skin.

“Huh?! Is what over?” Perplexed, your mouth opens with a pop.

“Us - this.” Simon gestures between you jerkily, heavyset and blunted fingers that could eclipse yours shaking slightly. “This your way of finishin with me?”

You’re so shocked, for a second all you can do is look blank. Simon sniffs like he’s holding himself together with brute force and clenched teeth. His hand falls to his side limply, jaw working as though chewing something intensely unpleasant.

“You didn’t text me.” He grunts finally, when you’ve caught a few flies through sheer incredulity. “Two days I ain’t had a peep. Not of the cat or nothin. Expected a fucking dear John letter left on the kitchen counter.”

He actually scuffs his boots on the floor restlessly, a little boy about to throw an almighty tantrum. Usually he’s so restrained, operating under a fine layer of almost icy disregard. His bottom lip pouts and the wild urge to giggle makes you clench your own teeth.

“You like my cat pictures?!” It’s about the only thing you can manage to leverage off your tongue.

“Yeah I do actually.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise…”

“Like anythin you send me. Specially tha voice notes n’ videos.” Finally the truth starts to unravel, while you both gaze at one another. “Have I fucked up? Why ain’t you been talkin to me?”

“Well…I wasn’t sure if you even read them to be honest! Also it gets boring having a one sided conversation sometimes Simon!” Defensiveness leeches into your tone, while he tilts his head, the scar slicing through his upper lip drawn tight.

“Alright. What do I have to reply then?”

“Pardon?”

“What do I have to reply to get you to send more?” Earnestly he stares at you, and the desire to laugh madly starts to make your throat hurt.

“Are you being serious?!”

“Deadly.” He replies without hesitation.

“You don’t have to reply! But just a thumbs up emoji would do fine.”

“How do I do tha?” He frowns at you, brows knitting in the middle. “Send ya a photo or somethin of my hand?”

You can’t hold it in anymore, a snort of laughter escapes and bubbles in the air. Once that’s out, several more follow, until he looks entirely hurt at the sound of it.

“Don’t fuckin laugh. M’all pent up. Been worried sick about it.”

“Oh my fucking god Simon come here!”

He doesn’t even take off his boots, crawling into your lap on the couch, resting his head on your chest like a huge, black clad weighted blanket.

“I wouldn’t leave you a letter on the kitchen counter.” You tell him gently, while his breathing regulates. “I’d FaceTime you at least before I posted my key through the letterbox.”

“S’not funny.” He mumbles and gradually your laughter subsides.

“Don’t ever think I ain’t interested in you. S’been shite wakin up without your messages.”

“I’m sorry! You can have all the cat pictures you want going forwards!”